| || |
HOMAGE TO EDWARD HOPPER 1. San Francisco, 1981Mediocrity in your work is so fascinating it's a virtue. (After all, you are Hopper, not Hockney.) Would you still dare to fly thousands of miles and, as the plane lurches, get overjoyed just because you rarely see the continent quail, and so cowardly? From the cool of the Bay to the heat of the Valley in the blink of an eye -- but the same eye catches sight of El Dorado on a road sign. (Or Fishkill, New York, or Hazardville, Connecticut.) As always I'm equally overjoyed with driving on a freeway, staring at the tapering lanes, caressing every mile of it, every phrase of those tunes on the radio despite the aggravating lumbago, but, as a ghoslty guiding companion, such a road sign makes you laugh till you find yourself haunted by it. The hills were yellow and parched and the freeway went on and on, displaying those casualties on the road: squirrels, raccoons, rabbits. Some are still warm, twitching, some are already dots waiting to be carried on a wind, a barely audible prayer. When I saw a bunch of your paintings along the corridor, I didn't even know your name.