“the ordinary, made extraordinary”
How they crow.
Hooper’s paintings are quintessential America in a stupor, shallow breaths of air with yearning- stripped of disappointment. Trapped wilt-roses, windows of idealistic light, (fall short).
Alienating familiarity floats stagnant- the technique so noble but the voiding gasp filters the sky to but a watless grey mass.
And it’s all there- all of it, closed in fake-shade boxcars, bloated by respect-goers ground by fluorescence, shame-sweating pores.
Those little figures in those little rooms, the Cape Cod houses: is that it? All there is?
Colors so pretty, she says (a beautiful angel), triple toned traces- go, look! Moment’s nice but then…again, and again, next room, trap, stop, grey trap.
No envious greens or passionate reds, gone slick orange or silver moonshine- and those blues!
Such grainy blues,
Not even a moment of clarity.
And I hate it. Stale-tart hate it, shivering, hate for/it. Just so much.