What Colors Remain in the Rothko Chapel

A Poem

Here, in this place, the darkness pours down from the canvases. The plums, violets, burgundies, browns, crimsons. Blurred lines forming a boarder. They all appear black, but full of color. Stretched out, skin across wooden bones. A body. A collection of works in an octagonal space, to gather those of many faiths, and beliefs, and practices. To meditate, reflect, and pray. It is an open sarcophagus, buried in the heart of a city. I’ve come here to find some semblance of peace, some clarity forward, some friend on the journey.

I’ve sat on this bench many times, to ponder, to listen, to empty. Once, between jobs, the other, between relationships, and another time, trying to figure out if there was a calling, sitting to hear a voice, even a whisper. In the silence, where so many have gathered. This space where I’ve received ashes once, where I’ve attended a lecture on the artist, where I’ve touched the divine and encountered nothingness. The void. It’s an echo.

Outside, the obelisk stands tall. Emerging from the water. Broken, but connecting, reaching out, as a hand stretch toward heaven, touching this earth, to remind us of our mortality. It’s Rev. Dr. King’s dream; it’s a peace march; it’s a plea, a cry, to know ourselves as we truly are, the impression of God into clay, the rippled reflections of the divine. Hope not fully realized. Freedom not fully found.

Rothko’s death was tragic, painting in a field of red with his own life. Lying on the floor of his studio, poured out, as an offering to the demons that tormented his soul. Later that same year I was born, and emerged from the tragedy of war and violence into places where love and safety could be found, places of sanctuary. We never know what we leave behind, what we lose, and what can be saved. Within the expanse of fourteen dark canvases, there is room to breathe, to reconcile past and present, and, even, to live. Within the expanse of a country still trying to find itself, there can be the dreams of one child, one person that shapes how everything is seen.