Blue and Grey (1962) by Mark Rothko is a 36- by 68-inch painting that hangs on a plain white wall in the Fondation Beyeler in Basel, Switzerland. Its neighbors include Van Goghs, Matisses, and Monets, but it was Blue and Grey that made my heart jump to my throat.
It is an almost black canvas with two rectangles on it: One gray, one blue.
It felt silly standing there in awe when the most expensive painting ever sold (Paul Gauguin’s When Will You Marry? which really is beautiful) was hanging in the room beside it. It felt even sillier when I remembered that these squares of color were probably just as expensive.
I was skeptical about Rothko’s work when I first encountered him in my Introduction to Visual Arts class. Who wouldn’t be? His masterpieces are blobs of color on giant canvases—something a toddler could do, and possibly accomplish even more skillfully. There is no dramatic Caravaggian lighting, no burly Michelangelesque figures. Rothko didn’t paint Spoliariums or Raft of Medusas, but people break down and cry in the presence of his work (out of pretense, I assumed) and the longer I stood there, the more I understood.
There was both a gaping hole in my chest and an unidentifiable profound something—and it was this something that made me realize that it isn’t just the color-stained canvases that bring people to tears. It’s the connection you feel when you look at them; it’s the feeling of separation from the rest of the world when you’re overwhelmed by color, but also feeling like you’re part of a bigger whole when you realize that you’re not the only one who has ever felt this way about a painting. Seeing Blue and Grey moved me, but I couldn’t—and still can’t—put into words how or why.
It’s great that we recognize abstract art as a legitimate branch of art and that so much work is put into research, curation, and restoration. Art both reveals and creates our history and our culture, and it’s fascinating to watch. We hold abstract art to such a high regard (and rightfully so) that it has made people question why. The answer may be complex, but enjoying abstract art doesn’t have to be.
Art doesn’t owe us beauty. It would be impossible for something to appeal to everyone and to tug at every single person’s heartstrings. Art doesn’t owe us any answers or explanations. Art is about resonating with people. It could be its story that touches you, like van Gogh’s self-portraits; it could be the form itself that strikes you, like Matisse’s bright paper cut-outs; it could be the idea behind a work of art, like Monet’s attempts at capturing light instead of form in his water lilies; it could be the feeling you get when you see it, as inexplicable as it may be, like Rothko’s fields of color. It doesn’t matter whichever it is. The simple fact that a piece moves you is enough, and it really doesn’t matter if you don’t have an explanation for it. The feeling art gives you expresses more than words ever could.
If a piece doesn’t fascinate you, that’s okay, too. That doesn’t make you uncultured or incapable of understanding art. There are millions of other masterpieces waiting to see you, to speak to you, to move you. You will find your Blue and Grey when you least expect it, and it will be like magic.
