Concerning the Nighthawks
Concerning the Nighthawks
Kathryn Sadakierski
In the dimly lit chiaroscuro of Edward Hopper's acrylics, I saw my own solitude.
A long, curling ribbon of mahogany countertop twists around the cramped space of a small city diner, whose patrons appear equally restrained and confined. Artificial light blares unrelentingly onto three customers sitting at the bar, flanked by an employee attending to them, standing at the center of the action—or, inaction. Heads down, drawn into their own shadows, each individual seems lost in their own thoughts, distanced from each other, even when they sit just feet away. We’re in the midst of the constant movement that is life, and yet, there is a heavy stillness hanging over it all. No one wanders in the streets outside the diner, no attempt is made at forging a connection. Much is left unsaid, with what is absent being more starkly apparent than what is present. This is the scene we are confronted with in Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks (1942), but I find a reflection of my own outlook on our present circumstances. Solitude can feel like a ghostly memory of what was, or a reminder of what could have been, when we are left with our own thoughts, reflecting on a fleeting past and a nebulous future.
Rendered in phantasmagoric colors, Nighthawks’ palette is full of dusky grays, blues, and greens of a night that has fallen beyond the diner limits. Only remnants of light remain, besides the unnatural glare inside, not unlike fluorescent cafeteria light. We, too, are made to feel like spectators, separated by the glass windows of the diner, not participating within the scene, but remaining behind the partition. There’s mystery; we are left to wonder about the identities of these figures, making inferences about their feelings by the shadows they cast, imagining what their lives have been, what stories they would tell if a veil of silence didn’t loom over the scene like the moon. Completed during World War II, Nighthawks captures the feeling of a world at war, despairing, divided by physical and emotional battlelines. It’s no wonder these subjects are acquainted with the night, navigating through a darkened terrain that intimates the feeling of sleepwalking through terrain that once felt familiar, but is now foreign. Solitude does not always take the expected shape of being physically apart from the rest. In Nighthawks, there is the sense of being lonely even among others, the sense that even if someone did dare to speak, what was pressing on their heart wouldn’t truly be understood; a feeling I can relate to all too well.
*
In high school, one of my teachers conducted something of a social experiment, asking the students in my class to think of a color, and then, of a hardware tool. All of my classmates responded that what had come to mind for them was “red hammer.” Me? “Blue wrench.” My teacher informed me that 98% of participants in a similar survey had answered “red hammer.” I was part of that 2% who thought outside of the box. It was just one example of the anomaly that I knew I was.
At lunch, sometimes, snatches of small talk drifted past, words I couldn’t follow, threads of gossip, worldviews I couldn’t relate to. Even with the constant hum of chatter around me, the steady flow of laughter—I felt like I remained at the edge of it at all times. There were times I was alone with my thoughts, reading a book, working on an assignment at the table: the outlier. Other days, when I surrounded myself with others sharing my passion for God, I knew the heights of joy, of feeling blessed, seen, like I could share the best of myself, that my contributions had value, the thoughts weighing on my heart were heard.
In choosing to follow Christ, I knew I wouldn’t always be understood by my peers, but I was understood by God, who brought vivid color to my life, deeper shades of meaning and hope—a warmth that emanated and contrasted the eerie coolness, detachment, and despondence of ennui that shaded the Nighthawks. Through the perplexing days of adolescence, discerning my path forward into the inscrutable future, my purpose, I had felt like I was walking with him, but in my soul-searching, my prayers and tears, I found that God does not keep us in the dark; following Him does not mean isolation. Rather, quite the opposite. In following Christ, we may distance ourselves from the superficial and transient, but we open ourselves to new possibilities, and find more lasting connections to nourish our soul. We come to know the depths of love, the care of family and friends, not in fleeting interactions, but in more personal forms. It was in high school, through the growing pains, that my faith was most deepened, actively pursuing truth, reading as much as I could about theology, studying the Mass, coming to understand the magnitude of Christ’s sacrifice for me, how the arms nailed on the Cross were reaching out in love towards me. I was ready to take His hand and follow His path for me.
*
At church, I felt more acutely than perhaps anywhere else that I belonged—like a chiaroscuro stroke of light cutting through the blue gloom. I realized that I was a member of a vast family of believers that transcends this earth, the temporal and corporeal. His love is not the hollow illumination of a fluorescent light, but the warmth of a candle’s glow, the brilliance of the stars and moon overhead, the reassuring presence of the sun, always to rise, and to buoy our hopes up with it. In my prayers to help me discern how He wanted me to serve Him, I came to further discover the purpose of my lifelong passion for the arts. Creating art was spiritual for me, an answer, a conduit through which to convey my love for God and others, in pouring my soul into my work, whether through pen, page or paint. Perhaps I had felt disconnected before, when others couldn’t relate to my creative vision, my calling—but in expressing myself, I came to forge connections with others; meaningful friendships founded on the love of Christ.
*
The atmospheric solitude reigning within Hopper’s work is one that brings to mind a poetic equivalent in Li Bo’s poetry, “Drinking Alone with the Moon”:
'“A pot of wine among the flowers. / I drink alone, no friend with me. / I raise my cup to invite the moon. / He and my shadow and I make three.”
If the moon is a pot of wine among stars that are like flowers, the diners in Nighthawks, too, are like stars circled around a center point of light, the employee who waits on them. It is as if each character in the scene is waiting—hanging on the edge of a breath, leaning forward, about to make some sort of grand proclamation.
In so many seasons of life, we may feel like we’re awaiting answers to our prayers, waiting to hear God’s voice. It feels like the noise of society nearly drowns it out fully, making it feel impossible to listen, be still, and focus on His nearness to us. And yet, a soul feeling the dark depths of solitude can be led out by the merciful light of Christ. Li Bo comforts himself in his loneliness by thinking of the moon as an ever-present companion, always there to listen; he expands his circle simply by changing his mindset, considering himself, his shadow, and the moon to form a trio of sorts, unlikely as it may be. Neither are we alone, for the presence of the Holy Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, each Person of God imparting special graces that help us even through times that seem hopeless. No prayers have to be left unsaid, and none will go unheard.
While we feel like outliers in the same way those congregated at the diner in Nighthawks—witnesses only to their own experience, unaware of the others around them that feel the same. Outside the painting, earthly suffering is temporary, a burden lightened by God’s love that offers connection and tight bonds existing beyond transient moments. Great art reminds us of how we are connected and inspires us to feel, believe, and to navigate life with courage, knowing we are not alone in crossing the roads ahead. On the journey out of solitude, I think of another of Li Bo’s poems, “Question and Answer in the Mountains”:
“They ask me why I live in the green mountains. / I smile and don’t reply, my heart’s at ease. / Peach blossoms flow downstream, leaving no trace- / And there are other earths and skies than these.”
Kathryn Sadakierski
Poet & Writer
Kathryn’s writing has appeared in anthologies, magazines, and literary journals around the world, including Agape Review, Critical Read, Literature Today, NewPages Blog, Teachers of Vision, and elsewhere. In 2020, she was awarded the C. Warren Hollister Non-Fiction Prize. She holds a B.A. and M.S. from Bay Path University.
Photography by Furk Saglam