Dos cajetillas, una docena de pesadillas y musica. (Black is Black)
I will say without reservations that from my view there can be no abstractions. Any shape or area which has not the pulsating concreteness of real flesh and bones, its vulnerability to pleasure or pain, is nothing at all. Any picture which does not provide the environment in which the breath of life can be drawn does not interest me.
Mark Rothko Whatever you decide to do with your life, do it fully. Don’t let the words of others diminish the value you see in the things you love. Words, words, words. Sometimes even repetition makes things lose their meaning or even worse, it makes you feel so sure of them that you forget that nothing is forever. For the last week my life has been a Rothko painting, and, its been… fine. No words have come out from my mind nor drawings from my dreams. Only music has made sense, if that has a meaning at all. Whenever I’ve have had the possibility I have ran to my room…and laid in my cage’s floor for as long as my youtube playlist lasted. I allowed then myself to let go and submerge into the in between of noise and silence; Resulting in the liberation of the contradictory messages in my heart. Late night talks made me realize that the reason why I love music so much is that it is completely external from me. I break windows when I sing, dance is an impossibility for my two left feet -specially when drunk-and instruments shiver at my touch. Nonetheless a song penetrates every fiber from my body, it makes me feel as if I was constantly being electrocuted…Because I can not connect to it through the eyes of a producer, I can let myself fall into its arms and guide me to the unknown realms of my soul . Music makes me feel safe when I’m on my weakest point… or the contrary. At the end the when or why does not matter as much as its invisible arms wrapping me in the security of its ok to feel. Let yourself go. Fuck your ego. Rothko comes into picture now the following way: this week because of the bomb of emotions of everything and nothing, the only images that matched the place where music took me were his paintings. Explosions of colours, contrasts and texture. Everything seems to be in there, if you allow yourself to let go from the necessity of a shape that dictates meaning. His paintings are stripped out of complex Symbologies and analogies. The emotion is there itself, waiting to numb the observer with its intensity. Caution is necessary for a first approach, for what is seen is not all there is. An apparent black can result to be a very dark red, green or purple. Such an event can be appreciated in his Houston Chapel. Accommodated in a comic evoking pattern, the pieces represent the metaphysical and universal experience of transcendence in religion. There are no sad eyed virgins or bleeding Christs, just this large obscure squares of colour. How can apparent nothingness say so much?
Rothko declared that his works alone are not complete. He trusts the observer to approach his art with spiritual necessity. Meaning shall be found by the spirit who desperately needs it. I offer you a shape, you give me a meaning. Hence, the interchange of the art market will have taken place.
Size serves this propose. The bigger the painting is, the more it can envelop the observer. Art becomes a huge fanged teddy bear. It will hug you but it might as well tear you to pieces. In a world devoid of a popular mythology art is the cure, the source of new figures. When a kid is young he has a rich inner world full of fantastic beasts and speaking toys. When he grows up he translates his imagery into the name of fantasy-making it lose its validity. Man is left alone with no inner friends to talk to when alone. That is when art transforms into the teddy bear. It gives shape to that suppressed inner childhood world of contrasting passions and ideas. In Rothko’s words the artist is a myth maker, that feeds on the struggle of life.
Art for me, is like a changing visual melody in your i-pod .Just as when shuffle gives you the perfect song for whatever one is feeling at the moment, so it happens with some paintings. They arrive unexpectedly. Right now I’m picturing myself in Rorthko’s chapel, lost in the musical rhythm of each brushstroke. Allowing my aching soul to wonder in Rothko’s labyrinths, in the search of the exit door that leads into meaning. Hoping to learn in the way how to observe things and not just give them a quick glance. And maybe just maybe discover that the labyrinth can be escaped from by flying out of the cage. So, I close my eyes and I’m there sitting on a bench across the ocean, and you, where are you sitting? What sound is dictating the pumping of blood in your body?
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