I'm fifty eight and of sound mind. A few years ago, maybe seven, I visited Mark Rothko's Red Room which lives in the Tate Modern in London. I'd never even heard of the room till that day. I'd seen Mr Rothko's work; most people have whether they know it or not. My niece bought me a calender one Christmas and I liked it. But I hadn't seen his masterpiece. You couldn't put a place on a like that on a calender. Anyway, I went. I saw. I didn't stop seeing.
Something happened while I was there in that room. I didn't even notice. Looking back I believe something of Mark Rothko's spirit slippe... View More »
I'm fifty eight and of sound mind. A few years ago, maybe seven, I visited Mark Rothko's Red Room which lives in the Tate Modern in London. I'd never even heard of the room till that day. I'd seen Mr Rothko's work; most people have whether they know it or not. My niece bought me a calender one Christmas and I liked it. But I hadn't seen his masterpiece. You couldn't put a place on a like that on a calender. Anyway, I went. I saw. I didn't stop seeing.
Something happened while I was there in that room. I didn't even notice. Looking back I believe something of Mark Rothko's spirit slipped under my skin and crept up behind my eyes. Since then, not a day's gone by when the Red Room didn't pop into my head uninvited. If there was a day I don't remember it. In the end it came to me that perhaps I should try writing about the place. Perhaps then it would leave me alone. I've written the novel, but it didn't leave me. I doubt it ever will. What Mark Rothko got up to while painting those nine murals was something else. This book is about that else. It changed me. I'm not who I would have been. During the creation of that place Mark Rothko declared he'd given up self-expression for meditation. I meditate on the nature of personal reality. It's ours. «View Less
An agent who's interested in spiritual stuff. I'm no heavyweight. This is a fantasy story. If I got any lighter I'd become airborne - but the Red Room isn't. It's the meaning of love. It's the soul of everything I care about. I hope there's an agent or some agency out there who's prepared to look at this book and see the invisible. And sell it.
I'm fifty eight and of sound mind. A few years ago, maybe seven, I visited Mark Rothko's Red Room which lives in the Tate Modern in London. I'd never even heard of the room till that day. I'd seen Mr Rothko's work; most people have whether they know it or not. My niece bought me a calender one Christmas and I liked it. But I hadn't seen his masterpiece. You couldn't put a place on a like that on a calender. Anyway, I went. I saw. I didn't stop seeing.
Something happened while I was there in that room. I didn't even notice. Looking back I believe something of Mark Rothko's spirit slipped under my skin and crept up behind my eyes. Since then, not a day's gone by when the Red Room didn't pop into my head uninvited. If there was a day I don't remember it. In the end it came to me that perhaps I should try writing about the place. Perhaps then it would leave me alone. I've written the novel, but it didn't leave me. I doubt it ever will. What Mark Rothko got up to while painting those nine murals was something else. This book is about that else. It changed me. I'm not who I would have been. During the creation of that place Mark Rothko declared he'd given up self-expression for meditation. I meditate on the nature of personal reality. It's ours. «View Less
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