Inside an Edward Hopper

When the father of my good friend John saw John reading a book and asked what he was reading, John said, "I'm reading the Bible."

"Why don't you read something that makes sense", his father said.

During dinner the other evening at Osteria on the corner of Presidio & Sacramento, my companion said this was the first time in her memory that she hadn't had a sociopathic relationship, "and I'm 60 years old!" She's positive that the absence of having an active sociopath in her life goes a long way toward explaining her current happiness and productivity.

There are as many grades of sociopaths as there are grades of meat. For the most part I've known mostly the lesser cuts, those with just enough conscience in them to be called human. Without naming  names, there are two such sub-grade sociopath's who stand out in my life and who I've since forgiven, feeling sorry for them both that they don't know they're sociopaths. One is now dead, but one is still out there practicing.

Reading Edward Hopper, an Intimate Biography by Gail Levin, there are times when I'm tempted to see Hopper as sociopathic. He was certainly a monster at times in regard to his wife, and an old-fashioned careerist who pretended not to care much about money or fame. The story is complicated and goes on and on from one painting to another, over a span of more than 60 years.

It's hard to tell what's in another heart or mind. In relationships with others we're always outside looking in, unless we're inside looking out and the light's just right like it was for Edward Hopper. Not that being a good painter or a good writer or a good reader could ever excuse one for being a sociopath.