I sometimes wonder about Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollack. I wonder what drove them to paint the way they painted. I think about who was the first person to call them a genius. If I’m lucky enough to be at the MOMA or the MET or another art museum, I will sometimes take a little longer when I’m faced with one of their works. Pollack is pure chaos, right? Layer upon layer of streams and dots and drips that, at times, can be hard to follow. Rothko seems to be on the opposite side of the spectrum. Whole colors. Blocks. Red and red and more red. Sooner or later I stop analyzing and try to just let my mind sink into the painting and see where it takes me because ultimately, no matter what any scholar of Rothko or Pollack expert tells you, your interpretation and opinion will be purely subjective. Somehow this reminds me of one of my favorite actors, Juliette Binoche, in her movie “Chocolat.” She runs a patisserie and has a knack for guessing people’s favorite chocolates by having her customers spin this ancient artifact and asking what they see. The darker the image, the darker the chocolate. The cheerier the impression, the lighter the chocolate. When I see Pollack, I’m not entirely sure what I see, but my mind tries to go layer by layer to see where he started. Which color? Which thought? How did the painting become what it was? Sometimes, I’m not in the mood and chalk it up to being arbitrary bullshit, although I know that’s not a fair thing to do. Ultimately, it’s too bad he isn’t here to explain it himself. Then again, maybe he was one of those artists who led by his work and hated talking about it. With Rothko, I have lots of trouble. At least with Pollack there is a lot of something. With Rothko, I’m not sure what there is. Could John Logan or Alfred Molina or Eddie Redmayne give us a kind answer? I’m sure they could…but then again, would I believe them?
I was at the MET the other day, by the recommendation of my father to check out the Eugene Delacroix exhibit. It was a rainy day and crowded out the ying-yang. A lot of the people could have been there to see what I was looking for, but most of them seemed to just be there. Language upon language, look upon look. Only in a few places in the world, I tell you. Whenever I’m at a museum, I think of my parents, mainly because my museum-going experience is dramatically different depending on which one I’m with. If I’m with my Dad, it could be a multiple hour affair. If I’m with my Mom, it’s a power-walking-observe-a-thon. If I go by myself, I usually split the difference, but at a place like the MET it’s hard to only be there for a short amount of time. The MET is the closest thing to the Louvre I’v ever seen and I’m telling you, you can get absolutely lost at the Louvre. It’s gigantic! The MET is no different. I’d say I spent an adequate amount of time at the exhibit; it was one of those things where my Dad would have been happy I went and my Mom would have been pleased with how long I spent there. The thing is, I couldn’t leave without paying my respects, and sadly, I didn’t pay enough of them. I can’t tell you the long and incredible list of artists whose work can call the MET home, but it’s absurd. As I was heading out I saw a Matisse. As I was leaving Matisse I saw Cezanne. Then Soutine. Gauguin. Seurat. Picasso. Van Gogh. It was one of those movie moments where you start to move in a circle and the pace picks up until you’re spinning so fast that you don’t know where you are! Let’s not forget, those are the artists that are equivalent to what we might consider “name-brand luxury wear”. I always come out of a museum thinking, “what if I spent more time with the artists who aren’t the most famous or whose work doesn’t gather the most attention?” Which great works of art have I been unintentionally ignoring? So, again, the MET is a labyrinth that, in all honesty, someone could spend weeks moving through. It’s got that much. And yet, the mischief in me thinks of the movie “Band of Outsiders,” in which the three main characters famously run through the Louvre, not even bothering to look at the glory they are racing by. What do you think, Mom? Maybe we can make that happen someday.
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I’ve been watching a lot of Seinfeld lately. It’s been a nice constant while I try to re-acclimate myself back into the pace of the city, try to find a new apartment, and some work that’ll keep me busy and paid. Seinfeld is one of those shows that feels more special and timely when you live out here in the big city just because so many of the situations they encounter are New York situations. It’s a very New York show, you know? Anyway, no matter what is happening in Jerry’s life (and I think this is true of the man outside of the sitcom, as well) he never seems to stress about anything. There aren’t any legitimate concerns or worries that hunch his shoulders. The only thing you can count on is for his voice to crack now and then. Even in his real career the story goes that Jerry has never bombed and when asked about any rough patches comedy-wise he always remarks that he can’t seem to remember any specific time. I stress naturally. It’s one of the things I do the best. I wish I could get paid to stress. I’d be a multi-millionaire right now. And the situations are typical, in all honesty. On the opposite side of the country I got a brother who is going through a transition and after talking to him about it I noticed that he has the “Jerry” trait. Pure positivity and no stress to be seen, despite ample opportunities to be digging his hair out and having his voice crack, too. Nope. He just smiles and laughs and the undercurrent remains that everything is going to be just fine. Everything will work itself out. I wish he knew that he was funnier than Jerry. Maybe he already does. Imagine that, knowing you’re funnier than one of the funniest people on the planet, and being content enough to just be OK with it.