The living blackness

My Mom watches Rothko

I’ve just read an amazing interview with the daughter on Mark Rothko. 

Everybody remembers him being nervous and going on and on about philosophy and art, to her he was always silent and contemplating his art, almost hypnotized by it.  Or to be precise, she specifies, when he didn’t know yet what to do he was indeed laud and analytic and opinionated.  Once he got into his true groove he became silent and concentrated.  That’s a very telling story: beware of the talkers.  

Rotho called his works “tragic”, although he never spoke with his daughter about the Shoah.  

The most important for him in a painting were strong emotions evoked in a viewer.    

The fact that he killed himself is devastating.  

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