There is only one thing I fear in life, my
friend…
One day, the black will swallow the red.
One day, the black will swallow the red.
In the middle of
his studio, Rothko sits, staring at a large (unseen) canvas, a cigarette
burning in his fingers, his eyes eagerly darting around the large red expanse,
the gaping hole on the wall. Around him lie the detritus and the carcases of
his work: buckets splattered with dried and congealed paint the colour of
blood; jars of pigments, boxes of receipts, bottles of Scotch, cartons of eggs;
a phonograph, brushes, shelves overflowing. And behind him, a dropsheet
covering a wall, spattered with dried paint in dark angry blobs. Enter Ken,
Rothko’s new assistant, out-of-place in a grey suit. And Rothko asks him, ‘What
do you see?’
It’s the
underlying theme of the play – one of them, at least – the theme of looking, of
seeing, of understanding and grappling with art. And, at times, it’s angry,
it’s passionate, it’s impassioned, it’s frustrated, it’s defensive and defenceless;
it’s human and intangible; emotional.
