I'm never entirely sure how I get myself into these situations. In this case, I'd bought tickets last November for a show that was almost immediately a sell out. Two days ago, Jess found out she had to go to Israel for work, of course on the same day as the show. Jessica's mother, however, knew someone who desperately wanted to go, and only needed one ticket. So there you are.
The play was about Mark Rothko, and I was interested because Jess had taken me to an exhibition last year at the Tate Modern, and I'm kind of ashamed to admit it, but it was really my first experience with modern art.
That seems like an odd thing to say, but art was never something that was very important in my life. I'd go to the odd museum, off course, but usually appreciated the classic works, the skill and style, the antiquity. Modern work either appealed or appalled, but I never questioned why. At home, I decorated with paintings from people I knew, including my sister, or art people had given me, which were generally landscapes and still lifes. (And they were all lovely!)
So the Rotho exhibit was really the first time I focused on the art, and how it made me feel. Surrounded by massive canvases painted shades of red, it was an interesting challenge to understand why some appealed to me and others did not. The play, which was brilliant, expanded on this, not so much answering any questions, but explaining why the questions were important. (Jess has since taken me to exhibits on Alexander Calder, Anish Kapoor, and Francis Bacon.)
Now don't worry, you won't find me sitting on the Left Bank in a beret and smoking skinny cigarettes any time soon. But you may occasionally find me contemplating art, no longer trying to find the artist, but trying to find a little bit of myself.
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