My Kid Could Paint That

By ALEXA BIRT

As a part of Rothko's "Subway Series," Entrance to Subway depicts a lonely New York subway station, quite characteristic of art made during the Great Depression.

The 1930s, such a gloomy era for many Americans, produced very dark themed artwork. It is apparent that Rothko responded to this through the progression of his pieces. Entrance to Subway marks the beginning of Rothko's exploration into darker themes. His later work evolved into simple yet extraordinary existentialist paintings characterized by dark colors and softly blended lines between basic blocks of color. 

The people painted in Entrance to Subway are composed of undefined shapes, allowing the viewer to create their own meaning to the work. Rothko's lack of definition adds to the depressed and isolated mood of the painting. In addition, the use of dark, muted colors also helps to cultivate the desolation he wanted to portray.

Another way to view the situation presented in Rothko's work is to interpret the people walking down the stairs as abandoning the positive ideologies that were existent pre-1930s, while the people standing in the back of the subway station appear alienated from their surroundings.

By THOMAS MCCONAHAY

Rothko, Black on Maroon, 1958

By SAI GONDI

Paintings are often appreciated as still, vivid representations of what an artist sees through their unique, perspective lenses. We judge artwork on its aesthetic values including clean lines, crisp edges, complementing colors, and a host of other factors. However, as one ventures deeper into modern genres of art, the “still” factor diminishes. When I first laid eyes on Mark Rothko’s infamous murals, known to pulsate and create inexplicable visual sensations, I did not see anything but blobs of color thrown onto a canvass. Though that could be credited to the fact I only looked at uploaded replicas, I still could not fathom a painting doing what Rothko’s were known to do.

Then, I came across this enigmatic combination of simplicity and disorder, or better known, Black on Maroon, 1958. I found myself in a deep gaze. I saw two columns of a light maroon enclosed by layers of black. I stared at the rough edges, only to find the columns beginning to slowly separate. The chaotic outlines force movement as my eyes fail to grasp a clear shape without any borders. The black filling in the middle grows, and the maroon towers shift away. I have never experienced a work of art like this.

Why does this imitation Rothko seem to provoke my visual sense unlike many of the others I went through? To be honest, I am not quite sure. It could be that I need to experience the murals themselves, in the conditions Rothko perpetrated for them. But, that still does not explain why I saw this mural burst with life through a screen that destroys the true essence of a work of art. Regardless, this painting stood out in a way where I began appreciating Rothko more than just an iconic figure. He was a visionary who created chaos in stillness, frustration from simplicity. This painting makes me understand where those claims came from. Now, I am not interested solely in the question why Black on Maroon, and presumably his other paintings, incites such sensations, but truthfully, how did he come to discover that?

First, there was the choosing of the painting. Of all Rothko's works, how can you pick just one? A few years back I followed "theDailyRothko" on Tumblr and, let me tell you- it's madness. I have over 200 Rothko's saved to my drafts folder. And after days and days of debate, I managed to narrow it down to three. One for the colour, another for the emotion and the third for it's pertinence to our class discussions of black and red. 

However, every time I began to write the words just wouldn't come. Not for lack of things to say, but for lack anything else to say. Every painting I picked simply said it all. The colors became catalysts that set off emotions that I could easily relate to class discussions. As is the nature of the game. But writing about art requires so much more than that. One must spend quality time with the work, really get to know it. It's not supposed to be so obvious. 

Therefore, I chose this one. Not for the color, emotion, pertinence -- but for its mystique.

A thin stroke of azure pulls the eye back, across the grassy, field-like region to a sky that's opaque and unforgiving. Blue bleeding from the edges of the beryl green expanse gives the illusion of a faint florescent glow somewhere in the great beyond. The feeling of a warm summer night, running in a field of freshly cut grass, nothing but moonlight radiating about you. It tempts you, pulls you in, only to be pushed away by the impenetrable murky green. Its strangeness is enticing, its lawlessness is enchanting. But, sooner or later, a thick fog of melancholy washes over you. You realize that summer is over, the nights are no longer warm, and the grass is teeming who knows what. 

From reminiscence to reality, Rothko's Untitled 1967, reveals both a seductiveness and soothing quality, never before seen in the color green. 

Marcus Rothkowitz, born in 1903 in modern day Latvia, moved with his family to the United States in 1913. He continued practicing Yiddish, Hebrew, and other Jewish customs in a neighborhood known as Little Russia. When he decided to pursue painting as a career he changed his name to his famously recognized name today, Mark Rothko, to escape being denied success on account of his religion. After failing to echo the realism of the artists in his time, he began to change his style to that of something more abstract. This sudden change in style occurred in the early 1940s, possibly influenced by the events in Nazi Germany. Through the 1950s the Holocaust references grew further, Rothko even denied German museums the ability to display his paintings because of their role.

The colors in Rothko's No. 64 reflect those of the Nazis. Not only do they symbolize Nazi Germany's flag and swastika but the extensive amount of blood, death, and decay in the time period. The Ochre in the center of the painting has a little life within it. It could even be assumed that the Ochre symbolizes Rothko, safe from the turmoil in his new home of the United States. Even though detached from the events overseas, he still feels a part of it and its' destruction within him. His life sits atop the deaths of others who could not be saved. The black has inconsistencies of red and gray mixed within it, like smoke rising from a chimney.The undefined color change highlights the indistinguishable difference in that of life and death.

This summer I traveled through Eastern Europe, specifically Germany, Poland, and Prague. I learned extensive amounts and also saw first hand the remains and evidence. Every time I hear something of relation to the Holocaust now, I flash back to the moments I stood in the very place millions of people died. Rothko could not witness the occurrences, and unlike myself, did not experience the camps. Instead Rothko painted his feelings. 

By ROSIE PASQUALINI

overhead the white sky dances        while a redness roils below

I had spent ten lifetimes fighting        for the love of rugged eyes

and the mouths that spouted        —purple!—        ‘twas my name, as I surmised.

I hung fast within the vastness, knowing nowhere could surpass

This sweet world where walls were windows, and truth trembled through the glass.

But my skin grew thin from coveting a fate I failed to see;

Though surrounded by my siblings, I knew not what lived in me.

Then, one sorry Sunday morning, when no painted faces paid,

And the house of hues grew humble, and no footsteps ricocheted

Off the dusty marble sea        then I languished        then I screamed:

“Who is purple? What am I? Have I distilled my silhouette

for the irises of pupils who look through me and forget?

What a scornful predilection! Can’t I catch a single hint

of my bare reflection, unadorned by someone else’s tint?”

I stood stranded on a canvas            hot core burning, sides aglow

when I felt the white sky dancing        as the redness roiled below

so I spun about in wonder—            I was them, and they were me 

tugging one way, then the other        in discordant harmony.