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| The grand scale
by Jules Masterjohn Maybe the recent coolness in the air caused me to recall the first day of Art Appreciation class last fall. I was showing slides and describing how art can affect our lives and impact society. While a Mark Rothko painting was up on the screen, I revealed that Rothko was one artist whose work has made me cry. “I sat in front of this huge painting with tears streaming down my cheeks. I don’t know how long I wept, but the event has stayed with me all these years. That is an example of how powerfully art can move us,” I confessed, “if we let it.” One student looked at me quizzically, almost hiding her distain, and said, “Why would you cry looking at THAT?” As I breathed through a few strange moments of shame and anger, I realized that hers was a reasonable question especially for the first day of class. My response to this bold student was instructive. Looking at an art reproduction, I explained, as seen on the screen, in books, online or in any documentary form, can be deceiving. Although the formal elements, subject matter and content may be reproduced accurately, there is an essential element of the original work that is missing. I argued, for the first time as the words came out of my mouth, that the presence of the artist – his or her “hand” – can only be sensed in front of the work that he or she touched. A case in point was my Rothko encounter those many years ago. His work is reproduced extensively in books, so I am familiar with it, especially his mature paintings, known as the “sectionals.” Yet it wasn’t until I was sitting in front of three enormous pictures in a cathedral-like gallery, that I fully “got” Rothko’s work. Perhaps it was the quietness and dimmed light of the environment. Or maybe it was of the works that enabled me to perceive various layers of color hovering over each other. Rothko created an illusion of spatial depth that is not static and produces the sensation that his paintings are subtly vibrating. As one painting seemed to breathe, suspending my disbelief, I allowed the field of hues to come alive. I felt myself being absorbed into the painting. Losing the sense of boundaries between my body and the rest of the physical world was extremely relaxing. Tears of ecstasy overcame me as I enjoyed what many consider a transcendental or spiritual experience. Apparently, I am not alone in my response. As it turns out, if someone is going to cry while beholding a painting, it will most likely be a Rothko. According to art historian James Elkins, who wrote Pictures and Tears: A History of People Who Have Cried in Front of Paintings, of the 400 people who responded to his query about their wet-eyed art encounters, Rothko’s paintings, more often than any other artist’s, moved us to tears. In his book, Elkins includes the description of a profound response to Rothko’s paintings by an art historian and theologian, Jane Dillenberger, who visited Rothko in his studio in 1967. Her experience of being surrounded by his paintings is familiar. “Then she was crying,” he wrote. “It was a moment, she told me, of ‘very strange feelings,’ but mostly of relief, of perfect ease, of pure peacefulness and joy.”Not everyone who cries when viewing art is having an enjoyable experience. Elkins cites stories of museum-goers finding themselves weeping for other reasons. A psychoanalyst from San Francisco had a strong emotional response to a painting by Bonnard. He explained, “The best I could come up with is that the utter serenity and harmony of the painting so shockingly contrasted with my inner turmoil that it became a devastating experience.” A visitor to a Rembrandt exhibit reported, “The crowded gallery and the small, dark, gloomy pictures depressed me so much I began to cry.” A little prompting among artist friends revealed that though most had been emotionally moved, only a few have shed tears for art. Maureen May remembered being in Taos to see a Richard Diebenkorn show. “Something about one piece really moved me and my eyes welled up with tears. I couldn’t move away from it … it was sheer beauty and kept pulling me in.” Tom Darnell recalled standing in front of a Van Gogh painting at the British Museum of Art. “It blew me away and tears rolled down my cheeks. It was strange because, while I was crying, the guy next to me commented, ‘I don’t see what’s good about the painting.’” Divergent responses like these are described in Pictures and Tears as well, showing that “for every person who cries, there is another who claims to feel nothing at all: one person can’t stop gasping while another can’t get his pulse going.” Not only did Rothko get my pulse and tear ducts going, so did viewing Willem de Kooning’s painting, “Woman and Bicycle.” Caravaggio’s “The Cardsharps” had me sniffling. This is not the entire list of works that have moved me to tears. So familiar am I with my waterworks response, that I always carry tissue with me into museums. I cry for good art! •
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The Independent Weekly Line on Durango and Beyond
