A visitor walking through Mark Rothko’s former studio will immediately be struck by an ineffability that only appears when entering a sacred space. The floors of the studio look as if a small explosion was set off in the room, caking the wooden floorboards with various layers of colored paint. It’s a fitting floor for the son of Russian anarchists (Rothko’s parents immigrated to America in 1913, when Mark was ten years old). Rothko was extremely voluble when he wanted to be, and if one squints in the studio, the image of a man walking around the space—adjusting his thick-lensed glasses, burning cigarette in one hand, paintbrush in the other, discussing his work with one of his assistants—flashes before them in series of movements.
29 September 2024
Squints.
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