Ted Walter
Dominated by Light
His paintings are not lit by childhood innocence.
It could be that the Bomb has exploded on the horizon
the house, about to disintegrate, charred weather-
boarding hurled out of the picture.
A white wall of a bridge in Hiroshima holds
the silhouette of a man, his shadow left behind
as incandescence seared the concrete,
reducing him to ashes.
Hopper’s characters look into merciless light
knowing their lives are transparent. Their rooms
should hold their achievements, but the light
reaches bare walls, probes uncluttered corners.
Even the rumpled bedclothes tell less of passion
than of failure and regret, daylight a reminder
that nothing has changed. They take that knowledge
to haunt the light in bars, in diners, in hotel rooms.
Light suffuses the empty streets. If I walked there now
I should feel eyes upon me, know that behind windows
with their shades pulled down, there were secrets,
and worse, there was loneliness and longing.
Yet it is only light, an intensity of seeing
that burns its presence into the pictures. Perhaps
that is the answer; life is wasted hiding from light,
refusing to look, to see what is real.
It could be that the Bomb has exploded on the horizon
the house, about to disintegrate, charred weather-
boarding hurled out of the picture.
A white wall of a bridge in Hiroshima holds
the silhouette of a man, his shadow left behind
as incandescence seared the concrete,
reducing him to ashes.
Hopper’s characters look into merciless light
knowing their lives are transparent. Their rooms
should hold their achievements, but the light
reaches bare walls, probes uncluttered corners.
Even the rumpled bedclothes tell less of passion
than of failure and regret, daylight a reminder
that nothing has changed. They take that knowledge
to haunt the light in bars, in diners, in hotel rooms.
Light suffuses the empty streets. If I walked there now
I should feel eyes upon me, know that behind windows
with their shades pulled down, there were secrets,
and worse, there was loneliness and longing.
Yet it is only light, an intensity of seeing
that burns its presence into the pictures. Perhaps
that is the answer; life is wasted hiding from light,
refusing to look, to see what is real.
Page(s) 30
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