By Wendy Richmond
The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York houses reconstructed frescoes from the ancient Roman villa at Boscoreale, an area about a mile north of Pompeii. When I go to the Met, I tend to meander, and last month when I happened to walk by the frescoes, I was struck by their familiarity, even though I had never seen them before. Then it hit me: their edges reminded me of a Mark Rothko painting. I searched “Rothko” and “Boscoreale” on my phone and read that on his frequent visits to the Met, Rothko had been deeply moved by the wall paintings of Boscoreale.
It had been a while since I had seen the Rothko paintings at the Met, and I was inspired to visit them, not only to reconnect, but also to connect anew. I went to the galleries of modern and contemporary art and found his No. 21, an abstract painting of deep red with slate blue underpainting. Standing before it, my feelings for Rothko’s work were intensified. Because I had made a connection between Rothko and the villa’s frescoes, I felt that I had entered into an ongoing dialogue between an artist and another work of art. It was an unexpected conversation, and like the best conversations, it arose out of serendipity, interest and personal connection.
As I write this column, I’m staying at a friend’s cottage in Maine. The bookshelves hold an eclectic assortment left by previous guests and, on my first day here, I surveyed the spines and pulled out a fat, musty book with a faded cover: Remembrance of Things Past, Volume I, by Marcel Proust.
I read the first few sentences. “For a long time, I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say to myself: ‘I’m falling asleep.’” Over the next six pages, the narrator describes in great detail the experience of the night, including musings about dreams, memories and feelings: “…when I awoke in the middle of the night, not knowing where I was, I could not even be sure at first who I was.” The sentences were dense, long and difficult to read, and after about 20 pages, I put the book back on the shelf.
That night, I went to bed very early. I fell asleep within seconds of turning out the light. I woke up in the middle of the night, confused about where I was. Suddenly I recollected, in surprising detail, the few pages I had read of Remembrance of Things Past. Before falling back to sleep, I promised myself I would give it another try.
What elicits a bond with a work of art? My experience with Rothko was the opposite of what happened with Proust. I already knew and loved Rothko’s work and was eager to go further. Proust, on the other hand, was intimidating; I had no connection, and my curiosity was not based on a desire, but rather a “should.” However, in both cases, an unexpected conversation occurred—not with the work itself, but away from it. It was that outside conversation that called me back to the work.
My next morning in Maine, I went into town and happened to pass by the library. The previous night was still fresh in my mind, and on a whim, I decided to look for a biography of Proust. I found a slim one by Edmund White, skimmed through it and came upon a reference to Proust’s “The Confession of a Young Girl.” In the story, the fourteen-year-old character repeatedly calls her mother back to her bedside to say goodnight, inventing ever-new pretexts, such as the necessity to turn her hot pillow over. I stopped short. Years ago, I read a story by David Foster Wallace in which he described how his mother used to change the pillowcases whenever he was sick in bed so that they were clean and cool. He referred to “the feeling of turning a pillow over to the cool side.” Published posthumously after Wallace’s suicide, that story comes to mind almost every hot summer night when I turn my own pillow over to its cool side. As I left the library, I wondered if Wallace had read that story by Proust, and I was struck by how an unexpected conversation among White, Proust, Wallace and myself had deepened my connection to works of art—in this case, to the writing of both Proust and Wallace.
There are abundant resources that can intensify one’s experience of a work of art, especially if the work is well known. I’m the first to sign up for a lecture or a docent tour or to listen to an audio guide that increases my knowledge. But for me, it is the conversations that occur outside of the work that bring me back to it. ca
© 2014 W. Richmond
It had been a while since I had seen the Rothko paintings at the Met, and I was inspired to visit them, not only to reconnect, but also to connect anew. I went to the galleries of modern and contemporary art and found his No. 21, an abstract painting of deep red with slate blue underpainting. Standing before it, my feelings for Rothko’s work were intensified. Because I had made a connection between Rothko and the villa’s frescoes, I felt that I had entered into an ongoing dialogue between an artist and another work of art. It was an unexpected conversation, and like the best conversations, it arose out of serendipity, interest and personal connection.
As I write this column, I’m staying at a friend’s cottage in Maine. The bookshelves hold an eclectic assortment left by previous guests and, on my first day here, I surveyed the spines and pulled out a fat, musty book with a faded cover: Remembrance of Things Past, Volume I, by Marcel Proust.
I read the first few sentences. “For a long time, I used to go to bed early. Sometimes, when I had put out my candle, my eyes would close so quickly that I had not even time to say to myself: ‘I’m falling asleep.’” Over the next six pages, the narrator describes in great detail the experience of the night, including musings about dreams, memories and feelings: “…when I awoke in the middle of the night, not knowing where I was, I could not even be sure at first who I was.” The sentences were dense, long and difficult to read, and after about 20 pages, I put the book back on the shelf.
That night, I went to bed very early. I fell asleep within seconds of turning out the light. I woke up in the middle of the night, confused about where I was. Suddenly I recollected, in surprising detail, the few pages I had read of Remembrance of Things Past. Before falling back to sleep, I promised myself I would give it another try.
What elicits a bond with a work of art? My experience with Rothko was the opposite of what happened with Proust. I already knew and loved Rothko’s work and was eager to go further. Proust, on the other hand, was intimidating; I had no connection, and my curiosity was not based on a desire, but rather a “should.” However, in both cases, an unexpected conversation occurred—not with the work itself, but away from it. It was that outside conversation that called me back to the work.
My next morning in Maine, I went into town and happened to pass by the library. The previous night was still fresh in my mind, and on a whim, I decided to look for a biography of Proust. I found a slim one by Edmund White, skimmed through it and came upon a reference to Proust’s “The Confession of a Young Girl.” In the story, the fourteen-year-old character repeatedly calls her mother back to her bedside to say goodnight, inventing ever-new pretexts, such as the necessity to turn her hot pillow over. I stopped short. Years ago, I read a story by David Foster Wallace in which he described how his mother used to change the pillowcases whenever he was sick in bed so that they were clean and cool. He referred to “the feeling of turning a pillow over to the cool side.” Published posthumously after Wallace’s suicide, that story comes to mind almost every hot summer night when I turn my own pillow over to its cool side. As I left the library, I wondered if Wallace had read that story by Proust, and I was struck by how an unexpected conversation among White, Proust, Wallace and myself had deepened my connection to works of art—in this case, to the writing of both Proust and Wallace.
There are abundant resources that can intensify one’s experience of a work of art, especially if the work is well known. I’m the first to sign up for a lecture or a docent tour or to listen to an audio guide that increases my knowledge. But for me, it is the conversations that occur outside of the work that bring me back to it. ca
© 2014 W. Richmond
Wendy Richmond (wendyrichmond.com) is a visual artist, writer and educator whose work explores public privacy, personal technology and creativity. Richmond has taught at Harvard University, the International Center of Photography and the Rhode Island School of Design, and she serves on the BRIC Artists Advisory Council and the MacDowell Fellows Executive Committee. Her latest book is Art Without Compromise*. Richmond’s column began in 1984.
