Vacant Space:Mark Rothko @ the PACE Gallery.

"One of the most formidable artists of the last century" whose "works aspired towards the poignancy of poetry" - me.

I like Mark Rothko. I really do. That's what I wrote about him back in December 2016 after I'd attended a wonderful exhibition of Abstract Expressionist art with my friends Mark and Natalie at the Royal Academy.

But with Rothko, it is vital that the work is presented correctly. It needs to be in large, quiet, rooms with low lighting and, ideally, you'd get to spend time in front of the paintings either alone or with close friends and confidantes. You need to be encompassed by Rothko's art and at the Pace Gallery's current exhibition none of those things happen.

Which leaves for a frustrating experience. Last month, my friends Adam and Teresa were in London for the weekend and Teresa suggested we attend this exhibition. Other things (drinking, eating, friends running marathons) got in the way but I feel that they didn't really miss too much. So disappointing was the exhibition.

So unfair to Rothko's legacy too, I'd add. There were no labels anywhere and no titles to the paintings and that led to such a dearth of context that I, depressingly if predictably, overheard one couple actually laughing at some of the paintings.

It's no way for a titan of the art world's work to be received - but then it was no way for it to be presented either. The Pace Gallery (now in Hanover Square, I made the initial mistake of turning up at the former location round the back of the RA so it was fortunate they'd only moved across Mayfair) is a decent enough gallery space. It used to be Blain/Southern and I'd seen, and enjoyed, exhibitions there. But it was not the right space for Rothko.

Rothko's history is a story in itself. Born in the former Russian Empire, Daugvapils in present day Latvia, in 1903, he moved to the US as a child and became, along with Clyfford Still, Barnett Newman, and Jackson Pollock, one of the founders of the Abstract Expressionist movement that had such a profound effect on American, and world, art.

Rothko didn't see his work as designed to provoke memories of experiences but as experiences in their own right. My friend Neill, a valuable influence on my art appreciation, spoke of people meditating in front of Rothkos, getting almost lost in the paint of the deeply layered colour fields, and there is even a chapel in Houston, Texas built expressly for this purpose.

I'd like to visit one day. I'm sure it will be a far more meaningful experience than wandering around three crowded rooms and thinking "oh, that's one orange and white on a yellow background, that one's very blue, that one's got more stripes than the others, and that one is quite dark. Perhaps Rothko was depressed when he painted it.

The fact he committed suicide in New York in 1970, aged sixty-six, suggests that he was, indeed, depressed. His Wikipedia page tells me he'd been advised by doctors to stop drinking and smoking heavily and to take some exercise. All of which he ignored. They also told him to no longer paint such large canvases and should limit himself to paintings less than a yard in height.

Which is the one piece of advice he seems to have taken on board and that, at least, explains the relatively small size of the works here. Perhaps Rothko was frustrated with this turn of affairs. It seems likely. If he was here now, fifty-one years after his death, it's quite likely he'd be frustrated at the Pace's hang, about the lighting, and, perhaps more than anything, about the people laughing at his work.

Perhaps he'd even be frustrated if, by some miracle, he read this review. That's a real shame. His work, and legacy, deserve better. The Pace Gallery show, for me, was a waste of time. To appreciate Rothko properly (as I did at that RA show back in 2016) visit Tate Modern's Rothko rooms or, if you can afford it, go to Houston and see the chapel.

This show tells you next to nothing. I've often been sniffy, or at least cynical, about how people view (in both meanings of that word) Rothko but this was far worse than putting him on a pedestal. I went to Simit Sarayi in Bond Street station and had a feta borek. It was lovely and justified the trip out far more than this weak showing of an excellent artist did. Ah well, got me out of the flat.