minimalism is poetry, part one

I have always heard the argument that minimalism is devoid of much character. Some argue that it is sterile, or clearly express that they “just don’t like it”. And then there is my least favorite argument, “I could have done that”. Sounds like we’re talking about post-modern art. While the minimalist (and post-modern) genre is rooted in the art world, it has spilled over into music, as well as the architecture and design world. Some of my favorite’s works have come from this period.

I always feel a sense of peace, calmness, a “blank” canvas to reverberate my thoughts and emotions. In this moment, things are still, and there is poetry. I can hear the crispness of the white, the gloom of the blue, the passion of the reds. There is a true sense of intimacy with my own thoughts; there is beauty in simplicity. By cutting away the excess, we see only what is essential. It can be challenging to quiet the mind enough to allow our thoughts to come to fruition. It’s almost like sitting down to meditate. It may take a little time at first, but once you get it, it all seems to make sense.

rothko-blue-jpg

Mark Rothko’s Blue

Mark-Rothko-White-over-Red-50213

Mark Rothko’s White-over-Red

Mark Rothko has been classified as an “abstract expressionist”, though he never accepted this label. His work has always exemplified many principles of modernism – geometry, composition, horizontal latitudes. Whatever medium or form it is, there is a sense of magic.

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~ by luxe. on October 7, 2009.

One Response to “minimalism is poetry, part one”

  1. Welcome to the sphere (blogwise, I mean). Art like the examples in this post, I like, and I agree with you that its simplicity allows me to really project myself into it. But I’ll always recall seeing in whatever museum it was, maybe the Tate, maybe MOMA, a canvas on a wall, entirely blue. I don’t mean that they used blue paint, although they did. It was just the one color, neatly applied as though painting a wall. No texture, just blue canvas. It may as well have been died and stretched and hung with as much creativity as deciding to make a ball round. Calling this piece art is like calling helvetica poetry. I believe there was some explanation, some mixture of hues or the way it challenges us to…blah…blah, etc. It wasn’t my thing.

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