20th C Art, Mark Rothko

 

Mark Rothko was part of color field painting, a branch of Abstract Expressionism. This movement focused on large areas of color that seemed to float or spread across the surface of the canvas. In earlier lessons, Jackson Pollock came up as another key artist in that movement during the 1950s in New York.

 

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Pollock gained attention through the support of several art critics who wrote reviews of his work in newspapers, magazines, and books. These critics played a big part in shaping how his art was received. Pollock’s public image also contributed to his reputation. In photographs and film, he was often shown as a dramatic figure, sometimes described as having a shamanistic approach to painting—meaning his process seemed ritual-like or connected to a deeper, mysterious energy.

Not everyone agreed with how his work was described. Some people, like the illustrator Norman Rockwell and other critics, made fun of his art, calling it things like “apocalyptic wallpaper.” They didn’t understand what he was doing or why it mattered.

 

From a more technical point of view, Pollock's paintings are large canvases that almost feel like walls of texture and movement. The scale and layering of paint can fill your entire vision. Some art writers have compared them to landscapes—not because they show land or nature, but because the experience of looking at them can feel immersive. You can see where the artist moved his hand, how the paint was applied, and how different colors overlap or sink into the canvas. There’s a sense of depth, even if there’s no clear subject.

This idea of spiritual or emotional depth also shows up in color field painting, especially in the work of Mark Rothko. His paintings often involve soft-edged rectangles of color that seem to hover or dissolve into each other. Like Pollock’s work, Rothko’s paintings are meant to be experienced up close, where the colors and subtle shifts in texture surround your field of vision. Some viewers and critics have said that Rothko’s work, too, has a spiritual feel, not because it’s tied to any religion, but because of the way it creates a quiet, reflective space through simple color and scale.

Some art critics have linked Mark Rothko’s work to a concept from the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche called the Apollonian-Dionysian conflict. It’s a complicated idea, but the basic idea is that the human mind is always balancing two forces—one that’s calm, structured, and orderly (Apollonian), and one that’s wild, emotional, and chaotic (Dionysian). It’s hard to say whether that really connects directly to Rothko’s paintings, but some critics see that kind of push and pull in his work.

One thing that stands out when you look at Rothko’s paintings is how they can feel like landscapes, even though they’re completely abstract. He often painted soft-edged rectangles that float in layers, and the way the colors are arranged can feel like a horizon or open field. In some of his pieces, the colors seem to move in space. A bright color might seem to come forward while a darker one seems to fall back.

In one painting, the intense blue feels like it’s coming forward off the canvas, as if it’s floating above the other colors. That kind of effect can make the painting feel like something you could walk into, almost like you’re traveling through it. That’s part of what makes looking at it a physical experience, not just a visual one.

This particular painting might be the clearest example of how Rothko’s work can feel like a type of abstract landscape. The colors don’t describe real things, but the way they interact creates a kind of space. That sense of space—how color pulls you in or pushes you out—has been linked by some people to a spiritual feeling, though Rothko himself didn’t always explain his work that way.

Before diving deeper into how he used color, it helps to get familiar with some basic ideas from color theory, since that’s a big part of how these effects happen.

To really get what’s going on in color field painting, it helps to know a few basic terms about color. A lot of this probably came up in elementary school, but it's worth going over again.

Color has three main properties. First is hue, which is just the name of the color—like red, blue, or green. Then there's value, which refers to how light or dark a color is. Value is important when you're thinking about shading and things like chiaroscuro—that’s an old art term for using light and dark to create depth. The third property is intensity (sometimes called saturation), which has nothing to do with how light or dark the color is. Instead, it’s about how pure or strong the color looks. A very intense color is bold and vivid; a less intense one looks dull or grayish.

 

To understand how these parts of color work together, it's helpful to start with the color wheel. At the center of the color wheel are the primary colors: red, yellow, and blue. You can’t mix any other colors to make them. But if you mix two primary colors together, you get a secondary color. Yellow and blue make green. Red and blue make purple. Red and yellow make orange.

There’s also a third category called tertiary colors, which are made by mixing a primary and a secondary color. For example, mixing yellow and orange gives you yellow-orange. These combinations are used to describe more specific shades.

If you mix all three primary colors—red, yellow, and blue—you get a kind of brown. Depending on how much of each color you use, you can end up with different types of brown: reddish brown, yellowish brown, bluish brown. That’s where color temperature comes in. Colors like red, orange, and yellow are called warm colors because they’re linked with heat and fire. Colors like blue, green, and purple are considered cool colors because they’re associated with water or shade.

Another idea that’s useful here is complementary colors. On the color wheel, a complementary color is the one that’s directly across from another. For example, blue and orange are complements. When you mix a color with its complement, the result is a less intense version of that color. It kind of dulls the color or makes it more neutral, depending on how much of each one you use.

 

These relationships—between warm and cool colors, between complements, and how colors are mixed—are really important when you look at how artists like Rothko use color to create space and movement in their paintings.

Here’s a color wheel, and what we’re doing is sampling colors from it to see how they interact. Let’s start with orange, and then take its complementary color, which is blue—right across from it on the wheel.

 

Now, imagine you take that blue and spray a little of it over the orange using an airbrush tool. What happens is the orange starts to darken and lose its intensity. The color becomes duller. It might start to look a little purplish or peachy at first, and then turn kind of brown. That’s what happens when you mix complementary colors like orange and blue—over time, they cancel each other out and make a muddy or brownish color.

But if you don’t mix the colors—just place one on top of the other without blending—you see a different effect. For example, putting a solid blue dot right on an orange background makes the blue really stand out. That’s because complementary colors create strong visual contrast when they’re placed side by side without mixing.

If you put that same blue dot on a color closer to blue—like a green or a blue-green—the effect is much weaker. It doesn’t pop out as much because the colors share some of the same base qualities. You’ll also notice the role that value plays here. Value means how light or dark a color is. If the blue and the green are both dark, they blend more. If the orange and the green have similar lightness or darkness, the effect is softer. But even when the value is similar, a blue dot still stands out more on orange because of the complementary contrast.

 

You can see the same thing happen with warm colors. If you place an orange dot on a blue background—or on colors that contain blue—it seems brighter and more intense. But if you place orange on yellow, yellow-orange, or even green, it doesn’t stand out as much.

This shows how color relationships affect how we see things. Complementary colors create strong contrast and can make each other seem more intense when placed side by side. That contrast is part of how artists create visual energy in a painting without using clear shapes or lines. 

 

Let’s go back to the color discussion and focus on value. Value is about how light or dark a color is. A good example is this strip of 50% gray. Even though the gray is the same all the way across, it can look lighter or darker depending on what surrounds it. Near lighter areas, it seems darker; near darker areas, it looks lighter. This is all about how our eyes react to contrast.

This same effect happens when you combine colors, especially complementary colors. For example, when you place an orange strip on a blue background, the orange can appear more intense—not just in hue, but also in value. It might seem to glow or float above the surface, even though it’s flat.

Mark Rothko used these color relationships intentionally. He often placed warm colors like red against cool colors like blue or green to create a kind of visual movement. In one of his paintings, you might see red pulling forward while blue seems to fade back, and a field of green hanging somewhere in between. That green acts almost like a middle ground, helping to create depth or the feeling of space—just through color, not through drawing or perspective.

 

Rothko didn’t use digital tools or airbrushes like someone might today. Instead, he thinned oil paint with mineral spirits and applied it in thin, layered washes. These transparent layers are sometimes called veils. Because he used so much thinner, the paint didn’t always stick well to the canvas. The binder in oil paint—linseed oil—helps hold the pigment together, but when it’s too diluted, the color can rub off. That’s made preserving some of Rothko’s work difficult. Museum conservators have to be especially careful because even touching the surface can remove pigment.

 

Despite that, Rothko’s approach had a strong visual impact. He focused on the way colors interacted, especially the tension between warm and cool tones. Not every painting worked the same way, and some were more effective than others. Still, his work became very well-known, and he was represented by top galleries in New York. Galleries like Marlborough competed to show and sell his work. At one point, they even visited his studio trying to buy paintings directly from him instead of going through other dealers.

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20th C Lucian Freud

 

Lucian Freud is one of those artists whose name comes up a lot, especially among other painters. His studio assistant wrote a biography about him recently, which is how I learned the correct pronunciation of his name—"looshun.” He’s a figure painter that I really admire, and I often look to his work for inspiration. If I could afford it, I’d love to own one of his paintings.  The physical or formal qualities of his work are probably what has made him as important or well known painter as he is today, however it never hurts to come from a famous family.  His grandfather was Sigmund Freud.  His personality and temperament, formed by his family connections, his history, and his relationships, is evidenced in his art. 

I’ve always wondered what makes an artist successful. Throughout history, many artists have had strong connections with wealthy or influential people. During the Renaissance, this was especially true for figures like Michelangelo and Raphael. Their talent played a huge role in their success, but their access to powerful patrons also helped.

Looking at more recent artists from the 18th and 19th centuries, social connections seem just as important. But it’s hard to say whether success comes down to networking, raw ability, or just being in the right place at the right time. Many well-known artists were part of groups or movements—like the Impressionists—which helped them gain recognition. Some, like Van Gogh and Monet, only became widely appreciated later in life or even after their deaths. Meanwhile, artists who were popular in their time, such as Van Gogh’s uncle Anton Mauve or William-Adolphe Bouguereau, are not as widely studied today.

Lucian Freud is an interesting case. It’s easy to focus on his connections—his biography reads like a list of famous names. He knew Francis Bacon and many leading artists of the 1940s and ’50s. Later in life, he associated with David Hockney, spent time with figures like Kate Moss, and painted well-known subjects, including performance artist Leigh Bowery. He was even commissioned to paint a portrait of Queen Elizabeth II. While his social ties gave him opportunities, his technical skill and intense approach to painting played a huge role in his long career.

He was born in Berlin, Germany, in 1922 but moved to England with his family in 1933 to escape the rise of the Nazi Party. His grandfather was Sigmund Freud, the Austrian neurologist who founded psychoanalysis, which meant Lucian grew up in an intellectually and culturally influential family. This background gave him certain social advantages, though his early years as a painter were not particularly lucrative. 

Even though Freud wasn’t initially wealthy, his background gave him certain advantages. His grandfather Sigmund Freud, celebrity, insured that he grew up with a bit of privilege.  Lucian’s family were highly educated and well-connected in cultural circles—what some people call cultural capital. Freud acknowledged that his name carried weight, and he knew that people saw him in part through the lens of his family history. That connection to psychology also fits with his work in a way—his paintings focus on the human form in a way that can feel deeply psychological, making you wonder if he’s painting what he sees or what he interprets about the person in front of him.

The Freud family was able to help him get an education, afford the materials, and the space he needed to paint.  This gave him a level of freedom that not all artists have. He went to well-known art schools, but at the same time, he had connections to rougher parts of London’s social scene. Some of his biographies mention that he had ties to gangsters in the 1940s and ‘50s, and there were even rumors that certain people had to be “persuaded” to follow through on deals involving paying up for his paintings. His studio assistant wrote about how Freud leaned into both his social background and his reputation as a tough guy to help establish himself in the art world.

Lucian Freud’s early years as a painter were shaped not just by his talent but by the people around him. In the 1940s and 1950s, when he was in his twenties, he was deeply involved in London’s bohemian art scene, particularly in Soho. This was a time when artists, writers, and intellectuals gathered in smoky bars, exchanged ideas, and helped each other find opportunities.

 

One of his closest friends in this period was John Craxton, a fellow artist, and lover, who shared his interest in European modernism. They traveled together, especially in Greece, and explored new styles of painting. Then there was Francis Bacon—perhaps Freud’s most important artistic connection. The two spent countless nights in Soho’s Colony Room Club, drinking and debating art. Bacon’s work, known for its raw energy, had a strong influence on Freud, though Freud eventually developed his own more controlled style.

Freud also moved in literary circles. Cyril Connolly, the editor of Horizon magazine, published Freud’s work in the 1940s, giving him exposure among intellectuals. Poet Stephen Spender helped introduce Freud to well-connected patrons, while Sonia Orwell, the widow of George Orwell, brought him into literary gatherings. Another key figure was Peter Watson, a wealthy art patron who financially supported many young British painters, including Freud.

In the 1950s, Freud’s personal life further expanded his social network. He married Lady Caroline Blackwood, an heiress and writer, which connected him to the British aristocracy. Though their marriage didn’t last, it placed Freud in circles that helped secure his early commissions and exhibitions.

Soho’s bohemian world played a crucial role in Freud’s rise as an artist. His friendships and social ties gave him the kind of support and opportunities that many young painters struggled to find. His talent was undeniable, but his early success was also built on the people who helped open doors for him, but his connection to the British glitterati started even earlier than this.

In his childhood, his privilege connected him to important teachers and mentors.  Lucian didn’t stick to one art school for long.  He started at the Central School of Art in London and later at the East Anglian School of Painting and Drawing, which was run by the artist Cedric Morris and this was at least instrumental in introducing him to the fundamentals. 

 

His first art school mentor Cedric Morris was a big deal in the British art scene, not just as a painter but also as a teacher, and he encouraged Freud to develop his own style rather than just copying what was fashionable.  Although Freud and Morris’s styles were different, Freud picked up some habits and methodologies from his instructor.  If you compare Freud’s portraits from the 1980’s, there are similarities in texture, color, and proportion.  To Freud’s later works.

Lucian Freud talked about his time studying under Cedric Morris in interviews, describing Morris’s way of painting as almost mechanical—like a printer, applying color in horizontal bands from the top of the canvas down. Almost like a window shade being pulled down.  This approach was different from how most painters work, since many start with rough outlines or block in large shapes before adding details. Morris’s method was more systematic, building up the image in a structured way. His floral and landscape paintings show this careful approach, though his work wasn’t always precise in terms of proportions or perspective.

 

Freud’s paintings share similarities with Morris’s in that both artists focused on close observation rather than following academic rules of naturalism or illusionism, that emphasize accurate anatomical proportions and the use of linear perspective to create space and depth. In Morris’s painting September Diagram, the table and surrounding architecture are made up of tilted planes that don’t follow strict rules of perspective. Some of the shapes, especially the ellipses, have an inexact quality like the work of Paul Cézanne, appearing intuitive rather than mathematically precise. While there is some shading and cast shadow, the painting does not follow the academic techniques of chiaroscuro, such as reflected light, that are traditionally used to create a sense of volume.  However, Freud’s work, at least at first, was more carefully rendered and has a kind of Northern Renaissance or Late Gothic feeling to it.

Something that characterizes all of Freud’s work is that it is very analytical, based in a close observation, but not necessarily naturalistic or photo realist in style.  Freud started his career painting in a precise, almost graphic style.  Freud’s paintings are filled with closely observed details like Van Eyck’s Arnolfini Wedding Portrait, but like Van Eyck, they are distorted and a bit disproportionate.  Morris, Freud, and Van Eyck don’t choose to unify the illusion of space and depth with linear perspective.  I’m fairly certain that all three artists would have been taught traditional linear perspective but chose to discard it probably for esthetic and especially symbolic reasons.  All three use intuitive perspective rather than linear perspective.  Each artist “guesstimates” the orthogonal lines and vanishing points.  A good example is, Lucian Freud’s, Interior in Paddington, 1951.  It is very similar to Van Eyck’s Arnolfini portrait.

Freud’s Interior in Paddington, has a lot in common with Jan van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait, particularly in the way both artists handle detail, space, and texture. Both artists, like a lot of detail, especially in rendering faces, hands, and clothing. But the proportions are a bit off in each.  They both look a bit surreal.  There’s a stiffness to the pose, and the figure appears deliberately still, almost staged. There is carefully observed shading and rendering of textures, objects, and light, while ignoring traditional formulas that govern the proportions of things like the figures’ anatomy and space.

The anatomy is mostly accurate but has a slightly distorted quality. The figures posture is upright, formal, and slightly rigid, much like the figures in van Eyck’s portrait. Neither Freud or van Eyck used the popular classical counter posture  the contrapposto stance.  In each, the figures stand in a pose reminiscent of Byzantine art, the drapery is carefully observed and rendered, but again, not in a particularly Classic or Renaissance manner.

Both paintings balance realism with symbolic choices. Van Eyck includes small details—like the mirror in the background, the oranges, and the intricate textures of fabric—to suggest meaning beyond simple portraiture. Freud, while not as concerned with traditional symbolism, uses detail in a similar way, making every surface and object feel observed and tangible. In both works, realism is pushed just far enough to make the figures feel present, but certain exaggerations or stylizations keep them from being purely naturalistic. 

Lucian Freud’s Interior in Paddington (1951) is more than just a portrait—it is a study of psychological tension and unease.  Harry Diamond, a photographer, and a friend of Freud. He stands awkwardly in a dimly lit room, wearing an oversized coat, holding a cigarette in one hand while clenching the other into a fist. His expression is serious, almost tense, and his large glasses make him look both intellectual and a little vulnerable.

The painting takes place inside Lucian Freud’s home in Paddington, London, with a view of the neighborhood visible through the window. Harry Diamond, wearing glasses, holds a cigarette in his left hand, though it’s his right hand that appears deeply stained with nicotine. His right hand is clenched into a fist, and he seems to be staring intensely at a spiky houseplant, likely a type of yucca. His tense posture gives the impression that he might be about to strike the plant. This could be a playful reference to Diamond’s well-known sharp personality.

Diamond is dressed in a wrinkled, unbuttoned Gannex mac, a type of raincoat that was a regular part of his wardrobe. Freud later painted him wearing the same coat in another portrait from the late 1950s. Paddington Interior (1951) was Freud’s first major commissioned work, created for the Arts Council’s exhibition Sixty Paintings for ’51, part of the Festival of Britain. The painting won a prize and marked an important moment in Freud’s early career. However, Diamond wasn’t pleased with how he was portrayed—he felt Freud had made his legs look too short.

It's possible to overinterpret Freud’s painting.  (The same is true with van Eyck’s.)  For example is including the plant a deliberate choice?   It looks dry, spiky, and almost lifeless, which makes it feel like a reflection of Diamond’s own discomfort. It also adds to the overall feeling of tension and neglect in the painting. Then there's the window in the background, which shows part of the city outside. It might seem like an open space, but the balcony railing almost makes it feel like a barrier, hinting at a sense of being trapped indoors.

The red carpet under his feet is another interesting detail. It’s bold and dramatic, contrasting with the duller tones of the room. It could symbolize emotions bubbling beneath the surface—maybe frustration, unease, or even passion. The way it’s cut off by the floorboards adds to the sense that something is off or unbalanced.

Harry Diamond, the subject in Lucian Freud’s Interior in Paddington, wasn’t just some random model—he was a well-known London photographer who spent time with artists like Freud and Francis Bacon. He was usually the one taking pictures, not the one being captured, which might explain why he looks so tense in the painting.

Freud and Diamond were friends, but their relationship wasn’t always easy. Freud was famous for making his models sit (or stand) for long, grueling sessions, which many people found frustrating. Diamond, who had a strong personality, didn’t love the experience, and that might be why he looks so stiff and uncomfortable. His clenched fist, awkward posture, and direct stare all suggest he wasn’t totally at ease.

Knowing this, the painting starts to feel even more intense. Freud wasn’t just painting what Diamond looked like—he was capturing the tension between them. The result is a portrait that feels psychological, almost like a glimpse into a quiet, real-life struggle between artist and subject.  If he portrayed his friend in this way, imagine how his lovers felt.

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