I RETURNED to my old stomping ground of Liverpool last weekend for a quick family visit.
While perusing an assembly of leaflets and flyers collected in town, I spied an exhibition from the artist Mark Rothko currently showing at Liverpool’s Tate Gallery.
I raise my eyebrows because I once had a Rothko print on the wall of my old flat here and decided a look at his work would be a worthwhile distraction.
Casting my eye back in time, I can’t recall why I had a Rothko print in the first place.
I have no grand affinity with his work and I don’t remember if it was even me who purchased it.
It hung there in no special way, providing a patch of slight colour as contrast against the magnolia walls. I thought it was just a yellow-orange smudge really, so I was keen to see more of his work.
The Tate Gallery is situated on Liverpool’s famous Albert Dock which was where This Morning was originally broadcast. It’s where leap-frogging weatherman Fred enthusiastically predicted the weather from his floating Great Britain.
Granada Studios still have a building there.
The Dock itself has been greatly improved since my last visit with lots of new coffee shops, bars and restaurants.
And the Bug World Experience is a curious addition to the mix – a tourist attraction that lets you view the world through an insect’s eyes.
Suffice to say, I passed on the aperitif and made directly for the main course – Rothko’s exhibition, The Seagram Murals.
After purchasing a stick of red liquorice from a sweet shop and enjoying a thorough wander around the docklands, I arrived at the Tate.
Once inside, you are met by a magnificent marble sculpture by Jacob Epstein entitled – Jacob and the Angel.
I instantly fell in love with its powerful command of your attention.
Rothko’s exhibit is made up of nine paintings, all of which are huge and take up a fair bit of space. They were all maroon, all pretty much looked identical and I’m pretty sure the one I had in my kitchen back in the day was the same, just painted in orangey yellow.
Collectively the murals echoed a maroon Stonehenge, they did enclose you; almost trapping you.
The place was eerily silent as art galleries always are.
It was sparsely populated by other patrons who took great offence at the sound of me, crackling open my sweet wrapper for some more lovely red liquorice.
One couple in particular caught my attention, they were seated and silent in front of one of the paintings, sucking it up like it was their last meal.
I envied their involvement and understanding of the work which was totally lost on me!
I love Van Gogh’s paintings, Gaudi’s architecture, Monet’s later works and Warhol’s look at fame.
I guess at the end of the day it’s a simple case of “each to her own”.
Give me a motley crew of bulldogs playing poker any day!