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Lucy J Newman's avatar

Bear in mind, I am writing this on a crowded bus stuck in traffic returning from a day trip to Boston.

I am happy that you are continuing the discussion started in the former “Rothko” post. I love thinking about and considering art in general, and photography in particular.

First, I apologize if my wording was clumsy in the previous comment. My intention was not to say that art is a tabla rasa or blank slate, but that there is an interaction between the viewer and the artwork, at least in the best case- assuming the viewer finds enough interest or merit to expend the effort. I suppose it is not the worst thing if it is Rorschach-like and it helps the viewer to derive some personal meaning and interpretation.

I think it is also important to consider that art? And photography, exists in a context. It has a history and it has a body of critical examination.

The audience may or may not be aware of that context, and there is no requirement for them to be. But sometimes, that may also affect or color their experience with the artwork. And in creating the work, the artist may be responding to some aspect of historical or critical context. Not to mention socio-cultural or political (gasp).

I admit that I am undecided about this: I struggle with both the “elitism” of post modern art, but also with art that seems to pander to superficiality and commercialism. So where does that leave us? Is it possible for art to be both accessible and aesthetically pleasing, but not overly simplistic and dull?

For me Rothko found that balance, but how many people look at his paintings and say “huh?”?

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Gail Howard's avatar

In honor of Poetry Month and in honor of Rothko, I offer a poem:

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.

Gail Howard

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