Sunday, February 26, 2012

Seducing the Dream

Letter to my daughter, Jessicca
Blue, Green and Brown
Mark Rothko
C L I C K     T O     E N L A R G E

Picture:  568 x 700 - Painting Here

We’re always thinking, aren’t we?  We’re thinking about most everything that has to do with our life.  Often our thoughts are about another person.  We muse on something about them we like or we replay in our mind something they do that aggravates us.  We shop.  We think we are shopping for something to wear but I believe we are shopping for experience.  What a wealth of input shopping is.  Imagine being in this.  Imagine being in this with that along side it.  What about this over here with it – which is better?  Who do I want to see me in it?  What would they like better?  Where will we eat when I wear this?  What’s more important, food or atmosphere?  Do I have to decide?

A really good movie gives us the opportunity to lose ourselves.  We might momentarily forget who we are.  We can become that absorbed in what is happening to others, maybe.  Most likely though we are identifying ourselves with someone on the screen.  Is that how I would react?  I know how that person feels.  I feel just terrible.  Oh, I’m relieved.  I’m so happy how that worked out.  I’m drained.  I’m happy.  Let’s get something tasty to eat.

That’s us.  That is our mind constantly talking to itself.  Only when we sleep does the chatter slow down.  Who knows what is happening most of that time.  Occasionally a dream slips into our consciousness.  They relate stories to us we rarely think about otherwise and, sometimes, wouldn’t dare to think of when we are awake.  They can seem confused.  Is this how other animals think?  It is startling to know we harbor such thoughts.  It’s probably good these thoughts come to us only when our body is at rest.  Were we to think this way awake we might find ourselves locked up.  These are not thoughts of conscious reality.  Why do we think them?  What is their meaning?  Can my conscious state ever converse with my unconscious thoughts? 

What is in a color?  Is there held within it information other than a stimulus that triggers the eye’s message to our mind?  No, it’s just a color.  It has no story of its own.  Here is a name – Mark Rothko.  He paints.  He paints stories.  These stories have no form of their own.  He provides what appears to be a simple field of color.  Were you to see a canvas of his at a gallery you might quickly walk on by and view something more interesting, a picture that appears to have something to say to you, a particular story or viewpoint to convey.  That’s too bad, really.  Look at Rothko’s Blue, Green and Brown.  It isn’t meant to be placed among a variety of distractions.  Place yourself in a darkened room, alone.  At one end of the room is the only source of light and it is softly focused on Rothko’s field of paint.  There still isn’t anything there, is there?  Be patient.  Have a seat.  Make yourself comfortable.  Watch the painting.  Relax.  Let go of thoughts about lunch and shirts and footwear and Saturday’s date.  Watch the brush of color.  It isn’t a simple field, is it?  It’s really quite complex, but not in a way that involves you solving something.  It’s something different.  It is very sensual.  It’s an intrigue.  It is meant to be a seduction.  Let it happen.  It’s coaxing from you thoughts, loosely joined, unfamiliar…  thoughts that slip into your mind’s view, ready or not.  What are these thoughts revealed to you in this stillness?  I wouldn’t know.  They are yours, alone.  I would have mine.  Rothko has his.  There is a story within his palette, after all.  It is the one supplied by you.  Our minds have a fondness for stories.  Strange how it is a floating color can bring them out. 


1 comment:

  1. Howdy! This is my first visit to your blog! We are a group of volunteers and starting a new project in a community in the same niche.

    Your blog provided us beneficial information to work on.
    You have done a outstanding job!

    Feel free to surf to my web page ... side socket outlet