3 December 2009 – 6 February 2010

‘There is only one thing I fear in life, my friend…
One day the black will swallow the red.’

Under the watchful gaze of his young assistant and the threatening presence of a new generation of artists, Mark Rothko takes on his greatest challenge yet: to create a definitive work for an extraordinary setting.

A moving and compelling account of one of the greatest artists of the 20th century whose struggle to accept his growing riches and praise became his ultimate undoing.

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Why I want so desperately to see this?  The obvious is my utter devotion to Rothko, but the more compelling one I find at present is that boy playing the ‘assistant’ right next to Molina’s Rothko.  *sighs*  Oh what I wouldn’t give to be in London at that time….

Earlier this year I wrote a (hopefully) humourous piece about having asthma. Oh, that was easy then, when I was on top form, lungs working at 90% of their capacity, a peak flow of 540.

Now my peak flow is down to 200, a day or two ago 100.

So this leads to insane drug abuse. Mainly of steroids. I double my inhaler usage and I get the multi-purpose Amoxicillin 500 mg and then some dinky elliptical maroon pills called Prednisolone that I take six at at time and can lead to such side effects as Moon-Face and insomnia.

If it’s a clear night and you wake in the middle of it, open your curtains and see me smile down at you.

Yesterday I went for an X-Ray at Lewisham Hospital. The results were fine (I think- they don’t tell you anything, but they did let me leave, and my doctor had said they wouldn’t if there was “anything gross”).

So I head to the Radiology Department (next to the Nuclear Medicine Department… I don’t know, and I was too afraid to ask).

There’s a smallish queue at the reception and two or three ahead of me is the King of Coughs. This man’s cough is relentless. It’s not a barking or hacking cough. It does, sadly, have a hint of the death rattle about it. His cough sounds like a cough trying to cough.

He’s seen to and he coughs to a seat.

A few minutes later I hand in my form and I’m given a green ticket. A39. Tickets like you pull out of a machine when waiting at the delicatessen counter in a supermarket.

I sit near the Rothko print, and a few rows away from the King. He looks like me only twenty years older. And really what I mean by that is that we both need haircuts, a shave and a good bath. We’re like Catweazle and Catweazler.

We both get called at the same time to go to our next waiting post. His name is Edward. We’re given shopping baskets (it is like being at the supermarket!) and asked to go into cubicles, strip to our waists, put our clothes in the baskets and to put on thin green cotton robes.

Then we sit next to each other and wait a few moments, smiling at each other.

Edward goes off for his X-Ray and I go off for mine. Then we both come out and wait again. This time we sit opposite each other and say hello.

Edward has chronic bronchitis. Although Edward has a truly awful and worrying cough, he is smiling and he is happy to talk. He rushes things out, in a seemingly random order; he has chronic bronchitis, his wife died a year ago, he worked and rushed, and ate, and drank, and met, family, a brother, all work, all rush, all coughing… random thoughts that made me think he is leading to an understanding of what condition his condition is in. But it isn’t coming and so I try to prompt him.

But Edward, who is me twenty years on, is quite a little deaf. Through the coughs, and the coughs of the coughs, I try to make myself clear, to be heard. And regular readers of my blog will know that this is not something I normally have difficulty with. But I’m in a hospital, and I’m doing my best to be sensitive, already making enough noise with my own heavy breathing and gasping.

I felt the secret to Edward’s condition was his work. He seemed to be driving at that. Perhaps he’d been a baker, spending a lifetime breathing in flour. Or perhaps he’d worked with asbestos.

I ask him what he did, and he hears. “Worked for the council”.

And then the radiologist approaches us both. We can both get dressed. We can both go. Our doctors will get the results soon. Nothing “gross”.

I’m glad. For both of us. Take care Edward.

Years ago, when I was young and gloomy, I travelled down to London to see Mark Rothko’s murals at the Tate. There was only one Tate in those days; the London one. And travelling down to London from Manchester was a big deal; this was a pilgrimage. This day had the same power as a Crystal Day in Liverpool or a Blackpool Day at the Pleasure Beach.

These huge and oppressive paintings appealed to me in the way that Joy Division and Echo and the Bunnymen and the Big Dipper appealed to me. A way that I am still unable to put into words and unwilling and unwanting to try. Instead, I will put them into paintings, music and rollercoasters. That’s the best I can do.

The murals can now be found in Tate Modern. John Banville writes perfectly about them and Rothko here.

They were commissioned for the swanky Four Seasons Restaurant in New York in the late 1950’s. and here’s what Rothko said at the time;

“I accepted this assignment as a challenge, with strictly malicious intentions. I hope to paint something that will ruin the appetite of every son of a bitch who ever eats in that room. If the restaurant would refuse to put up my murals, that would be the ultimate compliment. But they won’t. People can stand anything these days.”

The restaurant didn’t refuse, but Rothko did withdraw from the commission.

Shortly after giving the paintings to the Tate instead, Rothko cut deep into his arms and died “in a wine-dark sea of his own blood”.

So I was surprised, as I sat in the Radiology Department of Lewisham Hospital, waiting for a chest X-Ray, to find myself close to a Rothko.  Not one of his restaurant ones, but, I think, a miniature of Light Red Over Black, 1957.

I like it. The big one. And I think I have the constitution to contemplate it whilst also contemplating the response of my doctor, yesterday, to my question as to whether the hospital would tell me anything or not; If it’s gross, they’ll keep you in.

Thankfully it wasn’t gross. They didn’t keep me in. Just my asthma having fun. I’m not wheezy; just not really breathing. I’m on steroids now. I was hoping to become Hulk-like, but it seems a real possible side effect* is Moon Face. I’ll settle for that. Sounds like a new Batman villain.

Walking home… ha! At what speed does a walk begin? And what comes before that? It wasn’t a dawdle;  I kept a straight line and an even pace. But noticing me move would be like watching the London Eye spin …I fancied stopping off for a quick nap at Lewisham’s snazzzziest titled bed shop.

* Oh, and insomnia. Hence the late post.

and bad Donald Judd and Carl Andre and sherbert

I saw a piece the other day about the concept of Umami (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Umami). It is Japanese idea concerning a certain combination of flavours working to produce a stronger flavoured whole. The example they used was marmite being spread on bread, under cheese and then toasted. The overall effect was to exagerate the flavour of the cheese. There are other ingredients which, when added to meals, boost the overall flavour. The ones highlighted were worcester sauce, tomato ketchup, and parmesan. They said that the highest form of Umami is expressed through sushi where the flavours are balanced to perfection in order to highlight all the constituent parts.

Yum, sushi!

Somehow this got me thinking about the nature of taste and emotion, how I feel about certain film, music and art. Whether there is an equivalent of Umami in these fields because there are some films that produce an indescribable feeling of contradictions that gives the whole flavour much deeper impact. A life-affirming ennui or hopelessness seems to be the thing that really makes a film impact on me most severely and I can’t always pinpoint why.

Sickert's 'Ennui', from the Tate's Degas, Sickert, Toulouse-Lautrec exhibition in 2006 - which was amazing by the way.

Films like About Schmidt, Donnie Darko, American Beauty, Fight Club, Lost In Translation, Old Boy, Pan’s Labyrinth, In Bruges, The City of the Lost Children, The Motorcycle Diaries, Spirited Away, Clerks, Batteries Not Included (yes, really), Leon, and Ghost In The Shell all bring me this feeling that I love completely but that I find wholly unsettling and disturbing. It is not just in film that it can be found either. The novels of Knut Hamsun, George Orwell, Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Franz Kafka, Nikolai Gogol, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Victor Hugo all have it. The art of Mark Rothko, Egon Schiele, Walter Sickert, and Vincent Van Gogh all have it. The music of Radiohead, British Sea Power (Man of Aran mainly), UNKLE, The Strokes, Boards of Canada, Aphex Twin, Doves, Queens Of The Stone Age, Libertines, The Strokes, Ella Fitzgerald, and Billie Holiday all have it at times. What is it that draws all of these together though?

Franz Kafka, does his strange surreal existentialism change the way I think?

For films it seems to be sadness and loss that particularly flick my switches. In literature there are few moments that have moved me so much as Prince Andrei’s death in War & Peace. The death of Jean Valjean in Les Miserables was another emotional one. Crime & Punishment was a terrifying one for me because I could feel it playing with my mind as I read it. I became so involved with Radion Raskolnikov’s plight and mental deterioration that my own mood changed. The starvation of the lead character in Knut Hamsun’s ‘Hunger’ and the Parisian exploits of Orwell in Down & Out make my heart yearn for something whether it’s a mythical and romanticised version of the past or something missing from my own existence and experience. It’s a struggle between these two poles and what balances it all out seems to be love in the middle. It’s hard to find the love in any of Orwell’s books but there is something there, perhaps a love of the poor and downtrodden people of the world. I’m not sure but everything else involves either a woman or God, or both. I’m certainly no Christian but the exhilaration of Jean Valjean’s piety was amazing to me. It invigorated me whilst simultaneously depressing and hurting me. A very strange sensation but one I do revel in when I discover it.

The pious, wandering ex-convict Jean Valjean.

Again and again I go looking for this feeling and it crops up in unexpected places. Certain key changes in a piece of music or a lingering shot of a normal room in a film will trigger it too. Something mathematical and related to the golden ratio I expect (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_ratio)? My thinking on this subject is so far only a week old but I will work on it and try to unravel exactly what it is that makes me tick in this respect. Other people must know this particular sensation too, perhaps someone else can help to explain it better than I am?

From the start of Lost in Translation

I change out the headers here on “The Blarg” pretty often. Over the past year, I’ve changed the header out nearly three dozen times.

My friend Shawn has a header archive over on his site, Darby’s Secret Stash. I thought that was a pretty good idea, so I decided to steal it! Mwa-ha-ha!

So here are all of the site’s headers from the past year. Some worked well; others are embarrassing. But hey, whatever… the site’s free. What do you want?

Here they are, shown from the oldest to the newest. Click on each banner to view a larger image.

Bruce banners,

-Shady

TS*: Are you two talking about boys again?
T: No, actually, we’re talking about art.
AM: Mark Rothko, to be precise.
TS: Who’s Mark Rothko?

* TS is himself a boy.

Jeg har i løpet av det siste året opplevd forskjellige kunstneriske uttrykk, som hadde det til felles at de snodde seg ut av rollen som passivt betraktet objekt og plutselig “speilte” det undersøkende blikket tilbake på meg. Jeg gikk fra å betrakte et kunstnerisk utrykk til å bli betraktet og undersøkt av kunstverket.

I august var jeg på det superkule Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris’ store museum for samtidskunst og mest besøkte turistattraksjon – det er til og med mer populært enn Eiffeltårnet. Siden jeg er en stor fan av den abstrakte ekspresjonismen, særlig av frontfiguren Jackson Pollock, var jeg godt fornøyd med at et solid stykke kvadratmeter museumsareal var satt av til denne retningen. Jeg stilte meg opp med bena godt plantet i bakken for å betrakte et av Mark Rothkos malerier med store flater av ulike sjatteringer av svart, grått og gråsvart. Flatene var så ensformige at jeg plutselig fikk øye på en gammel kjenning i maleriet, nemlig meg selv. Tankene mine ble ledet bort fra maleriet, og tilbake til den personen de ble tenkt av. Hva gjør jeg egentlig her i Paris? Hva er vitsen med å stå og glo på denne kunsten? Hva er det egentlig jeg driver med?

I vinter så jeg filmen Doubt. Den handler om en prest (Father Flynn spilt av Philip Seymour Hoffman) og en nonne (Sister Aloysius spilt av Meryl Streep) som arbeider på den samme katolske skolen i New York.  En ung nonne som arbeider som lærer får en mistanke om at Father Flynn har et upassende forhold til en av elevene, Donald Miller, etter at han ble kalt inn på prestens kontor under en av hennes timer og så lukter alkohol når han kommer tilbake. Lærerinnen sier fra om dette til Sister Aloysius som er hennes rektor på skolen og også hennes overordnede i klosterfellesskapet. Sister Aloysius blir overbevist om at Father Flynn er skyldig. Hun konfronterer ham med dette og klarer til slutt å presse ham til å flytte fra menigheten og skolen, delvis ved hjelp av noe som hun senere skal innrømme er løgner. Father Flynn hevder selv at han flytter fra menigheten for å bevare sitt gode rykte. Han innrømmer ikke noe av det Sister Aloysius anklager ham for, og det dukker heller aldri opp noen ugjendrivelige beviser for det. Filmen gir ikke noe klart svar. Dermed er den enkelte betrakteren av filmen overlatt til sine egne tanker og sin egen dømmekraft. Og hva slags tanker du har kan vise seg å si en hel del om hvem du er, hva slags holdninger og menneskesyn du representerer.

Dermed ser vi også her en form for kunst som i likhet med Mark Rothkos “shades of grey” peker tilbake på betrakter. Kulturuttrykk som snur seg unna den passive rollen som noe betraktet. Det er noe ubehagelig med dette at noe du trodde du kunne observere i fred og ro med ett begynner å snu om på rollene og føre deg inn i det betraktede og analysertes rolle. Samtidig er det noe som er med på å gjøre opplevelsen av dette uttrykket mer interessant og engasjerende.

Today’s book is About Rothko, by Dore Ashton. Hardcover published 1983 by Oxford University Press, New York. Cover photo by Alexander Liberman.

We at Brainiac Books are enthusiastic fans of the television series Mad Men, which is set in the early 1960s.  In one episode from the 2008 season, “The Gold Violin,” a Mark Rothko painting plays a prominent role as it hangs in the office of the senior partner of Sterling Cooper, a Madison Avenue advertising agency.  The value of the painting, both aesthetic and monetary, is discussed by several characters; in some cases, they are judged by how they respond to the artwork.

From the jacket flap of About Rothko:

One of the major American painters of this century, Mark Rothko created a unique pictorial idiom for which he is celebrated throughout the world.  In the first full-scale critical biography of the artist, Dore Ashton deftly chronicles Rothko’s life, work, artistic formation, and philosophical preoccupation.

Ashton, who knew Rothko for almost 20 years, gives us a portrait of an intellectually restless man whose canvases were “his passport to a more luminous world, not encumbered by our nouns and adjectives, our interpretations that always fall short.” – from the publisher.

Artist Robert Motherwell praises the book:

Profoundly cultivated and a serious eye-witness, Dore Ashton has got inside the artistic mind of Mark Rothko and, in doing so, has come upon the sensibility, ultimate concerns, and ideas of the Abstract Expressionist milieu — which in the years following World War II moved the center of the art world from Paris to New York.  Ashton writes with an accuracy and insight that one had begun to despair of, after forty years.  She has ignored the melodrama and the false mythologies — some accidental, some deliberate — and concentrated on the deep roots, the artistic and ethical dilemmas, that led to some of the most daring and original works of the period….  No existing biography of an Abstract Expressionist compares with this one, and any future ones will have to refer to, and to steal from it. – from back jacket.

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Also currently in stock at BrainiacBooks.com:

Elaine and Bill: Portrait of a Marriage: The Lives of Willem and Elaine De Kooning, by Lee Hall

What Did I Do?: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Larry Rivers, by Larry Rivers with Arnold Weinstein

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If you are interested in more particulars about the Book of the Day or any of our other featured books, search our store at BrainiacBooks.com for the title.  If the book is still in our stock, you’ll be taken to the page for that title.

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Mark Rothko

This is the 14th post in our Artist of the Week series.

Mark Rothko was born Mark Rothkowitz in 1903 and died in 1970.

He started his life as an artist in 1923, he visited a friend who was studying art and he watched the student sketching models. He grew inspired and enrolled himself in the New School of Design and in the fall he took courses at Art Students League of New York.

Throughout his early career as a painter Mark stuck to street scenes and urban scenes. His work was very expressionist as he rejected all methods of representation and instead sought to bring out the emotion in art.

He was given his first show in 1933 and he continued to do showings and paintings in the expressionist style. It was around this time that he began creating paintings for the New York Subway, these abstract portals and walls expressed confinement and deep emotions.

By the 1940s his work consisted only of colors and rectangular shapes, deciding to make his works completely symbolic and emotional. It is these works that he is most remembered for.

To learn more about Mark Rothko visit this fansite or theArtStory.org

Adam’s post on marketing prompted me to comment, which prompted him to comment… and I think that time time has come for some of these comments to be seen by more people than just Adam & me. I know there are other artists/poets/etc. reading here and there, and I’d love to open a larger discussion on how the arts turn all freakishly weird once money gets involved.

“Prepare to Meet Thy G-d.” Incidentally, this piece was stolen from AS220 gallery in March 2007. AFTER it had been sold. If you have it, I’d really like it back.

For starters: How are you exhibiting this work in the first place? Are you in a gallery? Is this a show? Are you being published? How do you choose your venue? Your venue is going to decide your audience, and the right venue will bring the right audience. The wrong venue… well… it’s a waste of time at best.

Talking about the complications of spoken-word vs. visual art in terms of audience relations, Adam writes:

The work in the gallery may be funny, provocative, etc., but its primary criterion is Art. I think the verbally-performed work has a pretty high ratio of entertainment to art, and must keep people in their seats for the length of the show.

It’s hard fitting all the considerations in there; this show should be entertaining, or at the least, enjoyable, as well as profound, problematic, etc.

To which I respond:

Art has its own pressures – sure, you don’t have to keep an audience entertained, but if you’re going to try and sell your work, you have to think about whether or not someone is going to want to pay money to look at this crap day in and day out. And that’s after you’ve decided to “sell out.” Because oh yeah, there’s this romantical notion that making art is an end unto itself and that anyone who decides to make art based on what does (or even what *could*) sell has already signed a contract with Satan and isn’t a true artist in any sense of the word.

And yeah, there are a lot of “purists” in the art community who feel like work should never be sold and they’d never dirty their hands by exchanging filthy lucre for their art. And ok, I guess despite my obvious cynicism showing through here, that it’s a valid point of view. It’s not, however, a practical one. If you make stuff, you’ve got few options: keep it in your basement until the end of time, give it away, burn it, or sell it. I prefer selling it as then I know that someone is enjoying my work, which would otherwise be languishing in aforementioned (metaphorical) basement.

Book cover by Destructible Heart Press.

Adam responds:

That’s right, you do have to consider who’s gonna wanna look at this thing you’ve created, day in/day out, don’t you? God, that’s wild. I obviously consider rereading, but the most part-of-the-visual-landscape time my books have to weather would be on a coffee table. And more likely on a bookshelf, the spine exposed.

[...]

This gets a little muddy when you break $1000 for most of us, I think, but the logic holds. When you break $5000 it moves from the object’s value to the individual into the realm of marketing value, where the sale is about the artist’s reputation, career, etc.

Because publishing is an art/industry of collections and reproduction, all parts of the formula are inverted, but the result is the same: will they buy it? What will they do with it then?

I guess what’s worrying me about the one man show is that folks will have to make an on-the-spot commitment to attend (for $15, $20), then another to buy a book (another $18 or so). Somehow, the thought of $35 on a moving performance-experience and a book is just as hard a decision for me as $50/month (for six months) for a collage I can’t imagine furnishing my apartment without. What they’re buying is the initial experience and the ability to relive it.

And I start getting a bit feisty…

It’s interesting to break down exactly what people are getting when they pay for “art” of whatever variety. People will easily plop down $35 on beers in one night, an experience that won’t be relived, but they get all tight-assed when the same amount is charged for art. I hate pricing shit, really hate it, and when someone tries to haggle with me, I want to poke my own eyes out. My favorite was at my Div III show when someone asked how much I’d sell one of the larger pieces for, I thought about it and said honestly “No less than $100.” She blinked a lot and said “Well, I was thinking I’d give you $20 for it.”

MY DIV FUCKING 3, PEOPLE. Yeah, art means different things to different people and I guess people don’t realize that when you buy original art (of whatever medium), you’re buying more than the net cost of the raw materials. You’ve got to pay for the labor as well. And whatever amount of the artist’s soul that may or may not have gone into it. I try to be reasonable about pricing my stuff, but if I’ve got something that’s hanging in a gallery, which means I had to pay to frame the whole damn show – and outside of Hampshire also means that I have to give up a chunk to commission for the gallery – you’d better believe you’re not getting it for $20.

Nor are you getting it for $20 when the show comes down, because that just sends the message “Like my stuff? Wait until I take it down! Then I’ll give it to you cheep!” Nope. No sir. Once it’s priced, it’s priced. End of story. Unless you’re like, my BFF or something. Then I just flat out feel bad taking your money. But that’s a different matter entirely.

(Sorry person who wanted to buy my stuff for $20. Yeah, there’s plenty of my stuff I’d be more than happy to part with for $20, but none of it has been framed and put in a gallery. Gotta recoup those framing costs, man.)

It goes in another direction, too. It’s them folks who Make It Look Easy, the masters, who inadvertently give the disastrous impression that there is no process. Of course you’re 200% right when you say you’re paying for labor, soul and materials. I’d add you’re paying for experience, craft, the work that didn’t make the cut, and frankly, that particular artist’s direct line to her particular muse. ALL OF WHICH ARE LEGITIMATE EXPENSES, and none of which we have any trouble rationalizing when buying a $50, gorgeously packaged bottle of booze. If only Dan Akroyd would shill my books.

I think this gets to a fundamental fear of art in post-WWII America. In the last 60 years, (and I blame Yoko for much of this) our artists were kicked off their pedestals and meat-tenderized into self-mocking, self-fulfilling clichés. When the art is so goddamn aloof (thanks again, Fluxus) that a generation of average citizens not only can’t see the relevance but can’t even get a foothold on what it is, they will tune it out. Meanwhile, the academic art community, with a stunning investment in the production of art only they can explain, will refine, refine, refine it until we’re left with two choices in their eyes: produce the unexplainable or sell out. (”A postmodern dialogistic hegemonic thrill ride” does not count as explanation.)

[painting by Mark Rothko]

And here is where I finally stop quoting our previous conversation and respond!

As much as I do love Yoko Ono, I think that Adam is dead on when he says that part of our culture’s current stance on art has to do with this idea that you have to be some kind of genius to either make or understand it. For example: Mark Rothko is my favorite painter, bar none. If you see his stuff in person, it’s nearly transcendent. I could stare at his works for hours, they’re almost spiritual to me. Now, it’s all about layering and what he does with color and how it flows together on the canvas, but to some people, it’s just blocks of color. And that’s cool.

I’ve had friends look at Rothko and say with total sincerity: “Give me some paint and a roller and I could do that.” Implying that because this doesn’t take any special talent, this isn’t “worth” it’s advertised “price.”

To which I have to say: WELL, GO DO IT! Not to say that you can’t, but that you should! If you think you can paint that, go! Paint it! Create something! Anything! If you think that modern art is meaningless because your four year old can do it, start framing your four year old’s work and putting it on the walls – or in galleries! If you don’t like Pollock because you think you can do better, please! Do better!

To go back around to Bill Hicks, it’s like when he’s describing the horrible fate of “rock” music in the 80’s and begs his audience to “sing from your fucking heart.”

MAKE SOMETHING. ANYTHING. Maybe you’ll sell it. Good for you. You do not have to belong to a secret club to be an artist and sell work. There is no cabal deciding what’s art and what’s not. There are no puppeteers pulling the strings on “artists.” This isn’t a game. You can get involved right now on the ground level and create whatever you want and participate in the process.

And if you’re not up for that? That’s fine, but please don’t try and get me to sell you my work for “cheap.” Blood, sweat, and tears man. Blood, sweat, and tears.

This rambling brought to you by “Hi. I spent four years in art school and didn’t walk out a better artist than when I started, although I am now at least ten times more petulant.”

(To tone down the petulance a notch: I’m really serious that if you think that you can make art that’s better than calling a urinal a “readymade,” go for it. I totally want to see more artists in the world, not fewer. And if you want to sell it? By all means, find your buyer. It may nor may not be me purchasing it, but I’ll be behind you with the pompoms cheering you on.)

Fluiditate si fixare.

Am in cap o serie de planse, fiecare intitulata dupa cate un sentiment. “Bucurie”, “Deznadejde”, “Serenitate”, “Disperare”, “Depresie”, “Ura”, “Pasiune” si altele. Pe fiecare o vad in anumite nuante, cu anumite miscari de pensula. “Bucurie” are un amestec de verde si albastru in partea de jos, din verde se ajunge in galben, care da in portocaliu ajungand la rosu. Totul in miscari fluide, ca o felie de curcubeu. “Ura” e o plansa neagra in mojlocul careia se afla un cerc galben. Peste fondul negru, alearga tuse groase de rosu si de verde, pentru pasiunea si nebunia urii.

Plansele astea imi stau in cap de mult, am culori si pensule pentru ele, dar nu le pun pe foaie. Cumva, odata ce ai asternut niste ganduri sau sentimente undeva, ele sunt prinse in forma aceea, se inchid asupra lor insisi. Disparitia lor din mine inseamna o curatare, dar si un gol. Golul se poate umple cu intelegerea gandurilor, actiunilor si a oamenilor – ceilalti, apoi eu. De aceea, e foarte periculos sa creez un gol cata vreme nu am cu ce sa-l umplu. Oare asa gandea si Mark Rothko cand picta doar cu 2-3 culori?

Am apreciat intotdeauna arta “clasica”, cu mesaj clar. Precum un peisaj de-al lui John Constable. Dar cand eram in clasa a 9-a, diriginta ne-a dus la o expozitie a unei artiste valcene (nu-mi amintesc numele ei). Care ne-a vorbit un pic despre tablourile ei. Ne-a spus ca o parte din ele au fost pictate in urma unor evenimente foarte grele (o boala si o despartire si moartea cuiva drag). Nu ne-a spus si care parte a expozitiei se referea la acea perioada. Intr-un colt obscur se afla un tablou care era aproape in intregime rosu, cu punctulete negre. Ca o buburuza dreptunghiulara. L-am privit doar o secunda, cu gand sa trec peste, si am simtit ceva foarte ciudat. Cumva respingere, ca si cum as fi patruns undeva unde nu mi-era locul, un loc plin de durerea intensa a rosului, cu cateva pete negre de deznadejde, depresie si moarte. Nu ai ce cauta aici daca nu simti si tu. (poate nu) intamplator l-am vazut (fata de ceilalti colegi, care nu i-au aruncat vreo privire), pentru ca treceam printr-o perioada asemanatoare atunci. Plansele negre “Anger”, “Pain”, “Hate” le-am facut in urma acelei vizionari, de care imi amintesc foarte rar. Dar intotdeauna cand imi amintesc, stau in fata acelui tablou si simt aceleasi lucruri. Le tin ingropate, ca si pe Magdalena, pe care n-o voi mai vedea vreodata, si ca pe alti oameni si lucruri de atunci. Au trecut 15 ani. Time to let go for good.

Glenn Beck recently attacked some public art that has graced New York’s Rockefeller Center since the 1930s. Beck targets what he describes as “progressive, communist and fascist” propaganda. His comments have created a great deal of heat, and very little light, since they aired.

Los Angeles Times art critic, Christopher Knight wrote Beck donned his “tin-foil conspiracy hat,” and that he is “[a]s nutty as usual.” Tyler Green, at Modern Art Notes, asserted Beck was “appealing to the black helicopter crowd.” Tyler might actually have a point on that one. Beck contributes little to art history and much to Right-wing conspiracy theorists, as he urges his viewers to be “awake” so as to “see the things that are hidden in plain sight.”

The Huffington Post’s Nicholas Graham writes, “Trying to discern Beck’s ultimate point from this is difficult,” but not impossible as Graham then goes on a tear about Beck linking Rockefeller, progressives, communists, and fascists, that cannot help but make one chuckle.

Who are behind these communist and fascist works “hidden in plain sight?” …

I had forgotten how art can darken the world’s mirrors to let in a stronger light.

Commentary to a painting from the ‘Chapel’ series by Mark Rothko

Who’s Afraid Of Red, Yellow And Blue? IV, 1969/70

Factual Facts

Um eine Unterscheidung Albers’ zu bemühen, gehe ich in diesem Teil auf die formalen, objektiven Gegebenheiten ein.

Newman benutzte einen tiefen Keilrahmen mit einer Kantenlänge von 604 x 247 cm, der mit Leinwand bespannt ist. Als Farbmittel wählte er, wie schon bei der zweiten Fassung aus dieser Serie, Acryl. Die gesamte Fläche ist in drei Abschnitte geteilt, wobei die rote und gelbe Fläche je ein annäherndes Quadrat von 273,5 x 247 cm bilden. Die blaue Fläche ist ein schmales Hochformat, mit den Maßen 57 x 247 cm.

Als Farben wählte Newman ein Kadmiumrot hell, ein Ultramarinblau und ein Kadmiumgelb hell. Alle drei Flächen sind scharf voneinander durch Benutzung von Malerkrepp getrennt. Und doch finden sich bei genauer Betrachtung typische Unregelmäßigkeiten, die durch das Abziehen des Klebebandes verursacht worden sind.

Die Farbflächen reichen knapp um die Ränder der Leinwand. Dort werden sie von einem als Rahmen wirkenden hellen Klebeband abgegrenzt. Die Farbe oszilliert zwischen matt und glänzend. Vor allem finden sich in der roten Fläche bei einer schrägen Ansicht Lichtreflexionen. Hierdurch wird auch sichtbar, dass Newman für diese Fläche einen Pinsel benutzte, während die beiden anderen Flächen mit der Malerrolle bearbeitet wurden. (Das gelbe und blaue Feld sind aus jeweils einer Schicht aufgebaut. Zu diesen Flächen suchte Newman ein Rot, welches zu diesem starken Kontrast sowohl intensivierend als auch ausgleichend wirken sollte. Das geschah in nicht weniger als 17 Schichten. Siehe hierzu Armin Zweite, Barnett Newman, Bilder-Skulpturen-Graphik, Ostfildern – Ruit, 1999, S.151)

Alle Flächen sind sauber gemalt worden, dass heißt, ohne Spuren die den Blick des Betrachters aufhalten könnten. Dennoch negiert Newman nicht die Malerei, aufgrund der dennoch, wenn auch reduziert verbleibenden Auftragsspuren. (Man denke hier an Donald Judd, der sehr von Newmans Spätwerk beeinflusst wurde. So gibt eine Episode zu lesen, in der erzählt wird, wie Judd mehrere Schichten von Farbe auf Aluminium auftrug, über mehrere Tage, nur weil diese immer wieder Pinselspuren zeigte. Siehe hierzu Donald Judd in der Schweiz: Ein Arbeits- und Freundschaftsverhältnis 1973-1994, Gianfranco Verna und ABMB GmbH und Co. KG, 2007)

Actual Facts

Im Gegensatz zu der ersten und dritten Fassung, welche jeweils ein breites von zwei schmalen Streifen flankiertes Mittelfeld aufweisen, weist Newman den Betrachter eine genaue Position durch das blaue schmalere Feld zu, welches ähnlich wie in typischen Gemälden von ihm als „Zip“ wirkt. So positioniert könnte man sich fühlen wie der Mönch auf dem Berliner Bild von C. D. Friedrich. Denn gleichwohl folgendes sicherlich inhaltlich konnotiert ist, steht der Mönch exakt unter einer kleinen Öffnung in der Wolkendecke. Dieser Punkt liegt im Bild nicht ganz im goldenen Schnitt auf der linken Bildhälfte durch den Friedrich eine Senkrechte zur Waggerechten der Landschaft zieht. Auch wenn es deutliche Unterschiede gibt, deutet sich dennoch eine Parallele an. In beiden Werken tritt ein Raumgefühl hervor, welche in dem einen verbildlicht ist, in dem anderen durch das Werk und dem Betrachter, in gegenseitiger Abhängigkeit realisiert wird.

Nachdem sich alles in den factual facts erwähnte sehen lässt, beginnt sich schon nach kurzer Zeit die Wahrnehmung der Farben zu verändern. Ein Springen zwischen beiden Wahrnehmungen der Farbe, d. h. als Material sowohl als auch als Lichtphänomen, was im englischen besser unterschieden wird durch die Begriffe „Colour“ und „Paint“, löst sich während des Betrachtens nicht auf, sondern bleibt als Grundkonstante vorhanden.

Sieht man konzentriert, und das heißt, ohne viel mit den Augen umherzuschweifen in das blaue Feld, so verlieren alle drei Farben simultan ihre Körperlichkeit. Während jedoch das Blau zurück zu treten scheint, dehnen sich das Rot und das Gelb aus, und der Betrachter bekommt das Gefühl der Umfangenheit von diesen fast gleich intensiven Farben. Das sie zunehmend heller werden, deutet klar auf einen Hell-Dunkel-Kontrast. Während dessen lassen sich an den Rändern, den Zonen wo Blau auf Rot, und Blau auf Gelb trifft, heftige Reize wahrnehmen. So schaut man unweigerlich in eine dieser Bereiche, worauf im roten oder gelben Feld ein unscharfes dem Blau gleichbreites Feld erscheint. Nun ist aber zu bemerken, während in der Theorie davon gesprochen wird, dass eine Farbe im Auge simultan seine Gegenfarbe hervorruft, hier dies nur bedingt der Fall ist. Denn bei einem Schwenk von Bau zu Rot erscheint dort ein magentafarbenes Feld, und andererseits von Blau zu Gelb wird ein grünliches Feld sichtbar. Dieses Phänomen lässt darauf schließen, dass Rot und Gelb so intensiv sind, dass sie über das Blau hinwegstrahlen. So entsteht das Magenta aus Violett, dem Komplementär von Gelb, und Rot. Und das Hellgrün aus der Überlagerung aus Grün, dem Komplementär von Rot, und Gelb. Damit herrscht ein Ungleichgewicht der Farben im Bild, was sich Newman nach eigenen Aussagen wünschte. (Siehe dazu Barnett Newman, Schriften und Interviews, Bern – Berlin, 1996, S. 350) Die Asymmetrie wird noch kontrastiert durch die strukturelle Symmetrie. Diese Divergenz hebt sich jedoch nicht auf, etwa im Sinne eines Gleichgewichts, sondern sie wird evident.

Schaut man konzentriert in das Gelb, und schwenkt danach den Blick in das rote Feld, so ergibt sich eine Abfolge, von links gelesen, aus:

Hellrot, Magenta, Violletblau und Gelb.

Schaut man in das blaue Feld, und sieht danach mittig in das rote Feld, so ergibt sich:

Rot, Hellrot, Magenta, Blauschwarz und Gelb.

Hingegen man bei einem Schwenk von Blau in das gelbe Feld sich eine Abfolge ergibt, aus:

Rot, Blauschwarz, Grüngelb, Hellgelb und Gelb.

Zuletzt, bei einem Schwenk von Rot nach Gelb:

Rot, Violettblau, Grüngelb und Hellgelb.

In allem ist es so, dass man die Gesamtstruktur des Gemäldes verschiebt, wodurch sich bis zu fünf Farbkombinationen simultan wahrnehmen lassen.

Der Blick bekommt nur in zwei Arealen halt. Den Zonen in denen Rot auf Blau, und Blau auf Gelb trifft. Da wir aus der westlichen Schreibkultur stammen, sind wir es gewohnt horizontal zu lesen. Dem gegenüber steht die vertikale Ausrichtung, welche selbst in Opposition zum Querformat steht, wodurch in jenen benannten Bereichen die meisten Farbinteraktionen bemerkbar sind. Dieses stete Neufokussieren des Blickes erreicht Newman zusätzlich durch seinen brillanten Farbauftrag. Denn nirgends findet das Auge halt, außer vielleicht noch an den restaurierten Stellen. Auch muss darauf hingewiesen werden, dass das Auge niemals völlig still steht. Würde das der Fall sein, würde schnell eine monochrome Fläche gräulich erscheinen, bedingt durch die simultane Aktivierung ihrer Gegenfarbe im Auge. Um dem Entgegen zu wirken, bewegt sich das Auge immer wieder, wenn auch unmerklich. Und schon diese winzigen Bewegungen bedingen in diesem Fall jene besprochenen Interaktionen. Zusätzlich ist das menschliche Sehen immer nur in einem bestimmten Punkt scharf. Im restlichen Feld verliert alles an Schärfe. Diesen Umstand, und die Strahlkraft der Farben nutzt Newman, um dem Betrachter das Gefühl zu geben, er befinde sich in einem Farbraum, da die Farben durch ihre Strahlkraft einerseits, und durch die Unschärfe andererseits zu einem reinen Lichtraum werden. Dieser verhält sich im Übrigen in der Ausrichtung konträr zu den Farbräumen Rothko’s. Darin liegt auch die Begründung für Newman’s Aufforderung, näher an seine Werke zu treten.

In diesem, durch den Betrachter jedes Mal auf ein Neues erzeugten Raum, erfüllt sich auch Newmans Anspruch, Farbe nicht manipulieren zu wollen, sondern sie zu erschaffen.

Josef Albers schrieb in seinem Buch „Interaction of Colour“, bei der Nennung des Wortes Rot würden ebenso viele Rottöne gedacht wie Zuhörer vorhanden sind. Und so sind diese Notationen nicht als Anleitung zur Betrachtung von Newman’s Werk gedacht, sondern eben als Notat eines visuellen Dialogs, mit all seiner immanenten Skizzenhaftigkeit.

Dennis Meier, 2006/2009

Yesterday I took advantage of all the wonderful things a city has to offer and went to the Bilder Träume exhibit at the Neue Nationalgalerie.  One of the things I particularly enjoy about this museum is that it is enormous and set up like a maze.  That and that it seems to consistently attract really interesting exhibits.  Bilder Träume is the collection of some very very wealthy Germans who have a penchant for surrealist and modernist (?) art.  Pretty good stuff, including Max Ernst, Jackson Pollock, Joan Miró, René Magritte, etc…

Naturally, I couldn’t find pictures of the actual paintings I saw (by the by, they also had photos from inside these people’s house, how would you like to have Ernst statues over your doorway and your halls look like museum walls?) here’s a sampling of the people I really liked:

Early Rothko.

Ernst with Capricorne sculpture.

Joan Miró.

My personal favorite: Sam Francis.   He reminds me a lot of New York artist Wangechi Mutu in color and style (though not focus or subject matter)

Here’s a Mark Rothko head I made earlier. For the animated “in-the-round” version click here.

I have always heard the argument that minimalism is devoid of much character. Some argue that it is sterile, or clearly express that they “just don’t like it”. And then there is my least favorite argument, “I could have done that”. Sounds like we’re talking about post-modern art. While the minimalist (and post-modern) genre is rooted in the art world, it has spilled over into music, as well as the architecture and design world. Some of my favorite’s works have come from this period.

I always feel a sense of peace, calmness, a “blank” canvas to reverberate my thoughts and emotions. In this moment, things are still, and there is poetry. I can hear the crispness of the white, the gloom of the blue, the passion of the reds. There is a true sense of intimacy with my own thoughts; there is beauty in simplicity. By cutting away the excess, we see only what is essential. It can be challenging to quiet the mind enough to allow our thoughts to come to fruition. It’s almost like sitting down to meditate. It may take a little time at first, but once you get it, it all seems to make sense.

Mark Rothko’s Blue

Mark Rothko’s White-over-Red

Mark Rothko has been classified as an “abstract expressionist”, though he never accepted this label. His work has always exemplified many principles of modernism – geometry, composition, horizontal latitudes. Whatever medium or form it is, there is a sense of magic.