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I don't think he's inherently any more dishonest than a William DeKooning or a Mark Rothko, who did the same paintings over and over, but called them a "series."

I can't comment on the "series" issues, but I adore just about everything I have seen of Rothko's, and think it deserves its prominent display in the best modern art museums of the world. Of course, a postcard, poster, or Internet image can not do justice to the subtleties of his colors.

I've seen many of Rothko's works in person. I worked for the Huntington Galleries and the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas, back in the seventies, and hung some of them for shows. The Rothko Chapel in Houston is probably the best place to see his later work. I understand they changed the lighting from how he originally intended it, as the sunlight was fading the canvases. I haven't been back since then. As Rothko's final series turned from the lighter pastels to the dark blood of the final paintings in the series, I found looking at them to be an experience somewhat like Jack Torrence's wife when she found the manuscript of hundreds of pages of "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." They are the product of a complex mind descending into despair and finally suicide. I find them disturbing.

Rothko was also somewhat of a failure as a painter, in that his paintings deteriorated badly over a period of about ten years. I was fortunate enough to see the Rothko Chapel before the red of the paintings turned to black, as they are now.

In one sense, my comparison of Kincaide to Rothko is unfortunate. Kincaide is primarily a businessman, and I think he has little emotional attachment to his paintings. Rothko was deadly serious, but also a deeply flawed man. If you understand what he was doing, and I think I might, as I went through a depressive period when I was younger, the paintings, when taken in series, are the unconscious result of a mind descending into madness. What is most chilling to me is that in the final paintings, hanging at the chapel in Houston, he was beyond even romanticizing suicide. Like Pollock, who died in a fiery car crash, Rothko chose an end that mimicked his art, by hanging his clothes in an orderly fashion, slitting the arteries in his arms, and sitting quietly as the blood ran into the basins of water. The wreck was Pollock's last splatter painting; the dark reds swirling in the basin of water was Rothko's last painting of his "colors" series: dark red, without hope, and made in a very temporary medium. (note, these are my beliefs and are universally laughed at by most art critics.)

I love Rothko too.

Do you know the works of Lawrence Calcagna (I may have misspelled that)? He's a (deceased) (considered a) Santa Fe artist. Some of his work is in a similar vein to that of Rothko.

I don't think he's inherently any more dishonest than a William DeKooning or a Mark Rothko, who did the same paintings over and over, but called them a "series." R Kimball

I can't comment on the "series" issues, but I adore just about everything I have seen of Rothko's, and think it deserves its prominent display in the best modern art museums of the world. Of course, a postcard, poster, or Internet image can not do justice to the subtleties of his colors. Beelzebubba

Perfectly stated, Beelzebubba. Rothko's work is full of subtleties, not something you get on line, in books, or something that you "get" quickly.

Richard, I've written about some of the content in de Kooning, Rothko, Pollock and others in lectures you can access clickably on my home page. I hate to go into a repeating rant here, but there really is something in their works. Now, re Barnett Newman, I might agree with you there....

Beelzebubba, can you turn me onto Newman's work? It has never seemed as rich as Rothko's to me.