Word: paint
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Mark Rothko is the great thundercloud of 20th century American painting, a man who struggled to find a way for mere pigment to summon immense reservoirs of feeling, and who took his own life when the struggle proved too much. This is why one of the most baffling episodes in Rothko's story has to do with the Seagram murals, a suite of vast, brooding canvases he produced for Manhattan's sparkling Four Seasons restaurant. Rothko was an artist who could say, and mean it: "The sense of the tragic is always with me when I paint." And the Four...
Maybe not. He once snarled: "I hope to paint something that will ruin the appetite of every son of a bitch who ever eats in that room." But in the end it was Rothko whose endurance gave out. By then, he had completed more than 30 canvases: dark, foreboding panels in which his characteristic horizontal bars of color were replaced by explosive verticals or squares that seem like gateways to something ineffable. Unwilling finally to imagine this work on the walls of a society hangout, Rothko withdrew from the project...
...Find a Face Human beings are not moved by numbers or vague predictions of certain doom. They are moved by stories. "It's simple," says Mileti. "You get one family in America. You go to their house. And you paint a picture of what their life is like one year from now. You describe a kid who can't go to college, the house that can't be sold, the inability of anyone to use a credit card. They need to get a camera crew and go to Omaha and find a family...
...emphasized the need for increased regulation and a “financial product safety commission” to protect American families, much as government agencies exist to protect consumers from toasters bursting into flames and lead paint in toys...
Monsieur Jacques had never had to paint in such proportions before. His brush erect above the canvas, he paused, deliberated, then decided to begin with a more manageable area of his subject’s anatomy.His subject was posed gracefully upon a marble pedestal, his skin gleaming bronze beneath the white folds of linen, his laurel-crowned brow lifted heavenward. Between brow and heaven was extended a manly hand, rough and calloused from hard labor, yet surprisingly sensitive. A cut pomegranate balanced heavily upon his long tapered fingers. Each seed gleamed redly from within the open wound of the fruit...