Silence is so accurate

I went to see Rothko in London on Saturday. I am listening to Rothko now. It took Rothko forty years to find a voice, and even then he didn’t talk much. Instead, he made ambient soundscapes. In hindsight, I realise my error. I should have listened to Rothko whilst pondering on his art. At least it would have helped me to erase the mass of people that stood in my way. Erasing people from your vision is not easy.

The Rothko paintings on display at the Tate Modern are from 1958 to 1970. On February 25, 1970, Rothko was found dead; his blood a free flowing expression of suicide. His arms had been sliced open. A razorblade lay at his side. He had overdosed on anti-depressants. He was 66 years old.

Rothko’s depression on canvas mirrors the human emotion. The Black on Grey series made me feel like I was on a vast lonely planet; its surface made possible by sad, discontented fingers.

The Black-Form paintings invited me to walk right into them, to be swallowed up by their warm and comforting darkness. They are simple, minimalist, and yet the textures and simple colour contrasts draw you in. Sometimes depression is comforting. Rothko’s art reflects this.

It’s a shame that so many people want to see Rothko’s works. The art invited silence and yet there was none. I longed for privacy and a stampede threatened. Depression should be lonesome. When the dark cries of despair fill the room, there should be no one to hear.

I could take or leave many of the Seagram murals, but perhaps I wasn’t seeing them in the right context. A vast empty room did not lie before me. The most striking of the murals hung on the right wall, but the room was too busy, in terms of paintings as well as people. It didn’t look as one. It looked like a wide corridor, as busy as an underground walkway at rush hour. Instead of adverts, a random array of Rothko’s works of a similar colour cried out for machetes, the blood of the art ponce and unity. The paintings longed to share the blood of a massacre.

Apparently, Rothko’s intention was to upset, offend and torture the diners at the Four Seasons. Raw and bloody steaks partnered by raw and bloody images. Eat the rich. Let the rich eat themselves. The centrepiece was not a violent act of terrorism by paint. It wasn’t that inspiring. It was a violent act of hanging the uninspired alongside the exceptional, under bright lights, in a room with too many doorways and too many people.

The gallery was too busy for contemplation. I bought a book for that. Instead of erasing people, my imagination will have to add scale, texture and colour. Oh dear.

Just in case you were wondering, I didn’t like any of the Rothko paintings that had sharp lines. I also know shit-all about art.

Fabpants Recommends: Paying £12.50 to see the works of Mark Rothko in an overcrowded room. Take an MP3 player with you. The MP3 player should contain nothing but the music of Rothko. Mark Rothko was appalled that only the rich got to see his work and donated his paintings to the Tate. Now only the rich get to see his work.

Rothko, the band, recently released a ‘retrospective’ album called ‘A Life Lived Elsewhere’. This is a limited edition (350 copies only) CDR album, only available from the Rothko website.

This blog was fuelled by the album “Wish For a World Without Hurt”. It’s bleak and beautiful. I don’t have a copy of the compilation album. I don’t need an introduction.

Download MP3: Rothko - I Feel Lost Without You (courtesy of www.adams-dress.com)