Squares and Seas
Museum visits, crushes, and an overdue newsletter
Six months ago, a friend and I went to stare at squares.
We met outside the Moma and spent twenty minutes in the museum’s Rothko room letting our eyes blur the colors until our vision went fuzzy and I started to see hands that weren’t there, clawing at the canvas.
I’ve never been one for monochromatic modern art and wouldn’t have suggested the activity if I weren’t scheming to sleep with the Rothko enthusiast I was with. Still, I enjoyed the experience and really did devote myself to understanding the deeper philosophical meaning of those squares, which he had drunkenly explained to me at a bar a few nights before.
As we discussed the emotions and associations each square brought up for us, I started to see the appeal. What did Rothko mean by the different layers? Why are some clean at the edge while others reveal a different coat of paint underneath? Why do some show the brush strokes while others make a completely solid square of color? We mused over questions we weren’t really looking for answers to and offered explanations I no longer remember. I do remember enjoying being drawn deeper and deeper into the conversation, to the point where expressing my opinion felt more important than flirting.
The crush I’m speaking of is long over now, and a genuine friendship has taken its place. Often when this happens to me, I find it to be a sort of relief. Once I know I’ll never sleep with someone, I return to a more authentic self, recount all my most embarrassing sex stories, and give my honest reaction to their favorite movies without worrying about bruising an ego.
So often, after a crush ends, I realize how little I know about that person and all the ways I haven’t been seeing them clearly. I could write a dissertation on “the idea” of the person and list every crumb of encouragement I found in our conversations. Every arm graze and Instagram story like is cataloged in my brain, until I start to lose sight of the larger picture. Gone are the squares. My eyes can only see hands reaching out of yellow paint.
A few weeks ago, my mother and I attended the Caspar David Friedrich exhibit at the Met called “The Soul of Nature.” As the title implies, Friedrich’s art often depicts imposing natural landscapes. His work is frequently described in the wall blurbs as “emotional” and plays with a blend of intimacy and individualism in nature. One of the best examples1 is titled “The Monk by the Sea.” It shows a lone monk staring out into an abyss of blue sky.
I found if you stare past that monk long enough, the various shades of blue will reveal countless deeper meanings. Standing within the purple walls of the Met’s temporary gallery, I could have sworn I could see some majestic, divine force coming through the layers of paint. I stared at it for a solid five minutes until I was left with full body chills.
My other favorite piece from the exhibit, “Rocky Reef off the Seacoast,” boasted a spectacular play on water, light, and darkness. It isn’t very large and there’s no individual to identify with. Still, I could have gotten lost in this painting for the better part of an hour if there hadn’t been patrons hovering behind me waiting to view it.
After the Friedrich exhibit, I insisted on taking my mom by the "Tuners. I couldn’t remember how many paintings by Joseph Mallord William Turner the Met housed or what paintings they were. I held onto the faint recollection of the feeling I had the last time I saw them. After getting sidetracked by the Degas rooms, a few Henri de Toulouse-Lautrecs, and Redon’s bouquets of flowers, we finally found “Whalers.”
I don’t have the artistic education to speak eloquently about why this piece is so magnificent. It’s arresting, violent, and impressionistic. The lack of definition is one of my favorite things about it. You can tell where the sky meets the sea, but there’s still so much your mind can impose on that blurry scene. Where the whale starts and ends for instance.
After the Met, I’d scheduled some time to write. I took myself to a nice lunch and scrawled stray ideas on a postcard sleeve. I walked by Central Park while it was drizzling, listened to Adriene Lanker,2 and tried to come up with some greater idea or meaning behind my latest trip to the museum.
I thought about connecting getting lost in art to getting lost in a crush. The all-consuming practice of projecting your desires and hopes on another person. The disappointment that comes when you and your crush can’t agree on the same interpretation of events. I thought how funny it is that a crush can feel so significant, only to become trivial a few months later. How you can be walking through the modern wing of the Met while searching for the exit, see a Rothko, and think nothing more than, “Wasn’t that a nice afternoon I once had?”
Ultimately, I didn’t find the through line I was looking for. Crushes make good distractions. They’re great conversation pieces, entertainment for the group chat, something to rant and rave about over drinks. On rare occasions, they amount to something greater, but often they fizzle, feeling like a waste of potential. Crushes are fun to get lost in, but the high of getting lost in great art is something else entirely.
A few days after visiting the Met, I stumbled upon the following passage from Keith Haring’s journals:
“After experiencing the Mark Rothko retrospective I feel enlightened… The first time I had really experienced his work was in the National Gallery in a room with eight of his paintings on paper from the “Brown and Grey” series. The grouping of these works in a single room concentrated their energy and heightened their impact. I stayed in that room for a long time becoming completely involved with his work.”
Part of the joy art offers is getting to feel as though no one else has seen that specific, special, undefinable quality in the abyss that you do. To some extent it’s true. No one sees the exact same thing in the squares. How would you know if they did? And yet, none of us are originals. I can only wonder if Keith gave late night drunken explanations of Rothko’s genius to crushes who politely nodded and agreed while wondering how much more they had to endure before going back to his place.
Quote for This Era:
I’ve been a little stuck creatively lately. When I opened Keith Haring’s journals to the first page, I felt “enlightened” and completely understood. I’m hoping the following passage will provide the same for some of you:
1977
This is a blue moment… it’s blue because I’m confused, again; or I should say “still”? I don’t know what I want or how to get it. I act like I know what I want, and I appear to be going after it - fast, but I don’t, when it comes down to it, even know. I guess it’s because I’m afraid. Afraid I’m wrong. And I guess I’m afraid I’m wrong, because I constantly relate myself to other people, other experiences, other ideas. I should be looking at both in perspective, not comparing. I relate my life to an idea or example that is some entirely different life. I should be relating it to my life only in the sense that each has good and bad facets. Each is separate. The only way the other attained enough merit, making it worthy of my admiration, or long to copy it is by taking chances, taking it in its own way. It has grown with different situations and has discovered different heights of happiness and equal sorrows. If I always seek to pattern my life after another, mine is being wasted re-doing things for my own empty acceptance. But if I live my life my way and only let [artists] influence me as a reference, a starting point, I can build even higher awareness instead of staying dormant. If I can take this and apply it, it will help, but again I am afraid. Afraid I’ll just ignore this whole revelation and remain in the rut and rationalize and call it human nature or some shit. But I’ve been living like this for so long it seems I’m doomed to continue. Although I realized it now, so that is encouraging. If I can do this, then it should not be hard to answer my questions and doubts about my forthcoming adventure. If I am all that is in question, then I should be able to answer all. Like past experience, there is always a certain magic that some call “Fate.” Lately it hasn’t been as evident, or perhaps I’m just more ignorant of it, but I know that I’ll end up somewhere for some reason or no reason, but with some answers or at least be a little clearer on why I am and what I am aiming to do or what I am gonna do or just “do.” If this fate is negative, that isn’t negative because that is what happened and that then was the fate. I only wish that I could have more confidence and try to forget all my silly preconceptions, misconceptions, and just live. Just live. Just. Live. Just live until I die.
Today we got to Interstate State Park and camped and met people and sold T-shirts. Tripped. Met people going to see the Grateful Dead in Minnesota. The Grateful Dead in Minnesota! We’re going to see the Grateful Dead!
Recommendations for This Era:
A Gene Hackman Retrospective
Ice Princess (2005)
Taking yourself out to dinner
“Busy Woman” by Sabrina Carpenter
Club Sodas
A Meet the Parents marathon
Bringing a friend a flower
Beaches (1988)
Mayhem by Lady Gaga (it keeps growing on me!)
And one of my favorite pieces.
I’m now able to listen without losing my head like I did that time in Verona, for devoted/concerned readers.