The Blue Hour in 1492 or: Dusk and Dawn at Land and Sea

(Picture: anonymous; statue by Jeronimo Suñol)

(21.9.2022) American artist – one of the American artists – painter Edward Hopper, who covered much more than just the subject of alienation, has depicted Christopher Columbus in the blue hour. Which means that Hopper, in his 1935 painting Shakespeare at Dusk, which has the statue of Shakespeare in Central Park, New York, in the foreground, depicted also the nearby statue of Columbus, if only, as Mrs. Hopper did notice, ›not distinct‹. One might say that this painting is also about alienation, perhaps about alienation as far as Columbus – as one of the once-much-admired heroes of the West is concerned. But this might be an all-too-contemporary interpretation, and one might also say that this particular painting, as many others in Hopper’s oeuvre are, is actually primarily about light. We will come to that, but for now we will look at one of the symbolic nights in history, one night, one dawning, which heralded the modern age. Because land was seen at about 2 o’clock in the morning by the watchman of the Pinta. An (early modern) cannon was fired, the Santa Maria was alarmed – and then – Columbus and his men had to wait till dawn for the actual dawning of the new age – the actual landfall.
As far as the Conquista is concerned this symbolical night, of course, might be only the symbolical beginning, a mysterious night out of which myths have been born, an uncanny night perhaps, if we think of what happened in the wake of that one night and on October 12 in 1492. But all this, and particularly the wainting for the light to come on this particular day, the blue hour of this particular day, once was very real. It all did happen in the frame of the natural rhythm of day and night, into which also the seafarers had settled. And this is what we are interested here. The city of New York might have its own rhythm of day and night, the seafarers in 1492 had another. But who is there to ask? Answer: the specialists.

(Picture: Sothebys.com)

I remember professor Guggisberg, and I remember him well. Not because he was one of my main teachers, but I remember him, lecturing about Columbus, and representing exactly this one question: do historians really know what they are talking about? Don’t they have to know in more than just a theoretical manner? Do they have to know, perhaps, also in a more practical manner?
Good question, and I remember that professor Guggisberg had the answer, gave the answer, as far as Columbus is concerned – in recommending, by recommending the Columbus biography by Samuel Eliot Morison for one particular reason: in mentioning that Morison had also been a sailor, professor Guggisberg made clear that Morison had known what he was talking about. And this might be seen, indeed, as a quality, even if one does feel that Columbus, today, is just a once-much-admired hero.
I never have owned that particular book myself, until recently when accidentally I came by a modern German edition – and now have read especially chapter 12, which is called ›one day at sea‹. And indeed it does seem to me, as critically as one should see the Conquista and as ambivalent a hero Columbus might be today, Morison probably knew better how to describe ›one day at sea‹ than any postcolonial professor (whose strength, perhaps, might be to deconstruct the concept of ›heroic biography‹).

It is not about the details here. Not about the details how to measure time at sea, how to navigate or how to organize a rhythm of day and night aboard of a ship, a rhythm that complies to the religious demands of the time (more or less complied to at land). The historian of light has to settle into all this, and also in detail; but before we can settle into all this we have to know about possible ways how to do that. Which is why this is all about recommendation.
I do recommend chapter 12 (as well as other chapters) of Morison’s book; and I am grateful for professor Guggisberg’s recommendation (teachers teach you by what they say, perhaps, but also by how they live, and by what they represent for a student). And whoever will follow my recommendation will become aware that we, as far as we want to be historians of light and color, that we have still to dig deeper. Which is why I yet want to recommend something else – since I do recall also professor Eco.

Professor Eco, Umberto Eco, well-known for his historical novels, for his best-selling The Name of the Rose very in particular, organized this particular novel into the rhythm of day and night of a Benedictine monastery of the 14th century. And while the whole novel, which is also a detective novel with a failing detective (who is not able to disentangle the various plots that cross inside that particular monastery) – while the whole novel can also be read as a gigantic lecture about the 14th century, it is very informative as to the interplay of human action with the natural rhythm of day and night. Every now and then professor Eco is also quite good as a writer, for example, when describing the dawning of a winter day (second day, chapter Orthros), with the first rays of light reaching a colored glass window in the very early morning.
How could Umberto Eco be so precise, in organizing the life of a fictional 14th century monastery in such detail? Answer: because he did ask the specialists. As far as the rhythm of life of the monks was concerned, Eco had consulted a book by Edouard Schneider (Les heures bénédictines, Paris 1925). And as alienated as we might be regarding the ways men and women of the Middle Ages and of the Renaissance did organize their rhythm of day and night – if we do not know about them, we might fall into the trap of not even really (or only superficially) knowing our own ways.
Did the New York of 1935 know about the ways of complying to religious demands aboard of a 15th century ship? Perhaps. And at least Edward Hopper did act as a sort of historian of light and color. By observing the interplay of natural and artificial light at Central Park in 1935 at dusk. We see a red hue, by the way, which comes from a red sign that can’t be read. Another sign (unlit) can be read, and we have not only two statues but also two street lights. The pavement, as Mrs. Hopper did note as well, is slightly warmed by ›glow in sky overhead (offstage)‹. Which reminds us that we might see more than we might be aware at first sight. What we see in the Hopper painting encompasses many things: a (not yet written) history of light, and also a visually expressed question perhaps, which reads ›are these the foundations the West is built on? and if yes: ›which exactly are these?‹, and: ›why is Shakespeare more distinct than Christopher Columbus?‹

Literature:
Samuel Eliot Morison, Admiral des Weltmeeres. Das Leben des Christoph Kolumbus [originally published in the English language in 1942], Stuttgart/Zürich/Wien 2005
Hugh Thomas, Rivers of Gold. The Rise of the Spanish Empire, From Columbus to Magellan, London 2003

(Picture: Awgrasso; a replica of the Pinta)

MICROSTORY OF ART
ONLINE JOURNAL FOR ART, CONNOISSEURSHIP AND CULTURAL JOURNALISM
HOME

Top of the page

Microstory of Art Main Index

Dietrich Seybold Homepage

© DS