Purple, White, Red and Rothko

Do not trust

your first glance.

This has nothing whatever

to do with France.

Mark Rothko’s untitled 1953 painting, dubbed “Purple, White, and Red” since its first exhibition in Venice in June of 1970 (four months after the artist’s suicide), was fully acquired by the Art Institute of Chicago in 1984, but even the avid museum-goer may never have seen it.  In response to the renewed interest in Rothko stemming from the success of John Logan’s 2010 Tony Award-winning play Red, and the recent Goodman Theatre production of the play, the Art Institute has, after many years out of sight, re-displayed the work directly across from the Rothko even the one-time tourist may have seen there – his untitled “orange” work acquired by the Art Institute in 1954.    

Those fortunate enough to see Red, which closed yesterday, may remember Rothko’s monologue regarding the Caravaggio painting, The Conversion on the Way to Damascus (1601).  Rothko explains that the painting was commissioned specifically for a poorly-lit corner in Cerasi Chapel at the church of Santa Maria del Popolo in Rome (where it has remained to this today).  Caravaggio decided that if his painting could not be illuminated properly (a major concern of Rothko’s throughout his career, and highlighted in Red), he would illuminate the painting from within.  This was achieved through dramatic chiaroscuro (a shift from light to dark), and, although its invention is credited to Leonard da Vinci, it became known as Tenebrism (or “Caravaggesque tenebrism,” as Caravaggio became known for, and synonymous with, the technique.)

Rothko certainly applied this Baroque-honed technique to his abstract expressionist “Purple, White, and Red” (possibly the very painting to which the title character rushes in his moment of inspiration sparked by the monologue).  But unlike Caravaggio, whose intention was to create a realistic encounter with God by thrusting a bright light upon his work, Rothko used the technique to create a realistic, metaphysical “doorway into purely spiritual realms” by simulating light radiating from the work.    

But the meaty magic of this Rothko is not confined to its triumph of chiaroscuro.  (Unfortunately, due to an over-abundance of gallery lighting, the viewer cannot fully appreciate the work’s self-luminescence.  Rothko would not be pleased.)  At first glance, the painting looks like a modern variation of the French flag.  It is not.  The three-dimensional, puffy, misshapen, weather-worn bricks stick out several inches from the canvas as they hover, fighting dispassionately to free themselves from the force that holds them in position, separated by clouded and misty voids.      

The viewer may be so astounded by the theatrical “Purple, White, and Red” that he or she may not remember to turn around and pay tribute to “Orange.”  Let’s hope the Art Institute does not see the closing of Red as sufficient cause to lift this work from its nail, but, instead, gives a gentle nudge to the dimming mechanism.