COMMUNITY VOICES
Mike Wright
Writer & Editor, Art Enthusiast, Austin, TX
W
hen I was the oldest undergrad in the University of Houston’s Creative Writing Program, the professors would rave about the Rothko Chapel. They advised us all to spend time there, just sitting, not even staring at the paintings, but absorbing them; letting them speak to us; letting the subtleties of the genius wash over us, calm us, inspire us. So I did. And I was bored to death. Rothko’s monochromatic genius didn’t wash over me so much as pass over my head. I sat. I waited. I sighed. I walked away. I’m not a complete philistine. I love music, poetry and literature. I wasn’t unfamiliar with the effect my professors, published authors all, were describing. I had the same thing wash over me reading Silence, the by Shūsaku Endó novel about Jesuits priests persecuted in Japan, which taught me not to try to hear God in the silence of a cathedral, but to just be still. But this thing sitting in front of me was just black. Fast forward to a 2016 trip to Chicago with my son to visit colleges. He loves art and wanted to go to the Chicago Art Institute. I, like any good GenXer, love Ferris Bueller. We hopped on the train, walked a couple of blocks and, suddenly, there it was, guarded by two enormous stone lions, celebrating the Cubs first World Championship in 106 years with batting helmets. The giant stone building was somehow stuffy and touristy, which always sets 14
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