The Rothko is comprised of two truths. The exterior of the structure is modest, one could say reserved, foreshadowing the quiet insistence within. This is the first truth. The second begins with the fact of Mark Rothko's suicide shortly after ground was broken for construction. I don't like this fact, or its proximity to the stillness of the space. For years I have tried to contemplate, perceive them separately: the beautiful gravitas of the sanctuary, and Rothko's incontestable despair. On my most recent visit I finally had to let them settle into one another, forming --like the inside/out of the architecture-- one reality, container and contained.
"Joys impregnate, Sorrows Bring Forth..."
The prelude to this visit was another exhibit at Houston's Contemporary Arts Museum. The show was entitled "The Inward Eye," presenting the theme of transcendence in art with an effervescent touch. Organized by senior curator Lynn Herbert, twenty-nine artists--all of international stature--had contributed to a group show. This in itself was fairly remarkable (your own inward eye might have noted the cast-off egos--like a pile of angelic armor--by the entrance), and then there was the work! From the sly 'howdy' of Ann Hamilton's honey-filled hat to the perfect flickering flatness of James Turrell's "Zarkov"; each piece not only inspired contemplation, but rewarded it, yielding some agent of surprise that bordered suspiciously on--well, yes--revelation.
Emerging from the CAM, my companion and I headed for the Rothko Chapel. Drew is an artist currently masquerading as businessman, so as a matter of policy I cache a sketchpad and a set of Grumbacher pencils whenever we spend a day together. As we got out of the car, I scooped the tackle out of the back seat, handing it off as we entered the building.
Once past the vestibule, my vision always goes wide, as if caught on a traveling curve. As I moved to the right, my friend disappeared into the deep, left-hand bay of that camber. I circled the sanctuary counterclockwise, examining the eastern, northern, western paintings. As I returned to the entrance at the south, my attention was drawn to the center. Previously a dozen or more black pews had been arranged in a herringbone pattern, cramping the room. This time only four simple benches were aligned with the cardinal directions, leaving the center of the sanctuary entirely open. Oddly energized by this, I circled the space a second time, attending to the minor canvases on the intermediate walls.
The architect Philip Johnson originally envisioned a square chapel, as noted in his drawings from the early 1960s. Rothko, on the other hand, had conceived the space as an octagon, slowly convincing Johnson through a year of conversations, sketches and mockups. Now it seemed that both visions had been realized. With this new quadrilateral center, the octagon seemed to expand from the quincunx within.
Originally a quincunx was a grove of five trees sacred to Artemis. indicating the four directions and the central point from which they are distinguished. In the Chapel's new arrangement, that fifth (and first) point--the 'quinx'--is defined by a small skylight piercing the vertex of the room. Yet the oculus is not so much a source of light as a baffle, permitting only a smoky platinum luster to drift along the walls.
A black zafu cushion had been placed directly beneath this opening. Completing my second circuit, I was drawn irresistibly to the cushion. No one else in the chapel had ventured the crucial seat! I could hardly believe my good fortune.
Drew had finished his clockwise stroll, landing the bench to my left. As I settled into what the mentors call 'equipoise,' here was the small breeze of a sketch pad opening, then the slightly acrid taste of graphite on the back of my tongue. The triptych in front of me glowed darkly, and I soon found the rhythm of the faceted space. What rose up along the sides came down through the middle, a crowning flow that was not so much a force as continual persuasion. There were perhaps twelve other people in the chapel, several couples sat on benches facing --like me-- the northern apse. Growing more relaxed, I began to hear without listening. The smallest and largest sounds became woven together, congruent. Drew's pencils hissed along the surface, two and three at a time; the warm bulk of bodies moving quietly to my right suddenly disappeared; abruptly, the pavement rang with determined steps, the basalt beaten by leather hammers; then low murmuring brought the warm duplexes back from their inexplicable chill.
Human voices in several registers came and went. They all seemed curiously ineffectual, like wet moths struggling to realize 'night' or 'circle' or 'air.' "Silence is so accurate," Rothko had once noted. Despite the artist's rough exit, I imagine that he said it, knew it without bitterness. His eponymous space bears witness, infused with a deep violet wave slower than a heartbeat, the tide of sunyata under vision's trembling veil.
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Later Drew and I sat outside by the reflecting pool, near Barnett Newman's Broken Obelisk. "You know what was going on in there..." he bandied, opening the sketch pad for my inspection. Little angel doggies barked at furtive Seraphim watching humans
en flagrante. "Oh my god, the Rothko's become a makeout palace." "Exactly," he chuckled. "And that woman with the Shoes. She's some kind of cop." "But where could they..." I began, then flashed to the answer. The eastern and western triptychs are flanked by unlit, featureless doorways. "Ah, the inner sanctum..." "Sancta," Drew corrected, "there are at least four hideaways behind the paintings."
Makeout palace or Mystery School? Back at the CAM, Anish Kapoor had given us "The Healing of St. Thomas," a gashed wall, the wound deep, but clean as a ruby. I thought of the impudent couples, beckoned to the fathomless vertical beds, and laughed. Healing comes in many forms.
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