No.37
Like most people, I've dabbled with meditation. And, like most people, believe it is as handy as a house-key. There's no doubt that a quiet sit can calm the tide of stuff going on. And that, with practice, it can even make us perpetually happy. But there's the rub. Practice...
Who has the time?
A shortcut to that sublime stillness that is usually only attained with years of meditation is through the door at NGV: International. Up the escalator, and to Mark Rothko's No.37 (Red). This enormous red smudge epitomises simplicity. It demonstrates no likeness to anything in this world. There are no figures in it. There is no particular reference to the craft of painting and its conventions. It just hovers there in sublime, detached simplicity.
It's impossible to not feel connected to it. And, so the whole world slows down. Stops. So that the only thing that exists is this feeling. This red, vortex of stillness.
by guest: Harriet
Who has the time?
A shortcut to that sublime stillness that is usually only attained with years of meditation is through the door at NGV: International. Up the escalator, and to Mark Rothko's No.37 (Red). This enormous red smudge epitomises simplicity. It demonstrates no likeness to anything in this world. There are no figures in it. There is no particular reference to the craft of painting and its conventions. It just hovers there in sublime, detached simplicity.
It's impossible to not feel connected to it. And, so the whole world slows down. Stops. So that the only thing that exists is this feeling. This red, vortex of stillness.
by guest: Harriet
Posted at
9:10 PM |
2 Comments :
Before my first visit to London, a friend told me to not miss chilling out in The Rothko Room at the Tate Modern. It is a darkish room with bench seats - designed to let you stare/contemplate/ponder the nine mural-sized paintings Mr R donated to the gallery.
An awesome interlude.
Friday afternoon and everything and everyone was shitting me. I was dreading hitting the road and getting caught in the maelstrom that is Melbourne racing home to frantically unwind. So I remembered seeing this website and popped into the gallery on St Kilda Road. Didn't even see any art, just sat on a bench looking out through the waterwall, comfortably still, taking long luxurious deep breaths, and collecting myself. It was such a tonic! After just 10 minutes, I hopped back in the car, took the rush hour in my stride, and prepared foro a truly relaxing weekend. So thanks. (And I realised that the problem had probably me all day, letting little things bother me and, no doubt, shitting everyone else).
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