Can a twentieth-century abstract painter be understood through the lens of the Italian Renaissance? The exhibition ‘Rothko in Florence’ argues that, despite five centuries of artistic change, Mark Rothko and the great masters of Florence shared a common ambition: to create works that transform not simply what we see, but how we experience seeing itself.
Text by Angie Afifi
At first glance, the idea seems almost contradictory. Few artists appear further removed from Renaissance Florence than Mark Rothko (1903-1970). One belongs to the world of abstract expressionism, vast fields of colour, and the visual language of the twentieth century. The other evokes frescoes, biblical narratives, ideal proportions, and some of the most celebrated figurative painters in history. Yet this apparent contradiction lies at the very centre of ‘Rothko in Florence’, one of the most important exhibitions of Rothko's work ever organized in Italy.
Rather than presenting a conventional retrospective, the exhibition proposes a different way of looking at Rothko. Curated by Christopher Rothko and Elena Geuna, it unfolds across three locations: Palazzo Strozzi, Museo di San Marco, and the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. Each venue contributes a different chapter to the story. Palazzo Strozzi introduces Rothko's artistic journey. Museo di San Marco invites a dialogue with Fra Angelico (c.1395-1455). The Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana places his paintings in conversation with one of Michelangelo's most extraordinary architectural spaces. Together, these locations suggest that the relationship between Rothko and Florence extends far beyond biography. They even encourage us to reconsider the nature of his painting.
The most obvious question, however, remains. What could a twentieth century abstract painter possibly have in common with Renaissance Florence?
Certainly not style. Rothko abandoned almost everything that defined Renaissance painting. There are no saints, no landscapes, no narratives, and no illusionistic architecture. Even the human figure, so fundamental to Renaissance art, gradually disappeared from his work. By the late 1940s Rothko had reduced painting to what appears to be its simplest possible language: softly vibrating rectangles suspended within luminous fields of colour.
Yet this apparent simplicity is also where the comparison begins. The exhibition does not suggest that Rothko inherited Renaissance imagery. Instead, it proposes something much more subtle. Both Renaissance artists and Rothko sought to create works that transformed the viewer's state of mind. The image itself was never the final goal. It was the experience that mattered.
This becomes particularly evident inside Museo di San Marco. Fra Angelico's frescoes are among the masterpieces of the Italian Renaissance, but their original function is often overlooked. They were not painted as autonomous works of art intended for museums or collectors. Many were created for the private cells of Dominican monks, where they formed part of daily religious contemplation. A monk entered a small, silent room containing little more than a bed, a window, and a single fresco. The painting did not compete for attention. It slowed perception. It encouraged stillness before encouraging interpretation.
This distinction is essential. Today we often approach paintings by asking what they represent. Renaissance devotional images were frequently experienced differently. They were intended to shape prayer rather than simply illustrate scripture. Looking itself became a spiritual exercise.
Seen from this perspective, the dialogue with Rothko begins to feel surprisingly convincing.
Rothko's paintings also resist immediate interpretation. Standing before one of his large canvases, the viewer initially encounters very little. Broad rectangles of colour appear almost static. There is no obvious subject to identify, no narrative to reconstruct. Yet those who remain in front of the painting for several minutes often describe a gradual transformation. Colours begin to shift almost imperceptibly. Edges seem less stable than they first appeared. Layers of pigment emerge one after another. What initially looked like a flat painted surface slowly acquires an extraordinary sense of depth.
Rothko himself insisted that this process required time. He repeatedly rejected the idea that his paintings should function as decoration or as purely formal exercises in colour. "A painting is not a picture of an experience," he once remarked. "It is an experience." That statement helps explain why the comparison with Fra Angelico reaches beyond visual resemblance. Both artists, despite working five centuries apart, invite prolonged contemplation. Both ask the viewer to remain rather than to consume. Both transform looking into an event rather than a moment.
This may also explain why the exhibition avoids placing Renaissance works and Rothko's paintings in direct competition. The curators are not suggesting that Rothko painted in any way like Fra Angelico. Instead, they reveal that both artists understood something fundamental about perception. Images do not simply communicate ideas. Under the right conditions, they can alter consciousness itself.
Perhaps this is the point where Florence begins to change our understanding of Rothko. His paintings no longer appear simply as icons of modern abstraction. They begin to participate in a much older tradition, one in which art serves as a space for silence, contemplation, and inward attention. It is precisely this shift in perspective that makes the exhibition so compelling. Rather than asking us to compare styles, it asks us to compare experiences.
