I have no clue what I'm doing.
I guess the cumbersome accompaniments of progress and confidence are frustration and doubt. I have a very hard time finding satisfaction in anything I do without a fairly immediate feeling of uncertainty. It might be a good thing...a way of keeping an even keel or finding zen or whatever. It might be the realization that I'm a little dysfunctional, or I take myself more seriously than I'd like to, or I'm just a dissatisfied person doomed to searching for satisfaction in pursuits that will forever be beyond my capabilities or understanding. I feel better already...wait, no I don't.
So here's my latest conundrum...
Last week, I traveled to Houston, Texas. After the plane landed, my wife and I loaded into the world's smallest rental car and drove straight to a destination I've longed to see for several years now...the Rothko Chapel. I'm not a religious person, or at least not in a conventional way, but I found myself thinking of the trip like a religious pilgrimage of sorts. And while I didn't have any sort of spiritual epiphanies, I did have a profound experience that has stuck with me the past several days. If you don't know Mark Rothko, have already dismissed him as a drunk with a big brush, or just don't care, you're probably not missing much that you'll regret...I've discovered that abstract expressionism isn't something you can easily coerce a person into admiring. For some reason, though, I have become fascinated with his big paintings of floating squares. And while I'm probably romanticizing the whole experience, I really feel that spending time with those inky black canvases in that silent, windowless building was one of the most powerful experiences I've had in my adult life. Or at least, something tricked me into feeling that way...does enlightenment still count if you're sure it's the result of smoke and mirrors? Let's hope so. It only took me an hour.
Why am I frustrated? Well, to be honest, I haven't really figured it out quite yet. I left that little building in Houston a few days ago feeling pissed off, and content, and hopeless, and nervous, and loved, and young, and old, and heartbroken all at once, as the result of staring at washes of color brushed onto big rectangles of fabric. I won't say I was some sort of emotional mess, that kind of response is too convenient, but I was, without doubt, perplexed by the whole experience immediately afterward...probably more perplexed now. Funny thing is, I had made up my mind, at least three years ago or so while really studying up on the chapel, that I wouldn't allow myself to fall victim to the Rothko cliches I've become so familiar with. I secretly wanted to discredit the work and scoff at those who found something special in pictures that were, what I mistakenly assumed, very simple. It didn't work. I guess, every once in a long while, despite the most inadvertent but stubborn pessimism, the hype really does measure up. I'm afraid I'm on the verge of chalking up my experience at the chapel as an indescribable emotional happening, as much as I want to resist restating what's been overstated by art critics and non art critics alike for the past forty years.
I could go on and on about how great the paintings were, how powerful the space was, how blah blah the blah blah was...but you can YouTube that stuff and get a better synopsis of Rothko's work and the chapel in particular. Better yet, go see it in person for yourself.
After such an experience, I'm afraid no amount of clever writing could convey the impact. What I'm sure of, however, is my incredible ineptitude as an artist. I desperately want to have the sort of emotional investment and release in my work that a Rothko painting seems to exude. His work is like artistic plutonium, slowly emitting emotion, impossible to escape once you've found the fallout. How can I "feel something that much" without falling back on reactionary subjects, sentimental subjects, or representational imagery. At the very least, how do I merge my interests in representational painting with the emotive qualities of profound abstract art. How do I do what I do, but in a totally new way? How do I start fresh without actually having to start over? I don't know.
Expecting something of Rothko proportion out of myself is stupid. The notion that I'll be able to change up my artistic approach and eventually discover something reminiscent of my personal artistic grail is unrealistic. Delusions of grandeur seem to be unavoidable in the business of "making art", but I've decided to refuse the idea that I'll ever reach an "artistic high ground", even if it's a strictly personal endeavor. I'll just keep working, and if some of the thoughts in the back of my mind sneak into my process, I'll try and make sure to cite the source. I guess my biggest fear, at this moment, is my inability to discriminate delusion and misconception from honesty and aspiration. The more I think about it, it's all the same anyway and none of it matters at all. I'm a bummer.
I'm getting around to those lighthearted posts, but in the meantime...
You’ve got sadness in you, I’ve got sadness in me – and my works of art are places where the two sadnesses can meet, and therefore both of us need to feel less sad.
― Mark Rothko
