No. 8

Mark Rothko, No. 8. 1952

I have always been drawn to this particular piece. Even before being introduced to his work, I remember painting something of a similar fashion, using like colours, and hanging it on my wall because it was a piece that represented a real turning point in my life.* I created it sitting on my kitchen floor, with no easel, resting the canvas upright, on the leg of my table held in place by two small paint cans on each end. It was hot as hell, I had no air conditioning, not even a fan to relieve me. I guess the colours I chose were a reflection of the physical heat and also of the match that was lit from within.

The reason I mention the above, is because in that very moment I was laying out my truth on the canvas.  I have always found it fascinating that even though Rothko studied the basic forms of art through Greek Mythology and Christian Tragedies, that he wanted you to find your own version of truth in his paintings.

What a beautiful thing, to want others to be seeking their own truth while appreciating yours.


*By no means am I comparing my piece to any of the late Mark Rothko's masterpieces.