One day when I was scrolling through the internet, probably avoiding doing the thing that needed to be done, I came across a painting that made me pause. The first thing that caught my attention was the artist’s use of light. The sun is clearly there, tucked somewhere between the houses, yet the viewer never actually sees it. I stopped scrolling because I wanted so badly to dive into it further, beyond the surface level. Five years later, I’m writing about it because it’s a piece that stayed with me much longer than I knew it would have.
Once I got past the light, I took note of the main subject, a man. He is standing in his yard and holding a rake. Although he isn’t actively raking, it feels like we’re catching him in the middle of something. As if he’d just extended the rake for another pull before his thoughts wandered elsewhere. Then I started to notice some smaller details, such as his clothing. He is not wearing yard clothes, or at least not the sort of yard clothes you would see me wearing should I have to go outside and do some form of manual labor. No, he looks to be wearing something he may have worn to work that day, like he just arrived back home not too long before. The warmth of the painting and the angle of the light led me to believe it was early evening or late summer. It feels as though the sun is beginning to set. As he pauses from his task, something is either on his mind or he is just allowing himself a moment to space out, something deeply human and very relatable. Either way, he looks off into the distance, and the viewer is left to decide if he is just admiring the sunset or imagining a different life. Looking closer, I get the sense that he is at least middle-aged based on his lack of hair, but the artist leaves that open for interpretation as well. Scanning around, you can see that the lights are off in what is presumably his house and the curtains have been left open. We are left to wonder, does he live alone? When I look at this painting, the story I’ve assigned is that he is a man who has accepted what his life looks like. He doesn’t have anything to hide, and he’s out in the open for us to see. I do, however, find myself wondering if I am witnessing his loneliness, or if I am projecting my own understanding of solitude onto him? I don’t know the answer to that. The painting is remarkably simple in that there aren’t an abundance of context clues for us to draw our observations from. However, even though the painting isn’t busy in a chaotic sense, it somehow still has plenty to say.
People expect paintings to explain themselves, and in a way they do. Just not with the flashy marquee sign we’re all expecting. Instead of looking for one obvious answer, I slowly examine everything. Hands. Are they still or are they in motion? Are they empty or holding onto something? Eyes. They are the windows to the soul after all, and the easiest way for a viewer to understand the emotions of the subject. Background. This one is easy to want to skim past or chalk up as just filler details, but the background will almost always provide additional context. Objects. More often than not, they aren’t just there as decoration but to serve a purpose. Challenge yourself to treat it like a Nancy Drew novel, and gather all the evidence before drawing your own conclusions. Light. What time of day is it? What is the weather? Do the clothes you see people wearing in the scene support this hypothesis, or do you need to sit with the image a little while longer? Every piece of art has tiny details, minutiae, that are just daring you to overlook it. Don’t take the bait. Eventually the story starts to reveal itself, but you have to slow down enough to trust the process.
When I look at this specific painting, I believe it is a Tuesday. Tuesday has always been my outlier. Monday has a purpose, we’ve just come off the weekend and it’s the day meant to set the tone for the week ahead. Wednesday is hump day, and there’s something therapeutic about knowing you’ve made it to the halfway point - it’s all downhill from there, right?! Thursday is Friday Jr. Nothing can go wrong because tomorrow is your last day. And Friday is Friday. This one needs no further explanation. But Tuesday? Tuesday just kind of hangs out. It’s the conversation you’re having with the person who can’t pick up on your context clues and doesn’t know that it was over ten minutes ago. Tuesday is the bottle of Dial soap in the work bathroom that someone keeps adding water to to extend its life instead of just buying a new one. Tuesday just sort of exists, and no one asked for it. To me it’s the day that disappears, the day you can’t describe what you did, what you wore, or who you spoke to if asked about it three weeks from now. Nothing special happens on Tuesday. That’s the point. It’s the perfect example of ordinary life, and it’s exactly why I see Tuesday when I look at this man raking his leafless yard. We should probably all be working four-day workweeks anyway, but I digress.
Alas, I’m not really here to define Tuesday, because aren’t we all just collecting Tuesdays? Have I said Tuesday enough? No? Well then let me at least explain this last piece.
Everybody has something that feels like this painting. Whether that is coming home after work and having to make dinner when you really just want to go through a drive-through and be done with it. Or going to the grocery store to get that one ingredient you keep telling yourself needs to remain a staple in your pantry, but you keep buying everything else instead of that. It’s doing the laundry and most definitely folding it right after the dryer stops, while it’s still warm, and absolutely never leaving it in a pile to sort through every morning as you get dressed for work. Oddly specific, let’s just leave that one alone. This painting may feel like waiting at the red light or stuffing the damn comforter back into the duvet because you were so set on being trendy. It might be waiting in line at the post office or walking the dog. It’s getting it all done just so you can wake up and do it all over again tomorrow. It’s quiet suburbia.
I saw this painting before I ever knew its title. Now I know that it’s called, Pennsylvania Coal Town by Edward Hopper. To me this painting isn’t really about Pennsylvania and it isn’t about any specific coal town either. It’s about ordinary evenings and our routines. It’s that feeling of time slipping by because those routines have started to blur together and our days have become carbon copies of themselves. But a subtle plea to you, if I may? I, more than anyone, love having something to look forward to. I love to dangle the carrot and run really fast in my new sneakers just as much as the next person. But I don’t only want to live for whatever the next exciting thing is. Time isn’t only measured in birthdays and vacations, it’s measured in Tuesdays. If we spend our lives only waiting for the extraordinary moments, we may just look back and realize we’ve lost the entire plot.
Tuesdays show that everything has a purpose even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.