1967 Shelby GT 500 Fastback
It doesn’t get much better than this
Edward Hopper, Early Sunday Morning, 1930
Somewhere in the next block
someone may be practicing the flute
but not here
where the entrances
to four stores are dark
the awnings rolled in
nothing open for business
Across the second story
ten faceless windows
In the foreground
a barber pole, a fire hydrant
as if there could ever again
be hair to cut
fire to burn
And far off, still low
in the imagined East
the sun that is again
right on time
adding to the Chinese red
of the building
despite which color
I do not believe
is going to be hot
It was I think
on just such a day
it is on just such a morning
that every Edward Hopper
finishes, puts down his brush
as if to say
as what is
is what is not.
-John Stone, Early Sunday Morning
Edward Hopper, House by the Railroad, 1925
Out here in the exact middle of the day,
This strange, gawky house has the expression
Of someone being stared at, someone holding
His breath underwater, hushed and expectant;
This house is ashamed of itself, ashamed
Of its fantastic mansard rooftop
And its pseudo-Gothic porch, ashamed
of its shoulders and large, awkward hands.
But the man behind the easel is relentless.
He is as brutal as sunlight, and believes
The house must have done something horrible
To the people who once lived here
Because now it is so desperately empty,
It must have done something to the sky
Because the sky, too, is utterly vacant
And devoid of meaning. There are no
Trees or shrubs anywhere—the house
Must have done something against the earth.
All that is present is a single pair of tracks
Straightening into the distance. No trains pass.
Now the stranger returns to this place daily
Until the house begins to suspect
That the man, too, is desolate, desolate
And even ashamed. Soon the house starts
To stare frankly at the man. And somehow
The empty white canvas slowly takes on
The expression of someone who is unnerved,
Someone holding his breath underwater.
And then one day the man simply disappears.
He is a last afternoon shadow moving
Across the tracks, making its way
Through the vast, darkening fields.
This man will paint other abandoned mansions,
And faded cafeteria windows, and poorly lettered
Storefronts on the edges of small towns.
Always they will have this same expression,
The utterly naked look of someone
Being stared at, someone American and gawky.
Someone who is about to be left alone
Again, and can no longer stand it.
-Edward Hirsch, Edward Hopper and the House by the Railroad
Pieter Bruegel, Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, c. 1558
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
-Musée des Beaux Arts, W. H. Auden
The Spyker B6 Venator concept is beyond gorgeous.
As winter approaches, he goes out less and less—the back roads where he lives outside of town are narrow and treacherous. As a man who stays so active, it is hard to imagine his true age. It almost seems as if, one day, instead of dying, he’ll just get in his truck and drive away.
The Night We Were Kings
We lay on our backs, looking at the ceiling and wondering what God had wrought when He made life so sad.
—Jack Kerouac, On the Road
things slow down. the air’s thicker