Untitled, Red, 1956, Rothko

His work, like the work of many other artists, isn’t just what it appears to be objectively.

Of course it is about colour, how could one deny that? But it truly is about emotions.

Untitled, Red, 1956, Mark Rothko

I blame colour. Just in general, you know? The power it has, even being a mere calculation of the brain. No wonder so many have written about the psychology of colours, colour theory, and so on. Rothko, well, he was a master of it. Truly. In fact, for a time I have considered him my favourite painter, though I am usually for more (maybe boring for some) realist stuff, for instance, the works of Waterhouse, or lately, Turner. But long ago I saw — by chance — a documentary on Rothko which just captured something of my soul. I was very young, and in need of understanding what was missing in my life, and I was just amazed by his paintings which just seemed so perfect, big, and creative. And it was a cathartic and eureka-like moment for me, as creativity is something I can get thirsty for.

Then years later, something else happened. I walked into a room at the National Gallery of Victoria, and my heart got inflated with awe. I finally saw one of his pieces, colour on colour, tone on tone, and it was beautiful. Just beautiful. Soon after, I was also lucky to see more of his work when the same gallery was hosting pieces from MOMA.

Rothko’s oeuvre is peculiar as it is usually taken as an example for various arguments. My kids could have painted this; the beauty of art; art has or has no true meaning; paintings are just aesthetic decorations for billionaires; how a painting can fill you up with feelings.

“I don’t express myself in my painting. I express my not-self. The dictum ‘Know Thyself’ is only valuable if the ego is removed from the process in search for truth… The fact that people break down and cry when confronted with my pictures shows that I can communicate those basic human emotions… the people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when painting them. And if you say you are moved only by their colour relationships then you miss the point.” — Mark Rothko

For a bit of background, American abstract painter Mark Rothko was of Latvian Jewish heritage. He is most known for his colour field paintings, which he created between 1949 and 1970 and featured uneven and painterly rectangular patches of colour. Mark Rothko, a major member of the New York School of painters, experimented with a variety of artistic mediums before settling on his iconic 1950s pattern of supple, rectangular figures floating over a torn field of colour. Early paintings by Rothko that combined Expressionism with Surrealism included landscapes and portraits. His efforts to find fresh ways to express himself resulted in his Color Field paintings, which used dazzling colour to evoke a mysticism.

Now, for something more visual, I couldn’t find any photos of me with the piece that is permanent at the NGV, but I did find a couple of photos taken with me observing the one that visited Melbourne with the MOMA collection:

It was 2018 as I can recall, and people were already unimpressed with my fashion choices.

“I am interested in expressing the big emotions — tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on.”

Untitled, Red, 1956, Mark Rothko

His work, like the work of many other artists, isn’t just what it appears to be objectively. Of course, it is about colour, how could one deny that? But it truly is about emotions. The doom, the happiness, the midnight existential crises. People have cried in front of his paintings, and I have wrestled my heart in their presence too. Even though, rationally I don’t fully get it. I have often asked myself why the paintings do have such effects on me, and the answer I give myself is that which has already been discussed, but it doesn’t feel satisfactory. How could blocks of colours painted together reflect so much of one’s deepest mind? How is it I feel like I could swim in that red? Be enveloped by it…?

I blame colour, still. And having seen them in person, size.

“…I paint very large pictures. I realize that historically the function of painting large pictures is painting something very grandiose and pompous. The reason I paint them, however — I think it applies to other painters I know — is precisely because I went to be very intimate and human. To paint a small picture is to place yourself outside your experience, to look upon an experience as a stereopticon view a reducing glass. However you paint larger picture, you are in it. It isn’t something you command.”