After a long trek through Expressionism and Surrealism, Rothko’s definitive style coalesced in 1950. Using canvases roughly the height and width of a human standing with outstretched arms, he created what he sometimes called "doors" and "windows" in luminous color. "My pictures are indeed facades" he once said. Muriel Steinberg acquired this painting soon after it was made.
The child who calls home strife begs tender clement days Dreams first of peaceful pastures then furtive getaways Roots become impediments in daring the
Geometric abstraction, creating order out of chaos, meaning out of seamless disorder and uncertainty. These early works date back to 2016 where I felt more much more comfortable with acrylic rather than oil.
There is a fine line between fiction and reality, and it is here that truth resides. It covers no ground, appropriates no names and establishes no rights. All it does is demarcate, pulling apart one idea from another.
The musty odour of the archive clung to Serge’s clothes as he walked home in the fresh spring air. The late afternoon sunlight burnished the sky and glistened off of the roof tops in a magnificent tableau.
In the sanctuary, dim-lit by rows of flickering candles shielded by crimson glass sheltered from other and—other still
So much desert in the red sunlight between me and the shadow that tries to unloose itself from the anchor of my body.
Why is the canvas darkest at the top? Ombre for lost hombres? Mandala of the mind? Must we descend through darkness before it's possible to be enfolded in a lap of light? Or does light levitate at night when no one's watching?
My original intent for creating this piece is to inspire the viewer to think. I chose specific materials and geometry in order to urge beyond the casual glance.
Funny how I see Mom trapped within the framework of her passion. She was going to UC Berkeley for art in the 70s when the Bay Area post-impressionists were in full swing.
He was three hours into painting before stepping back and thinking about throwing the canvas in the garbage.
Life is ephemeral. Nothing lasts, not youth, not travel, not the things you buy. Instead, what we carry forward with us are the vibrant, fluid snapshots of life, the moments that matter.
Limewood yields to the edge of the master’s blade, peeling away like apple skin, revealing soft flesh within
The walk through the forest to the Deaf Man’s House is not a short one and feels considerably longer to leg bones that are old and bowed.
Now that the compulsion is completed and isolated, I may look upon the divine. Oh, dark passion, see how she sweeps across everything, more lovely Than blood.
At the dressing table in the corner of their white bedroom, she sits on her red-painted chair where countless nights she’d nursed their babies, the children grown up now with babies of their own.
our feelings become visible against the windows of the house like condensation or the delicate web of cold on winter mornings
The architecture and decoration of the Orthodox Christian church is a reflection of cosmological beliefs.
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