It’s easy to think people don’t really care about art. This opinion though is promptly falsified by a Saturday visit to the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan. The Englishman and I spent a little time there this past Saturday along with one or two million of our closest friends. What a hub-bub! No time to take things in and reflect- just a quick tour of the Painting/Sculpture floors sufficient to acquaint ourselves with the general contents of the place.
The Warhols were glamorous, the Impressionists of course all shimmered, and pulled people in as though tractor beams were in use. I saw one Klimt, painted in gold and platinum, so beautiful and intimate it was almost a little shocking to see on the wall. Matisse – so vibrant and pleasing. Dali- surprising small canvases!
There in the cacophony hung canvases that created a cone of silence around them. Silent in part because few people stopped, but those that did tried to reflect on the pieces in front of them: Rothko. Huge canvases, blocks of color, evocative, simple and majestic. For the most part they cry out to be by themselves, away from the messages of other paintings, but there was one pairing I liked- a Rothko next to a jagged Still- the one, contemplative, the other, a single shriek of jagged color on a dark background.
As I look through my little book of Rothkos and his life story, I am reminded of how he died, incisions cut deeply into his arms, and think of the solid lines of his paintings, and wonder.
