There is a time and place for all art, and there is no artist like Mark Rothko.
I spent a week in London recently, and it came as much a surprise to me that amongst all the places we went to, all the art, music and bohemian revelry we indulged in, Rothko is my clearest and most cherished memory.
I have never liked modern art before. I have found it difficult to understand: a blotch of the artist's randomness, lack of thought-and-message, and aesthetically unappealing. I had never seen real art before, either, and so I reckoned without the power of the actual canvas. I suppose that is why I love Tate Modern best of all the London haunts: we come to love those that so completely alter our perspectives on things we never expected to understand or appreciate.
In Tate Modern, I caught a glimpse of what modern art means to me. There were stories everywhere - and art to me is the telling of a story. Not a narrative, but the expression of a feeling or an instinct, rather than clearly formed, flawlessly executed ideas. For that reason, for the freedom and method of their brush, for the simplicity of their stories, I have found Impressionists and Expressionists dearer and more beautiful than classical painters. But modern art is a different cup of tea altogether.
I found this most beautiful about many works in Tate: the suggestion of a story, the intimate relationship (though enchantingly hidden) with people and the diversity of forms of expression. There is something for everyone (though that may be true of all forms of art) - and you are at liberty to become powerfully a part of the creation, a part of the story.
Tate Modern houses eight of the Seagram paintings of Rothko. The moment you enter the room, what strikes you is the gloom: the paintings are all large and dark, painted by Rothko towards the end of his life, when he was suffering from continual bouts of depression and a great amount of unhappiness. They are all blacks, maroons, deep reds and greys. And in the corner, on the far left, is a painting - my painting, my Rothko. It is lighter than most: a background of a dark white or light lavender, and an inner rectangular splash-border of red (a gentler red than most). I know I stood in front of it for over an hour, almost in tears, foregoing the many rooms at the gallery.
What does one see in a painting? What did I see in Rothko? I believe there is one formula that is inescapable for any viewer, any reader, any listener: you will see and hear what you most desperately look for at any given point in time; you will receive what you ask for. In my Rothko, in that room filled with despairing blacks and unforgiving maroons, I saw hope. The faint, heartening glimmer of hope in that red-on-lavender (I still don't know what it's called. I doubt it will make any difference; Rothko was no great shakes at naming his works) in a way I have not seen hope for a long, long time. I saw hope in the midst of enduring, drowning despair, and that is more beautiful than sunrise on a clouded day. I saw hope as I had not seen in Revolutionary Road (the film frightened me with its depiction of despair); the hope of a man who has suffered much, felt anguish and hopelessness, seen the end and no bends in the road, and when all else have given up in despair.
What strength and endurance there must have been in Rothko to give that to his viewer.
I spent a week in London recently, and it came as much a surprise to me that amongst all the places we went to, all the art, music and bohemian revelry we indulged in, Rothko is my clearest and most cherished memory.
I have never liked modern art before. I have found it difficult to understand: a blotch of the artist's randomness, lack of thought-and-message, and aesthetically unappealing. I had never seen real art before, either, and so I reckoned without the power of the actual canvas. I suppose that is why I love Tate Modern best of all the London haunts: we come to love those that so completely alter our perspectives on things we never expected to understand or appreciate.
In Tate Modern, I caught a glimpse of what modern art means to me. There were stories everywhere - and art to me is the telling of a story. Not a narrative, but the expression of a feeling or an instinct, rather than clearly formed, flawlessly executed ideas. For that reason, for the freedom and method of their brush, for the simplicity of their stories, I have found Impressionists and Expressionists dearer and more beautiful than classical painters. But modern art is a different cup of tea altogether.
I found this most beautiful about many works in Tate: the suggestion of a story, the intimate relationship (though enchantingly hidden) with people and the diversity of forms of expression. There is something for everyone (though that may be true of all forms of art) - and you are at liberty to become powerfully a part of the creation, a part of the story.
Tate Modern houses eight of the Seagram paintings of Rothko. The moment you enter the room, what strikes you is the gloom: the paintings are all large and dark, painted by Rothko towards the end of his life, when he was suffering from continual bouts of depression and a great amount of unhappiness. They are all blacks, maroons, deep reds and greys. And in the corner, on the far left, is a painting - my painting, my Rothko. It is lighter than most: a background of a dark white or light lavender, and an inner rectangular splash-border of red (a gentler red than most). I know I stood in front of it for over an hour, almost in tears, foregoing the many rooms at the gallery.
What does one see in a painting? What did I see in Rothko? I believe there is one formula that is inescapable for any viewer, any reader, any listener: you will see and hear what you most desperately look for at any given point in time; you will receive what you ask for. In my Rothko, in that room filled with despairing blacks and unforgiving maroons, I saw hope. The faint, heartening glimmer of hope in that red-on-lavender (I still don't know what it's called. I doubt it will make any difference; Rothko was no great shakes at naming his works) in a way I have not seen hope for a long, long time. I saw hope in the midst of enduring, drowning despair, and that is more beautiful than sunrise on a clouded day. I saw hope as I had not seen in Revolutionary Road (the film frightened me with its depiction of despair); the hope of a man who has suffered much, felt anguish and hopelessness, seen the end and no bends in the road, and when all else have given up in despair.
What strength and endurance there must have been in Rothko to give that to his viewer.
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