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Mark Rothko, Writer?
Posted by Kinsley Suer | 06 February 2012 | Comments (0)
Mark Rothko will go down in history as one of America's greatest abstract expressionist painters, but did you know that he was also an accomplished writer? In the early 1940s, during a temporary hiatus from painting, Rothko wrote the manuscript for a book about his philosophies of art that was to be called The Artist's Reality. It would never be published during his lifetime, and was in fact hidden in a manila envelope until it was uncovered by his children in a warehouse more than 50 years later. After being edited by his son, Christopher Rothko, it was finally published in 2006 with the title The Artist's Reality: Philosophies of Art. The book discusses Rothko's ideas on the modern art world, art history, myth, beauty, the challenges of being an artist in society and the true nature of “American art.”
Writings on Art was also published that same year, containing more than 90 of Rothko's short essays, letters to curators and other artists, statements and lectures written over the course of his career.
But Mark Rothko was writing long before he pursued his art in New York City. In February 1920, when he was a 16-year-old student at Portland’s Lincoln High School, one of his short stories was published in a local newsletter, The Neighborhood. “Doubon’s Bride” is a short story about a group of French refugees trying to make their way to Paris during WWI – or the World War, at the time that it was written. Coincidentally, one of the main characters loses his father, who happens to be a pharmacist, at an early age. Mark Rothko also lost his father, who was a pharmacist, at an early age – just a few short months after immigrating to Oregon from what is now Latvia.
A transcript of “Doubon’s Bride” appears below, along with a photo scan of the original article.
"Doubon's Bride"
By M. R.
From The Neighborhood, February 1920, pages 3, 4 and 7.
A small band of refugees were wearily dragging themselves along one of the many roads to Paris – an everyday scene in France during the World War. The inhabitants of the small towns surrounding the capital were abandoning their homes in the face of the German advance and fleeing for Paris.
The sun had already sunken behind the low western hills; evening was coming on. The refugees, aware of this, left the road to find to find a camping place for the night. When they reached a small, wooden section, they lowered their packs which constituted their earthly possessions, spread out their blankets and divided what little food they had.
As they sat under the trees, eagerly partaking of their meager course, they made a very impressive picture. Their faces were drawn and haggard; their eyes glittered brightly from constantly endured hunger. A shadow of fear caused by the horrors experienced and the perils lived thru the past two years were heavily traced upon their countenances. Their clothes were torn and ragged; the shoes of those who had any good fortune to possess any were torn to pieces and many were bare footed. They were all very, very weary.
One of the refugees was a tall, handsome, young man, who appeared to be not more than 16 years old. A beautiful child of four years of age lay sleeping at his side upon a torn coat, having fallen asleep through sheer exhaustion, crying: "Where is Mama? Where is sister Marie?"
The same questions were in the mind of the older boy. As he sat beside the sleeping child, he reflected on the recent events.
Before the war, the two boys, their sister, father and mother made a happy family in Valney, a small village, just south of Chalons, fifty miles from Paris. The father provided quite a comfortable living for the family, working in the family drug store.
Two years earlier, when war was declared, the father went to defend the flag of France. Six months later notice was received that he died gloriously on the battlefield. The little family bore the loss bravely. The boy secured work at a neighboring farm and his sister sewed for the neighbors.
But only two days ago, at daybreak, while the entire village was peacefully slumbering, a detachment of French soldiers stationed in the village received orders that the village should be evacuated immediately, as the Germans would attack in the morning. They ran from house to house awakening the unsuspecting inhabitants and breaking the terrible news to them.
At once the quiet village became all bustle and confusion. The inhabitants were rushed toward the trucks which were sent to carry them away. Our little family was among them.
The mother held her youngest by the hand, but in the great excitement, she unconsciously let go of it. When their turn came to climb up in a truck, it was discovered that the child had disappeared. Jean, the oldest boy, was sent to find the child while she held their places on the truck.
Jean wander throughout the entire village, but the child was not to be found. Finally, he decided to return home and search for him. Sure enough, as he approached the cottage he saw the youngster devoting his entire strength to the task of pulling a toy horse down the steps.
"Ah, you bad boy! Where have you been?" he cried at the same time embracing him.
"I forgot my horsey. I came back to get him," replied the boy laughing.
Picking up the little rascal who was kicking and screaming with all his might, Jean ran with a happy heart toward the place where he had left his mother and his sister. But when he reached the place, his eyes filled with tears. The trucks were no longer there; neither were his mother and sister.
He spied a soldier to whom he ran and told his troubles.
"My god boy! That must have been the woman and girl who were screaming that their boys were gone! We held back a truck for them for fifteen minutes, then we shoved them in and sent them away. We thought they had become hysterical from fright. You better get away as quickly as possible for the Germans are very near."
With these words he left Jean and his little brother and in a few minutes returned with a bag containing black bread and a keg of water.
As Jean turned around he saw the soldiers making sand bag entrenchments. The noise of the bombarding was now very near.
He took his brother in his arms and started for the road. After walking four hours, he reached it. As he turned to get a farewell glimpse of what had so long been his home, he realized that he would never see it again. Just then, a great volume of smoke was arising from the place where they village had been.
Soon he overtook the band of refugees, and after a few days marching arrived at the gates of Paris whey they all separated.
The large city with its beautiful tall parks and wonderful works of art fascinated Jean. However, he could not give much thought to the exploring of these wonders, knowing that he must provide a living for himself and his brother and must find his mother and sister, but he could obtain no work. The city was flooded with refugees so that the opportunity of securing employment was lacking. The city was flooded with refugees so that the opportunity of securing employment was lacking. Moreover, Jean was not a very business-like fellow who knew exactly what he wanted; neither was he trained in any special line of work. So he kept up a bare existence by doing odd jobs, and many a day passed when both boys hungered.
Meanwhile, he searched for his lost mother and sister. Daily, he inquired at the police station, railways stations and at every other place where people were apt to congregate. But he always met with disappointment so that he gradually lost hope of ever recovering his family.
Once, two days passed with his earning anything. On the third day, Jean left the poor hole which served as his home to try his luck once more getting some work. All day he searched without results, but on his way home that evening, as he sat down on a curb to rest his aching feet, he noticed a small wallet lying in the gutter. He picked it up and upon opening it, to his great joy he found a few francs and a folded paper. He rushed to the grocery store, bought milk and rolls and hurried home to his hungry brother.
At home, he examined the wallet more closely. Spreading out the folded paper, he saw a small drawing of which he could neither make head nor tail. He also found a card inside bearing the name:
Charles Doubon,
176 Rue de Rueler
He decided to return the wallet on the morrow.
The next morning Jean knocked at the door of a small, beautiful home in one of the exclusive districts of Paris. Charles Doubon, a handsome man of about twenty-five years of age opened the door himself.
There was never a man more joyous than Doubon upon regaining his possession of the wallet. He could not find words with which to thank Jean. He held a position, he told Jean, in the Bureau of Munitions. The scroll of paper was a plan for a new projectile he had invented, which he was to present to the War Ministry the following day. He offered Jean a large reward which was refused. However, he was not allowed to leave until he promised to call again.
Jean kept his promise, and in the next two weeks became an intimate friend of Doubon and his aged mother. He brought his little brother frequently and the young chap won their admiration. He was given a position in one of the munition factories that Doubon controlled.
At first, Jean hesitated to tell his story to his newly acquired friend, but as the ties of the friendship between them were strengthened he determined to do so upon his next visit.
Upon that occasion, Doubon drew him aside and said "Jean, I am engaged to a wonderful girl. She came to my office six months ago, and I loved her from the first. I must call on her now. I'll take you home, but remember, be here tomorrow evening to meet her."
Jean congratulated his friend heartily and started for home happy because of his friend's happiness.
On the next evening Jean arrived at the Doubon home at the appointed time. He kept up a conversation with Madame Doubon for the others had not yet arrived. Soon footsteps were audible on the verandah. The door opened and Charles and his fiancé entered.
"Hello, Jean, here we are! Meet my bride. I have been telling her about you," broke in Doubon's cheerful voice.
Jean hastily turned around and looked at the girl. For a moment they stood staring at each other; the next moment they were locked in each other's arms, crying:
"Marie!" "Jean!" "Brother!"
Doubon was bewildered. But after Jean and Marie became calm the explanation was given. Marie was Jean's lost sister.
"Where is Mama?" cried Jean.
"And where is Baby?" broke in Marie.
Doubon volunteered to get the other members of the family, but Jean and Marie were too anxious to meet their lost ones, so left the house with Doubon to greet their mother and brother.
On the way, Marie told Jean how they were thrown into the last of the trucks, of their attack by the German cavalry, of their escape and how instead of being taken to Paris they found themselves in Chalon, where they secured work for a few months and accumulated enough money to get to Paris.
Mid tears and laughter, Jean and the baby were soon folded in their mother's arms and in the recital of the adventures, the time of their separation and sorrow were forgotten in the happiness of the reunion.
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