Morning in a City

Passing a stack of printouts around our characteristically democratic circle of desks, my scriptwriting class pawed through the mossy greens and deep blues of strangers’ lives. We were scouting for our favorite life out of an assortment of Edward Hopper paintings. Whichever one we picked we’d write a scene about. 

It’s during this creative prompt that I selected Morning in a City and developed a deep kinship with it. 

Gradually, the woman in the painting became a close confidant of mine and, as I revealed myself to her, she began to mirror my secrets. In enough time she became another version of my thoughts and the main character in my first full-length script. Before her, I’d never felt the gratification of creating a whole person. You never forget your first.  

Since Edward Hopper inspired this Frankenstein-like satisfaction, his body of work became personal. Until recently, I could have sworn Hopper painted exclusively in the hues of my own seasons. 

I’m not the only person who sees snapshots of their own life in Edward Hopper’s paintings. They lend themselves naturally to the thrill of asking a question you’ll never get an answer to. It’s precisely why his art makes such an effective story prompt. 

In Morning in a City, like in all of Edward Hopper’s work, we’re given permission to witness the private moments of someone else’s grief and share in their sense of disconnection. Even though the extent of this other person’s longing is unknowable, you’re struck by an unmistakeable solidarity with the subjects of Edward Hopper’s painting.  

Edward captured this alienation by juxtaposing solitude with urban, public spaces, thus masterfully capturing the distance between strangers in close quarters. This predominant visual theme is why Hopper’s name alone paints your memory with scenes of deserted diners, empty railway cars, and a lone gas station off the interstate.

His fixation with the kind of loneliness we feel in someone else’s company has been attributed to the woman in this very painting. Though, to be fair, she’s the woman in all Edward Hopper’s paintings. 

Standing naked at the window is Josephine Nivison, or Josephine N. Hopper. Jo for short. Our most popular narrative about her goes as followed. She was a painter herself when she met Edward, and although she was enthralled by his creative acumen, she demanded space, privacy, and a social life of her own. In return, Edward loved her from the arms-length she kept him at. 

Josephine Nivison was mentioned in almost all analyses I read about Edward Hopper’s work. His marriage is mainly why I featured him in the art gallery despite his cis-man-ness.

Their love story was framed as a sensitive man enamored by a complicated woman. Painting her was his way of getting as close to knowing her as he could, and in the process, he fell in love with the existential strangeness she caused him to confront.  

Looking at Morning in a City, Pensive Lady in Pink, and Interior (Model Reading) I convinced myself that I saw in them the sort of acceptance of the absurd that every girl looks for in a fairy tale romance. After stumbling blindly into the truth, however, I came to realize that this was the outcome of yet another creative prompt.

My enlightenment came courtesy of Stuff You Missed in History Class’s episode on Josephine Nivison Hopper. In an hour and eight minutes, they dispelled every lie I’d even been told about the Hopper’s marriage.

Edward was not a gentleman who accepted emotional bruises from an indelicate woman, he was an egotistically fragile man who used the physical strength he had to take complete control over Josephine’s life.

Josephine’s lust for independence was a fixation of Edward’s, not because of its existential implications but because he resented his inability to control her.

Any proof that her mind was her own painfully reminded Edward that life can happen without his permission. Even though they got married with a quickness, Edward didn’t seem to love Jo. Instead, he projected his own insecurities onto her, finding it easier to hate a stranger than hate himself. 

Knowing this, it still makes sense that I would project my own ideas onto Josephine’s vulnerable likeness. Art, after all, means what we need it to mean. 

As an Existentialist, Edward Hopper and I would probably both agree that hell is other people. Who we think we are, only exists in our lonely universe while countless other versions of ourselves wander aimlessly through other people’s minds. Realizing that you have a profound lack of control over your identity can feel like hell.  

But the point of Existentialism is to come to terms with that. By embracing life’s absence of meaning and your own lack of control, you become strong enough to carry the weight of uncomfortable truths. 

But Edward Hopper isn’t an Existentialist, I am, so I see what I need to see in his paintings. What’s actually on the canvas, however, isn’t acceptance, it’s anger. There was not a force in this world that Edward would let dominate him so instead he felt the need to make everything and everyone submit to him. 

At first, what made him relevant to the gallery were the conclusions I drew on my own.  Now that I’ve learned more about Josephine Nivison, his work seems even more relevant to the gallery’s mission.

One reason I focus on femininity’s relationship to Existentialism so much is because women have been socialized into a role that better prepares them for an existential crisis. Women know what it’s like to be told we’re insignificant and purposeless, to have our whole lives billed to us as a service to something or someone else. We’re taught that our identity is malleable, encouraged to prioritize our relationships, and find happiness by supporting other people.

When oppressed groups of people are confronted by existential truths, I feel like they sort of shrug and say “that tracks”. It isn’t less difficult to cope with, it’s just less of a surprise.

Those who are socialized as men seem to be taken way more off guard when they feel meaningless and scared. Not only is it more alarming to men, but they’ve also been given less societal permission to value things that can help them process their suffering. Deprived of their right to feel, the most obvious coping mechanism is rage, violence, and dominance.  

It isn’t that Edward Hopper was unaware of the universe’s grim strangeness, it’s just that he didn’t handle it with the grace and dignity everyone claims he did. Behind closed doors, he turned his fear, insecurity, and uncertainty into a fist and used it to strike Josephine. Her otherness didn’t entrance him, it enraged him to the brink of madness. 

Looking at his work now, I can now see past my own expectations for it, but I don’t block them out completely. Uncovering these disturbing truths should change the way we think about Edward Hopper, but not the way we think about ourselves. It’s not a failure to connect to the work of monstrous men, but we have all failed if we don’t make that part of the story we tell about their art. 

For more about Josephine Nivison’s life, read Obituary, Josephine Nivison Hopper, 1968.