Spaces of transition—waiting rooms, train stations, hotel lobbies—have long fascinated artists, capturing the quiet tension between movement and stillness, connection and solitude. Edward Hopper’s Hotel Lobby (1943) is one such exploration, a frozen moment where figures coexist yet remain emotionally distant. The older couple, the young woman reading, and the hotel clerk stand in proximity, but their postures and expressions suggest detachment, as though they are merely passing through each other’s lives. Hopper’s muted palette and controlled lighting emphasize the stillness, the waiting, the sense that something has just happened or is about to.
Hopper’s work consistently returns to this theme of isolation within shared spaces. In Nighthawks (1942), late-night diners sit together but seem lost in their own worlds, while Automat (1927) captures a woman staring into her coffee, a solitary figure amid the artificial glow of city life. This sense of detachment is echoed in the works of other artists. Degas’ L’Absinthe (1876) presents a woman adrift, physically present but emotionally elsewhere. Vilhelm Hammershøi’s interiors, such as Interior with Woman at Piano, Strandgade 30 (1901), frame figures in soft light and muted tones, emphasizing solitude even within occupied rooms. Each of these works engages with a similar liminality—a psychological space where presence and absence, inclusion and exclusion, blur.
It was in this context that I recently stood before Hotel Lobby in Indianapolis, the strains of a live string quartet drifting in from another gallery. The music, like the ambient melodies one might hear in an actual hotel lobby, heightened the experience, making the painting feel even more immersive. At the time, I absorbed its quietness, its emotional restraint, without immediately recognizing why it resonated so deeply. Now, as the academic year nears its close, its significance has fully settled in.
My classroom, like Hotel Lobby, is a place of transition. Students arrive, some stay for a while, and then they leave. Some depart successfully, their journeys leading them to college, the military, or the workforce. Others, however, struggle—some leave quietly, unfinished, while others rage against the closing doors. Some request an extended stay, hoping for more time to complete what they began.
And I? I am the clerk. The ever-present figure behind the desk, processing check-ins and check-outs, enforcing the rules set by management—principals, policies, institutions. I bear witness to the full range of emotions: joy, relief, grief, frustration. I see students at their best and at their worst. Some will fade into distant memory. Others will return, in unexpected places, years later—some thriving in ways I never anticipated, others weighed down by choices that have taken them in darker directions.
Unlike the anonymous city setting of Hopper’s Hotel Lobby, my school exists in a tightly knit community. The students who pass through do not vanish into a sea of strangers; their lives remain interwoven with mine. I encounter them often, and with each reunion, I am reminded of the unpredictable paths they take. Some who struggled in school have found success outside of it. Others, despite walking away with their diploma, have faced challenges they never expected. The weight of these unknown futures is part of my role as the clerk—to witness, to acknowledge, but ultimately, to let them go.
When I first stood before Hotel Lobby, I did not immediately recognize myself in the painting. Now, I see it clearly. The quiet observation, the restrained presence, the way the clerk is both part of the scene and set apart from it. In Hopper’s world, in my own professional life, and in the tradition of artists capturing liminal spaces, there is a tension between engagement and detachment. I do not dictate where my students go, nor can I determine their outcomes. But I watch, I listen, and I bear witness. Like the hotel clerk, I remain stationed at my post, knowing that while some guests will pass through without looking back, others will return, carrying the weight of their journey with them.