A room full of violence, and the silence of death: Tate unveils new Rothko Room

As Tate Modern unveils its new Rothko Room, Booker Prize-winning novelist John Banville reveals the story behind the paintings it contains, and reflects on one of the most compelling experiences to be had in any gallery in the world.

In 1959, while travelling in southern Italy with his family and that of magazine editor, John Hurt Fischer, Mark Rothko discovered a surprising classical precursor to his contemporary art…

Red on Maroon (1959) by Mark Rothko, who said: 'I hope to paint something that will ruin the appetite of every son of a bitch who ever eats in that room'

On the journey down from Naples the party had fallen in with a couple of Italian youths who offered to act as guides. At Paestum, where the odd-assorted little band picnicked at noon in the Temple of Hera, the young men expressed their curiosity as to the identity and occupations of the Americans. Fischer's daughter, who was acting as interpreter, turned to Rothko and said: "I have told them that you are an artist, and they ask whether you came here to paint the temples," to which c replied: "Tell them that I have been painting Greek temples all my life without knowing it."

The set of colossal canvases housed in Tate Modern's Rothko Room originated, as every art-aware schoolboy knows, in a commission for the Four Seasons restaurant in the Seagram Building on New York's Park Avenue. The commission, one of the more remarkable instances of incongruity in the history of art patronage, was for 600 square feet of mural-sized paintings to decorate the walls of the restaurant - "a place," according to Rothko, "where the richest bastards in New York will come to feed and show off " - although it is not clear if Rothko realised from the outset that his paintings were intended as a backdrop for fine dining. The architect Philip Johnson, who assisted Mies van der Rohe in the design of the building and who was chief commissioner of the Rothko murals, always insisted that the painter knew that they were to be hung in the restaurant.

Great art can be fitted into the oddest places - on a chapel ceiling, for instance, or in a millionaire's bathroom - but it does seem remarkably brave on Johnson's part to call on Rothko, one of the most uncompromising of the Abstract Expressionists (a label Rothko vigorously rejected), to soothe the savage breasts of New York's richest bastards and their mates.

Rothko himself was straightforward, at least in private, about his motives in taking on the Seagram commission. He told John Fischer: "I accepted this assignment as a challenge, with strictly malicious intentions. I hope to paint something that will ruin the appetite of every son of a bitch who ever eats in that room. If the restaurant would refuse to put up my murals, that would be the ultimate compliment. But they won't. People can stand anything these days."

Back in New York, Rothko and his wife went to dinner at the Four Seasons, and in the spring of the following year he returned Seagram's $35,000 fee and withdrew from the commission. One supposes that his experience that night of the restaurant and its rich and powerful diners turned his artistic stomach. Eventually, he decided instead to donate the paintings to Tate.

This transaction was also to prove fraught, for Rothko, despite, or, as is more likely, because of the great critical and commercial success that had come to him in the 1950s, tended to detect slights and veiled insults at every turn. After a visit to London in 1966 to discuss "the gift of some of my pictures to the Tate", he wrote in icy fury to Norman Reid, the Tate director: "Your complete personal neglect of my presence in London, and your failure to provide adequate opportunities for these discussions, poses for me the following question: Was this simply a typical demonstration of traditional English hospitality, or was it your way of indicating to me that you were no longer interested in these negotiations?" Reid himself said that he had been waiting for Rothko to approach him, worrying that otherwise he might put off the notoriously prickly artist by seeming too eager.

In the end, as we know, artistic feathers were smoothed and the Rothko Room opened at Tate in 1970. Rothko knew exactly in what way he wanted the pictures hung and lit. In a list of "suggestions" to the Whitechapel Gallery for a 1961 show of his work, he had stipulated how the walls should be coloured - "off-white with umber and warmed by a little red" - and said the pictures should be hung "as close to the floor as possible, ideally no more than six inches above it" in a room with ordinary daylight, since it was in daylight that they were painted. As we can see in the Rothko Room, the Tate Gallery and now Tate Modern followed these instructions to the last detail.

The room is one of the strangest, most compelling and entirely alarming experiences to be had in any gallery anywhere. What strikes one on first entering is the nature of the silence, suspended in this shadowed vault like the silence of death itself - not a death after illness or old age, but at the end of some terrible act of sacrifice and atonement. In the dimness the paintings appear at first fuzzy, and move inside themselves in eerie stealth: dark pillars shimmer, apertures seem to slide open, shadowed doorways gape, giving on to depthless interiors.

Gradually, as the eye adjusts to the space's greyish lighting - itself a kind of masterwork - the colours seep up through the canvas like new blood through a bandage in which old blood has already dried. The violence of these images is hardly tolerable - as Rilke has it: "Beauty's nothing/ but beginning of Terror we're still just able to bear."

Here we are in the presence not of religion, but of something at once primordial and all too contemporary. On a notecard from the 1950s, Rothko had written, in his usual clotted style that yet makes his meaning entirely clear:

"When I say that my paintings are Western, what I mean is that they seek the concretization of no state that is without the limits of western reason, no esoteric, extra-sensory or divine attributes to be achieved by prayer & terror. Those who can claim that these [limits] are exceeded are exhibiting self-imposed limitations as to the tensile limits of the imagination within those limits. In other words, that there is no yearning in these paintings for Paradise, or divination. On the contrary they are deeply involved in the possibility of ordinary humanity."

In a way, the murals would have suited the Four Seasons, one of those modern-day temples and Houses of Mysteries where the sons of man - and sons of bitches - feed daily upon the blood sacrifice of their own ferocious, worldly triumphs.

Good point. (Welcome to the thread, late comer though you are!) I think that may be often true, but sometimes artists have a vision that may not depend on drawing skills.

Frank Stella never learned how to draw. And yet his later works have a dynamic space to them that is truly impossible to feel unless you are below them. He was inspired by Caravaggio and delivered a prestigious lecture series at Harvard based on those ideas of space.

An interesting shot of Stella himself; one gets some of the dynamism of the space, but it would truly be more impressive in person. And Caravaggio's Conversion of St. Paul, early 17th century.

I do however think that some of the details of his pieces, i.e. the cross hatching, could be better with a better background in drawing.

"sometimes artists have a vision that may not depend on drawing skills"

You started a very interesting thread:)
Absolutely, strong drawing skills aren't essential for great art. Van Gogh, for example. But the Europeans who gave rise to Abstractionism knew how to handle paint. The glazes Rothko used to such great effect derive from traditional oil painting technique. A solid understanding of proportion, perspective, line, color theory, composition, etc., didn't make any of the modern art masters worse painters.
But the modern art instruction which has produced so many of our contemporary artists scorned many of those principles as "inhibiting". That lack of skill may work to charming effect for outsider and primitive art, but it has produced a crop of modern artists who know how to talk the talk and not walk the walk.
(Thanks for the Stella/Caravaggio comparison. Something to save for future reference.)

Would you agree that if the artist experiences something radically new, he might have to create a new language to express it, and that his art could seem meaningless to his audience and to the tradition he is working within? Somebody mentioned Schoenberg and if I can use him as an example of someone who had gone beyond the traditional means of creating music. Perhaps Rothko with his seemingly simple colors and geometry might need the aid of the written word to help express his experience if the audience doesn't yet know how to interpret the art -- if the new language is not accessible or easily understood. I'm not saying this is the case with Rothko; I'm wondering if, in general, you might admit to this possibility.

I'm also interested if you think that the artist is always in control of what he is communicating? I agree that his message or content is important but I also wonder if he is always aware of what he is communicating. For example, there may be messages in his art that his subconscious is communicating that he may not be aware of, that the audience picks up on.

"Would you agree that if the artist experiences something radically new, he might have to create a new language to express it, and that his art could seem meaningless to his audience and to the tradition he is working within?"

I might agree with that, and I might even agree that Rothko is an artist, but I'm having a lot of trouble being convinced that his work is "great." He not only needed to create a new language, but new standards by which to judge, if I understand this right. Well, he didn't create the new language, I think we're still using English. He did create new standards maybe, the problem is whether or not the standards themselves are of value. I'm not convinced yet.

Blazing a new trail can lead to greatness, but rarely does, usually the explorer just gets lost without finding anything of value. Newness is not of value by itself, more likely the opposite. Great art is more likely to be about timelessness than newness, as far as I can see. This is not to say that modern art is not timeless...I just don't see that in the Rothkos.

"I'm also interested if you think that the artist is always in control of what he is communicating?"

I guess that I agree that he is never completely in control, but if he is not in control to a large degree, I don't see how one justifies referring to the results as "art," unless we are to deprive the word "art" of its usual meaning of "skill." Though perhaps we have already done that, skill does seem to be seen as a negative quality by much of the modern art scene. Newness, OTOH, is valued whether or not there is skill, or even anything of artistic value, present in the work.

It would be as vanishingly rare as Einstein's revolution of physics (which, nevertheless, he could express to other physicists through the "media" of mathematics) for some artist to experience something so radically different that no other human had experienced it. Neither depression nor rage are one of those epiphanies, though each new artist seems to think they are. Sort of like each generation thinks they discovered rebellion and sex. For an artist to say the language he uses cannot convey his meaning, therefore he needs a new language, is hubris, similar to a teen declaring that no one can understand what she is going through. It more indicates the inarticulateness of the artist than the limitations of the media.

Perhaps Rothko with his seemingly simple colors and geometry might need the aid of the written word to help express his experience if the audience doesn't yet know how to interpret the art -- if the new language is not accessible or easily understood.

If Rothko can't express his message without the written component, then the pieces shouldn't stand on their own in a museum; they are incomplete. If his art depends on mixed media of paint and exposition, then present it as mixed media.

I'm also interested if you think that the artist is always in control of what he is communicating?

No, but a good artist is. One that is put forth as a master artist damn well should be. Shakespeare knew what he was doing with every word he wrote; there is no unconscious feminist and/or marxist subtext, regardless of what modern critical thinking postulates. Rodin did not accidentally put messages from his id into his sculpture. Every dab of paint in a Monet was deliberately placed.

This does not mean that each viewer does not bring his own interpretation to the viewing. Everyone is going to filter their perceptions though their own experiences, but it is the commonality of human experience that makes the dialog possible. Dialog is a two way thing, though; the artist and the viewer have to bring something.

What I believe Rothko brought was the tools and structure of the communication (i.e. color, shapes, blending subtle transitions, manipulation of texture and depth effects, etc.), but no content. It is as if Shakespeare had written a list in iambic pentameter containing all the words of a sonnet, but not framed any sentences, and then expected the audience to assemble their own meaning from the word jumble.

"Shakespeare knew what he was doing with every word he wrote; there is no unconscious feminist and/or marxist subtext, regardless of what modern critical thinking postulates."

Some people believe that the artist becomes unconscious in creative process and things "come to him" from some unknown source, perhaps from the muse. In other words, he is not the author, but a medium or portal from which some thing comes through. It is only afterwards that he can consciously apply his craft to the work -- seek refinement, balance, etc. The idea of the muse is an old idea and there is little doubt in my mind that the muse would be a Marxist or Feminist, and insert a subtext. But the unconscious or muse aspect of the artist seems to take away from the deliberate control over creation aspect. Control seems to come in later through editing and applying the artist's craft after the initial idea is born.

It would be as vanishingly rare as Einstein's revolution of physics (which, nevertheless, he could express to other physicists through the "media" of mathematics) for some artist to experience something so radically different that no other human had experienced it.

Commonplace emotions are one thing, but when words like sublime and transcendental are used to describe a work of art, I usually feel lost and have no sure footing. If the artist is pointing to something sublime, trying to express something inexpressible, then that experience seems more personal, less complete or perfect, and certainly not within the realm of the commonplace. Same applies with transcendental -- most times I don't know what is being transcended and to where. However, just because I can't see these qualities in the work doesn't mean that the artist is necessarily bad or full of crap or whatever. Sometimes the subject matter is ambiguous by its very nature.

"Newness is not of value by itself, more likely the opposite."

I agree. The irony is that everybody wants to be original and, therefore, they are like everybody else -- how unoriginal!

"I guess that I agree that he is never completely in control, but if he is not in control to a large degree, I don't see how one justifies referring to the results as "art," unless we are to deprive the word "art" of its usual meaning of "skill."

Skill is important but I see it more as applied to craft: doing the after touches, editing, etc. The artist must have some skill, but if he is unconscious while doing the work then he may not be in control -- in fact, he might be controlled by the muse, or some such power or force. Skill is important and in some ways shows up in any natural gifts the artist might have. I like the idea of gifts because it implies a gift giver or the muse.

Some people believe that the artist becomes unconscious in creative process and things "come to him" from some unknown source, perhaps from the muse. In other words, he is not the author, but a medium or portal from which some thing comes through.

I reject that. What you propose is that humans have no innate creativity, but are merely tools of some source from without. If that is true, then we are some combination of clever animal and useful meat puppet.

Just as an athlete can hone a set of movements until it becomes so easy to do it seems unconscious, an artist can hone creative thought. But it is not truly unconscious; it is triggered by an act of will. A well trained athlete can drop into "the zone" much more easily than a weekend warrior. A well trained artist can "commune with his muse" in a similar way. "I will now block a slapshot" becomes a flicker of perception followed by ingrained action. "I need to balance my composition, so I will increase my negative space here" becomes "Red here and here".

This is art:

This is not:

At least in terms of post-modern abstract art ... ;-)

I'm still trying to figure this one - "fraught" with what? This guy needs an editor.

"Eventually, he decided instead to donate the paintings to Tate.

I'm thrilled that you like Kandinsky; perhaps you could see Rothko as an extremely simple reduction of some of Kandinsky's ideas.

I don't know if you are interested or not, but I just posted a new "lecture" on Romanticism that has some references to Rothko.

http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/chat/1630734/posts?page=3

It occured to me that Rothko may be the last derivation from the nineteenth century Romantics like Friedrich and Turner. So check it out if you wish.

"I need to balance my composition, so I will increase my negative space here" becomes "Red here and here".

But wouldn't balancing be more craft like, in the sense that the artist is fully conscious, trained to spot irregularities and make corrections. From this point of view a good part of art is problem solving. Creativity is present but not in delivering the big idea, but rather in refining and developing it.

As you say, tapping into something outside may make us meat puppets but we may be tapping something inside, into our own id. I know you reject that idea -- I'm just not exactly sure why?

I know you reject that idea -- I'm just not exactly sure why?

Because I believe creativity is inherent within us, a necessary component of free will. To say that creativity is an outside source operating through us as a tool is counter to this concept. To say it derives from a totally unconscious internal source reduces creativity to animal instinct, when creativity is actually one of the distinguishers of humanity.

A craftsman can reproduce an artifact without understanding the design. Creation takes understanding the idea. Artistry requires both. Mastery requires mastery in each aspect. Yes, the balancing aspect falls into the craftsmanship area, but by honing those skills to an almost automatic level, the artist is left free to devote more of his immediate attention to the creativity.

I guess you don't believe that the sublimation of the animal instincts, the sex drive, for example, can result in creativity. Artists, not only of the Nietzschean ilk, believe this to be true -- as well, boxers and athletes also attest to how this drive can be channeled toward different ends.

What do you think of the surrealists who see and draw upon the connection between the unconscious and their art? The language of dreams totally pervades their art. As well, if creativity is a necessary component of free will, why can't we turn it on at will, like a light switch. Why do artists have writers block for years? Artists may try to get into "the zone" but it is not always a question of will. The tricks that enable don't always work on demand. Many times it's a question of waiting and/or forgetting and then something may come. But not always.

If I can anticipate your reply, in part, you believe that the good ones can easily enter the zone. But there were many good writers and artists who felt stymied for years, felt frustrated that they had nothing important to say.

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