Maybe …

… Loneliness Belongs to the Photographer - The New Yorker. (Hat tip, Rus Bowden.)

Laing includes performers in her study—poignantly, Klaus Nomi, the countertenor and lonesome bird of the late-nineteen-seventies East Village art scene—but spends the majority of her time discussing the acknowledged masters of modern despondency: Edward Hopper, of course, with his crayon-ish greens and reds and neon chiaroscuro; Andy Warhol, isolated and protected by his layers of sartorial artifice; and David Wojnarowicz, the leader of his own crew of lost boys.

I don't see any despondency in Hopper. Some of my happiest times have been spent wandering alone in strange cities, deliciously alone, almost as if I had arrived from another planet. Being alone and feeling lonely are two quite different things. I love the one. I'm not sure I've ever experienced the other.