On the night of Edward Hopper’s death, somewhere in the city, a young usherette in a company uniform reported for work. She waited under a sconce for the third act to wind down and the house lights to come up so she could escort the people from the room and clean up after them. We do not know her name. We don’t know her hopes, dreams, fears, or loves. We don’t know who she goes home to at night, if anyone. We don’t know what’s on her mind. What we do know is that there are millions of her.
