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Mark Rothko, original name Marcus Rothkovitch, American painter whose works introduced contemplative introspection into the melodramatic post-World War II Abstract Expressionist school; his use of colour as the sole means of expression led to the development of Colour Field Painting.
In 1913 Rothko’s family emigrated from Russia to the U.S., where they settled in Portland, Ore. During his youth he was preoccupied with politics and social issues. He entered Yale University in 1921, intending to become a labour leader, but dropped out after two years and wandered about the U.S. In 1925 he settled in New York City and took up painting. Although he studied briefly under the painter Max Weber, he was essentially self-taught.
Rothko first worked in a realistic style that culminated in his Subway series of the late 1930s, showing the loneliness of persons in drab urban environments. This gave way in the early 1940s to the semi-abstract biomorphic forms of the ritualistic Baptismal Scene (1945). By 1948, however, he had arrived at a highly personal form of Abstract Expressionism. Unlike many of his fellow Abstract Expressionists, Rothko never relied on such dramatic techniques as violent brushstrokes or the dripping and splattering of paint. Instead, his virtually gestureless paintings achieved their effects by juxtaposing large areas of melting colours that seemingly float parallel to the picture plane in an indeterminate, atmospheric space.
Rothko spent the rest of his life refining this basic style through continuous simplification. He restricted his designs to two or three “soft-edged” rectangles that nearly filled the wall-sized vertical formats like monumental abstract icons. Despite their large size, however, his paintings derived a remarkable sense of intimacy from the play of nuances within local colour.
From 1958 to 1966 Rothko worked intermittently on a series of 14 immense canvases (the largest was about 11 × 15 feet [3 × 5 metres]) eventually placed in a nondenominational chapel in Houston, Texas, called, after his death, the Rothko Chapel. These paintings were virtual monochromes of darkly glowing browns, maroons, reds, and blacks. Their sombre intensity reveals the deep mysticism of Rothko’s later years. Plagued by ill health and the conviction that he had been forgotten by those artists who had learned most from his painting, he committed suicide.
After his death, the execution of Rothko’s will provoked one of the most spectacular and complex court cases in the history of modern art, lasting for 11 years (1972–82). The misanthropic Rothko had hoarded his works, numbering 798 paintings, as well as many sketches and drawings. His daughter, Kate Rothko, accused the executors of the estate (Bernard J. Reis, Theodoros Stamos, and Morton Levine) and Frank Lloyd, owner of Marlborough Galleries in New York City, of conspiracy and conflict of interest in selling the works—in effect, of enriching themselves. The courts decided against the executors and Lloyd, who were heavily fined. Lloyd was tried separately and convicted on criminal charges of tampering with evidence. In 1979 a new board of the Mark Rothko Foundation was established, and all the works in the estate were divided between the artist’s two children and the Foundation. In 1984 the Foundation’s share of works was distributed to 19 museums in the United States, Great Britain, the Netherlands, Denmark, and Israel; the best and the largest proportion went to the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.
Poetry of Life on the Move
The pain I have God wontremove
I am helplessly caught in a groove
A fiddler on the Roof.. Far and Aloof
Oil on canvas; 35 3/8 × 54 1/4 in.
Mark Rothko, original name Marcus Rothkovitch, American painter whose works introduced contemplative introspection into the melodramatic post-World War II Abstract Expressionist school; his use of colour as the sole means of expression led to the development of Colour Field Painting.
In 1913 Rothko’s family emigrated from Russia to the U.S., where they settled in Portland, Ore. During his youth he was preoccupied with politics and social issues. He entered Yale University in 1921, intending to become a labour leader, but dropped out after two years and wandered about the U.S. In 1925 he settled in New York City and took up painting. Although he studied briefly under the painter Max Weber, he was essentially self-taught.
Rothko first worked in a realistic style that culminated in his Subway series of the late 1930s, showing the loneliness of persons in drab urban environments. This gave way in the early 1940s to the semi-abstract biomorphic forms of the ritualistic Baptismal Scene (1945). By 1948, however, he had arrived at a highly personal form of Abstract Expressionism. Unlike many of his fellow Abstract Expressionists, Rothko never relied on such dramatic techniques as violent brushstrokes or the dripping and splattering of paint. Instead, his virtually gestureless paintings achieved their effects by juxtaposing large areas of melting colours that seemingly float parallel to the picture plane in an indeterminate, atmospheric space.
Rothko spent the rest of his life refining this basic style through continuous simplification. He restricted his designs to two or three “soft-edged” rectangles that nearly filled the wall-sized vertical formats like monumental abstract icons. Despite their large size, however, his paintings derived a remarkable sense of intimacy from the play of nuances within local colour.
From 1958 to 1966 Rothko worked intermittently on a series of 14 immense canvases (the largest was about 11 × 15 feet [3 × 5 metres]) eventually placed in a nondenominational chapel in Houston, Texas, called, after his death, the Rothko Chapel. These paintings were virtual monochromes of darkly glowing browns, maroons, reds, and blacks. Their sombre intensity reveals the deep mysticism of Rothko’s later years. Plagued by ill health and the conviction that he had been forgotten by those artists who had learned most from his painting, he committed suicide.
After his death, the execution of Rothko’s will provoked one of the most spectacular and complex court cases in the history of modern art, lasting for 11 years (1972–82). The misanthropic Rothko had hoarded his works, numbering 798 paintings, as well as many sketches and drawings. His daughter, Kate Rothko, accused the executors of the estate (Bernard J. Reis, Theodoros Stamos, and Morton Levine) and Frank Lloyd, owner of Marlborough Galleries in New York City, of conspiracy and conflict of interest in selling the works—in effect, of enriching themselves. The courts decided against the executors and Lloyd, who were heavily fined. Lloyd was tried separately and convicted on criminal charges of tampering with evidence. In 1979 a new board of the Mark Rothko Foundation was established, and all the works in the estate were divided between the artist’s two children and the Foundation. In 1984 the Foundation’s share of works was distributed to 19 museums in the United States, Great Britain, the Netherlands, Denmark, and Israel; the best and the largest proportion went to the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.
Sculpture By The Sea, Bondi Beach, Sydney, Australia
I can't remember the last round having a session myself, to assess or evaluate things I've been achieved. Regardless positive or negative, I am sure to some extends, I had improve for certain things and of course I had failed for some too.
Over the period I observed my bad temper gradually increased, starting to lose it (my patience). It's definitely not a good thing, I used to manage suppress my anger, impatience and unhappy in the past, it just recently these bad behaviour slowly floated on the surface. I wish I have wiser wisdom to broaden my narrow impatience, allowing to contain much more unhappy, anger capacity.
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This shot consider very lucky while I was shooting the area, spotted one of the gent standing just next to the sculpture and wonder what he was looking at? Either he was in the daydreaming or there was a significant scene beyond his standing point.
Quickly pressed a few shuttles to secure the wide angle perspectives, and swapped with another camera body attached with 50mm to have some close up shots. But in the end, the wide angle fit the atmosphere.
You must see this on large View On White and View On Black
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P/s : This is new Lightroom 4 editing and CS5 parts can be seen in the commentary too.
Why are you downcast, oh my soul ?
Why so disturbed within me ?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him ,
my Saviour and my God. Psalm 42:5 ... The Holy Bible
It was a very nice Mothers Day,but Lee and Craig had to head back to Mississippi
way too soon for any of us. We miss them already.
you are bound for something great. i lost my job. the circumstances have left me. use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength. survival. you are bound for something great. nobody has the right words to say. my call was unanswered. my stream of consciousness. you are bound for something great. stop comparing. stop asking what to do. just do. but what exactly. focus. what do i want to do. i love. too many things. you are bound for something great. don't turn back and go forth. march. it's getting hard to keep my head up. vulnerable to the smalls. you don't live my life. stop talking. i've walked this far already. who am i. you are bound for something great. the people. my disappointment. anger. fear. anxieties. i'm going to get back up. this is where i would say. the world is wrong. look now. happiness always comes with great consequences. not smiling for now. what more do you want. you are bound...
#week4
#fabrication4
The lost art of Introspection.
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Among all other flaws in me the one thing that i hated most is that I get attached to people and places easily. Letting go was and have never been easy for me even though I manage to be as silent and as invisible as possible. And every single time when I think time will heal, this emotional attachment, this string keep on tightening around my lousy heart with every single tick of the clock. But every time with every squeeze that brings intense pain, inevitably opens up my heart to a newer dimension. the reason I am attached to this pain is, this is what helps me grow every single day, this is what makes me 'ME'.
So here's to the newer dimensions, to a parallel world where everything is okay,
here's to the time that was spent, together or apart.
Here's to the sunbeam that was lent to me too briefly.
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#52week of #selfPreservation
This AI-generated image portrays a young woman with her eyes closed, draped in an intricately patterned red robe. She is surrounded by luminous blue clouds that resemble a cosmic nebula, adding an ethereal dimension to the scene. Her calm demeanor suggests introspection, serenity, and perhaps a spiritual connection to the universe. The contrast between the vivid red and the celestial blues creates a visually compelling and contemplative mood. The artwork combines elegance and cosmic symbolism in a striking visual language.
You can use this image free of charge. The terms of use and the image download are available via the following link: pixabay.com/illustrations/woman-portrait-closed-eyes-face...
#AIart #fantasyportrait #digitalart #spiritualvibes #cosmicenergy #etherealbeauty #meditationmood #AIgenerated
I haven't had a proper ramble for ages, well not a public one anyway. In fact there hasn't been any action, from me, out here in cyberspace, for quite a while.
I'm quite prone to introspection, you may have noticed if you hadn't been staring at your own bellybutton. And it is both a gift and a bind. But it is something wrapped up within my insides, feeling tightly wrapped around like I have been rolled over and over inside a carpet so it clasps the whole of my being.
Perhaps introspection is another name for sensitivity, perhaps even hypersensitivity. I crave peace and quiet, loud noises jolt me with impatience and I baulk at how the non-sensitives will shout into their mobile phone whilst sat next to you, or park themselves adjacently to your long-searched-for-solitude on a remote beach ovelooking the sea.
At the hinges of the seasons I feel my sensitivities even more and they career between overwhelm and near blissful wonder at the world.
As autumn begins I feel this the most strongly. My feeling for the world is so fiercely overwhelmed but amongst the raw and vulnerable feelings are glimpses of infinity and heaven. But what can be imagined and intellectually understood is not the same as the experience itself. As to live through a hyper-sensitive episode is to be within it, rather than an impassioned observer of its trials and wonders.
Here's something I wrote just as a stream of conciousness back in September, when I was staying away from home for work and felt the full force of autumnal sensitivity.
"I ache, I ache all over.
People watching: what is it to be old, what is it to be young, transporting my enquiring mind into theirs to live their lives for a brief moment. Looking into each persons eyes through my dark glasses, looking at them looking at me, looking at them. Too many interconnections, too interconnected. Need to turn the volume down.
The inxplicable ache of beauty. An impossible Tsumani of creativity and experience, overwhelming sensitivity. Want to bottle it in a jar, keep it and live with it always but also be able to put the lid on so I can breathe and take a break. Sensitivity is such a paradox. While you ache, things take on such infinite proportions, whether you ache for a break, for the world not to keep rushing you with such force, or whether beauty makes you ache, grabs you and affixes its beauty to your soul so you cannot escape, like your brain is being pulled out through your eyes. The aches oscillate between positive and negative each with pull like a powerful magnet, pulling into its clutches or repelling you strongly.
Hard to escape and hard to resist, a trap so overlwhelming you want it to stop and yet when the pain is gone, back comes mundanity. You don't feel the absence of pain, only at the moment it recedes, when the relief replaces the sensitivity. And yet when it's gone you ache once more, you miss it once it's gone, you want it back. You want to feel alive to your core, once again.
Thoughts and interconnections tumble out of your mind, such a thrill if you can catch a ride on one but so often, you just want to pres the pause button and see what it is like to watch and experience what it is you are experiencing. To sit back and watch yourself deluged in a sensitive flow of tumbling thoughts so you can make sense of them, take a step back, have them happen whilst be able to witness the flow, see them for what they are, bring them altogether, condense and channel them. But as soon often in life your instrospection does not allow you to silently witness the flow, you are ungulfed in its midst a passenger in the torrent."
"I am writing this sat in a hotel room on a sunny Sunday. What a day to be hyper sensitive.
Away from home for work, with no outlet except a pouring out of words into my laptop, like an ever open ear. Earlier I sat in a pub and ordered myself lunch and attempted to read my Sunday newspaper. My brain on overdrive, I could only muster two paragraphs before my eyes would lift and scan around me to see what was happening, jittery and unfocused, the tsunami gathering momentum all the time.
Battling self conciousness, sat on my own, the sad travelling worker. Newspaper and sunday lunch, pint with billy no mates. And yet the feeling of exposure, the looking at people and the lives, and their ways, their companions and them looking back at me. It heightened it all, the flow of words, the introspection. the self loathing, the strong feeling of the utter transience of existence, the overwhelming power of inexplicable beauty in the world, what it is to be alive, what it is to be sensitve, what it is to trying to make sense of all these things, trapped in a wave crashing onto the shore, tumbled over and over and over.
Me watching them, watching me, whathcing myself, always trying to draw back one more level to make sense of it all, put a box round it and be a witness, so desperate to make sense of it all.
And yet when you think you make sense of it, one of two things happens, it suddenly diminishes, to explain is to take out the mystery, to extinguish its flame or sometimes the opposite happens.
Sometimes it is a revelation as two parts of your mind speak to one another for the first time, like an explosion of inspiration, a never bofore made connection opens up an entire new world.
The world comes spinning back and the wave you were once engulfed in is just one roller hitting the shore, there are 100's more following it in, to engulf you once more.
But what becomes so evidently clear is these words are futile, a nothingness, a distraction in pointlessness. My imagination cannot bottle up those and replay them to me at will, I cannot take them home in a little box tied up with string. I need to be living them now, in the here and now, they are there while they're there and it is then when you feel them in your soul. The memory is bitter sweet, it isn't that thing, it has none of its intensity but it has enough of a clue to remind you to go back and feel it once again.
And this leads me to the ache I feel most of all. the transience of existence. Just as a flower is transient so is a thought, so is a life, looking back is neither here nor there, it is all present in the here and now in its infinite beauty and variety.
But each moment is gone as quickly as it arrives as will be my life, my existence. Embrace the brevity for it is all you have. One day soon you and I will be gone."
After much contemplation introspection I finally decided to Disable My You Tube
Comment box.
I am fed up of abusive comments and derogatory remarks on my videos ridiculing the tradition and diverse faith of the people I shoot.
I put my comment box to sleep and sadly it is not any community but so called Muslims with their misplaced agenda they hate Sufism.. And are vitriolic and have one common chant do the Sufis say Namaz.
I am not anyone's keeper nor am I their spokesperson.. Go to the appropriate forum and advise them.. Trolling me does not help I not a Sufi though I dress in similar manner.
So goodbye comment box no more seeing stupid dumb comments day in day out from people living in hick town with no profile picture and no videos on their You Tube channel.
They are simply here as subscribers to cyber bully original content producers and proliferate hate and pollute this beautiful platform.
Salafis Wahabis Tabliki Jamati Ala Hazrat Brailvi and other that are radically minded.. Have their agenda to attack other communities and Sufis and Shias.
Soon I will shut this You Tube community tab too..
I come here in peace pronote hope humanity and do not want to be made a punching back because of your parents failure to make you human and civilized.
I am not part of this Misplaced Islam that tramples other people's religiosity and identity.
Acrylic and casein on canvas; 236.2 x 203.2 cm.
Mark Rothko, original name Marcus Rothkovitch, American painter whose works introduced contemplative introspection into the melodramatic post-World War II Abstract Expressionist school; his use of colour as the sole means of expression led to the development of Colour Field Painting.
In 1913 Rothko’s family emigrated from Russia to the U.S., where they settled in Portland, Ore. During his youth he was preoccupied with politics and social issues. He entered Yale University in 1921, intending to become a labour leader, but dropped out after two years and wandered about the U.S. In 1925 he settled in New York City and took up painting. Although he studied briefly under the painter Max Weber, he was essentially self-taught.
Rothko first worked in a realistic style that culminated in his Subway series of the late 1930s, showing the loneliness of persons in drab urban environments. This gave way in the early 1940s to the semi-abstract biomorphic forms of the ritualistic Baptismal Scene (1945). By 1948, however, he had arrived at a highly personal form of Abstract Expressionism. Unlike many of his fellow Abstract Expressionists, Rothko never relied on such dramatic techniques as violent brushstrokes or the dripping and splattering of paint. Instead, his virtually gestureless paintings achieved their effects by juxtaposing large areas of melting colours that seemingly float parallel to the picture plane in an indeterminate, atmospheric space.
Rothko spent the rest of his life refining this basic style through continuous simplification. He restricted his designs to two or three “soft-edged” rectangles that nearly filled the wall-sized vertical formats like monumental abstract icons. Despite their large size, however, his paintings derived a remarkable sense of intimacy from the play of nuances within local colour.
From 1958 to 1966 Rothko worked intermittently on a series of 14 immense canvases (the largest was about 11 × 15 feet [3 × 5 metres]) eventually placed in a nondenominational chapel in Houston, Texas, called, after his death, the Rothko Chapel. These paintings were virtual monochromes of darkly glowing browns, maroons, reds, and blacks. Their sombre intensity reveals the deep mysticism of Rothko’s later years. Plagued by ill health and the conviction that he had been forgotten by those artists who had learned most from his painting, he committed suicide.
After his death, the execution of Rothko’s will provoked one of the most spectacular and complex court cases in the history of modern art, lasting for 11 years (1972–82). The misanthropic Rothko had hoarded his works, numbering 798 paintings, as well as many sketches and drawings. His daughter, Kate Rothko, accused the executors of the estate (Bernard J. Reis, Theodoros Stamos, and Morton Levine) and Frank Lloyd, owner of Marlborough Galleries in New York City, of conspiracy and conflict of interest in selling the works—in effect, of enriching themselves. The courts decided against the executors and Lloyd, who were heavily fined. Lloyd was tried separately and convicted on criminal charges of tampering with evidence. In 1979 a new board of the Mark Rothko Foundation was established, and all the works in the estate were divided between the artist’s two children and the Foundation. In 1984 the Foundation’s share of works was distributed to 19 museums in the United States, Great Britain, the Netherlands, Denmark, and Israel; the best and the largest proportion went to the National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C.
Ogni giorno, ogni minuto, mi osservo, mi ascolto, cerco di cambiare.
Tu sei però cieco dei miei piccoli bisogni.
Ti abbraccio.
Music of the moment: Spleen: Peter Pan
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Once upon a time, it involved deep questions: Is this right? Is this wrong? Should I give in to my desires, or fight against them? Should I keep this a dark secret, or open myself up to a select few? Should I ever "expose" myself in public, or stay home in the "closet?"
Well, I have put all those well behind me. Now the questions involve: Do I look good in this dress? Is my wig suitable, or totally inappropriate? Too much makeup? Too little? Do my clothes take up too much closet space?
So, you see, times have changed :)
I keep telling myself my experience of life is normal, but I have this feeling that lurks around the edges of my consciousness telling me I don't fit in. I skirt around connections and engagements that others seem to value. Isolation. Maybe it's better this way.