One of the walls of the Rothko Chapel,
each of which show panels of his works,
surrounding the visitor.
The best I can offer is in the words of a critic who said the paintings were "Visual Silence." When a person first walks in from the brightness of the outside world, what appears to hang on the walls around him or her are large black canvases of paint. ("No wonder the guy killed himself!" others have been heard to say.) One can take their place on one of the lower benches or, if that's not quite right, on the meditation cushions that are there as well.
As the eyes readjust to being indoors, however, what first appeared to be nothing but black paint on a canvas, change and become more revealing. There are colors, some a deep, dark red which begin to be seen as the eyes (and brain) adjust. Textures become apparent. It is not much different than the world appears when one plops down for meditation, the brain chattering like a mad monkey, the temperature feeling either too hot or too cold, the occasional noise from outside the walls of the room -- a car horn or a bird or a dog bark. But, in meditation, just as one doesn't hang onto the sound or the weather or the thoughts --- or, in this case, the first impression of black paint -- one naturally goes deeper, quietly and naturally. The birds outside chirping become part of what is going on, not an interruption. The paintings, in tandem with the eyes, deepen in the same way. That does not mean they become even more intensely black in color. Just the opposite. The mind begins to get out of the way and to quiet down, either in meditation or in looking at the art on the wall in front of you. What you see is not "nothing" but, rather, everything. What you are doing is seeing what is really there, not your concept about what is there -- a flat black stretch of canvas.
Previously unnoticed gradations of shade and color now become clearer. Still the mind continues to calm and rest in the silence as thoughts beat a hasty retreat, or at least slip out the back door, unnoticed. At some times, the room at the Rothko Chapel is like a Quaker Meeting in terms of being full of a Silence that is tangible, although one's immediate impression is that the situation is true -- not localized between your ears, but in and outside the body.
The very very shot hallway leading into the Chapel which has a small table where books are available. Not just any book. Nothing about Rothko or the museum history -- but spiritual works like the Upanishads, Bhagavad Gita, Holy Bible, Koran and others. They are not for sale. They are there to be picked up at one's choice, to quietly leaf through and read and reflect in the silence that ensues.
Some people, like the gentleman I mentioned earlier, just don't get it. That's fine. They leave with the same baggage they came in with. Others, though, leave far lighter when they slip away than they were when they first came in from the world outside. For some, like myself, 30 minutes or an hour of sitting there is a kind of reorientation and redirection, to one beyond words.
each of which show panels of his works,
surrounding the visitor.
From the Rothko Chapel's site, "The Rothko Chapel, founded by Houston philanthropists John and Dominique
de Menil, was dedicated in 1971 as an intimate sanctuary available to
people of every belief. A tranquil meditative environment inspired by
the mural canvases of Russian born American painter Mark Rothko
(1903-1970)...."
If there is a Silent Center, I'd have to suggest the remarkable Rothko Chapel in Houston, Texas. I've been going there since 1971, even before I moved back to Houston a few years ago. Now, it is a monthly or twice a month trip from here, down one bus and a short walk through the Montrose area, always nice, to the Chapel itself.
If there is a Silent Center, I'd have to suggest the remarkable Rothko Chapel in Houston, Texas. I've been going there since 1971, even before I moved back to Houston a few years ago. Now, it is a monthly or twice a month trip from here, down one bus and a short walk through the Montrose area, always nice, to the Chapel itself.
It is a relatively small building, smaller than one might expect, and houses on all sides of the one room area several of the mural works of Mark Rothko, who developed and chose the specific paintings that were included. Ironically, he never actually saw the results, committing suicide before the doors opened.
On Today's visit, a remarkably tall older man and his far shorter wife were stepping out as I was arriving to go in, and he was barking a bit like a bull dog and saying, "I wish somebody would have been here to EXPLAIN that thing to me...." I suspect a number of people leave the museum/chapel voicing similar concerns.
On Today's visit, a remarkably tall older man and his far shorter wife were stepping out as I was arriving to go in, and he was barking a bit like a bull dog and saying, "I wish somebody would have been here to EXPLAIN that thing to me...." I suspect a number of people leave the museum/chapel voicing similar concerns.
The best I can offer is in the words of a critic who said the paintings were "Visual Silence." When a person first walks in from the brightness of the outside world, what appears to hang on the walls around him or her are large black canvases of paint. ("No wonder the guy killed himself!" others have been heard to say.) One can take their place on one of the lower benches or, if that's not quite right, on the meditation cushions that are there as well.
As the eyes readjust to being indoors, however, what first appeared to be nothing but black paint on a canvas, change and become more revealing. There are colors, some a deep, dark red which begin to be seen as the eyes (and brain) adjust. Textures become apparent. It is not much different than the world appears when one plops down for meditation, the brain chattering like a mad monkey, the temperature feeling either too hot or too cold, the occasional noise from outside the walls of the room -- a car horn or a bird or a dog bark. But, in meditation, just as one doesn't hang onto the sound or the weather or the thoughts --- or, in this case, the first impression of black paint -- one naturally goes deeper, quietly and naturally. The birds outside chirping become part of what is going on, not an interruption. The paintings, in tandem with the eyes, deepen in the same way. That does not mean they become even more intensely black in color. Just the opposite. The mind begins to get out of the way and to quiet down, either in meditation or in looking at the art on the wall in front of you. What you see is not "nothing" but, rather, everything. What you are doing is seeing what is really there, not your concept about what is there -- a flat black stretch of canvas.
Previously unnoticed gradations of shade and color now become clearer. Still the mind continues to calm and rest in the silence as thoughts beat a hasty retreat, or at least slip out the back door, unnoticed. At some times, the room at the Rothko Chapel is like a Quaker Meeting in terms of being full of a Silence that is tangible, although one's immediate impression is that the situation is true -- not localized between your ears, but in and outside the body.
The very very shot hallway leading into the Chapel which has a small table where books are available. Not just any book. Nothing about Rothko or the museum history -- but spiritual works like the Upanishads, Bhagavad Gita, Holy Bible, Koran and others. They are not for sale. They are there to be picked up at one's choice, to quietly leaf through and read and reflect in the silence that ensues.
Some people, like the gentleman I mentioned earlier, just don't get it. That's fine. They leave with the same baggage they came in with. Others, though, leave far lighter when they slip away than they were when they first came in from the world outside. For some, like myself, 30 minutes or an hour of sitting there is a kind of reorientation and redirection, to one beyond words.
