I’ve been thinking about clichés lately. It started last week when I was just another face in the crowd at a meeting. Yeah, we all have our crosses to bear. Anyway, there was a guy telling us about “drinking our own Kool-Aid” and “eating our own dog food,” all in the same sentence! Man, that was more fun than a barrel of monkeys. These folks were in to help us see the forest for the trees so our stuff will sell like hotcakes, but I digress.

From what I’ve read lately, it is embarrassingly cliché to say, “I love your eyes” to a woman. I guess if a woman possesses eyes that speak, she’s probably heard that one before. Ok. Noted. What I’m wondering is why some eyes express “More than all the print I have read in my life*,” while others seem either dispassionate or even just a window to a vacant lot?
* “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman, from “Leaves of Grass,” which went on sale July 4th, 1855.

Yesterday I was flipping through a book illustrating the work of artist Edward Hopper. I like Hopper. Others may not. Perhaps they like Mapplethorpe or dogs playing poker. While Hopper’s images are aesthetically pleasing to me, there’s an unexplainable range of emotions I feel when looking at some of his work. These pieces express emotions that I can feel. They speak to me. Just like eyes.

Hopper brilliantly portrays scenes of Americana. From Brooklyn to Cape Cod, he places us in the frame of a simpler time. He’s also a master of capturing light and women. One of my favorite Hopper prints hangs in our living room. It depicts both beautifully. At least in my eyes.