No. 201 - Museum Hopping in Houston

Rothko Chapel - 1410 Sul Ross, Houston, TX 77006

I woke up around ten in the morning in an old apartment on the University of Texas campus. Built in the ’40s, it came with a period-sized shower, a quaint kitchenette, and hardwood floors that could tell a story.

You can’t help but wonder who has stayed there over the last century. And if it’s still standing another hundred years from now, who’s to say another drifter, not yet born, won’t have the same thoughts.

It was a weekday, and I didn’t have any meetings, so I threw a pair of jeans on, tied a bandana around my neck, and drove east… to Houston.

Resting atop a mop of unwashed hair was a red hat from the Broken Spoke, but my mustache was groomed; my best attempt to look like Faulkner—waxed, combed, perfectly askew.

Austin sits between 23,000 square miles of Blackland Prairie to the east and 33,000 square miles of Hill Country to the west, and the two are starkly different.

Whereas a drive through Hill Country is marked with rolling vistas, the prairie is flat; less imagination, more dogged.

The highways are made of an unfamiliar aggregate that reverberates through your bones. Abandoned cinder-block filling stations dot a landscape where speed limits are suggestions. American flags are everywhere, along with Whataburgers and mid-century motels.

I find myself thinking about settlers riding horseback when I travel through Texas—how brutal it must have been. Clopping along at a snail’s pace, under a boiling sun, in a hinterland of dry riverbeds. The endlessness of it must have robbed the soul.

But not me. I speed down lonely roads in an air-conditioned automobile, listening to podcasts on Burroughs and heroin.

I arrived in Houston a few hours later with one intention—to visit the Rothko Chapel.

The last time I visited was over a decade ago, when I was still in corporate. I found myself hungover in a nondescript hotel ballroom, listening to executive after executive blabber on about mind-numbing bullshit at a sales conference.

I figured I had two choices: take a nap on my buddy’s shoulder and have him wake me when I started snoring, or slip out, hail a cab, and visit the Rothko Chapel. I was sure I could bow out before lunch and be back before the Senior Vice President of Boredom wrapped up. Off I went.

By the time I got back, it was clear that no one of importance was onto me, and Mr. Boredom had twenty minutes left in a ridiculous motivational speech before he unleashed the hounds to the open bar—it was probably the most brilliant move of my short-lived corporate career. If I had a résumé, it’d be on there.

This time around, thankfully, I was no longer under the microscope of the titled gentry. Gone were insecure twits fighting over who would add “Assistant to the Regional Manager” on their business cards.

I parked my rental on a tree-lined street in the Montrose neighborhood in West Houston. I guess because I took a cab the first time, I didn’t recognize the unique character of the homes, or the fact that another museum, The Menil Collection, housed in an unmistakable Renzo Piano building, is next door. What surprised me most was the number of live oaks.

Before going to the Chapel, I went to a bookstore in an old gray Craftsman. You see, the homes that surround the Rothko Chapel and The Menil are 1930s bungalows painted in a distinct gray (known as Menil Gray). They’re handsome, orderly, and give the neighborhood a cozy, lived-in feel.

The bookstore is world-class. It’s tiny, for sure, but packed with a fascinating collection of hard-to-find books on artists. To put it into perspective, they had Hilma af Klint: The Complete Catalogue Raisonné: Volumes I–VII. I bought a book of hers from Rizzoli in New York for a friend, and trust me, it wasn’t easy to find, as she’s still relatively unknown (which is certifiably criminal), but this behemoth, weighing in at 38 pounds, isn’t something your average bookstore carries. But sure enough, there it was at the Menil Collection Bookstore.

After I picked up a few postcards and chatted with the two people working there—one a Rhode Island School of Design grad, the other from Reed College (could they be any more quintessential bookstore people—it warms my literary heart)—I visited the newly built Rothko gift shop, where I dropped fifty bucks on pencils, a canvas tote, and more postcards.

And then it finally happened: I entered the Rothko Chapel, and once again, I was not disappointed.

After my second visit, I am convinced that you could see these paintings every day and always have a distinct experience.

They are magnificent.
They are enormous.
They are encyclopedic—emotionally, spiritually.

Love or hate Abstract Expressionism, they’re a must-see—full stop.

I sat in front of all fourteen paintings for an hour in complete silence. I could attempt to explain what I experienced, but it was singularly unique and deeply personal. You just have to make the pilgrimage and experience it for yourself.

When you walk out of the chapel, you’re floating in serenity. So much so that I didn’t recognize the heat, but the brightness of the sun sliced through my pupils with rage. I had one of those moments where you can hallucinate with your eyes shut. I suppose I will leave you with that.

I walked back to The Menil Collection, excited to see another Rothko, but damned if it wasn’t on display. Why they put that painting (Untitled, 1957) on their brochure and not on display is beyond me. I’ve seen enough Rothkos to know which ones I respond to, particularly his later, darker work, and this one was right up my alley, but it wasn’t meant to be.

The Menil Collection - 1533 Sul Ross Street, Houston, TX 77006

The museum has a legitimate collection of work, from African masks to all sorts of contemporary pieces. My only complaint—and it’s the only time I’ve experienced this—was the museum guards. I felt like a parolee in the company of cops, always being watched. I found it discomforting, so much so that I cut my visit short. I couldn’t relax. And it wasn’t just one wing; it was every room. That said, it’s a marvelous museum.

The folks who call Montrose home are lucky. To live amongst fabulous architecture, massive oaks, and two world-class museums is a privilege known to few. I will visit Houston again this winter because I want to experience the Chapel under a dark sky, and I’ll take another stab at The Menil—but hopefully not under the watch of a bunch of Barney Fifes.

*Composed, Edited, and Published in Atlanta, GA