Mark Rothko & Ad Reinhardt
Adam Mcewen
In a studio in New York, on an evening in November 1958, Mark Rothko works on a large canvas. In the dimly-lit room, he stands close to the painting, a three inch thick brush in his right hand. His face is close to the canvas. He is peering closely at the wet paint, intently, trying... to lift off a pubic hair which lies moistly in the paint. As he picks at the hair with the tip of the paint brush he sobs gently, the sound coming softly from his chest, wetly from his throat an ebbing rhythm.
Across town, on the same night, at the same time, in another art studio, this one smaller, recently whitewashed, Ad Reinhardt lies on his chest on a bench, his neck craned down torwards a canvas which lies flat on the floor. He pecks repetedly at the surface of the painting with the tip of a finely tipped paintbrush, pecking, at the pubic hair which will not release itself from the paint, and as he does so he cries softly, every now and then wiping his cheek of the tears which hesitate at the rims of his eyes before running freely down.
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Artists are tired. Hirst fills the world with spots and Maurizio Cattelan "retires". Martin creed, Stefan Bruggeman, Adam Mcewen, all residing in the non-space of the non-productionalist milieu, consuming the very volumes they occupy. Yet themes of artistic suicide can surely be traced to those who first sought the end. Black paintings man, suicidal practices man, governed by repetition, dependent on redundancy. Surely Reihnhardt's self sacrifice proves a noble act indeed. And, Rothko.
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