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Conner K. Lowe Professor Jordan LTMO 190N: Poets and Paintings March 22, 2013

Where Light Looks: Edward Hopper and Ekphrasis

“The whole answer is there on the canvas. I don’t know how I could explain it any further,” was only one of Edward Hopper’s opaque responses to the unyielding question: what does it mean? (Junker 13) The problem with his roundabout responses is that they implicitly deny the viability of any one meaning or narration of his paintings, which is exactly what they invite so evocatively. From his female figures to the austere barns and lighthouses of Cape Cod bathed in sunlight, Hopper’s portrayals of America have coalesced to form the basis of the world’s perception of the country throughout the first half of the twentieth century. They have remained so prominent for the American identity that films, literature, and the American Dream itself have been attempting to define and redefine themselves through his depictions of land and cityscapes, as well as those who inhabit them. But what brought Hopper’s paintings to their long reign of cultural influence on the American identity?

Edward Hopper was born in Nyack, New York on July 22, 1882, making his entry into adulthood perfectly coincide with that of the nineteenth into the twentieth century. This was a time of turbulent change in the ways Americans lived their lives, as the turn of the century brought with it overly-abundant new forms of technology, such as electric lighting (Levin,

Intimate 3). Hopper’s interests in art grew from a young age and were unceasingly fed by encouragement and support from his parents who helped him enroll in the New York School of

Art in 1900, where he studied under the realist painter Robert Henri (Levin, Intimate 16, 33-41).

His studies there influenced his work as a painter immensely and ultimately pushed him to focus on realist portrayals of the rural and urban, as well as the public and the private American worlds. However, unlike members of Henri’s retrospectively titled “Ashcan school,” whose Lowe 2 works portrayed “the emergence of a modern, vibrantly democratic nation,” Hopper’s works focused on the everyday lives of Americans and the places they knew (Haskell 48). His cities are dark and unpopulated, or bright with a morning gleam that suggests a vibrant absence. Barbara

Haskell synthesizes the effects of his works on viewers when writing, “As in a dream, . . . suggestions of familiarity establish a mysterious intimacy between Hopper’s paintings and viewers, who read their own experiences and emotions in his images” (48). Even nearly sixty years after Hopper’s death in 1967, his works still captivate and influence modern viewers much as they did during the time of their creation. However, much as the beginning of the twentieth century brought with it technological developments that created niches for artists such as

Hopper, the beginning of the twenty-first century and its burgeoning changes have left the

America Hopper knew behind. But still his presence in the American psyche is strong.

Since the time of Hopper’s death, a growing trend within the world of poetry has led to a vast amount of literature written for and about his paintings in a never-ending endeavor to tell their stories. In fact, entire books of poetry, including Triangles of Light by James Hoggard and Edward Hopper: Poems A Bilingual Edition by Ernest Farrar, have sprouted out of his paintings. However, this poetic mode has a long history in which artists have struggled for years to understand the complicated interactions of the verbal with the visual. This is ekphrasis. In his extensive work revolving around the history of ekphrastic poetry, titled Museum of Words, James

A. Heffernan most acutely describes ekphrasis as “the verbal representation of visual representation” (3). However, ekphrastic poetry carries with it a long history dating as far back as Homer’s description of Achilles’s shield in the Iliad, and carries with it several inescapable themes that are pertinent to the poems inspired by Hopper’s work (Heffernan 1).

Robert D. Denham notes that Nighthawks alone has generated over thirty-seven poems, most of which narrativize the suggested action within the paintings, setting the stage for the naturally Lowe 3

“paragonal,” or confrontational, relationship between the visual and the verbal, the paintings and the poems (Denham 3, Heffernan 1). Most poems do that which Hopper himself denied: tell a story.

This is partially due to Hopper’s style itself. As his career progressed throughout the late

1920s and early 1930s his focus moved increasingly toward the internal life of the city and its solitary figures, particularly those of women, in which they still appeared “as parts of the whole scene rather than in leading roles” (Goodrich 69). These figural paintings drive the desire for narrative while also inherently inserting themselves into gender issues that are reflected in their portrayals of private female spaces. This, too, is analogous with a primary issue of ekphrasis.

The power relations between the visual and the verbal are highly charged with those that create

“a duel between male and female gazes,” and other dominating visual perceptions of the world

(Heffernan 1). How do viewers see these women? and how do the poems affect those views? The act of seeing itself becomes increasingly important with a background of twentieth century episteme, as it controls the way in which the paintings and the world are perceived by those who see. The gaze, or simply the ways in which we look, is thus concurrently controlled by the paintings and the poems.

The lines between the visual and the verbal, which are often conceptualized as separate entities, become increasingly blurred as they strive to interact with one another. How are different perceptions of Hopper’s paintings expressed differently in words? What, then, occurs when these two forms are temporally removed from one another? By exploring several contemporary ekphrastic poems derived from Hopper’s paintings and interpreting their representational scopes in comparison to the paintings themselves, as well as other poems, it becomes apparent that all commonly invoke themes of dominance and subordination relevant to

American gender issues. As the American imagination shifts throughout time, it still carries with Lowe 4 it a visual history that has largely been composed by Hopper; not only did his paintings play a vital role in the perceptions of twentieth century America, but clearly they still have a cultural importance that is shaping and reshaping what America means.

The Gaze and Gendered Ekphrasis

Art is most readily defined as the “display, application, or expression” of a skill “as the result of knowledge or practice” (OED). Within this definition, artwork becomes a means for the expression of knowledge, or, put more simply, is a communicative act; thus, whether verbal or visual art, its study and interpretation is grounded in the general theory of semiotics. As sentient beings, we interpret the world through visual and verbal signs which contain cultural meanings created by social, political, and historical hierarchies (Foster ix). The subject (or “I”) engages with objects within these bounds, and brings with him/her preconceived notions of the world that help to shape his/her understanding thereof. Thus, visual art, which inherently depends on the optical dimension of communication, is objectified and makes use of the ways in which we look at it. This look is the gaze.

The gaze has commonly been used within art-historical interpretation to discuss the ethical issues surrounding the act of looking at particular works; however, its use becomes increasingly complicated when one considers its connotations. Margaret Olin explains that

“gazing” suggests “a long, ardent look” and brings to mind the pleasure associated with the act of looking, whereas use of other terms, such as “beholding,” “peeping,” and “scrutinizing,” each connote a different relationship between the subject and object (208-209). Philosophically speaking, the theory of gaze becomes even more complex in the search to understand the affects of looking, as its definition has been worked and re-reworked by Sartre, Lacan, and other more contemporary philosophers (Bryson 87). However, despite the conflicting definitions of the gaze, each primarily focuses on the power of social, political, and historical insinuations created within Lowe 5 the scope of visuality. In his chapter titled “The End of the Theory of the Gaze,” James Elkins approaches the complications of the term and sees it as being composed of three separate facets: gendered, psychoanalytic, and positional. These, he argues, are individually insufficient, and each forms an important (re)understanding of visuality (Elkins 5-6).

One of the most common portrayals of ethical looking comes out of Laura Mulvey’s foundational essay, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Here Mulvey concretizes the term

“the male gaze,” which carries with it connotations suggesting the constant objectification of women on the male’s part. She writes, "In a world ordered by sexual imbalance, pleasure in looking has been split between active/male and passive/female," (Mulvey 837). The

“scopophilic” pleasure in looking is always sexually charged from the male perspective, which denies the female voice any viability in modern narrative. While prevalent in almost all narrative, this sole perception of ethical looking can be incredibly limiting. Margaret Olin suggests that

"The returned gaze, according to theorists seeking to restate Bahktin's literary theories in visual terms, rescues the beheld's sense of self" (217). A returned look thus forces a dialogue in which the dominant gazer must listen to the voice of the subordinate.

Beyond the fact that they both regard visual art, the gaze is similar to ekphrasis in that they both blend the lines between the visual and verbal; both assert that you cannot have one image without language, language without image. While the gaze attempts to comprehend the ethics of visuality, it does so by means of linguistic theory, just as ekphrasis seeks to recreate or understand the visual through the verbal. Heffernan sees the interaction between these two realms as a space for conflict. He argues that ekphrasis “evokes the power of the silent image even as it subjects that power to the rival authority of language, it is intensely paragonal”

(Heffernan 1). Within this understanding, ekphrasis sets the stage for confrontation between several dichotomies: word and image, subject and object, male and female. According to both Lowe 6

WJT Mitchel and Heffernan, the strong gendered power relations created within figural paintings, such as Hopper’s, are present even in the relationship between the viewer (the gazer) and the painting itself (the gazee) (Heffernan 7). Gendered readings of the ekphrastic mode present two approaches, both of which are paragonal and offer contrasting power models.

In his chapter “Weaving Rape,” Heffernan discusses the long history of depictions of rape in paintings and its metaphorical importance in the ekphrastic mode. He notes that painting has largely been understood in terms of transcendental beauty for the male viewer’s consumption; paintings, like the historical role of women, are silent (89). Similarly to the myth of Philomel’s rape, poetry that narrativizes and gives voice to the figures can be conceptualized as a metaphorical rape (Heffernan 7). However, WJT Mitchell offers an alternative model in which the gorgonian figure “exerts and reverses the power of the ekphrastic gaze, portrayed as herself gazing, her look raking over the world, perhaps even capable of looking back at the poet”

(Mitchell 172). Here both the image and the female figure take power because of their ability to captivate the gazer by returning the gaze and rendering the speaker silent. Thus, the gendered issue between word and image, male and female become an integral part of the discussion for all ekphrastic relationships, and even more so for those particularly charged with gendered power relations. And gender is a fundamental part of Hopper's figural paintings.

Most of Hopper’s later works include depictions of women in private spaces, who are often nude, with the “the intimacy of [their] nakedness contrasting with the impersonal city outside,” (Goodrich 69). Hopper painted public and the private spaces; however, managed to do so in a way that portrayed the solitude of both, while highlighting the viewer’s unnoticed or otherwise unseen presence. Patricia Junker notes that Hopper would actually go to public spaces and examine people, which allowed him to “make a picture of their unguarded selves” (10). This Lowe 7 defenseless, transparent quality of Hopper’s figural works forces the viewer to ask, who is watching?

Contrasting Rooms

Two of Hopper’s most celebrated works, Western Motel (1957) [image 1] and Hotel Room

(1931) [image 2], are so similar in subject that they are often directly compared to one another.

Both paintings focus on single female figures sitting on beds with window light casting shadows across their bodies. However, despite their similarity in subject, the feelings derived from them could not be more dissimilar. Western Motel displays a wide and open view of a well-lit room, in which the woman’s straight posture and attention is directed back at the viewer of the painting.

Mark Strand notes that this is the only one of Hopper’s women to address her viewer, albeit with a stony, emotionless gaze, while the composition also "seems to invite, with its openness, its horizontal spread, its view" (43-46). This acknowledgement of each other, the viewer and the viewed, can be seen as creating a form of dialogue between the gazer and gazee that is capable of refuting any sense of the voyeuristic view that could easily be projected onto the painting.

Looking back defers the imposition of the dominant regimes that are often posited on Hopper’s figural paintings, and requires a reacquisition of the subject’s self. "We are the real reason everything seems to stop in the picture. We are the invisible force within the painting, and we are the occasion it honors" (Strand 43-44). There are two subjects created in viewing this painting, and therefore two objects. As Jean-Paul Sartre asserts, a rapid decentering of the self takes place when one is forced to acknowledge their own objectification that comes with the presence of another subject, who he/she interprets as a hostile presence; however, the perception of this painting is neither antagonistic, nor threatening (Bryson 107). The woman’s gaze does not accuse, and neither does the viewer’s. Lowe 8

In her sequence of poems regarding Hopper’s figural paintings, titled, Edward Hopper:

Confession, the contemporary poet Anne Carson suggests a narrative to Western Motel that forces a deeply sexualized perception of the woman on the viewer.1 Throughout the poem, the woman is directly addressed in apostrophe with an accusatory “you.” The poem begins:

Pink bedspreads you say are not pleasing to you yet you sit very straight till the pictures are through. (Carson, “Motel,” lines 1-4)

This first quatrain is filled with verbs, in which the speaker forces actions onto the silent, frozen figure. The speaker repeatedly tells the woman of her own actions: "you say," "you sit," "you wear," "you . . . know" (lines 1, 3, 6, 13). This is at once both liberating and debilitating. While the visual aspects of the painting suggest a dialogue and recognition between the viewer and figure, this is denied by the poem’s use of the second-person. The repetition of the pronoun

"you" followed by a verb creates a sense of the woman's ability to control and regard her surroundings, while also asserting the presence of several positional "others." Barbara Fischer notes that the woman is "under the intense gaze of the person 'making pictures,' as well as under the scrutiny of the speaker," but neglects the presence of the painting’s viewer (81). By using apostrophe throughout the entire poem, Carson produces an effect in which the reader, and therefore viewer of the painting, is placed in the position of the woman upon whom an antagonizing gaze is being focused. The reader and viewer are therefore made aware of their own gazes upon themselves, creating a complicated visual field from within and without the painting.

The viewer is made to understand the effects of their objectifying male gaze; however, the poem ultimately suggests that dominance of patriarchal society is inescapable.

1 While each poem in Carson’s sequence ends with a quotation from Saint Augustine’s Confessions, these quotations do not evoke gendered readings and are for this reason left undiscussed. However, the quotes’ focus on time might readily be related to the differing temporalities of the verbal and the visual. While an image itself is representative of an isolated moment in time, a verbal description thereof must be read and is therefore experienced temporally (Heffernan 188-89). These Augustinian quotations, then, can be seen as nodding toward the ekphrastic mode’s history of temporal issues. Lowe 9

The structure of the poem is important in that it furthers the presence of an antagonizing other. Between each of the three quatrains is the speaker’s interrupting reminder that "Two suitcases watch you like dogs" (lines 4, 9, 14). Fischer asserts that the repetition indicates a strict surveillance over the figure, but she fails to answer who is being personified through the animalistic portrayal of the suitcases (81). The presence of the suitcases redirects the woman’s attention to the person who is “taking pictures,” pointing toward a violent animation of male sexuality through two leather bags; however, this pornographic reading is not as important for

Carson as the imposing forces of modern life and the American landscape as represented by the luggage. The poem opens with lines that call attention to the presence of the bed and the woman’s negative reaction to it, which immediately sexualizes the woman despite her fully- clothed body. However, the bedroom is recreated in the poet’s metaphorical language. The poem reads, “Mountains outside/ look like beds without night,” and places an even greater emphasis on the burgeoning masculinity of early twentieth century America, while also projecting its presence onto the American landscape itself, suggesting that the country is no place for a woman

(lines 7-8). The title, the suitcases, and the car just outside the room all indicate that this woman’s life is on the move; but the poem further suggests that what she runs from is inescapable. Within the painting, the bright mountains in the background are in contrast to the darker room. But the simile evoked by the speaker recreates the woman’s view, which projects the sexually negative qualities of the private bedroom onto the landscape. Thus, the poem denies a chance for dialogue, and Hopper’s America remains one of the male gaze, a gaze which is inescapable for women.

While Western Motel suggests a visual dialogue between figure and viewer, Hotel Room does just the opposite. The sole figure sits on the edge of the bed in the center of the frame, half- nude and looking down at the paper she holds, her grim face cast in shadow. The viewer looks Lowe 10 upon her from an unseen angle, although does not assume dominance above her. The room itself is the inverse of Western Motel’s; Strand writes, “The cramped neatness of the room, the merciless white of the illuminated walls, the crisp verticals and horizontals provide a pleasant severity” (46). Whereas the wide appearance of Western Motel draws the viewer in, the narrow line of sight in Hotel Room makes the room appear cage-like and cut-off. Hotel Room is by far the harsher of the two and could easily suggest a narrative of sexual defeat. However, not all poems follow Carson’s trend.

In his poem, “Edward Hopper, Hotel Room, 1931,” Larry Levis deals with the sexualization of the female figure in a complicated manner. The poem opens with a straightforward ekphrastic exercise that focuses on the figure’s body. The speaker begins, “The young woman is just sitting on the bed,/ Looking down. The room is so narrow she keeps/ Her elbows tucked in, resting, on her bare thighs,/ As if that could help” (Levis, “Hotel,” lines 1-4).

The enjambment throughout this stanza emphasizes the presence of the bed and her “bare thighs,” serving to sexualize the figure. It is not that she sits on the bed, but rather that she “just” does this, as if something more is expected of her. Similarly to the woman in Carson’s “Western

Motel,” the woman is controlled by her surroundings, as the narrow room forces her into her constrained physical position. Barbara Fischer notes, "In some cases poets are not looking with rapacious gazes at all, but at rapacious gazes. Rather than treating the ekphrastic image as a female other, some poets address images that in fact depict female others in problematic ways, depictions that have complex effects on their ekphrastic perspectives and interpretations"

(Fischer 74). This particular view of the “male gaze,” popularized by Laura Mulvey, asserts that the visual depictions of female bodies in various art forms always serve a scopophilic intention

(Mulvey 835). Men enjoy the thrill of their unseen gaze, which penetrates the body of the Lowe 11 female. While the introduction to Levis’s poem appears to set up this interpretation of the painting, it quickly turns into a refutation thereof.

The first two stanzas begin in a third-person description of Hopper’s painting; however, they quickly move into a more complex second-person narrative, placing the figure in a complex situation that is devoid of sexual connotation. Levis writes, “And outside this room I can imagine only Kansas;/ Its wheat, and blackening silos, and, beyond that,/ The plains that will stare back at you . . .” (lines 14-16). The visual aspect of the poem quickly draws attention away from

Hopper’s painting itself and characterizes the figure to create a narrative, in which her mother is passing away and she is reminiscing about her life. Instead of a dominance associated with the male gaze, the American landscape again becomes vilified in its inability to provide comfort for the female character; the plains only “stare back” at her. Similarly, she “never gazed at the raw tracks, . . . ,” implying that the artificial fast-paced movements of modern America provide and unsustainable life (line 41). The “raw tracks” are wounds on the face of America’s landscape, making travel and motion the negative forces within the poem. The sexual opening is thus neutralized until the last stanza, in which the presence of a male figure makes his sole appearance. Levis writes,

And now it is too late for you. Now no one, Turning his collar up against the cold To walk past the first, full sunlight flooding The white sides of houses, knows why You've kept sitting here for forty years . . . (lines 44-48)

The syntactical structure of the final sentence creates two completely separate interpretations of the poem. While “no one” is not a proper noun, the syntactical structure suggests that No One is a man who is “Turning his collar up,” while he walks away from an unfulfilled relationship with the female character [my emphasis]. He, unlike the female character, is in motion and has moved on, whereas the female character is unable to move past the emotional events associated with her Lowe 12 mother’s tragedy. This man knows her story, yet he has abandoned her. However, excluding these clauses makes the poem read, “Now no one, . . . knows why . . . ,” calling attention to the fact that the poet’s narrative is only speculation. The verbal has been imposed upon the visual in an attempt to explain it, and remains insufficient. Thus, Levis ends with a return of the female character to her stationary position within the picture. She is forgotten and is “Almost left out of the picture” (line 49).

Nighthawks and the City

As previously noted, Hopper’s most famous painting, Nighthawks (1942) [image 3], has generated countless ekphrastic poems on its own, most of which attempt to tell the story of the same four figures. The scene depicts a nighttime restaurant viewed from the darkened streets that lie beyond the interior’s glow. Four figures, three customers and an employee, are frozen, isolated from the city beyond. They hang suspended in the phosphorescence of electric light in a similar display to that of a painting itself. They are framed in the vast sheet of glass that entraps them. Strand asserts, “There is nothing menacing about it, nothing that suggests danger is waiting around the corner,” and that instead, “what we experience will be entirely ours” (5, 7).

The viewer is located in an unseen vantage point, although does not threaten the serenity of the serious figures. However, fascination with these four figures has repeatedly led to tellings and retellings of their possible lives.

Barbara Fischer notes that telling a story about Nighthawks "has become a cliché,” one which is almost always centered on male dominance and patriarchal politics (Fischer 80). Anne

Carson’s first poem in Edward Hopper: Confession, titled, “Nighthawks,” evokes a similar narrative to that of previous poems, in which the man and woman seated at the far end of the bar have intended to elope; however, their relationship has come to a halt. The poem begins with an assertive address from the male to the female, when he tells her, “I wanted to run away with you Lowe 13 tonight/ but you are a difficult woman/ the rules of you—” (line 1-3). But before he is able to finish his thought, he is interrupted, at which point the poem becomes about the failed relationship between the two characters. This interruption empowers the female figure whose voice overcomes that of her male counterpart. Carson writes,

Past and future circle around us now we know more now less in the institute of shadows./ On a street as black as widows (lines 4-7)

Throughout the second and third stanzas, the speaker becomes ambiguous, however, and refocuses the gaze from the woman to the empty streets of the city. Again, the cityscape is criticized for its emptiness, but in a way that empowers the female character. The shadowed streets are devoid of two things: light and men. The darkened street from which the viewer sees the couple becomes associated with the death of the male figure through the double entendre in

“black as widows.” This signifies both the type of spider, “black . . . widows,” and the dark clothing a woman would wear in the mourning of her husband. However, there is no grieving, no remorse. Fischer notes that the structure of the poem itself, which inverts and repeats the first three lines, denies the male’s fulfillment by forcing him to into a state of repetition (Fischer 80).

Thus, the woman’s assertion of her power thwarts the pattern of male dominance by asserting a worldview that does not necessarily require the presence of a man. Rather, the women will be protected by “the institute of shadows” (line 6).

Not all poems about Nighthawks involve this stereotypically gendered overtone, though.

Susan Ludvigson’s short poem, “Inventing My Parents — After Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks,

1942,” follows the tradition of narrativizing the poem and does so in a completely different fashion. The speaker imagines his/her parents as the couple in the painting, and creates a dialogue between the two in which they discuss relevant literature and events to the time the painting was completed in 1942. For this reason, “the war” refers to the United States’ Lowe 14 declaration of war against the Axis powers in 1941, after the bombing of Pearl Harbor; however, ironically enough, this seemed to be the last thing on Hopper’s mind during composition of the painting. In her diary, Edward’s wife, Jo Hopper wrote, “Ed refused to take any interest in our very likely prospect of being bombed— . . . He’s doing a new canvas and simply can’t be interrupted!” (Levin, Intimate 348). Despite the speaker’s allusion to this trying and defining time for American life, the poem’s tone is incredibly lighthearted and playful in a direct refutation of the seriousness with which the rest of ekphrastic poems related to Hopper’s works seem to take themselves. The opening reads, “They sit in the bright café/ discussing Hemingway, and how/ this war will change them” (Ludvigson, “Inventing,” lines 1-3). The internal rhyme between café and Hemingway is the only one within the poem, and serves to establish the cheery tone despite the dark subject matter. The rest of the imagined conversation carries on about prominent novelists and poets, but the couple is depicted in a joking, loving manner.

The poem’s 1993 publication comes far after the long established line of narratives about

Nighthawks and can very well be considered a response those predating it. This trend began around 1951, in which Gale Levin supposes Samuel Yellen’s “Nighthawks” was the first of such poems to be published (Solitude 10). Rather than continuing the trend of creating conflict between the two main figures that is buried in a long history of patriarchal society, Ludvigson forms a rather charming view of the city’s nightlife and entirely neglects this history. Most importantly, though, the mother and father are portrayed as equals in dialogue with one another.

Rather than all of the previous poems, which speak to and for the figures, Ludvigson’s characters talk to one another and treat each other as equals. There is no sense that the man is in control. “. .

. When he concedes/ a point, he shrugs, an elaborate lift/ of the shoulders, his hands and smile/ declaring an open mind” (lines 14-17). Enjambment of the lines places emphasis on the line-final words “concedes” and “smiles.” Their dialogue is not one of contention. The speaker is their Lowe 15 child, suggesting that sexual fulfillment has already occurred; but despite this, the parents remain together fully engaged in a conversation of what it means to be American. This, too, calls attention to the poem’s predecessors and the painting’s strong influence upon the American imagination. Not only did Nighthawks helped shape the country’s identity, but clearly it is still influential enough to be reworked throughout a long line of poetry.

“From Moss-light to Hopper with Love” (1995)

Whereas the previous poems fluctuate between perceptions of power in Hopper's figural paintings, "From Moss-light to Hopper with Love," by Tess Gallagher takes a firm stance against these classically fixed views. Rather than explicitly engaging with a single painting, the first- person speaker is imbedded within the entirety of the American landscape as depicted by

Hopper.2 However, the speaker fluctuates between two levels of narrative: both inside the paintings as a figure, and outside as a viewer discussing the paintings with Hopper himself. The poem opens with the speaker’s trip to the pharmacy to purchase condoms, in which she describes the lighting of the pharmacy as a “microwave fluorescence” (Gallagher, “Moss-light,” line 2).

This conjures images of Hopper’s paintings such as Nighthawks, in which there is a stark contrast between the dark of night and the artificial light created by the city. However, this perspective is almost instantly decentered. By the second stanza, the poem shifts completely outside the pharmacy imagined within the paintings, and instead begins to engage with them from the perspective of a viewer. Gallagher writes, “. . . Being bald yourself,/ you would commiserate with the unfurnished apartment/ of my eye-to-eye with her,” (lines 8-11). This first case of apostrophe marks the beginning of the speaker’s one way discussion with a “you,” whom she later reveals as Hopper himself when she says, “. . . those women in your paintings . . . ”

2 Rather than following the traditional ekphrastic mode and addressing a single Hopper painting, Gallagher’s poem implicitly references several. For instance, “. . . moments alone in the stairwell . . .” (line 20) can easily be interpreted as a reference to the painting New York Movie (1939) [image 4]. Lowe 16

(line 31). These passages of discussion between the poet and artist take place in the present tense as they stand “eye-to-eye with her,” one of Hopper’s female figures. However, the speaker quickly reverts back to the past tense in which the pharmacy narrative takes place, making herself into one of Hopper’s women. The moments of metaleptical fracture are disguised by the enjambment of nearly every line in the poem, which serves to blur the perspectives between the separate worlds she has created. The two levels of the poem are thus representations of the narrative and the lyric: one tells a story, while the other ponders the paintings from afar. For instance, the speaker ruminates on the paintings addressing Hopper until she suddenly shifts, saying, “slashed/ by a brim of voluptuous gloom where a shadow tranced/ my cheekbones”

(lines10-11). Here again, the speaker inserts herself into the world of Hopper’s painting by invoking their common tropes such as the shadows on the faces of the figures in Hotel Room

(1931) [image 2] and New York Movie (1939) [image 4]. Thus, the poem complicates the traditional power relations between the observer and the observed by making the speaker inhabit both positions, which is made even more difficult when the metaleptical structure demarcated by tense begins to erode.

At the end of the seventh stanza the speaker erupts into the exclamation: “. . . But how relieved I am!” (line 35). This moment marks the point at which the worlds inside and outside of the paintings become consolidated. The speaker then says,

to be at the fountain’s center with you. The gush and sparkle, so silent here – I am buxomly relieved and clumsily gorgeous, my haunches at a bay mare sway – as if to say “Take that, Degas!” And what would you make of the starved-down magazine waifs of my time, . . . (lines 36-40)

Here both the speaker and her addressee, Hopper or “my not-so-sweet,” become the man and the woman inside the painting Nighthawks, which is reinterpreted as a soda fountain (line 45). Inside the painting the speaker notes that it is “so silent here” (line 37). However, this also brings her Lowe 17 relief because it turns what was an address into a dialogue. The poem then quickly moves into another location when the speaker says, “. . . clumsily/ gorgeous, my haunches at a bay mare sway – . . .” (lines 37-38). This clause is separated from the rest of the stanza by em-dashes, which changes the scene into one in which is most reminiscent of Evening Wind (1921) [image

5], the first of Hopper’s series of images depicting women indoors, in which a nude figure appears to be in a forward motion while her gaze faces away from the viewer (Goodrich 69). The speaker’s consolidation of spaces within the poem also serves to bring Hopper into the contemporary discussion of his works. While discussing them in terms of art history, Hopper’s figural paintings explicitly depict “the conflicted power and gender relations that were part of mainstream American society in the 1930s” (Todd 50). However, the social and political statuses of American women have significantly changed between Hopper’s lifetime and the 1995 publication of this poem. This temporal removal forces the modern female speaker to ask Hopper what he would “make” of the portrayal of women in the late twentieth century (lines 39-40).

However, the speaker does not solely portray the figures of Hopper’s paintings in terms of the past.

Rather, the speaker sees the women in Hopper’s paintings as reminders of her own subordination, which the passive figures in the images of “magazine waifs” of modern day seem to have forgotten (line 40). It has become the speaker’s job to act in Hopper’s stead to remind modern women their own objectification is still a common occurrence. The speaker tells Hopper,

“In their behalf we must swing pressure to the moment/ the present is, as you insist, clean and tearing enough to/ hold back the overhang of future” (lines 33-35). Here the past, present, and future also become blurred. The speaker and Hopper’s conversation is imaginary and resides in a liminal space outside of time. At this point, the speaker has come to terms with Hopper and reaches an understanding that it is only through visual and verbal art that the objectification of Lowe 18 women can be brought to the foreground of discussion. The threatening “overhang of future” can be resisted, but only by those who act in the stead of passive modern viewers.

Despite its ultimate refutation, throughout “Moss-light” both the speaker and the women of Hopper’s paintings are depicted as objects to be examined in the harshness of artificial light of the American cityscape. Light plays a prominent role in many of Hopper’s works, in which it strikes his city and figures to highlight its effects on them. Lloyd Goodrich wrote that Hopper

“was one of our first representational painters to realize the pictorial possibilities of the modern city . . . the omnipresence of glass, and the phenomena of life seen through windows; night in the city with its multitude of lights and ominous shadows” (Goodrich 68). However, the speaker of the poem portrays Hopper’s use of light as the presence of a scrutinizing gaze. Gallagher writes,

“Or as a woman fond of wearing hat opined: “Chic chapeau!/ catching me pensive in the microwave fluorescence/ of the pharmacy, . . .” (lines 1-3). The poem begins in media res and acts as an interjection to mirror the speaker’s own interruption. This interruption sets the basis for the rest of the poem, during which the speaker takes her turn in a dialogic joust with Hopper.

Thus, because the painter and paintings “could not think to shout” the speaker does so for them throughout the entire poem by placing herself in their position. However, the speaker herself is then interrupted by the presence of another because of the paintings’ inescapable “microwave fluorescence.”

Light continually reappears throughout the poem and becomes increasingly antagonistic toward the speaker of the poem. During the longest of the speaker’s addresses to Hopper she tells him:

. . . Dazed as I am by hemlock shadow, it/ is foreign to encounter the bald intensity of your nearly criminal sunlight, so white it drives out the yellow, the way concrete in sunlight cousins marble. Daylight, when it is that white, is night’s apostasy – as too much loneliness companions itself. (lines 25-29)

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Here again the lines between the narrative and the discussion between painter and poet become blurred. The speaker as figure focuses on the poisoning effect of the shadows on her skin, but also slips into addressing Hopper when she calls it “your nearly criminal/ sunlight.” On the basest level, light is what allows the human eye to see while directing the gaze of the viewer to whatever it highlights; and the light of the paintings is in Hopper’s control. The light, the gaze are his. Hopper’s sun produces a “bald intensity” and creates a hostile depiction of the space inhabited by both the speaker and the women. The binaries between night and day, dark and light offer no solace to those on whom it imposes itself. However, the speaker develops a defensive tone that acts to combat the objectification of herself and the women.

Throughout the poem the speaker uses several metaphors that serve to represent her defensive response to dominant social and political forces present in both the paintings and modern American life. The opening narrative is immediately sexualized because of the speaker’s trip to buy condoms, which she refers to as “armour” (line 4). However, the speaker’s sarcastic tone and use of puns immediately refutes the seriousness of the antagonistic male force. She says, “Handy,/ a hat under such conditions, to shield the shoe-ward/ glance, the muffled smile that hints toward/ a bald indiscretion. Being bald yourself,” (lines 5-8). Here the speaker creates an interesting analogy between the head of a human being and the physical appearance of a phallus; in the same way, the condom “armour” in the first stanza is equated to the hat “shield” in the second stanza, both of which protect the female figure from physical penetration and the perceptions of the male gaze (lines 4, 6). The “bald indiscretion” that comes with the sexualizing gaze is particularly sinister, however, is immediately followed by the speaker’s jest that neutralizes the ability to take this perspective seriously. When she addresses Hopper with,

“Being bald yourself,” the speaker metaphorically turns the physical appearance of the painter, Lowe 20 who was in fact bald, into that of a phallus. This motif is carried on throughout the remainder of the poem.

The final two stanzas of the poem return to the original scene taking place in the pharmacy. The speaker says, “. . . with my purse snapped shut, its/ armory in place. Ah, my glance, my pall-like lids of homage/ as I pass you, braced there at the counter above an open book” (lines 54-56). Again, the speaker complicates the traditional view of gendered power in

Hopper’s paintings by reversing the roles of the male and female figures in Nighthawks. Now the woman stands above the man and controls him with her gaze, while he sits petrified at the counter. Her eyes become symbols of death when she describes her eyelids as “pall-like,” which serve to cover her sight and that of Hopper’s own death. At this point, the poem switches from a tone of mock contention to one of honor and respect for the artist. The poem itself becomes an

“homage” to the passing of both Hopper and his time when the speaker tells him, “. . . Sultry and expectant, I doff my hat to you, . . .” (line 60). With the condoms in possession and her “not-so- sweet” one night stand in place, the moment for disrobing and conception has finally come by the end of the poem. However, it is unfulfilled, and the speaker both sexualizes and desexualizes this final moment. She describes herself as “sultry,” invoking the meaning, “hot with anger or lust,” which gives the final passage an erotic tone; however, this sexualized power belongs to the female in this case, and leaves Hopper unfulfilled (OED). In the same way, the speaker’s final action is a removal of clothing; but instead of a sexualizing act, the removal of her hat serves as a salutation to Hopper. As both a figure under criticism from within the paintings, and a presence outside them in dialogue with the painter himself, the speaker comes to terms with the “tonic blast” of Hopper’s light and asserts her new dominance while paying tribute to those passed.

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Conclusion

Hopper’s work truly is a definitive aspect of the American imagination that has helped shape the country’s identity since its popularity began in the early 1930s. While the cultural context has severely altered since the civil rights movements throughout the sixties, seventies, and eighties,

American’s still clearly find something captivating about the paintings in their repeated attempts to understand them; however, it is clear that contemporary poets are finding new ways to portray modern American values onto paintings that deny them. Women enjoyed fewer rights and liberties in Hopper’s time, and only in the last few decades have issues regarding gender been in strong enough contestation to change their prearranged hierarchies. The dominating male gaze is one that becomes increasingly testified against and stood up to. However, several contemporary issues remain completely forgotten within this schema. As Margaret Olin notes, the ethical issues regarding gay and lesbian views remain largely unexplored by the dualist gender discussion raised by Mulvey (213). However, these complications do not arise in every painting, and are forgotten from Hopper’s largely because of time in which he was working. While there is certainly no claim that Hopper’s works serve as a comprehensive depiction of American life, they have played an important role in portraying the views of the American land and cityscapes, as well as views of the country’s values and people. Contemporary poets have largely begun to refute or deny the obvious episteme that emanate from Hopper’s works in modern reinterpretations that include a myriad of views, and will undoubtedly continue to do so in their attempts to redefine what America means.

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Works Cited

"art, n.1". OED Online. December 2012. Oxford University Press. 6 March 2013

.

Bryson, Norman. "The Gaze in the Expanded Field." Vision and Visuality. Ed. Hal Foster. New

York: New Press, 1987. 87-108. Print.

In this particularly challenging essay, Bryson writes about visuality as developed through Sartre, Lacan, and two Japanese philosophers, Nishida and Nishitani. This essay is important in further understanding the gaze in terms of positionality, and his discussion focuses on the de-centering of the subject position/self/beholder. Similarly to Elkins's diachronic study of the positional understanding of the gaze, Bryson offers readings of each of these philosophers' works; however, Bryson's readings are much more definitive than Elkins's and seem somewhat limiting.

Carson, Anne. “Edward Hopper: Confessions.” Men in the Off Hours. 1st ed. New York: A.A.

Knopf : Distributed by Random House, 2000. (49-60). Print.

Denham, Robert D. Poets on Paintings: A Bibliography. McFarland, 2010. Print.

Elkins, James. "The End of the Theory of the Gaze." The Visual: How It Is Studied. N.p.: n.p.,

n.d. 1-31. Web.

Elkins's chapter offers a straightforward introduction to the organization of the many theories of gaze: positional discourse, psychoanalytic discourse, and gender discourse. These, he argues, each have limitations and are insufficient. Most importantly he argues that these are all important aspects of the gaze and no one can stand alone. His synthesis includes discussion of Laura Mulvey's influential essay on the gendered gaze of Western art and the psychoanalytic discourse of Lacanian gaze theory. This is particularly helpful in getting a wider grasp of the historical aspect of gaze theory.

Fischer, Barbara. "Noisy Brides, Suspicious Kisses: Resisting Ravishment in Experimental

Ekphrasis by Women." In the Frame: Women’s Ekphrastic Poetry from Marianne Moore

to Susan Wheeler. Hedley, Jane, Nick Halpern, and Willard Spiegelman, eds. Newark:

University of Delaware Press, 2009. 72-90. Print.

Fischer's interpretive essay focuses on three separate sets of ekphrastic poetry, one of which is Anne Carson's series of poems titled, Hopper: Confessions. By doing close readings of these poems while incorporating art historical interpretation, Lowe 23

Fischer asserts that both the paintings and the poems regard the women of Hopper's with a dominant male gaze and that the scenes are highly "eroticized scenarios." Along with Mulvey's theory of the gaze, this essay forms a groundwork for the discussion of gender power relations within Hopper's paintings and the poetry they have generated. Like Mulvey's view, Fischer's reading seems limiting but interesting nonetheless. My readings of Carson’s poems are particularly indebted to Fisher’s and are largely an expansion of her short section on Hopper.

Gallagher, Tess. “From Moss-light to Hopper with Love.” Ed. Deborah Lyons, and Whitney

Museum of American Art. Edward Hopper and the American Imagination. 1st ed. New

York: Whitney Museum of American Art in association with W.W. Norton, 1995. 77-79.

Print.

Haskell, Barbara. “Edward Hopper: Between Realism and Abstraction.” Modern Life: Edward

Hopper and His Time: An Exhibition of the Whitney Museum of American Art, New

York ; BuceriusKunst Forum, May 9 - August 30, 2009 ; Kunsthal Rotterdam,September

26, 2009 - January 17, 2010. Ed. Barbara Haskell et al. Munich: Hirmer, 2009. 48-55.

Print.

Heffernan, James A. W. Museum of Words: The Poetics of Ekphrasis from Homer to Ashbery.

University Of Chicago Press, 2004. Print.

Hopper, Edward. Evening Wind. 1921. Dallas Museum of Art. ARTstor. Web. 1 April 2013.

--. Hotel Room. 1931. Sammlung Thyssen-Bornemisza. ARTstor. Web. 1 April 2013.

--. New York Movie. 1939. Museum of Modern Art. ARTstor. 1 April. 2013.

--. Nighthawks. 1942. Art Institute of Chicago. ARTstor. 1 April. 2013.

--. Western Motel. 1957. Yale University Art Gallery. ARTstor. 1 April. 2013.

Hopper, Edward, and Lloyd Goodrich. Edward Hopper. New York: Abradale Press/Harry N.

Abrams, 1983. Print. Lowe 24

Junker, Patricia A. “The Observer and the Observed.” Ed. Patricia A. Junker, and Seattle Art

Museum. Edward Hopper: Women. 1st ed. Seattle: Seattle Art Museum, 2008. 8-13.

Print.

Levin, Gail. Edward Hopper: An Intimate Biography. 1st ed. New York: Knopf, 1995. Print.

---. The Poetry of Solitude: A Tribute to Edward Hopper. Universe, 2007. Print.

Mitchell, W. J. T. “Ekphrasis and the Other.” Picture Theory: Essays on Verbal and Visual

Representation. First Printing. University Of Chicago Press, 1995. 151-181. Print.

Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Film Theory and

Criticism: Introductory Readings. Eds. Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen. New York:

Oxford UP, 1999. 833-44.

Mulvey's essay focuses on what she calls "a political use of psychoanalysis" that can be applied to visual art in the form of strongly feminist readings. She argues that cinema and other forms of visual art portray solely male views in order to depict the male as dominant and the female and subordinate. This is based in the term scopophilic which asserts the desire to look and sexualize the human form. Like Bryson, she bases her discussion in Lacanian understanding of the gaze, however, does so through her reading of the "mirror stage." This is an important work that offers an interpretation of the gaze that is completely focused on the gendered aspect of theory, which Elkins warns can be limiting.

Olin, Margaret. “Gaze.” Ed. Robert S. Nelson, and Richard Shiff. Critical Terms for Art History.

2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003. 208-219. Print.

Strand, Mark. Hopper. 1st ed. Hopewell, NJ: Ecco Press, 1994. Print.

In this work, Strand conjures short ruminations about the prominent works of Edward Hopper. These sections are no more than a page or two each (with b/w prints of the paintings) and border between art historical readings and personal responses. The work is particularly helpful in beginning interpretations and readings of the paintings, and offers interesting insight into how one might discuss Hopper's paintings.

"sultry, adj.". OED Online. March 2013. Oxford University Press. 17 March 2013

. Lowe 25

Todd, Ellen Wiley. “Will (S)he Stoop to Conquer? Preliminaries Toward a Reading of Edward

Hopper’s Office at Night.” Bryson, Norman, Michael Ann Holly, and Keith P. F. Moxey,

eds. Visual Theory: Painting and Interpretation. New York, NY: HarperCollins, 1991.47-

53. Print.

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Appendix I

Western Motel by Anne Carson

Pink bedspreads you say are not pleasing to you yet you sit very straight till the pictures are through.

Two suitcases watch you like dogs.

You wear your hair parted low on the right. Mountains outside look like beds without night.

Two suitcases watch you like dogs.

Glass is for getaway. Hot is out there. You seem to know the road ends here.

Two suitcases watch you like dogs.

Future things then are not yet: and if they be not yet, they are not. And if they are not, they cannot be seen. Yet foretold they may be from things present which are already and are seen. (Augustine, Confessions XI)

"Edward Hopper," Hotel Room, 1931 by Larry Levis

The young woman is just sitting on the bed, Looking down. The room is so narrow she keeps Her elbows tucked in, resting, on her bare thighs, As if that could help.

She is wearing, now, only an orange half-slip That comes down as far as her waist, but does not Console her body, which fails. Which must sleep, by now, apart from everyone. And her face, in shadow, Is more silent than this painting, or any Painting: it feels like the sad, blank hull Lowe 27

Of a ship is passing, slowly, the stones of a wharf, Though there is no ocean for a thousand miles, And outside this room I can imagine only Kansas; Its wheat, and blackening silos, and, beyond that, The plains that will stare back at you until The day your mother, kneeling in fumes On a hardwood floor, begins to laugh out loud. When you visit her, you see the same, faint grass Around the edge of the asylum, and a few moths, White and flagrant, against the wet brick there, Where she has gone to live. She never Recognizes you again.

You sell the house, and auction off each thing Inside the house, until You have a satchel, a pair of black, acceptable Shoes, and one good flowered dress. There is a check Between your hands and your bare knees for all of it - The land and the wheat that never cared who Touched it, or why.

You think of curves, of the slow, mild arcs Of harbors in California: Half Moon Bay, Malibu, names that seem to undress When you say them, beaches that stay white Until you get there. Still, you're only thirty-five. And that is not too old to be a single woman, Traveling west with a purse in her gray lap Until all of Kansas dies inside her stare . . .

But you never moved, never roused yourself To go down Grain Street to the sobering station, Never gazed out at the raw tracks, and waited For the train that pushed its black smoke up Into the sky like something important . . .

And now it is too late for you. Now no one, Turning his collar up against the cold To walk past the first, full sunlight flooding The white sides of houses, knows why You've kept sitting here for forty years - alone, Almost left out of the picture, half undressed.

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Nighthawks by Anne Carson

I wanted to run away with you tonight but you are a difficult woman the rules of you-

Past and future circle round us now we know more now less in the institute of shadows.

On a street black as widows with nothing to confess our distances found us the rules of you- so difficult a woman I wanted to run away with you tonight.

Yet I say boldly that I know that if nothing passed away, time past were not. And if nothing were coming, time future were not. And if nothing were, time present were not. (Augustine, Confessions XI)

"Inventing My Parents" - After Edward Hopper's Nighthawks, 1942 By Susan Ludvigson

They sit in the bright cafe discussing Hemingway, and how this war will change them. Sinclair Lewis' name comes up, and Kay Boyle's, and then Fitzgerald's. They disagree about the American Dream. My mother, her bare arms silver under fluorescent lights, says she imagines it a hawk flying over, its shadow sweeping every town. Their coffee's getting cold but they hardly notice. My mother's face as lit by ideas. My father's gestures are a Frenchman's. When he concedes a point, he shrugs, an elaborate lift of the shoulders, his hands and smile declaring an open mind.

I am five months old, at home with a sitter this August night, when the air outside is warm as a bath. They decide, Lowe 29 though the car is parked nearby, to walk the few blocks home, savoring the fragrant night, their being alone together. As they go out the door, he's reciting Donne's "Canonization": "For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love," and she's laughing, light as summer rain when it begins.

“From Moss-light to Hopper with Love” by Tess Gallagher

Or as a woman fond of wearing hats opined: “Chic chapeau!” catching me pensive in the microwave flourescnese of the pharmacy, buying a pack of red Trojans, unsure where a certain armour was heading, but not above precautions. Handy, 5 a hat under such conditions, to shield the shoe-ward glance, the muffled smile that hints toward a bald indiscretion. Being bald yourself, you would commiserate with the unfurnished apartment of my eye-to-eye with her, slashed 10 by a brim of voluptuous gloom where a shadow tranced my cheekbones. At such moments a hat can make all the difference, since cat-like, we are creatures invigorated by notions of dignity. So on film Marie Lloyd became “an expressive figure” of the British lower classes, 15 and Ray’s stories tore down more than motorcycles in rented living rooms across America to announce the sinking middle and working classes. An expressive figure, you seem to say, lends dignity to moments alone in the stairwell, or emboldens our solitude 20 when love, even at one’s elbow, is mostly craving and window-gazing. If dignity were not precarious, we would be worth less. “There goes my dignity,” shrugged the Irish musician Joe Burke, at O’Toole’s one midnight, pulling a drunken mate’s foot out of his accordion. Dazed as I am by hemlock shadow, it 25 is foreign to encounter the bald intensity of your nearly criminal sunlight, so white it drives out yellow, the way concrete in sunlight cousins marble. Daylight, when it is that white, is night’s apostasy – as too much loneliness companions itself. A day with you and I am inwardly shouting: “I suffer like a door!” 30

Lowe 30 for those women in your paintings who could not think to shout, ignored in train cars or offices at night. Their despair wasn’t chic, then or now. In their behalf we must swing pressure to the moment because the present is, as you insist, clean and tearing enough to hold back the overhang of future. But how relieved I am! 35 to be at the fountain’s center with you. The gush and sparkle, so silent here – I am buxomly relieved and clumsily gorgeous, my haunches at a bay mare sway – as if to say “Take that, Degas!” And what would you make of the starved-down magazine waifs of my time, these blitzkrieg-of-the-spirit 40 inhalations? Aren’t we as perishingly alive and nose-to-nose with the unutterable, as fatal to ourselves as they? Such a long way from the counter to the purse with these red Trojans. My hand so below, so at bottom, so cloud-worn and muted by . . . solitude trails me off. 46

You see how easily two puritans slip into the sensual with their blinds half pulled? A bluish gleam is blushing me toward you. Could this moment be the calm, desirous darkening where realism and impressionism overlap? Categories, you see, like us, my not-so-sweet, are simply errands. To be 51 fulfilled, yet transitory. And now, my banister, my bald-pated blank abode, allow me the full gold of this neither-nor in which we do not meet. This is eternity – with my purse snapped shut, its armory in place. Ah, my glance, my pall-like lids of homage as I pass you, braced there at the counter above an open book. 56

Soon, too soon, we will gallop our particles of “racing electric empulses” under the viaduct. But first, that tonic blast of your sunlight, a primitive canon to the heart. Sultry and expectant, I doff my hat to you, unfurling Modigliani brows. 61

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Appendix II

Image 1: Western Motel. 1957. Yale University Art Gallery.

Image 2: Hotel Room. 1931. Sammlung Thyssen-Bornemisza. Lowe 32

Image 3: Nighthawks. 1942. Art Institute of Chicago.

Image 4: New York Movie. 1939. Museum of Modern Art.

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Image 5: Evening Wind. 1921. Dallas Museum of Art.