A few years back, PBS aired a series called “Simon Schama’s Power of Art.” Mr. Schama knows his art, and he presented each episode with such authority and knowledge, one couldn’t help but be enthralled. If you get the chance, track down a few episodes. Trust me on this one.
Anyhoo, one fateful night I was watching this show and the artist profiled was Mark Rothko. I know Rothko isn’t everyone’s keg of beer. But y’all, for some reason that man’s work speaks to me. His paintings have hooks in my soul, and I have been brought to tears when seated before his works at the Tate Modern.
As I recall from Simon Schama’s presentation, Rothko was a troubled soul. In fact, on the very day his show opened in London, word reached the UK that Mark Rothko had just committed suicide. Simon Schama was in line to see those paintings that day. I have no doubt the whole experience affected Mr. Schama’s appreciation.
I love Mark Rothko’s paintings. It’s okay if others don’t feel the same love for his work. That’s what makes art, isn’t it? The personal appeal. Or not. In my case, my heart is with Rothko.