Edward Hopper
Two Comedians

I believe that many of you are familiar with, or at least have encountered sometime, Edward Hopper. He was a painter, American, from New York City. Realist. That is, someone who paints things as they are supposed to be. If it's a house, it's painted like a house, if it's a person, it's painted like a person. This is from an art history primer.

But, anyway, he paints decidedly somewhat strange things. Or rather, he paints normal things but in a decidedly uncommon way. He paints scenes. Scenes that look like photographs. And always - unfailingly - you're there, mouth agape. Watching, studying, that photograph. Which, like any photograph, represents an instant. Fixed, there, carved in marble, or on film, or in a file. And you're there and you say, what's happening? What happened a second before, what will happen a second after? Because that's what, at least for me, I really love. He paints things that are frozen, immobile, he paints objects, often those typical American objects, which later became objects of worship, and he paints them frozen. But mysteriously frozen. In a way so mysterious that you can no longer forget it.Surely, you've seen many things of his. The House By The Railroad, for example. And maybe, for someone, and not by mistake, it brings to mind a house seen in the cinema, inhabited by Anthony Perkins and his mother.

Or - and perhaps it's the most famous - The Nighthawks, and for the more attentive it brings to mind a scene from Profondo Rosso.

Or even Office At Night. Wonder. And mystery. Unresolved and insoluble. What happens in that office, at night? A secretary, a piece of paper on the floor, another strangely on a chair. He, at the table, pretends nothing's happen. She glances at him. A bit sideways, a bit fleetingly. The blind, the door, are open. Perhaps they will close soon. Or perhaps they just opened. Who knows. I repeat, wonder. The kind that makes you just stay there, and watch. And imagine, and it never leaves you.

Two Comedians is his last work. Or one of his last. But certainly his testament. Objects are practically gone.What do you take to the grave? Your favorite CD? No, nothing. All that's left is a stage, below, a plant, or something similar, on the right. No background, all black.

Two figures. Small, as not to disturb, they step onto that stage, next to that plant that will outlive them. They are dressed in white. Neutral.What dress do you take to the grave? They are two actors, stepping into the spotlight. They have finished the show. Their faces aren't clearly visible.What photo do you put on the grave? No more objects, no more clothes, no more faces, no more hair, covered. They would tell of a time. Of an age. No, nothing. The two comedians are small, compared to the scene. They don't want to disturb. They hold hands. They muster up courage. He is a step ahead. Not out of vanity. To protect her. He presents himself, in front of the audience. And if there is any problem, if it wasn't liked, he's there. To shield her.

However, it seems that the audience doesn't complain. And there's something, small. What might it be, not the clothes, not the objects, not the face, what maybe he wants to take with him. Forever. The reason for this painting. The only thing written in the will. The actor's left hand, distinctly, responds to the applause. And says: her. Her hand, the free one, also thanks him. Sweetly. There you have it.

There aren't many photos of Hopper around. I don't know why. Except this one. We are right in that period, that of this painting. She, proudly, wears a skirt, her white hair, a necklace, which perhaps he gave her. He leans on her, seeks her, needs her. To the left a statue, next to a garden. That will outlive them. I don't know why there aren't many photos of Hopper around. Perhaps he didn't want them, perhaps he was reserved, maybe it's just me looking poorly. But, for sure, I know why this one is found. Because when Edward saw it, he was surely happy. And to himself, remembered Two Comedians. And thought, smiling: 'And what did I tell you?'. Or maybe, in French: 'ça va sans dire'...