Here we are in the presence not of religion, but of something at once primordial and all too contemporary. On a notecard from the 1950s, Rothko had written, in his usual clotted style that yet makes his meaning entirely clear: "When I say that my paintings are Western, what I mean is that they seek the concretization of no state that is without the limits of western reason, no esoteric, extra-sensory or divine attributes to be achieved by prayer & terror. Those who can claim that these [limits] are exceeded are exhibiting self-imposed limitations as to the tensile limits of the imagination within those limits. In other words, that there is no yearning in these paintings for Paradise, or divination. On the contrary they are deeply involved in the possibility of ordinary humanity." It is exactly this sort of pretentious bullsh!t that extinguished the majority of my appreciation for later 20th c "art". And the equally pretentious author has the audacity to say this gobbledygook justification is "entirely clear". It is intentionally opaque. Yet, when you actually throw out the null language and b.s., it comes down to Rothko saying his paintings have no soul, and contain nothing but commonplace human existence.
Artists don't always write well about their work. That doesn't necessarily detract from the art, however. Barnett Newman wrote a great deal of pretentious stuff about his work, and it still doesn't work for me. Especially the
Stations of the Cross at the National Gallery, shown below.
These are stripes, black and white, made on unprimed canvas with the help of masking tape. To me, they make the subtle colors and edges of Rothko move a great deal more.