America is a Big Country. So big that, in her rush for the better and faster, she left behind a few human beings who, not fast enough to keep up with her pace, rested among her folds. John Register is one of them. He took good care of the forgotten places, painting solitude in the golden dress of afternoon. There is no one in empty bars, empty swimming pools and restaurants. Even the green chair is left unoccupied. Nevertheless people are still present in every object or piece of furniture, because man made them and what remains to speak on his behalf is the intention the object emanates. John Register is here to remind us that velocity is a value only if applied to the machine, not to the human being. We are always in a hurry and, mindlessly, we leave behind fragments of us: debrises that continue to live on their own, indipendently from our destiny and the oxymoron of our constant emergencies. We live so fast to be almost forced to forget, beacuse remembering would be too painful. John Register paints empty places, filled with stories we can only imagine to have happened, once. It’s inevitable to compare his work to Hopper’s, but while Hopper is a painter of the American Dream, with his beautiful landscapes of lighthouses, barns, gas stations, bars and hotels where people happen to visit and populate the canvas, Register catches the essence of the Crushed Dream, which is not just American but universal. In this search for truth lays his greatness. John Register is not anymore among us, unfortunately. But his paintings are still crowded by his poetic, lacerating brushstrokes.