Room in New York, 1932
We are in the front room upstairs. Just your usual rented brownstone. Apart from the piano. We only came to look at art and now we’re inside a painting, held by the dark frame of the window at night. He’s not talking to me. He’s posing, pretending to read, stretching the paper into black and white shapes. I tinkle a few notes. Waiting. Electric light can be so brittle. It sharpens the space between us. My red dress has become the focal point in the picture, flesh tones soft against mahogany. Some guy is watching from the apartment across the street. He thinks I haven’t noticed. I should pull the drapes, block out his angle of vision. But then we’d never get out.
Nighthawks, 1942
There’s no stopping him: he went off in the middle of the night. Said he was going out for cigarettes. I’m not in this picture. There’s no door, so I don’t know if I could get in. Or how he will get out! He’s sitting in there smoking, watching the couple at the counter, well the redhead anyway. The waiter is making small talk. Passing time. They are all shaped in a diner window. Separate, like extras in a movie. Artificial light freezes the frame, draining the colour. He’s always looking for the story beyond the painted surface. But this time he’s gone too far.