Mark Rothko

“During World War II, it became nonsensical to get involved in painting men playing violins, or cellos, or flowers,”¹ reflected Barnett Newman, as he rationalised the value of the (then) unappreciated abstract movement. Today, as we witness the escalation of regional conflicts in Africa, Eastern Europe or the Middle East, Newman's words resonate with renewed significance. In an era teetering on the brink of global conflict, abstract art emerges as a more fitting artistic expression reflective of contemporary world affairs. This resurgence of abstractionism is captured in the grand retrospective of Mark Rothko (1903–1970) at the Louis Vuitton Foundation in Paris. This comprehensive exhibition, curated by Suzanne Pagé and Christopher Rothko, showcases 155 works that span Rothko’s career, offering a chronological journey through his evolving styles. This show, the first of its kind in France since the historic 1999 exhibition at the Museé d’Art Moderne de La Ville de Paris, takes over the entire expanse of the Foundation’s galleries. Interestingly, the concurrent display of Rothko’s paintings on paper at the National Gallery in Washington appears to herald a pivotal moment of the return of abstract art to the forefront of artistic discourse, mirroring a world in flux.

The inaugural gallery addresses Rothko’s works from the 1930s. Spectators are presented with rare examples of Rothko’s figurative beginnings, several portraits, and canvases from his Subway series, such as Untitled (The Subway) (1937), Entrance to Subway (1938) or Underground Fantasy (1940)—the latter being the sole representation from the 1940s in Gallery 1. The unfinished-looking figures appear dissociated, divorced from one another and the setting; their proportions are malformed, and sometimes, it is doubtful whether the effect is performed intentionally. The human element is rendered secondary to the architectural aspect of the paintings, which is far more detailed and agreeable. The paintings are a critique of modern Western culture and its dehumanising effect. However, they are also a compelling reminder that Rothko was hardly a talented draughtsman. One doesn’t argue with Rothko, who, in the late 1930s, decided to abandon figuration due to the failure of representing the human figure “without mutilating it.” After encountering an existential problem of unearthing and conveying shared meaning, he turned his attention to ancient myths, rich in unifying symbols, which he believed “continue in their relevance in the present world.”²

In the early 1940s, during his Mythological phase featured in Gallery 2, Rothko simplified his visual language. He sought eternal symbols of the “human drama³”, the tragedy of human existence– “tragic and timeless”⁴. The artist found the essence of tragedy in ancient myths and the prehistoric origin of humankind. An evident Surrealist influence is detectable, as in the organic and biomorphic forms executed in primary colours and spineless, curved outlines, one can discover a nod to Joan Miró or Salvador Dali, particularly evident in works such as Sacrifice of Iphigenia (1942) or Tiresias (1944). Rothko’s interpretation of myths was profoundly shaped by FriedrichNietzsche’s The Birth of Tragedy, through which he reimagined mythologies, focusing on Nietzsche’s concept of primitive fears and motivations, and distilled the legends through themes such as violence, death, and sacrifice. Rothko’s construal of tragic myth was pantheistic in nature. He perceived everything earthly as constituting a singular, tragic idea- a worldview where the divine, the natural, and the human are thornily interlaced. This holistic vision underscores Rothko’s desire to surpass the superficialities of the visible world, aiming to penetrate universal aspects of the Dionysian human condition instead, tangibly represented by works such as The Omen of the Eagle (1942) or Hierarchical Birds (1944).

However, his ambitious ideological agenda of finding unity in Western myths was not convincing to contemporary critics, as exemplified by New York Times columnist Edward Alden Jewell: “Mark Rothko stylises decoratively, though not often exhilaratingly”⁵. In the late 1940s, the disenchanted artist decided that the old stories had lost their attraction and again employed Nietzschean rhetoric to declare: “the myth is dead.” Despite that, he maintained a steadfast focus on the theme of the tragedy. He relinquished identifiable forms in favour of colour fields, which he felt were more apt for expressing his leitmotif. This transition to abstraction is showcased from Gallery 3 through to the show’s climactic eleventh room, marking a dramatic transformation in his artistic narrative.

This evolution was also a turning point where Rothko transformed his painterly limitations into a newfound strength–the abstract works freed the creator from the struggle of handling phenotypic forms. This recalibration eventually led him to an iconic, recognisable style of unfettered abstraction that began in 1950. The compositions are primarily vertical, whilst the horizontal rectangles with sfumato-blurred edges, seemingly floating in space, reminiscent of the Balducci levitation effect. The colours are luminous yet vaporous, and the scale of his work also became colossal, which he thought created the aura of intimacy. The “tragic” is heightened. As he strips his canvases of content, Rothko expects the viewers to increase their participation through emotional summoning.

Thus, in 1953, Rothko proclaimed that he found a new form of unity, a concept he had been exploring since 1943 with his advocacy for “the simple expression of the complex thought”⁶. Despite his decision to distance himself from Judaism early in life, Rothko’s obsessive quest for unity resonates with central concepts in Judaism - ‘Tikkun Olam’ or ‘repairing the world’, as well as Ein Sof, The Infinite, an ultimate state of oneness and unity, encompassing everything and nothing at the same time. Could it be that Rothko felt the need to fill a spiritual void left by his abdication from monotheism? Did he aim to imbue his life with meaning or perhaps see himself assuming a messianic role? The artist once admitted to writer John Fisher, ‘I am not a mystic. A prophet, perhaps.’⁷ He regarded his works as spiritual archetype, and since an archetype requires repetition (the reason why icons tend to be conservative), it prompts further inquiry into whether the repetitive compositional quality of his art was a deliberate reflection of his artistic and spiritual journey.

Red on Maroon, 1959; Red on Maroon, 1959; Red on Maroon, 1959; Black on Maroon, 1959. © 1998 Kate Rothko Prizel & Christopher Rothko - Adagp, Paris, 2023.">

The spiritual essence of Rothko’s art, accentuated by the (extra) dim lightening of the exhibition, resonated powerfully in Gallery 5, home to the Seagram Murals. Curator Suzanne Pagé describes the room’s strict adherence to the late artist’s specifications, ranging from the height at which each piece is hung to the precise lighting intensity and wall colour requirements. These daunting, deep plum horizontal paintings envelop the viewer from all sides, creating an immersive, almost watchful atmosphere reminiscent of Foucault’s panopticon. The obscure signs on Red on Maroon Mural, sections 2, 3, and 5 (1959) seem to subtly reference Hebrew letters such as gimel, samekh, and mem sophit. Again, we are left to ponder whether that is nostalgia for the life left behind in the Russian empire dotted by the Talmudic education he received or a grandiose belief in his prophetic destiny. Does the latter explain why spectators often recall a near-mystical feeling that leaves many crying in the presence of his paintings that edge towards nothingness? Or could we analyse this phenomenon through Martin Heidegger’s analysis of mood (Stimmung), which focuses on the mood of anxiety (Angst)? Contrary to fear, which is directed at a specific object, anxiety is less tangible, where it is the nothingness that is the source of fear. It is in this state that we experience the nothingness of existence and the meaninglessness of the world. As we stare into the dark gates of Rothko’s canvases’ abyss, it might be our finitude that we see.

In sum, Vuitton’s retrospective is a hugely impressive show, charting Rothko’s creative trajectory in depth –- a long journey sometimes overlooked by a public primarily fixated upon his abstract chromatic fields. True, the selection omits two of the artist’s most stunning feats, No.6 (1951) and Homage to Matisse (1954). Many will know the former icon from the cover of David Anfam’s catalogue raisonné of Rothko’s works on canvas, the fundamental scholarly work on the subject. Anfam’s term ‘Rothkomania’, coined in 2001 to describe the almost boundless attention that Rothko commands, prompts a final thought. contemplation: Might ‘Rothkomania’ ever wane, or do the crowds at the Louis Vuitton Foundation signify Rothko’s endless stature as a timeless artist?

Endnotes

1. ‘A Conversation. Barnett Newman and Thomas B. Hess’ (1966) in Barnett Newman, p. 274
2. Ibid.
3. M. Rothko, ‘The Portrait and the Modern Artist’ by Rothko and Adolph Gottlieb’ (13 October 1943), in Rothko: Writings on Art, p. 39
4. M. Rothko, ‘Rothko and Gottlieb’s Letter to the Editor’, (1943)
5. Edward Alden Jewell, New York Times, February 17, 1943
6. Rothko, ‘Rothko and Gottlieb’s Letter to the Editor’, p.36
7. Rothko, Writings on Art, p.135