Rothko did not like to be called an abstract artist, but he considered his work to be a theogony, in which the form expressed the natural becoming. When, at the Tate Modern in London, we find ourselves in front of a painting by Monet of 1916, in which the water lilies dissolve in color and the details vanish, every distinction between figuration and abstraction disappears. This feeling is exacerbated precisely because, next to the water lilies of Lake Giverny, we find a 1948 Pollock dripping and a chromatic expanse without recognizable images of Rothko in 1950. How to say that the representation of a landscape, in particular conditions, can assume the form of a monochrome even before abstract expressionism, by Rothko and Yves Klein. This is demonstrated, together with the Monet's Water Lilies, by the mist or landscapes under the rain of Turner, in which the color just retains the memory of the objects, to reveal the light that surrounds them. The narration is then less, giving way to silence, which is expressed in the contemplation of the monochromatic surface. In December 1962 Michelangelo Antonioni, who was in New York for the premiere of his film the Eclisse, met Rothko. The same Rothko told the interview with the director at Motherwell, who rebuilt it in 1971. While Antonioni silently watched the paintings, Rothko told him "that they both treated the same subject: the nothing". In Rothko, color invades the pictorial surface, expressing a light that seems to come from a depth that makes the two-dimensionality of the canvas complex. The dialectic between surface and depth crosses the work of Rothko and emerges in Antonioni when landscapes marked by absence are framed within architectural forms. This is why Rothko did not like to be called an abstract artist: precisely because, as Antonioni wrote, in his paintings "there is the whole world as we see it today". Argan describes Rothko precisely in making that "whole world", and in "making room" with color, leading us directly to Barragán, and from there to Schelling. Rothko's rhythm, Argan writes, "is calm, cadenced, uniform as the artisan's gesture that dyes a wall, one two three hands until the surface has reached a certain degree of density or transparency, and where there was a rigid and impenetrable plane there is a velarium that lets light pass or even emanates it through color. ... A picture of Rothko is not a surface, it is an environment: and he spontaneously seeks architecture "[Argan, 262-263]. In the decoration (with 14 large panels) of the "ecumenical chapel" in Houston, considered "his last and greatest work" [ibid., 263], Rothko testifies (even more clearly in the strictly black surfaces) the point of arrival of this path, along which painting and architecture have daily confronted each other in a dialogue in which we still feel involved. Dialogue that is found in the Tlalpan Chapel in 1950, where Barragán still uses a basic rectangle for the modest nave of the convent, reaffirming, with a strong two-dimensional planimetric layout, a pictorial way of making space. And it is precisely with the painting and the space of Mathias Goeritz (who designs stained glass and the altar) that the Mexican architect conceives the spiritual dimension expressed in light and color. Monochromatic surfaces constitute the visual correspondence of silence, and therefore of contemplation. Contemplation that does not escape the joy of the senses, and of seeing in particular, but rather opens up to that emotional dimension of space. "Sólo emociona, Arquitectura can be considered an art", says Mathias Goeritz in the Manifiesto de la Arquitectura Emocional of 1953.
Rothko non amava essere definito un artista astratto, ma considerava la sua opera come una teogonia, in cui la forma esprimeva il divenire naturale. Quando, alla Tate Modern di Londra, ci si trova dinnanzi a un dipinto di Monet del 1916, in cui le ninfee si dissolvono nel colore e i particolari svaniscono, ogni distinzione tra figurazione e astrazione scompare. Questa sensazione si acuisce proprio perché, accanto alle ninfee del lago di Giverny, troviamo un dripping di Pollock del 1948 e una distesa cromatica priva di immagini riconoscibili di Rothko del 1950. Come dire che la rappresentazione di un paesaggio, in particolari condizioni, può assumere la forma di un monocromo anche prima dell’espressionismo astratto, di Rothko e di Yves Klein. Lo dimostrano, insieme alle Ninfee di Monet, le nebbie o i paesaggi sotto la pioggia di Turner, in cui il colore conserva appena la memoria degli oggetti, per svelare la luce che li avvolge. La narrazione viene allora meno, cedendo il passo al silenzio, che si esprime nella contemplazione della superficie monocroma. Nel dicembre del 1962 Michelangelo Antonioni, che si trovava a New York per la prima del suo film l’ Eclisse, incontrò Rothko. Lo stesso Rothko raccontò il colloquio col regista a Motherwell, che nel 1971 lo ricostruì. Mentre Antonioni osservava in silenzio i quadri, Rothko gli disse “che entrambi trattavano lo stesso soggetto : il nulla”. In Rothko il colore invade la superficie pittorica, esprimendo una luce che sembra provenire da una profondità che rende complessa la bidimensionalità della tela. La dialettica tra superficie e profondità attraversa l’opera di Rothko ed emerge in Antonioni quando paesaggi segnati dall’assenza vengono inquadrati entro forme architettoniche. Ecco perché Rothko non amava essere definito un artista astratto: proprio perché, come scriveva Antonioni, nei suoi dipinti “c’è il mondo intero come oggi lo vediamo”. Argan descrive Rothko proprio nel fare quel “mondo intero”, e nel “fare spazio” con il colore, conducendoci direttamente a Barragán, e da lì a Schelling. Il ritmo di Rothko, scrive Argan, “è calmo, cadenzato, uniforme come il gesto dell’artigiano che tinteggia una parete, una due tre mani finché la superficie ha raggiunto un certo grado di densità o di trasparenza, e là dov’era un piano rigido e impenetrabile c’è un velario che lascia passare la luce o, addirittura, l’emana attraverso il colore. ….Un quadro di Rothko non è una superficie, è un ambiente: e cerca spontaneamente l’architettura” [Argan, 262-263]. Nella decorazione (con 14 grandi pannelli) della “cappella ecumenica” a Houston, considerata “la sua opera ultima e maggiore” [ivi, 263], Rothko testimonia (in modo ancora più evidente nelle superfici rigorosamente nere) il punto di arrivo di questo percorso, lungo il quale la pittura e l’architettura si sono quotidianamente confrontate in un dialogo in cui ci sentiamo ancora coinvolti. Dialogo che si ritrova nella Tlalpan Chapel del 1950, dove Barragán utilizza ancora un rettangolo di base per la modesta navata del convento, riaffermando, con un forte assetto bidimensionale planimetrico, una maniera pittorica del fare spazio. Ed è proprio con la pittura e lo spazio di Mathias Goeritz (che disegna vetrate e altare), che l’architetto messicano concepisce quella dimensione spirituale che si esprime nella luce e nei colori. Le superfici monocromatiche costituiscono il corrispettivo visivo del silenzio, e dunque della contemplazione. Contemplazione che non si sottrae alla gioia dei sensi, e del vedere in particolare, ma piuttosto apre a quella dimensione emozionale dello spazio. ”Sólo si emociona, la Arquitectura puede considerarse un arte”, afferma Mathias Goeritz nel Manifiesto de la Arquitectura Emocional del 1953.
Architettura, colore e filosofia. Lo spazio tra materia e spirito di Rothko e Barragán nella filosofia di Schelling / Marrocco, Rosario; Cappuccio, Elio. - VII/A:(2011), pp. 371-378. (Intervento presentato al convegno Settima Conferenza Nazionale del Colore tenutosi a Roma, Sapienza Università di Roma, Facoltà di Ingegneria nel 15-16 settembre 2011).
Architettura, colore e filosofia. Lo spazio tra materia e spirito di Rothko e Barragán nella filosofia di Schelling
Rosario Marrocco
;
2011
Abstract
Rothko did not like to be called an abstract artist, but he considered his work to be a theogony, in which the form expressed the natural becoming. When, at the Tate Modern in London, we find ourselves in front of a painting by Monet of 1916, in which the water lilies dissolve in color and the details vanish, every distinction between figuration and abstraction disappears. This feeling is exacerbated precisely because, next to the water lilies of Lake Giverny, we find a 1948 Pollock dripping and a chromatic expanse without recognizable images of Rothko in 1950. How to say that the representation of a landscape, in particular conditions, can assume the form of a monochrome even before abstract expressionism, by Rothko and Yves Klein. This is demonstrated, together with the Monet's Water Lilies, by the mist or landscapes under the rain of Turner, in which the color just retains the memory of the objects, to reveal the light that surrounds them. The narration is then less, giving way to silence, which is expressed in the contemplation of the monochromatic surface. In December 1962 Michelangelo Antonioni, who was in New York for the premiere of his film the Eclisse, met Rothko. The same Rothko told the interview with the director at Motherwell, who rebuilt it in 1971. While Antonioni silently watched the paintings, Rothko told him "that they both treated the same subject: the nothing". In Rothko, color invades the pictorial surface, expressing a light that seems to come from a depth that makes the two-dimensionality of the canvas complex. The dialectic between surface and depth crosses the work of Rothko and emerges in Antonioni when landscapes marked by absence are framed within architectural forms. This is why Rothko did not like to be called an abstract artist: precisely because, as Antonioni wrote, in his paintings "there is the whole world as we see it today". Argan describes Rothko precisely in making that "whole world", and in "making room" with color, leading us directly to Barragán, and from there to Schelling. Rothko's rhythm, Argan writes, "is calm, cadenced, uniform as the artisan's gesture that dyes a wall, one two three hands until the surface has reached a certain degree of density or transparency, and where there was a rigid and impenetrable plane there is a velarium that lets light pass or even emanates it through color. ... A picture of Rothko is not a surface, it is an environment: and he spontaneously seeks architecture "[Argan, 262-263]. In the decoration (with 14 large panels) of the "ecumenical chapel" in Houston, considered "his last and greatest work" [ibid., 263], Rothko testifies (even more clearly in the strictly black surfaces) the point of arrival of this path, along which painting and architecture have daily confronted each other in a dialogue in which we still feel involved. Dialogue that is found in the Tlalpan Chapel in 1950, where Barragán still uses a basic rectangle for the modest nave of the convent, reaffirming, with a strong two-dimensional planimetric layout, a pictorial way of making space. And it is precisely with the painting and the space of Mathias Goeritz (who designs stained glass and the altar) that the Mexican architect conceives the spiritual dimension expressed in light and color. Monochromatic surfaces constitute the visual correspondence of silence, and therefore of contemplation. Contemplation that does not escape the joy of the senses, and of seeing in particular, but rather opens up to that emotional dimension of space. "Sólo emociona, Arquitectura can be considered an art", says Mathias Goeritz in the Manifiesto de la Arquitectura Emocional of 1953.I documenti in IRIS sono protetti da copyright e tutti i diritti sono riservati, salvo diversa indicazione.