Redundant Hyperbole

After an hour of effusive commentary by the undoubtedly incisive and usually relevant Simon Schama, I am left as unconvinced of the worth of Mark Rothko's work as I was ignorant of it prior to tonights programme on Sky Arts 2. Comparisons with Rembrandt and Turner, especially Turner, master of light, were frivolous and misguided. In another age, with another presenter, I might have imagined Schama's stream of redundant hyperbole to be born of a cannabis or LSD haze. How else would one see in Rothko's repetitive repertoire that which is not obviously there.

Perhaps it is a reflection of my own darkness which only occasionally (I hope) reaches the surface that the artist's later works, produced as alcohol and tobaccco drained his life, were the ones which gave me pause where earlier pieces including the series intended for (but never shown at) The Four Seasons did not.

I feel I could sit in the Houston Chapel and think something without becoming a fan. There is always room for doubt in any life. Doubt is one of many paths to compromise.