Last week, desperate to escape the glum relentless invariable Februarieness of February (though bedecked with hearts, candy, three-day weekends, and friends' birthdays, the shortest month is always the hardest one for me), we hightailed it to Washington, D.C., to catch some mid-Atlantic sun and the Mark Rothko exhibit at the National Gallery of Art. I know it is time to leave town when I start researching yet again just how many days of sun northeastern Ohio gets in a year: a measly 168, and of those, only 66 are truly sunny (and it's been cloudier than usual this year).
We needed color and light, and we got it. Outside, the sun was high and bright, and in the windowless galleries of the NGA's East Building, the Rothkos vibrated with color-generated energy. These were all works on paper—none of the epic canvases—and most of the late works, the shimmering color stacks, were more or less the size of an ordinary window, creating the pleasing illusion of peering into portals framing some other, more intense realm. It was color embodied—not flat, but dimensional, moving and changing as I looked at it—and it was intoxicating; radiant magentas, biting reds, and acidic yellows, pungent deep greens haloed by rich blues that recalled to my mind the lapis brightness of Giotto's starry ceiling. Even the pale works, chalk-like and cloudy, held ghosts of pink and violet. My camera failed to capture any of these colors, and the prints and books in the gift shop did, too.
When I lived in Ireland, the interiors of the apartment I rented were painted egg-yolk yellow. The wood-framed furniture was forest green, with yellow, red, and blue cushions. I was appalled by how garish it all felt, but after a few months, it made a kind of sense. After days and days with no sun, coming home to bright color was unexpectedly soothing, restful even.
While I am not ready to repaint the rooms in my house (yet), I did buy a cashmere sweater that reminded me just a little of the magenta in this painting (which really doesn't read on a screen, sadly), and I am stalking resale sites to build a different sort of capsule wardrobe for winters to come—a Rothko capsule, to wear when February gets to be too much.
Mark Rothko, "Untitled," 1959.
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Trying to match the colors in this painting was a fun little challenge—these yam-hued silk pants caught my eye, but weren't quite red enough, though I am bookmarking them to watch for sales. And I thought about adding one of these wispy tees as a streak of white, but since this is all pretend, decided to go big with a fancy bag, though the Novella bag by Porto is maybe more my speed—they describe it as big enough to hold a small book, so, sold. And for more immediate hit of color, I ordered a bunch of jelly polishes from Cirque in colors inspired by another painting I love.
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Pictured: J. Crew cropped cashmere sweater in magenta grape / Frame Le Slim Bardot jeans / Harris Wharf London coat / Caron Callahan Alfie flats / Bottega Veneta Pouch clutch / Faris Vero helix and stud / vintage Tiffany Hardware silver ball earrings (new here, though you can turn them up easily on resale sites).
