The Fargo Railroad Co. operate out of Sheffield; for what it's worth, and it's pretty well documented around these parts, Sheffield is one of those cities I find hard not to like. It's neither glamorous nor glitzy, a lot like Fargo Railroad Co., which is precisely why I like it/them. Fargo are touring later in the year - it'll be nice to see them headline a bill; thus far I've only ever see them play second fiddle to, so called, 'bigger' names.
Their latest album is an absolute belter. Time & Grace1 (released last year) sees this dirty little barroom band (their words, not mine) come of age. Southern Rock, south Yorkshire style, with a side order of UK Americana makes for a heady mix. Jackie Come On was lifted as a single and sets out clear their intentions from the get go2. You'd have to be deaf not to tap yer foot to this.
Fargo Railroad Company - Jackie Come On 2024)
★
1 Whose cover, as you can see at the top of the piece, pays homage to Hopper's Nighthawks; yet another reason to love this album.
2 A recent caller to Johnny Vaughan's 4-7 Thang informed him that her mother says "from the gecko." Which I may well adopt myself.
Imagine waking up from a lucid dream and being able to paint from memory everything you saw and experienced in the dream. The paintings of Edward Hopper to me look like fragments of a dream where everything is real, and where nothing is real. Remote buildings; mostly empty. Individuals; generally portrayed as lonely and isolated in equally isolated urban cityscapes. They kind of look like regular places but are like no town or city you can remember having visited.
Here's a little exercise I did recently using a bit of human/machine collaboration (AI to you): I 'asked' it to interpret buildings and places I know (some still with us, some long since demolished) and generate images (without providing photographs) in the style of a Hopper painting. The final images conjure up a world where, just like a lucid dream where you know you're dreaming and not actually living in this place and, despite every effort you make to, for instance, read a line of text from a book or a sign on a building, the words don't really make sense. As you can see from a couple of the images below, it's a similar principle.
I often have breakfast at the Warsaw Diner on a Saturday morning. This version of my favourite diner takes it into a whole new dimension. Am I in this version of the eaterie with these lost souls (nighthawks)? I could be. But why is it dark? And where is the friendly Polish lady that always greets me from behind the counter like a member of her family? Wait a minute, where's the bloody counter? I guess what I'm saying is, where's the friendly daytime vibe gone?
The football ground is interesting. I know Meadow Lane, where Notts County have been plying their trade since 1862, but this is not it. The lettering on the main stand is nearly right, but not quite (on one of the images anyway), and the advertising hoardings make no sense whatsoever. Again, the positioning of individuals on the pitch are all wrong. What are they doing, and why are the floodlights are in the wrong place? (One of them is in the back garden of a house that doesn't even exist); that would really bug me. And yet it's a ground I now want to go to. I belong there. Drop me in this painting and I may never come back.
The ABC cinema on Long Row was an old haunt of mine before the wrecking ball paid it a visit in the 1990s. It was always a bit scuzzy, not a fleapit exactly, but it had seen better days. In this reimagined picture house, rebranded here as the ABOC(!), I immediately feel an affinity with both it and its surroundings. Again, beam me up here and, even though I can't for the life of me work out what they're showing (Siult Ack Tone?), I'd certainly sit in the doubles and give it a go.
And finally, Nottingham's iconic Council House. It's famous lions that sit either side (including our beloved Left Lion) have seemingly strolled off somewhere. Oh, and Market Square has been totally airbrushed out of this particular dream; leaving this most imposing of buildings almost totally in shadow (textbook Hopper). And the red brick building on the corner - as most red brick buildings in Hopper's work - is a bit of a tease; what secrets lie behind its walls and windows? Or in this case, what (or who) lurks around the corner?
I need to visit this parallel version of the place I call home. A whole new world awaits.
I slipped anchor this weekend; a getaway to the seaside for 24 hours in a bid to energise my failing batteries. With a fair wind and a watery sun I pointed the car in an easterly direction and trusted to luck. I can't remember the last time I visited Skegvegas, and even if I could I doubt very much it would make my Top 10 Memories list.
Like a lot of seaside towns its fall from grace (if grace was indeed where it fell from) is apparent the minute you clap eyes on it. The kebab shops and amusement arcades look even more tacky than before and the air was thick with chip oil, candy floss and despair (not necessarily in that order). Wait till it gets dark I thought to myself; like Ray Davies' Lola she'll look better at night. And, sure enough, at the stroke of dusk, with nothing more than a splash of neon, the turd, though not polished, is temporarily rolled in glitter. I took loads of photographs to commemorate my smash and grab raid on the town, but the one I want to share with you is a terrific Art Deco Italian restaurant down a little back street away from the glitz. It was like something Hopper would have painted - if he was unlucky enough to find himself billeted 22 miles north-east of Boston, Lincolnshire, that is.
If you could say it in words there'd be no reason for mugs
Apparently radiocarbon dating is the most effective way to both accurately date an artefact and to establish the site from which it came; though with fossils, for example, you could still be a few million years out either side. Thankfully, I think it's safe to say, I can date the 10 objects in this series with a fairly high level of accuracy without the need for such technology.
In the case of today's show and tell I think it's pretty much beyond doubt exactly how old it is, and indeed where it's from: you've just got to look at it. A visit to Tate Modern in the summer of 2004 to see the magnificent Hopper exhibition was the backdrop for a perfect day out in the capital. Ah, train journeys to London; remember them? I can't wait to see John Betjeman at St. Pancras again and tap him on the shoulder.
Vintage 2004
I've written about Hopper hereabouts and in particular Nighthawks so, I hope you don't mind, I'll limit today's missive to concentrate on my purchase from the gift shop at the Tate. Not having a spare £50M about my person that particular day (how remiss of me) I had to content myself with the ubiquitous mug. Which, can I say, is still alive and well (after 16 years) in my kitchen. At the risk of making me sound like a crazed loner I need to tell you that I only use it on Saturdays and Sundays; coffee only. I have mugs a plenty for use in the week; mainly, though not exclusively, for tea. But not Hopper. Oh no, not Hopper. He's a weekend mug. And a coffee mug. Today's object.
Christmas is once again fast approaching and, this year, you know what, I think it's gonna pass me by. I'm not 'doing' it this year; enough already. And it's not been the best of years*, let's not roll it in glitter. So, a fake tree, a pint on Christmas morning and a turkey curry at some point in the afternoon - job done. I have, however, asked Santa for one small gift: In Sunlight Or In Shadow is a selection of short stories inspired by the paintings of Edward Hopper. Lee Child, one of my favourite authors**, has contributed The Truth About What Happened based on Hopper's Hotel Lobby. Written from the perspective of the 'invisible' fourth person in the painting (the hotel clerk at the back on the far right that nobody sees), it's the one thing I'm genuinely looking forward to this December 25th.
With a bit of luck and a following wind, Christmas festivities will resume in 2017.
* Though 2016 has not been without its high points.
** I devour his Jack Reacher novels mercilessly.
What makes a painting a great painting? I guess it all comes down to personal taste; just because Sotheby's (other auction houses are available) have catalogues full of canvases with asking prices north of what you'd pay for a Lear jet, or even a small island in the Bahamas, doesn't make them great. With maybe a one or two exceptions.
Back in 2006 I cut loose on a family vacation in New York, left Jenny and James back at the apartment devouring waffles and American TV, and spent a morning at the Metropolitan. Therein I lost all track of time and just immersed myself in ART! In a museum bigger than the town I currently live in, I wandered through vast halls in what I can only describe as a heightened state. And then, maybe an hour in, I found what I was looking for. A visiting Edward Hopper exhibition was in town, and they'd brought the big one: despite having practically grown up with Nighthawks - on posters, prints and postcards - nothing prepares you for the sheer size of the thing as you approach it from the far end of the room.
The painting measures 60" x 33 1/8 " and hits you like a sledgehammer. It did me, anyway. I stood, just a couple of feet from it for a good thirty minutes. My eyes took in every square inch of canvas as I tried to memorise it. I wanted to shut my eyes and still see it. It worked. And it still works - as a mindfulness exercise, I can recommend it.
Hopper, who painted his masterpiece in 1942, was very vague about the inspiration behind the diner and where, and, indeed, if it existed. The clever money is on a little place in Greenwich Village that was later torn down, but nobody really knows. This picture (left) claims to be it, but isn't.
As with most great paintings it's been parodied more times than Downfall. Yet, as with most forms of imitation, a lot of them are very flattering. My favourites are the pixellated version, Star Trek and the one that hangs in Medd Towers - try and spot the game it's depicting. The fact that the diner is called Chalkies may give it away.
Here's a quirky little film bringing the painting alive:
