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Here's a memory of Rothko....

Office Worker, 1967

Chuck each flap under the next,

Shuffle them like cards. Absolutely

Cover your heart. Crease

The boss’s dictums into perfect

Thirds before you shimmy them in.

Now splay the envelopes

Across the stained beige counter

So only the flaps show, and smear

A sponge across them all.

Turn the flaps down the way you turned

Yourself down, and smooth them shut.

Start home along the pale clay

Tinge of Chicago brick, ice water curbs,

Gray wind, the shoulders

Of people passing. Then, at the Art Institute,

Mark Rothko. Yellow

Proclamations holding the sun.

Light, a secret life you might step into.

Hope you never die.

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“Maybe we don’t always know what we’re speaking to or of in our own work.” There is that possibility. Maybe we sometimes channel our preconscious conceptualizations through the creative process. Maybe for some a deeper spiritual connection occurs.

Then there is also the other side: what the audience sees or heard or reads. Without knowing the artist’s intent, what the work elicits or triggers in the viewer which may or may not have anything to do with the artists subjective meaning.

So many possibilities for interpretation in interaction with art.

In any case, what a lovely essay about what sounds like a profound experience with some of the greatest paintings. IMO Rothko’s paintings have to be directly experienced - reproductions just don’t do it.

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Oh yes, I agree, Lucy. The viewer also brings a rich self to the interaction--that's a whole other essay! :) Maybe the question is where we center the meaning: do we center it with the artist? with the viewer? with the critic? within the artwork itself? Each of those might give us an different interpretation of the piece. And I agree about the reproductions. Part of his magic is scale. Thanks for your words!

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Looking forward to that other essay! 😉

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