Yeah, I know, I said it was over. Nope.
It’s taken this long to report on the response. Over the 2017 holiday season, my sister and I visited the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. It was decided regardless that we would spend Christmas as a family in Boston, and when she told me there was a Rothko exhibit at the museum…I was………skeptical.
I thought this was over. Why do I want to set myself up for another disappointing heartache? And yet, through the rain and shit snow weather we drove into the city and took the train to see our old friend, Mark Rothko.
Purchasing tickets, we could still pass for students, so I guess all the academia debt pays off in little ways. The magnitude of space in these museums evokes heart-stopping awe in my soul. It is a delightful experience to stand casually minimized by the sheer height of the ceiling, and for me, this experience of space is enough these days. The fact that I left the house and made the journey…the art becomes extra, like practicing a form of detachment, an art itself. If the Art is good then that’s the best and if not then oh well, remember how it was to stand in the space?
The space- The space of the MFA Boston is easy to get lost in. So naturally, we had trouble finding the exhibit. Of course we did. Isn’t that how the post-rothkoian-transcendence experience goes? My sister picked up an exhibit postcard sporting this image with the title ROTHKO printed on it. Pointing to the image she said, “Have you seen this man?” as if we were in search of a missing person. It was funny. And that would be enough if the exhibit experience turned out to be crap.
We eventually were pointed in the right direction, through a curved kind of hallway, then a straight hallway, then an empty room- which was actually really nice. We had a moment there.
and if nothing else. That could be enough.
Through some doors, up some stairs, in a mezzanine space with colorful striped patterns on the walls and people sculptures skydiving from the ceiling….we arrived.
Hey Mark.
Large squares of black on the first side wall. Upon closer inspection, many shades of black. Another black square on the far wall. More black on the middle pillar. A black bench. Thin rope barriers. Orange and red. Orange and yellow and green- ugh, repulsive. Not for me. Black and red and two neutral shades of benches far enough away to sit and either be in the room or not.
It was reasonably occupied with a little too much chatter. And when the muffling conversations softened for a moment you could hear a kind of classical music playing. That was nice. It would be ideal to stand in a room alone with a Rothko painting listening to classical music. Alas, I am not that type of privileged.
There is often an abundance of emotions surging around my insides, so the urge to cry is nothing spectacular. I felt comfort though, with a sense of particular sadness. Strolling with hands clasped behind my back, slowly. Where to begin? Quiet anxiety. Is the security guard going to say something if only preemptively, or maybe I’m too close to something or too far in someone else’s way. Oh its so rude and embarrassing to eclipse the moment view of another art viewer. Like the person crinkling ten bags of candy at the silent height of suspense in a movie theatre. Please no one attempt to strike up a casual conversation. Or an insightful conversation. Or the pleasantries of eye contact. Namaste to all you bitches, just…let me be here.
And I was. And it was ok. The pressure to move along is conditioned. The layered shades of black evoked the sensation of grasping at nothing like sitting in a sad void full and empty at once- as if I’d like to hold hands with a painting- sadness is present. The discomfort of people strangers and the oddness of feeling more connected to inanimate objects of canvas and paint. Is that a lonely thing? Maybe a death thing- a corpse is the closest thing a human will ever be to an inanimate object.
We took some pictures. A neutral bench was open and I sat there. It was nice.
More people. Less people. More.
A child explains to a younger child something about the largest black and red painting on a pillar in the middle of the room. At least from the gestures and inaudible speech it seems like it. And that is my favorite moment. I try not to be invasive. Or creepy. Because I know how much I despise being observed myself. But….
My sister gets a picture.
and that’s enough.
I don’t read the writing on the wall- the curator’s statement about the work I assume. Maybe some insight on the artist. I try not to take my knowledge and experiences for granted. I figure what’s the difference really- I don’t know much of anything at all, I don’t care for a direction on Rothko, and so I’m not going to try to get Art smart, at least not today.
In the audiobook I’m currently listening to titled “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck”, the author, Mark Manson, talks about how we are really quite always wrong about what we know or think we know. With the process of learning and reflecting we sort of get less wrong. So, I don’t know if it matters to read anything about art anymore if I am comfortable enough to accept whatever level of not exactly rightness my current perspective and experience has me at in the moment.
It’s just…How much reworking can a person take of what they know and believe to be true? Remember when I believed Rothko Paintings had the ability to create transcendental, enlightening experiences? I learned. Although still somewhere I’m sure they do.
To have strong beliefs is human- even necessary to function- to have a frame of reference to experience life. So how are you suppose to have conviction in something and still be open to the possibility anything or everything is or could be something else? It can be devastating. Or I guess, enlightening in it’s own way- to be comfortable with uncertainty, disappointment, nothingness, and keep what bothers and/or pleases you about life and humanness arms length distance away, knowingly-like whatever it is is just beyond your reach. And that’s ok. That’s the human condition, that’s human limitation. With that though, can you still entertain the possibilities of what ifs and maybes? …especially when there is action involved?
…i suppose that would be the difference between Colorfield and Action-Painting- one is suicide and the other you die in a car crash…
so does that stop you from driving on the New Jersey Turnpike?
…
You can never hold hands with a painting. That’s good practice in radical acceptance. I will probably always see a Rothko anything when presented with the opportunity. I think thats what love and gratitude are like. And that’s enough.
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