UPON SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME ROTHKO’S MURALS FOR THE FOUR SEASONS

(Simon Schama, February 1970)

If the large crimsoned canvases

Had not just arrived,

He would not now

Find himself suspended

In their vast depth.

The sound that throbbed

In his head was crimson, too,

And had nothing

To do with the place

He had intended to reach.

Deep crimson rusted

Nearly to black,

Crimson fluxing as in mirage

Brilliant, dark, dim emanations

of Rothko’s silence.

The purposeful stride

That had brought him

Here—abandoned

His earlier goal—forgotten.

He was caught

In the pause

Between breath

And heartbeat

He had not expected

This confrontation.

Deep in angles of crimson

His mind staggered

With knowledge.

Swallowing in great gulps

The reek of dim red air.

He was pulled irresistibly

Into the emotional vortex

Of the murals.

Which had caught him

Unaware

And

Unprepared