Vignettes from Art and Life: 2. Seagram Murals

There is a single window in my little boy’s room, in the middle of the wall, that allows in generous amounts of light and ungodly amounts of heat in the summer. A boring grey roller blind hangs inside in an attempt to block out the early evening sun with varying degrees of success. Once the blind is down, the red nightlight comes on too, creating a womb-like chamber with the perfect conditions for toddler sleep.

Young children’s sleep is unpredictable, it comes and goes in phases and one can never get too comfortable in its routine. A full night’s sleep on Monday doesn’t guarantee the same on Thursday but cuddles, lullabies and the sweet smell of baby cheeks are all part of the nightly ritual.

Many middle-of-the-night wake-ups result in my son being nestled into my neck, his long legs dangling out from the rocking chair we’ve had since his birth. The chair faces the window, which is now a carmine square framed by the unwavering red light reflected in the top and right-hand recess walls. 

I don’t read or scroll in those moments, my thoughts are too sleepy for stimulation and I want to keep it that way for when I do eventually go back to my own bed. Instead, I just look at the window - its regular, comforting shape and, depending on how long the wake-up lasts, one that takes on a hallucinatory quality. If I stare at it without blinking, it starts to blur and expand, not quite a vortex but a kind of gentle encounter with an unimaginable depth, a brush with nothingness. It’s a lot like a Mark Rothko painting. Specifically, like one of the Seagram Murals.

Rothko was an artist of extremes, both in his approach to the work (he once said: “ I have imprisoned the most utter violence in every inch of [the paintings’] surface.”) and in the types of responses it elicits. These range from clichéd comments along the lines of ‘I could do this myself’ to people lowering their voice on entering a room adorned with his works, not unlike a place of worship. The Seagram Murals series consists of nine large-scale paintings, all in various shades of red, maroon and black.

Originally created for the Four Seasons restaurant in New York, Rothko withdrew from commission, disgusted by the wealthy clientele who expected pleasing background decoration to their seared scallops. The paintings eventually found a permanent home in London’s Tate Modern, where they’re displayed exactly as the artist intended to this day: in a dark, compact room, close together and enveloping the viewer in their smoky depths. Rothko himself wanted us to come closer, advising that less than half a metre is the ideal distance from his largest paintings so that your vision is engulfed by the planes of vibrating colour.

I’ve seen the Seagram paintings many times. These days, visiting them feels like seeing old friends despite their slightly hostile demeanour. I love coming up to them, as close as the barriers allow, and letting my eyes wander around the surface before my vision blurs and I drift off into a daydream. It’s a strange kind of daydream though, anchored to the painting, perhaps to make sure I don’t fall forward onto the canvas as my mind turns inward. The paintings infect with their earnestness - everything you feel in front of them feels sharp and true. 

There isn’t much to say about the colour undulations or the glimpses of light escaping from under the smooth brush strokes that hasn’t been said before. It’s funny though, that they put me in a similar trance-like state as the 3am baby wake-ups. (Would Rothko take offence at this?) Perhaps that’s what being in the presence of greatness does: the fleeting miracle of my child peacefully coiled around me like the most perfect puzzle piece in one case, and undisputable masterpieces of art in the other. 

The mind becomes overwhelmed by the magnificence of both moments and has to drift off into its own extremes. My thoughts automatically turn towards the events of the day, tomorrow’s shopping list, and the recent precarity of our financial situation. Then onto ruminations on what art is actually for when the planet is on fire.

Perhaps it's the Rothko effect.

Perhaps it’s just the lack of sleep.