The Power of Art - Rothko (BBC Documentary)

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Mark Rothko (Marcus Yakovlevich Rothkowitz; September 25, 1903 -- February 25, 1970) was an American painter of Latvian Jewish descent. He immigrated with his family from Dvinsk (now part of Latvia, then part of the Russian Empire) to the United States in 1913 when he was 10 years old. He is classified as an abstract expressionist, although he himself rejected this label, and even resisted classification as an "abstract painter".
Rothko's 1945 masterpiece, "Slow Swirl at Edge of Sea" illustrates his newfound propensity towards abstraction. Sometimes it is interpreted as a meditation on Rothko's courtship of his second wife, Mary Ellen "Mell" Beistle, whom he met in 1944 and married in the spring of 1945. The painting presents two humanlike forms embraced in a swirling, floating atmosphere of shapes and colors, in subtle grays and browns. The rigid rectangular background foreshadows Rothko's later experiments in pure color. The painting was completed, not coincidentally, in the year the Second World War ended.
The year 1946 saw the creation of Rothko's transitional "multiform" paintings. The term "multiform" has been applied by art critics; this word was never used by Rothko himself, yet it is an accurate description of these paintings. Several of them, including No. 18 (1948) and Untitled (also 1948), are masterpieces in their own right. Rothko himself described these paintings as possessing a more organic structure, and as self-contained units of human expression. For Rothko, these blurred blocks of various colors, devoid of landscape or human figure, let alone myth and symbol, possessed their own life force. They contained a "breath of life" he found lacking in most figurative painting of the era. This new form seemed filled with possibility, whereas his experimentation with mythological symbolism had become a tired formula, in much the same way as he viewed his late 1930s experiments in urban settings. The "multiforms" brought Rothko to a realization of his mature, signature style, and was the only style Rothko would never fully abandon prior to his death.
Rothko used several original techniques that he tried to keep secret even from his assistants. Electron microscopy and ultraviolet analysis conducted by the MOLAB showed that he employed natural substances such as egg and glue, as well as artificial materials including acrylic resins, phenol formaldehyde, modified alkyd, and others.[9] One of his objectives was to make the various layers of the painting dry quickly, without mixing of colors, such that he could soon create new layers on top of the earlier ones.
Despite his fame, Rothko felt a growing personal seclusion, and a sense of being misunderstood as an artist. He feared that people purchased his paintings simply out of fashion, and that the true purpose of his work was not being grasped by collectors, audiences or critics. He wanted his paintings to move beyond abstraction, as well as beyond classical art. For Rothko, the paintings were objects that possessed their own form and potential, and therefore, must be encountered as such. Sensing the futility of words in describing this decidedly non-verbal aspect of his work, Rothko abandoned all attempts at responding to those that might inquire after its meaning and purpose, stating finally that silence is "so accurate". His paintings' "surfaces are expansive and push outward in all directions, or their surfaces contract and rush inward in all directions. Between these two poles you can find everything I want to say."
He began to insist that he was not an abstractionist, and that such a description was as inaccurate as labeling him a great colorist. His interest was:
" only in expressing basic human emotions — tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on. And the fact that a lot of people break down and cry when confronted with my pictures shows that I can communicate those basic human emotions . . . The people who weep before my pictures are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them. And if you, as you say, are moved only by their color relationship, then you miss the point. "
For Rothko, color is "merely an instrument". The "multiforms" and the signature paintings are, in essence, the same expression of "basic human emotions", as his surrealistic mythological paintings, albeit in a more pure form. What is common among these stylistic innovations is a concern for "tragedy, ecstasy and doom". Rothko's comment on viewers breaking down in tears before his paintings that may have convinced the De Menils to construct the Rothko Chapel. Whatever Rothko's feeling about the audience or the critical establishment's interpretation of his work, it is apparent that, by 1958, the spiritual expression he meant to portray on canvas was growing increasingly dark. His bright reds, yellows and oranges were subtly transformed into dark blues, greens, grays and blacks.
The Power of Art - Rothko (BBC Documentary)

Just how powerful is art?

Can it feel like love, or grief?

Can it change your life?

Can it change the world?

On February 25, 1970, nine paintings by the American artist, Mark Rothko,

Arrived at London's Tate Gallery.

A few hours earlier, on the same day, Rothko's body was discovered,

Lying on the bathroom floor of his midtown studio.

The painter had spent so much time in his own mind, in the realms of the dead,

he had killed himself.

And now, had in London, something like his own mausoleum.

Which is why, in the spring of 1970, I didn't feel much in a hurry to see the newly-installed paintings.

A monument to another fallen American abstract painter.

It smacked too much of reference, and we weren't into reverence that much,

Not in 1970.

We were into playtime.

Andy Warhol. Rosenquist. Lichenstein.

Wham! Shazam!

Preferably while listening to rock'n'roll.

And getting, well, not high-minded.

At any rate -

[singing] .."Andy Warhol - Hang him on my wall

Andy Warhol, Silver Screen - Can't tell them apart at all."

The idea that art should be solemn was a turnoff.

A bit like being made to go to church.

The fact that Mark Rothko had joined the roll call of suicidal abstract painters

By killing himself

Only made the prospect more funereal.

On the other hand, I was keen to take another look at Francis Bacon.

So, one morning in the spring of 1970,

Into the Tate Gallery I went, walked down here, and took a wrong right turn.

And there they were.

Lying in wait.

No, it wasn't love at first sight.

Rothko had insisted the lighting be kept almost pretentiously low.

It was like going into a cinema - expectation in the dimness.

Something in there was doing a steady throb, pulsing,

Like the inside of a body part.

All crimson and purple.

I felt pulled through those black lines into some mysterious place in the universe.

[explosive music]

[silence]

Rothko said his paintings begin an unknown adventure.

Into an unknown space.

I wasn't sure where I was being taken,

Wasn't even sure I wanted to go.

I only knew that I had no choice, and -

That the destination might not exactly be a picnic.

[classical music]

They say that money follows art.

Well art quite likes money too.

In fact, there's nothing a painter likes more than a wealthy patron.

So Papal Rome had its Caravaggio, 17th Century Amsterdam had its Rembrandt.

When, in 1958, the Canadian liquor company, Seagram's, wanted a painter to decorate their New York headquarters,

There was only one possible choice - Mark Rothko.

The 55 year old painter was at the peak of his fame.

Between 1954 and 1957 his paintings had tripled in price.

Representing America at the Venice Biennale,

Another five of his paintings were on tour in Europe,

To prove to the world that the United States had depth, and not just dazzle.

He was the greatest living American painter.

Or so they said.

In 1958, maybe, he'd gone through 30 years of financial hardship and mental struggle,

Wrestling with the biggest question of all -

What could art do?

Could it cut through the white noise of daily life?

Connect us with the basic emotions that make us human?

Ecstasy, anguish, desire.

Terror.

The architect of the Seagram Building approached Rothko to do something for the Four Seasons,

The ritzy restaurant that would occupy the ground floor of the Manhattan skyscraper.

In exchange for some five to six hundred square feet of paintings,

They agreed to pay Rothko $35,000.

That's about $2.5 million dollars today.

As commissions go, they didn't come any bigger.

Anyone else would have jumped at such an offer.

But not Rothko. He thought long and hard about it,

Talked to all his friends, turned it over and over in his mind.

Why?

Because he was ambivalent.

And not just about the commission, but about American capitalism.

About his own American success story.

[tinkling music]

Born in Russia in 1903, Rothko would later say that as a child he could remember

The local Cossacks indulging in their favorite activity -

[Psycho music]

Beating up Jews.

In the first years of the 20th century, America opened its arms to the Rothkovitzs from Dvinsk,

As it did to millions of other Jews coming through Ellis Island

To the Goldenah Medinah - the Golden City.

Now, there were two kinds of Jews in America,

Those who plunged into the mock mayhem of business,

And those who brought with them from the old world

The most precious thing they had - culture.

Rothkovitz Senior was the second kind -

A dreamy, bookish pharmacist,

Happier talking to his children about Dostoyevsky and Dickens than doing the accounts.

He scraped enough together to bring little Marcus and the rest of the family

Out of the miseries of the old country, and died of cancer six months later.

The Rothkovitz children were brought up by their mother, Anna.

I knew this kind of kid - grew up with him.

Went to Hebrew school, read every sort of book he could get his hands on,

Played not just the violin, but the mandolin - wow!

Grownups called him a "kochum" - a know-it-all.

Mark was the smart one - the one who was going to make it.

And he wanted to please his mother.

He was just your soup-educated, ungainly, sentimental Jew.

In the grip of mighty ideas and desperate to tell you all about them.

Fidgeting on the sofa and waving his arms around.

A big heart - and a big mouth to match.

You know the type.

Rothko won a scholarship to Yale University.

But Yale wasn't even sure it wanted Jews at all.

And introduced a quota.

Rothko quickly realized he didn't need a saber-wielding Cossack to feel unloved.

He dropped out.

But he never was the kind of Jew who wanted to be a lawyer or a stockbroker.

He was the other kind -

The one with the creative itch.

The one who thought art could change the world.

It's precisely because he really believed this that 30 years later he couldn't walk away from the Seagram job,

The greatest challenge of his career.

Rothko rented a vast space at 222 Bowery,

In an old gym.

Every day he'd arrive in the morning at 8:30, change into his painting clothes,

And get down to work.

As he started work in the spring of 1958,

Rothko envisaged the Seagram murals as a kind of wordless teaching,

An antidote to the triviality of modern life.

But what could they say?

And how could they say it?

One of the basic problems of the commission was its sheer size.

Everything that Rothko had done so far had been on a human scale, personal.

But this was public.

And Manhattan was watching.

>> A picture lives by companionship,

Expanding and quickening in the eyes of the sensitive observer.

It dies by the same token.

It is, therefore, a risky and unfeeling act

To send it out into the world.

Just like the old masters he so admired,

Rothko prepared his canvases with traditional rabbit-skin glue.

He worked fast, and then would sit sometimes for hours, sometimes days.

When someone asked a few years later how long it took him to make one of his paintings,

He replied, "57 years."

When he arrived here back in the 1920s, of course no one noticed.

He was just another lost soul in jazz-age New York.

But then, he wasn't really into bootleg and boogie-woogie,

More like Marx and Mozart.

He was burning to do something about the modern world,

Something in the opposite mood to busby berkeley.

Rothko had come to New York in 1923 to wander around, bum about, and starve a bit.

He later said.

He enrolled in an art class.

And to make ends meet, taught kids at a Jewish Community Center.

When he stood in the Brooklyn classroom it all seemed so easy.

He'd tell the children not to mind the rules.

Painting, he said, was as natural as singing.

It should be like music.

But when he tried, it came out as a croak.

It's the work of a painfully naughtied imagination.

The trouble is, he was doing something the children didn't do -

Thinking too hard.

So he dabbled in expressionism,

Thick dot paint,

sketchy lines.

The thighs that ate Coney Island.

No. Not very good.

“What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?

Son of man, you cannot say, or guess, for you know

only a heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water."

The Subway Series were the first paintings by Rothko that catch you off guard,

Full of the bleak alienation of men and women in T.S. Eliot's Wasteland,

They have a compelling strangeness.

He took an everyday urban scene

And loaded it with a clammy sensation of doom.

These commuters from Brooklyn are wandering souls, trapped in purgatory.

Orpheus, looking for Euridice on the Uptown D Train.

The architecture of the subway with its mournful rows of columns snagged his attention.

but the real action is going on with the colors themselves.

Look at the platform edge - that brilliant crimson smear.

And you can see what Rothko meant when he called his colors "performers."

It was a dramatic departure, but getting there as a painter would take him another 20 years.

In 1958, three months into the Seagram commission, Rothko gave a lecture.

It was the last time he'd have anything to say about art,

And it's the closest insight we have as to how he saw his painting.

>> The - um - tragic notion of the image is always present in my mind.

I can't point it out!

There are no skull and bones!

[laughing]

The whole problem of art, he said, is to establish human values in this specific civilization.

Denying there was anything psychological or internal or revelatory about his work.

He said - no no, it's about and of the world.

Then he went on to list all the ingredients that make up a Rothko painting,

From sensuality through irony to death.

The sense of the tragic, he said, is always with me when I paint.

[operatic singing]

And it was this unbearably weighty feeling for human tragedy

That Rothko wanted to bring into the Four Seasons.

It would be his greatest project.

>> I'm interested only in expressing basic human emotions.

Tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on.

And the fact that people break down and cry when confronted with my pictures

Shows that I communicate those basic emotions.

But it always had been uphill for Rothko.

The 30s hadn't exactly been the best time to be an artist in New York.

Not much of a market for painters.

Struggling or otherwise.

Though he had shortened and changed his name from Marcus to Mark, and Rothkowitz to Rothko,

He certainly hadn't found his way in painting.

With every show he went to at the Museum of Modern Art,

Dada in '36, Picasso in '39,

The modern masters made him feel worse - floundering.

Only Matisse's Red Studio, which he saw in 1949,

Finally switched something on.

Maybe it had something to do with what Matisse did

To liberate color from specific objects.

Things no longer have a color; the painting does.

But back in the 30s, Rothko was still thinking too hard to paint like this.

Instead of following his instinct, he went back to his books.

Greek tragedy, Shakespearean tragedy, Nietsche's Birth of Tragedy.

Great monolithic slabs of the big ideas.

He chain-smoked his way through.

And then he tried to get the sense of tragic brutality.

This is what humans do over and over again -

Down on canvas.

No problem finding the tragic in these pictures.

Myths of monsters, Syrian bulls, Egyptian hawks,

Half men, half beasts, slither, hiss and peck like an ancient friese.

Slaughter, sacrifice and disembowelment by the yard.

But Rothko's archeological excursions in the land of the dead were overtaken by the real world.

The war happened.

Not for Rothko.

Classified 4-F - unfit for service due to acute shortsightedness.

But Rothko knew that conflict was a crossroads for art.

With civilization facing annihilation,

It was up to America to save western culture from fascism.

Not just by offering safe haven to refugee painters from Europe,

But by doing something brave, something fresh,

Something equal to the times.

Easier said, and they said it a lot, than done.

Barnett Newman, one of Rothko's closest friends,

Issues another manifesto that sums up the way the group felt.

In a moral crisis of a world in shambles, he says,

It was no longer possible to go on painting the old stuff -

Flowers, reclining nudes - so Newman just gives up painting,

For four years.

By the spring of 1959, Rothko had almost completed work on the Seagram job.

Exhausted by his endeavor, he took a three-month vacation to Europe

With his wife and daughter.

[ship honking]

We get an insight into how he was feeling from a reported conversation he had

at the bar on the transatlantic ocean liner.

He railed against these sons of bitches who'd be dining beneath his art,

Hoped his paintings would ruin their appetite.

Increasingly he'd come to see the commission as a gladiatorial contest -

Mark versus Manhattan.

He talked the talk but it sounds a lot like Dutch courage - defensive, anxious.

Rothko had always wanted to give his paintings the emotional force of the old masters.

On a previous trip to Europe in 1950, he'd done the grand tour,

And in Florence he visited what was to be a major inspiration for the Seagram murals -

Michelangelo's library, in the Church of San Lorenzo

>> After I'd been at work for some time, I realized that I was much influenced subconsciously

By Michelangelo's walls, in the staircase room of the Medician Library in Florence.

He achieved just the kind of feeling I'm after.

He makes the viewers feel they are trapped in a room where all the doors and windows are bricked up.

So all they can do is butt their heads against the wall

forever.

That was the feeling Mark Rothko wanted to give to the people who'd soon be eating

In Manhattan's smartest restaurant.

Rothko and the other New York artists looked to America and found a country

Caught between the bomb and the supermarket.

[Boom]

Korea and the Cold War.

Paranoia and distraction.

It was an unreal, manufactured way of life.

So their paintings would fight back.

They'd reconnect people with physical reality.

With the truth of what it was to be human.

And they'd do it in a totally new way.

After the Holocaust and the atom bomb, Rothko said, you couldn't paint figures without mutilating them.

So, could just colors and shapes move us the way Michelangelo had?

DeKooning, Pollock and Rothko all certainly thought so.

Abandoning painting things to strive for a new, pure, expression of feeling.

At once visionary and revelatory, and like nothing in the history of art.

A new world on the canvas.

Rothko also said that paintings needed to be miraculous.

Well, you could say that the world had never been more badly in need of miracles.

And what he was painting was - for the first time - stunningly dramatic.

Rothko's Multiforms have a movement all of their own,

Swelling and dissolving, staining and seeping.

Sometimes they seem to hover over the canvas, as if we were looking down at layers of colored cloud,

Mysteriously blooming and fading.

At other times the colors seemed more stridently embattled.

It was all very seductive, loose, and pretty.

Rothko started to sell.

But he knew the difference between prettiness and power.

and it was power that he was after.

The power to take people somewhere they would recover their humanity.

When they were first shown in Manhattan in the 1950s, these big spellbinding paintings

Were immediately recognized as a body of work that made the case for Amerian painting

In an utterly new way - emotionally stirring, sensuously addictive.

Big vertical canvasses of contrasting baths of color.

Panels of color, stacked up on top of each other.

Shimmering, glowing, beckoning you into some sort of deep undefined radiant yonder.

Rothko had become the maker of paintings as powerful and complicated

As anything by his two gods - Rembrandt and Turner.

For me, these paintings are the equivalent of those old masters.

Like them, they emanate an uncanny force field so strongly magnetic

that when you turn your back on them or leave the room you can still sense their presence.

Quite suddenly, in 1949, the new language of feeling Rothko had been groping towards for two deades

Finally revealed itself.

To the old world of art - Europe - where the veterans of modernism,

Salvador Dali, Picasso - were still puttering around to ever less effect,

Rothko's paintings seemed to give the lie to anyone accusing American culture of shallowness.

For whatever else these throbbing paintings were,

They were unmistakably deep.

Rothko had accomplished something utterly original.

It's not what the colors are that makes the paintings work on our senses.

It's what Rothko makes them do.

While at first sight these paintings seem so still and composed,

Hang around for a moment and you'll see they're anything but.

They're in motion. They seem to swell and breathe,

And fill like sails catching the wind.

They're not paintings that just dumbly wait to be watched.

They come and get us.

And we surrender to total immersion.

Often talked about as some kind of transcendental philosopher,

Rothko was at pains to deny ever being a mystic.

"No!" he said. "What I'm giving you, what I love,

Is material experience.

The sensuousness of the world in all its richness."

And none of this tantalizing of the eye would work

Had Rothko not been the most soft-edged of all painters.

Look at how important those ragged borders are -

Both at the perimeter of the whole picture,

And in those torn seams he cuts between the big color zones.

That in the light, mysterious and potent.

When people beheld it, for hours they could hold nothing else in their mind's eye.

Rothko wanted an intimate, personal connection to be made

For his paintings to exert their full power.

A total control freak, he had to be in charge of absolutely everything -

Lighting, low. Position on the wall, even lower.

When somebody asked him how close to the pictures they should stand, he answered right back,

"Oh, about 18 inches."

Between 1954 and 1957 the prices for Rothko's paintings tripled.

The big museums down the street from his studio, that he'd attacked in the 1930s,

Now all wanted a piece of him.

Buyers who were busy creating collections of modern American masters

Now had to have a Rothko along with their Pollocks, their DeKoonings, and their Kleins.

So, did this mean that Mark Rothko finally could relax a little?

Bask in the glow of his success?

Did it? Hell!

It was vital to him that his pictures were not sedatives.

In the 1950s people were always being told to relax.

Well, Rothko didn't want his pictures to be like a massage.

They were, he said, the opposite of restful.

Tragic performances. Violent, sacrificial.

Evoking the most extreme sensations of doom and ecstasy.

>>One does not paint for design students or historians, but for human beings. Hm?

And the reaction, in human terms, is the only thing that is really satisfactory to the artist.

I think what he feared most of all was to be told how very beautiful his pictures were,

Even though they were - and are - exactly that.

Because the "B" word rang alarm bells that they might be treated as no more than interior decoration for the rich.

>> The people who weep before my paintings -

Are having the same religious experience I had when I painted them.

So, what was he doing signing up for the ultimate job in interior decoration?

Supplying paintings to the Four Seasons Restaurant.

The place where he said the richest bastards in New York would come to feed and show off.

Was it a shameful sellout of all his most adamantly held principles,

Or was Rothko in effect throwing down the gauntlet,

Saying, "Right. Eat this."

Now the Four Seasons isn't just a guzzling trough for the Tiffany classes.

It occupies the ground floor of a skyscraper designed by the darling of the modernist international style -

Mies Van Der Rohe.

Whatever else you can say about the Seagram Building,

The corporate headquarters of the Canadian liquor giant,

It isn't vulgar.

Slender and razor sharp, the building broods over Midtown Manhattan.

Inside, the Four Seasons itself, its half sunken floor, fake trees, reflecting pools and modernist furniture

aspire to a kind of understated neo-classicism.

An urban villa for the vogue set.

Still, whichever way you cut it, it was a restaurant -

A 4.5 million dollar restaurant.

But it wasn't quite that simple.

There were things about the commission that were flattering,

Challenging, in a positive way.

The fact that there were now all those glamorous apartments with his pictures in them

Sharpened Rothko's need to work in some sort of public space,

Make it over into what he called "a place" - his place.

What bigger test could there be?

If it was haute cuisine versus art - his art -

The truffled soul, Meuniere, didn't stand a chance.

Art would vanquish appetite.

His series of darkly glowing paintings tightly packed together

Would hang 4 1/2 feet up on those walls, looming over the diners.

Swallowing the swallowers.

His whole desire was to replace those restaurant walls altogether,

Something profound would happen to the vain and the shallow

As they tucked into their caviar and their lobster thermidor,

As they surrendered to the power of art - his art.

Early in 1959, like some omnipotent sorcerer,

Rothko painted Red on Maroon,

One of the most dramatic of the murals destined for the Four Seasons.

With a vision of Michelangelo's Blind Windows burnt on his retina

He turned his paintings on their side.

Instead of uprights, they were now expansive horizontals.

What had been shutterlike bars of darkness and light

Became something akin to load-bearing columns.

And the load they were bearing was human history.

That autumn, months after the glamorous opening,

He and his wife Mell went to eat at the Four Seasons.

Rothko was someone who thought it was immoral to spend more than five bucks on a meal.

And was often perfectly happy with a Chinese takeaway.

The cheaper, the better.

But as he sat among the millionaires with Mell, his heart and his confidence sank like a stone.

>> Anybody who will eat that kind of food for that kind of money

Will never look at a painting of mine.

[slams phone down]

The next morning he looked at the thirty or so paintings,

Some of the most beautiful and moving things not only Rothko but any modern artist had ever created,

And saw only the ruin of a great project.

His paintings would never hang in the Four Seasons.

Manhattan had beaten Mark.

Or, had art triumphed over money?

After all, how many artists do you know who would say "no" to 2.5 million dollars?

Rothko had made sure his contract gave him ownership of the pictures if the job went sour.

It was almost as if he always hoped that one day,

Somewhere else perhaps,

He would be able to resurrect his idea to make a space, his space.

Later that year, a curator came to invite him to exhibit in the Kassel art fair in Germany.

>> When I was a younger man, art was a lonely thing.

No galleries, no collectors, no critics, no money.

Yet it was a golden age, for we all had nothing to lose.

And a vision to gain.

Today it is not quite the same.

It is a time of tons of verbiage. Activity. Consumption.

Which condition is better for the world at large?

I will not venture to discuss.

But I do know that many of those who are driven to this life

Are desperately searching for those pockets of silence,

Where we can root and grow.

We must all hope we find them.

The man who had taken a stand for art over money made the German an offer.

"If you build a chapel of expiation for the Holocaust," he said.

It need only be a tent, I'll paint you something for free."

It never happened.

Mark Rothko spent the next ten years - all he had left of his life -

searching for that perfect wayside chapel, where he could realize the vision

That had been frustrated at the Four Seasons.

A one-man show in 1961 at the Museum of Modern Art, which he went to every single day,

Brought him some cheer, and his work was selling better than ever.

But with success, his life actually got shabbier.

His tippling, which began at 10:00 in the morning,

developed into serious alcoholism.

And his chain-smoking - a lifelong habit - brought him heart and lung problems.

And his second marriage was breaking up.

Shadowed by melancholy, his work got darker and more intense,

Just as modern art was going pop.

For Rothko, painting had always been an alternative to pop culture, not its accomplice.

But this seemed to be what the galleries wanted now.

Stuck in the mode of painting he'd been doing for 15 years,

He was defensive, angry.

So, when he did break out of his old style,

It was to go raven black. As black as Texas oil.

[eerie sounds]

Texas finally provided Rothko with a chance to realize the vision thwarted in the Four Seasons.

Art patrons John and Dominique DeMenil commissioned him to produce a set of murals for a chapel

To be built in Houston in 1965.

Giving Rothko freedom to install exactly what he wanted.

If the Four Seasons paintings were content to make the gesture at the other world,

The Houston chapel buries you in a tomb.

Tanks of ink have been spilled trying to persuade us that this place is not as dark and funereal as it seems,

A systematic dimming of the light that had always burned intensely in Rothko's greatest works,

But quite honestly, sitting here, do we feel bright and beautiful?

I'm not sure.

Those rippling edges flaring with light, which gave Rothko's pictures so much of their movement, have gone.

In their place, an inky night.

It's almost as though he's painting to see how dark he can make the light.

Good luck.

And good night?

It's hard not to feel the Houston chapel isn't some sort of live burial,

An interment. Not just of Rothko's future, but of his hopes for art.

Then, into the blackness, in painting after painting, came a luminous zone of milky gray.

Like the rim of a planet lit by the moon.

As if Rothko was already gone off into deep space.

Presiding over the moment of creation.

Dividing the light from the darkness,

The Earth from the heavens.

Bent on heroic self-cremation.

So you see, I got it all wrong,

That morning in 1970.

I thought seeing the Seagram paintings would be like a trip to the cemetery of abstraction,

all dutiful reverence, a dead end.

Look at this one. What do you see?

A hanging veil suspended between two columns?

An opening that beckons or denies entrance?

A blind window?

For me, it's a gateway.

If some of those portals are blocked, others open into the unknown space that Rothko talked about,

The place that only art can take us,

Far away from the buzzing static of the moment

And towards the music of the spheres.

Everything Rothko did to these paintings -

The column-like forms suggested rather than drawn,

the loose stainings - were all meant to make the surface ambiguous, porous,

Perhaps softly penetrable.

A space that might be where we came from,

Or where we will end up.

They're meant not to keep us out,

But to embrace.

From an artist whose highest compliment was to call you - a human being.

Can anything be less cool than this room in the heart of Tate Modern,

Further away from the razzle-dazzle of contemporary art,

The frantic hustle of now?

This isn't about now.

This is about forever.

This is a place where you come to sit in the low light and feel the eons rolling by

To be taken towards the gates that open onto the thresholds of eternity,

To feel a poignancy of our comings and our goings,

Our entrances and our exits,

Our births and our deaths.

Womb, tomb, and everything between.

Can art ever be more complete, more powerful?

I don't think so.