Hawks of the Night

There’s a painting by Edward Hopper, ‘Nighthawks’, you probably know it, or you’d recognise it if you saw it. It’s a scene of Americana, people sitting in a diner downtown. They are dressed in typical 1940s clothing, as befits a work painted in 1942. Whenever I see ‘Nighthawks’ I want to be a part of that moment, that snapshot, that slice of life. I want a sharp suit and a fedora, some black coffee and possibly some pie. I don’t know about the pie, I’ll see after I’ve had my coffee. At the background of the diner there’s a male and a female figure, they look quite cosy; friends, more likely lovers, but they’re not talking to each other, they’re ordering I think. I’m always intrigued by the man at the front of the picture. He sits alone. I’d probably be that man. I might glance over at the couple, not with envy, but not with contentment either. I don’t mind eating or drinking alone, but I want to know his story. I’d go into that diner, pull up a stool next to that man, shoot the breeze, talk about nothing, talk about life, talk about everything, maybe make a friend, who knows? I love that painting and every time I see it, the longing to visit America grows stronger. Places like that don’t exist anymore, I’m under no false impression, but to be in the same mood, the same atmosphere where Edward Hopper painted his masterpiece - that would be something.