Studio Notes - Mark Rothko and Sensitivity

This week in the studio, I’m thinking about New York.

I find myself reflecting on the museums I visited, the MoMA and The Met.

One purpose of the trip was alchemy. The story of reclaiming space that held painful memories. Then, finding out what I could create from it. What energy would rise anew and what would ask to be let go?

What would I see?

I was sure to see humans expressing themselves unapologetically, taxicab drivers cursing at pedestrians and lonely people.

What would I feel?

The buzz of the third rail in the subway, vibrating quietly, making you remember your mortality.

What would I create after?

The greatest mystery of all, one that I was in no rush to solve.

When I was a child, I was what most would call too sensitive. I cried at almost everything. Specifically, conflict, the perceived feeling that someone was mad at me, or the anticipation that I might be in trouble.

I would cry when I lost soccer games, left my teddy bear at home, or when the other kids left me out at recess.

Then somewhere along the line, I became callused. I hardened. Maybe I cried enough tears in my youth to last me a decade.

As an adult I struggle to cry the same way. Even when I have completely valid reasons to shed tears, my body resists. It holds them in.

So it wasn’t an explicit goal to cry in New York but it always lingers in my mind.

Could I find enough emotion in the city skyline to evoke release?

I found it at the MoMA. A couple times. Exhibits, artists, and pieces brought my humanity to the surface.

One exhibit in particular resonated. The works of one called Mark Rothko.

His original name being Rothkowitz. However, he changed it to Rothko during World War II to protect his Jewish identity.

I was struck by the color of his pieces and the simplicity in them. The large canvases and the inviting nature of them all. They seemed to whisper to me “Zoom out, zoom in, look left, look right, now look away!”. They felt playfully interactive.

Then I found myself reading one of the small plaques stating that he committed suicide. I immediately had chills up and down my legs. Tears welled up in my eyes.

Because all I could think was the same artist who created these breathtaking pieces also lived in unbearable pain.

I suppose I felt connected to him too. As someone who has had negative thoughts try to turn against me, I couldn’t help but think of the story as a cautionary tale.

To feel deeply is a blessing.

It can also feel lonely and loud.

Rothko is lingering in my thoughts as his pieces influence me. I’m channeling my own emotion to my art and reflecting on the times that I felt like giving up.

What does that look like on canvas?

This week in the studio I’m preparing to leave it once again.

I’ll be traveling to the Pacific Northwest landscapes that shaped me, hugging people who love me, and wondering what looks simultaneously different and the same.

With a half packed suitcase and paintbrushes drying on the counter,

Sierra Koch

7-13-26