She’s naked yet wearing shoes.
Wants to think nude. And happy in her body.
Though it’s a fleshy aging body. And her posture
Though it’s a fleshy aging body. And her posture
in the chair—leaning forward, arms on knees,
staring out the window—makes her belly bulge,
but what the hell.
What the hell, he isn’t here.
Lived in this damn drab apartment at Third Avenue,
Lived in this damn drab apartment at Third Avenue,
Twenty-third Street, Manhattan, how many
damn years, has to be at least fifteen. Moved to the city
from Hackensack, needing to breathe.
She’d never looked back. Sure they called her selfish,
cruel. What the hell, the use they’d have made of her,
she’d be sucked dry like bone marrow.
First job was file clerk at Trinity Trust. Wasted
three years of her young life waiting
for R.B. to leave his wife and wouldn’t you think
a smart girl like her would know better?
Second job also file clerk but then she’d been promoted
to Mr. Castle’s secretarial staff at Lyman Typewriters. The
least the old bastard could do for her and she’d
have done a lot better except for fat-face Stella Czechi.
Third job, Tvek Realtors & Insurance and she’s
Mr. Tvek’s private secretary: What would I do
without you, my dear one?
As long as Tvek pays her decent. And he doesn’t
let her down like last Christmas, she’d wanted to die.
This damn room she hates. Dim-lit like a region of the soul
into which light doesn’t penetrate. Soft-shabby old furniture
and sagging mattress like those bodies in dreams we feel
but don’t see. But she keeps her bed made
every God-damned day, visitors or not.
He doesn’t like disorder. He’d told her how he’d learned
to make a proper bed in the U.S. Army in 1917.
The trick is, he says, you make the bed as soon as you get up.
Detaches himself from her as soon as it’s over. Sticky skin,
hairy legs, patches of scratchy hair on his shoulders, chest,
belly. She’d like him to hold her and they could drift into
sleep together but rarely this happens. Crazy wanting her, then
abruptly it’s over—he’s inside his head,
and she’s inside hers.
Now this morning she’s thinking God-damned bastard, this has
got to be the last time. Waiting for him to call to explain
why he hadn’t come last night. And there’s the chance
he might come here before calling, which he has done more than once.
Couldn’t keep away. God, I’m crazy for you.
She’s thinking she will give the bastard ten more minutes.
She’s Jo Hopper with her plain redhead’s face stretched
on this fleshy female’s face and he’s the artist but also
the lover and last week he came to take her
out to Delmonico’s but in this dim-lit room they’d made love
in her bed and never got out until too late and she’d overheard
him on the phone explaining—there’s the sound of a man’s voice
explaining to a wife that is so callow, so craven, she’s sick
with contempt recalling. Yet he says he has left his family, he
loves her.
Runs his hands over her body like a blind man trying to see. And
the radiance in his face that’s pitted and scarred, he needs her in
the way a starving man needs food. Die without you. Don’t
leave me.
He’d told her it wasn’t what she thought. Wasn’t his family
that kept him from loving her all he could but his life
he’d never told anyone about in the war, in the infantry,
in France. What crept like paralysis through him.
Things that had happened to him, and things
that he’d witnessed, and things that he’d perpetrated himself
with his own hands. And she’d taken his hands and kissed them,
and brought them against her breasts that were aching like the
breasts of a young mother ravenous to give suck,
and sustenance. And she said No. That is your old life.
I am your new life.
She will give her new life five more minutes.
Das Bild 11 A.M von Edward Hopper (ganz oben) ist nicht aus Zufall heute hier zu sehen. Das Gedicht von Joyce Carol Oates, das eine Interpretation des Bildes 11 A.M. ist, natürlich auch nicht: Edward Hopper hat heute Geburtstag. Es gibt viele Bilder mit einsamen Frauen in seinem Werk, meistens ist es seine Frau Jo, die er gemalt hat. Joyce Carol Oates gibt uns ihre Gedanken wieder. Das klingt ein wenig nach dem ➱Monolog von Molly Bloom am Ende von Ulysses. Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal, hat Eliot gesagt. So wie Hopper die Dichter herausfordert hat, hat er auch viele Maler und Photographen angeregt, seine Bilder neu zu gestalten. Dies hier ist ein Photo von ➱Richard Tuschmann, der eine ganze Serie von Bildern photographiert hat, die Hoppers Themen aufnehmen.
Einsamkeit ist ein wiederkehrendes Thema im Werk von Hopper und seiner Frau Josephine. Dies Bild ist natürlich kein echter Hopper, es ist ein Werk von ➱George Deem, der sich in seinem Malerleben darauf spezialisiert hatte, Klassiker der Malerei ein wenig zu verfremden. Ich finde das Bild irgendwie rührend. Einige Jahre vor ihrem Tod schrieb Jo Hopper (die ihrem Mann um ein Jahr überlebte):
When E.H. goes I shall be alone upon Earth. He has not been greatly interested in people, we have no close friends. We feel that our little place here on the hill top is paradise - just every simple thing that we love best. Lovely long lines of hills to the East of us & the beach & the expanse of the sea to the West. Not a breeze between here & Portugal that slights us on our bare hill - facing such glorious sunsets. Thrilling location, but not place to live alone in — if one were alone - in the dark with the sound of the sea. Made for Adam & Eve to fight it out in. Edward Hopper beherrscht das Bild von Arnold Newman, Jo ist oben neben dem Haus ganz klein zu sehen.
Sie malte im Alter weniger, sie war seine Managerin, je erfolgreicher er wurde. Er hielt nichts von ihrer Malerei: Isn't it nice to have a wife who paints? fragte sie ihn und bekam die Antwort It stinks. Dreiundvierzig Jahre Ehe, dreiundvierzig Jahre Ehekrieg. Er redete sehr wenig: Sometimes talking to Eddie is just like dropping a stone in a well, except that it doesn't thump when it hits bottom. Als ihm die Academy of Arts and Letters 1955 die Goldmedaille verlieh, bestand seine Dankesrede aus einem einzigen Wort: Thanks. Mit dem Satz He has not been greatly interested in people, we have no close friends, untertreibt Jo Hopper ein wenig, zu Hoppers Beerdigung kamen 1967 acht Leute. Bei Andy Warhol waren es mehr.
damn years, has to be at least fifteen. Moved to the city
from Hackensack, needing to breathe.
She’d never looked back. Sure they called her selfish,
cruel. What the hell, the use they’d have made of her,
she’d be sucked dry like bone marrow.
First job was file clerk at Trinity Trust. Wasted
three years of her young life waiting
for R.B. to leave his wife and wouldn’t you think
a smart girl like her would know better?
Second job also file clerk but then she’d been promoted
to Mr. Castle’s secretarial staff at Lyman Typewriters. The
least the old bastard could do for her and she’d
have done a lot better except for fat-face Stella Czechi.
Third job, Tvek Realtors & Insurance and she’s
Mr. Tvek’s private secretary: What would I do
without you, my dear one?
As long as Tvek pays her decent. And he doesn’t
let her down like last Christmas, she’d wanted to die.
This damn room she hates. Dim-lit like a region of the soul
into which light doesn’t penetrate. Soft-shabby old furniture
and sagging mattress like those bodies in dreams we feel
but don’t see. But she keeps her bed made
every God-damned day, visitors or not.
He doesn’t like disorder. He’d told her how he’d learned
to make a proper bed in the U.S. Army in 1917.
The trick is, he says, you make the bed as soon as you get up.
Detaches himself from her as soon as it’s over. Sticky skin,
hairy legs, patches of scratchy hair on his shoulders, chest,
belly. She’d like him to hold her and they could drift into
sleep together but rarely this happens. Crazy wanting her, then
abruptly it’s over—he’s inside his head,
and she’s inside hers.
Now this morning she’s thinking God-damned bastard, this has
got to be the last time. Waiting for him to call to explain
why he hadn’t come last night. And there’s the chance
he might come here before calling, which he has done more than once.
Couldn’t keep away. God, I’m crazy for you.
She’s thinking she will give the bastard ten more minutes.
She’s Jo Hopper with her plain redhead’s face stretched
on this fleshy female’s face and he’s the artist but also
the lover and last week he came to take her
out to Delmonico’s but in this dim-lit room they’d made love
in her bed and never got out until too late and she’d overheard
him on the phone explaining—there’s the sound of a man’s voice
explaining to a wife that is so callow, so craven, she’s sick
with contempt recalling. Yet he says he has left his family, he
loves her.
Runs his hands over her body like a blind man trying to see. And
the radiance in his face that’s pitted and scarred, he needs her in
the way a starving man needs food. Die without you. Don’t
leave me.
He’d told her it wasn’t what she thought. Wasn’t his family
that kept him from loving her all he could but his life
he’d never told anyone about in the war, in the infantry,
in France. What crept like paralysis through him.
Things that had happened to him, and things
that he’d witnessed, and things that he’d perpetrated himself
with his own hands. And she’d taken his hands and kissed them,
and brought them against her breasts that were aching like the
breasts of a young mother ravenous to give suck,
and sustenance. And she said No. That is your old life.
I am your new life.
She will give her new life five more minutes.
Im Alter wollte Jo Hopper (hier als Kunststudentin von ihrem Lehrer Robert Henri gemalt) eine Biographie ihrer Katze Arthur schreiben. Und eine Biographie von Edward Hopper: Some day I'm going to write the real story of Edward Hopper. No one else can do it... You'll never get the whole story. It's pure Dostoevsky. Oh, the shattering bitterness. Josephine Hopper hat die Biographie ihrer Katze nie geschrieben. Die Biographie von Edward Hopper auch nicht. Aber Gail Levin hat Zugriff auf ihre Tagebücher gehabt und Edward Hopper: An Intimate Biography geschrieben.
Es ist ein Buch, das ein wenig unter falscher Flagge segelt. Dies ist das Leben von Edward Hopper aus der Sicht von Jo Hopper, nacherzählt von Gail Levin. Irgendwie wäre es fairer für den Leser gewesen, die Biographie Jo und Eddie Hopper zu nennen. Eigentlich ist es eine Biographie vom Leben und Fühlen von Hoppers Ehefrau, die als Künstlerin immer im Schatten ihres Mannes stand. Und die hat auch eine solche Biographie verdient. Auch wenn auf dem Buch wieder einmal der Names ihres Mannes steht. Dies hübsche Bild ist kein echter Hopper, es ist von ➱Philip Koch, der häufig in Hoppers Studio in Truro (Made for Adam & Eve to fight it out in) gewohnt hat.
Ich mag Joyce Carol Oates nicht besonders, deshalb habe ich noch ein kleines Gedicht zu diesem Bild von der Amerikanerin Victoria Chang. Es heißt Edward Hopper Study: Hotel Room und ist auch eine Bildinterpretation in Gedichtform. Es ist eine Möglichkeit, sich seinen Bildern zu nähern. Obgleich seine Bilder eigentlich schon genug Lyrik sind.
While the man is away
telling his wife
about the red-corseted woman,
the woman waits
on the queen-sized bed.
You'd expect her quiet
in the fist of a copper
statue. Half her face,
a shade of golden meringue,
the other half, the dark
of cattails. Her mouth even—
too straight, as if she doubted
her made decision, the way
women do. In her hands,
a yellow letter creased,
like her hunched back.
Her dress limp on a green chair.
In front, a man's satchel
and briefcase. On a dresser,
a hat with a ceylon
feather. That is all
the artist left us with,
knowing we would turn
the woman's stone into ours,
a thirst for the self
in everything—even
in the sweet chinks
of mandarin.
Kaum ein anderer Maler ist in diesem Blog so häufig erwähnt worden wie Edward Hopper. Lesen Sie auch: Edward Hopper, Einsamkeit, ythlaf, Winslow Homer, Frank Duveneck, Alexander Deineka, Grant Wood, William Merritt Chase, Luminism, Emily Dickinson, John French Sloan, Gustave Caillebotte, Abstraktion, Realisten, Richard Oelze, Friedrich Mißfeldt, 18th century: Architecture, John Quincy Adams, This place of memory, il miglior fabbro, Franco Costa, Lohn der Angst, Warren Oates, Raymond Thornton Chandler, Mein Dänemark, silvae: Wälder: Lesen, 29. Februar, Starrachsetelling his wife
about the red-corseted woman,
the woman waits
on the queen-sized bed.
You'd expect her quiet
in the fist of a copper
statue. Half her face,
a shade of golden meringue,
the other half, the dark
of cattails. Her mouth even—
too straight, as if she doubted
her made decision, the way
women do. In her hands,
a yellow letter creased,
like her hunched back.
Her dress limp on a green chair.
In front, a man's satchel
and briefcase. On a dresser,
a hat with a ceylon
feather. That is all
the artist left us with,
knowing we would turn
the woman's stone into ours,
a thirst for the self
in everything—even
in the sweet chinks
of mandarin.
Keine Kommentare:
Kommentar veröffentlichen