There’s a Mark Rothko painting hanging in the Contemporary wing of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
It’s a Rothko-sized canvas, with the rich and vibrant color that bleeds when you stare at it too intently. Three swipes of red and yellow and pinky orange on a red-orange field hang, hovering in the middle of a huge blank bright white wall.
Hanging. Stuck. Vibrant.
Alone.
It’s got passion and power and oomph, just oozing off the brightly painted canvas, screaming silently for attention, radiating energy into the room, but it’s all alone on the wall, companioned by nothing but a small plaque stating no more than the obvious.
Red, Orange, Yellow by Mark Rothko.
No story. No translation. No explanation about its meaning or purpose or value. Just the facts. So we know what it is. But not why it is…
“So we know what it is. But not why it is...”
There’s a doorway on either side of the canvas, and sometimes people walk by in the hallway, but they don’t come in. They don’t walk by the angry, happy, bold canvas. It’s just there, hanging, part of wider network of artistry and value, one of many companion works strung throughout the galleries. One of many, and yet still, somehow, alone.
I sat and looked at this painting for awhile today, two parallel black boot toes pointing straight at its intensity, separated only by a beautiful dirty and aged and worn wooden floor.
There’s a Mark Rothko painting hanging in the Contemporary wing of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. And I think it is my heart.