Rothko, Rothko Chapel (1971)

How have I gone this many blog posts and not talked about Rothko? An artist that was probably the first to really create a piece that completely astounded me in it's simplicity yet profoundness. But alas, that work is for another post.

This post is about the Rothko Chapel in Houston Texas, and although I listed the date as 1971 it should be noted that Rothko committed suicide in 1970, so actually wasn't alive to see his work come to fruition. 

Mark Rothko, Rothko Chapel (completed 1971)
Oil on canvas

So what is this supposed 'chapel'? It was initially planned to be a Roman Catholic chapel in the first three years of development, and we can see that in both Rothko's works and in the design of the building itself. Rothko created some of the paintings in the form of triptychs, which are works that are divided into three, either in sections or by panels that are hinged together (which is often seen in classical religious works). The octagonal room is also a common architectural choice in Byzantine Churches. However, although it may have started out in a Roman Catholic way, it's now described as 'non-denominational', which basically means it's not affiliated with any religious groups or faiths. In that way, it's an open ground for all and any religions, an equal footing for all who wish to make journey out there.

I think the choice of Houston, Texas, as a place for a chapel is extremely interesting. I mean at this time, New York was the happening place to be in terms of culture and art. Why choose a place so far away from this audience? What would drive Rothko to seek an audience so unlike that which he had previously encountered? I've done some reading into it, and I'm still not too convinced on many of the arguments offered. Some say it's like a 'pilgrimage' for those who wanted to see his art, but I don't know. Maybe Rothko wanted to separate his work geographically from the booming art in New York and create something separate, away from any sort of artist or commercial competitiveness. I'm really not sure.

Rothko made 14 canvases in total for the chapel, with many being made by his assisstants under his supervision. Does this take away from the art? That it was not his hand that created it? Again, I'm not sure. It's something I'm torn about, is it the hand or the mind that makes the art? So many implications with either argument.

I haven't visited the chapel, but it's on my bucket list. Just look at those looming pieces, I can never figure out if they're comforting or terrifying. They make me want to smile and they make me want to start weeping. Not really crying, weeping is the closest I can come to it, almost a mourning.

On one hand they they're this place of silence, a place of meditation. A place to thoughts and inner peace, to find contentment and happiness within yourself. I feel a sense of satisfaction with this, almost like it's a warm blanket I can wrap around myself and just lose myself in. Somewhere to unravel lifes complexities, the deepest thoughts and emotions. It this description sounds emotionally intense, it's because it's meant to be. It's where you can be by yourself and meditate, find peace and happiness.

But then I can also see another side. Those looming hues are a void, the absolute lack of anything. Emptiness. Nothing. Bare. Hopelessness. It's devoid of any hope, like the inevitability of an end and everything that an end brings with it. Maybe it's the realization that ignorance is not bliss, that we must accept an end, or the possibility of everything being meaningless.

Are they really separate concepts? Happiness and hopelessness? Or are they just two sides of the same coin? I love Rothko because of this very reason, using such simplicity to bring out such intense emotions and thoughts. It's a place of equal footing for every religion maybe because we all need to tackle the same issues, regardless of background.

My brain hurts. Is ignorance bliss in regards of such deep thoughts? Ignore it and maybe it'll go away? I'm going to take my hot water bottle and curl up in bed. See if it works for the night.

McCahon, Scared (1976)

Exam period, a perfect time to get my art musings going instead of cramming my head full of chemical equations. I love them both, but in different ways.

On another note, I'm probably not going to be writing any more music or album posts anymore. I've just been thinking about it over the past couple weeks, and I just find it so much harder to describe music than I do art. Not that I feel less or more, but it's simple different and harder to do so on a written blog. I think I'll keep to the visual arts, which I'm fine with. I mean unless there's a huge uproar among the few people that follow this blog, that's the road I'll travel down.




Colin McCahon, Scared (1976)
Acrylic on paper
730 mm x 1095 mm

 

Colin McCahon. A name that's probably familiar to anyone who knows about the New Zealand art scene, but you're forgiven if you aren't aware of his work. I didn't until I really began studying New Zealand art, or maybe I'd just been blind to the art scene before I really started looking. Regardless, McCahon has produced some of the most raw pieces I've ever come across.

Scared. A piece I haven't had the pleasure of seeing in person, but it moved me the moment I set my eyes upon it. Even now I find myself wistfully looking at it, feeling all these emotions well up, not sure how many of them are McCahon's and how many are mine. McCahon was an alcoholic and struggled with depression, and it's apparent in this painting, it translates so rawly to me.

 

I am scared. I STAND UP.

 

The words of someone struggling, been beaten into submission and is trying to find their footing. Like a man being swept out to sea, drowning beneath the waves, trying to keep his head above the water. This painting has 6 simple words in it. But they speak immeasurable volumes.

This man is admitting he's scared, quite a feat in itself. The word scared is also in this sketchy writing, almost like there's some attempt to obscure the fact, some hesitance at admitting it. I don't think it's a fear of admittance to the audience, I don't think such a personal piece was written with an audience in mind, I think it's fear of admitting it to himself, almost as if doing so would make the fear more real.

Then there's this aggressive line right underneath it. Almost no wavering, no pauses to get more paint, like he couldn't let the fear just hang there. He had to give it an ending, a point at which he wouldn't let it continue.

Then in capital letters, I STAND UP. This defiant statement in full capitals, a vocal claim of enough's enough. He's not letting this fear take over him, he's finally taking a stand against it. It's a rebellion against this primal emotion, he won't let it conquer him.

Then looking at this white border that starts in the bottom half of the painting, this light in the darkness, it invades his statement of fear. Just the acknowledgment of fear and the rebellion against it has somehow dispelled some of it. A streak of hope in the former darkness of anxiety, doubt, worry, uncertainty and internal panic. Then some specks here and there. Is it the light slowly showing the first signs of piercing through the darkness, or is it the sign of a man in haste, who has hands that work slower than his mind is racing.

When I look at this painting, I feel an upwelling of tears. Emotional, I know, but I damn well can't help it. And I still can't figure out if they're tears of shared fear or triumph, it's these fluctuating emotions I can't pin down. One moment I'll feel this shared feeling of rejection and being downtrodden, and then it'll morph into this angry defiance. Or maybe it's my sympathy of this man who's suffering so much, so damn much, and who's finally come to this moment of clarity, of acknowledgment. He should be rewarded for his courage, yet he still cannot find refuge from this internal struggle.

It's such a poignant piece to me, something that I find is so relatable. Some people may just see six words scrawled on a page. I know I do. But I also see all this emotion, angst, fear, uncertainty and defiance in it too. What it is to one person will not be the same to another, and that's the beauty of so many of McCahon's works. I encourage you to look his website, his collections are just captivating. I found myself getting lost in them, an hour flew by like a minute while I was trying to find one to write about. I know that his work will come up again here, he's just too important and beautiful of an artist to ignore or only acknowledge once.

Six words. But more. So much damn more.