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.
Wrapped in a milk-thick fog, the ferry seemed to exist alone in the universe. No one could recall seeing it quite like this before. “How are we gonna dock?” a man in the crowd said.
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.
Limewood yields to the edge of the master’s blade, peeling away like apple skin, revealing soft flesh within
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.
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.
He was three hours into painting before stepping back and thinking about throwing the canvas in the garbage.
our feelings become visible against the windows of the house like condensation or the delicate web of cold on winter mornings
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.
In the Rothko Room at The Phillips Gallery in Washington, DC they only let in eight visitors at a time so the colors can saturate your very being in their loud stillness—so I sit with a few random strangers and we open our souls to the vibrant hues until we feel
So much desert in the red sunlight between me and the shadow that tries to unloose itself from the anchor of my body.
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 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.
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.
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?
There was a red velvet curtain hanging in your bedroom, trying to keep the light out: all the sunlight and all the moonlight.
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.
In the sanctuary, dim-lit by rows of flickering candles shielded by crimson glass sheltered from other and—other still
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