Rothko was an artist I learned about in college, but not through a class; he was my art mentor’s favorite artist and he was fascinated by the story of the Seagram murals. I remember very fondly, sitting outside on a break from the studio, covered in paint, sawdust, glue, and who knows what else listening to my instructor’s retelling of these events and not fully grasping it.

Two years later, I find myself in London, wandering around the Tate Modern when I stumble upon the Seagram room. I wasn’t looking for it, but found it anyway and upon entering that space I felt compelled to sit and just be with these paintings that were peering down at me in this dimly lit room; it was unsettling, and yet, I finally understood why Rothko was my mentor’s favorite painter.

The paintings made me feel something that was deep and difficult to describe. The only other time in my life that feeling has ever washed over me has been when I was on my way to visit the arches in Utah; the Canyon walls staring at me as I drove through them gave me the same turning of my gut as the Seagram room.
Flash forward to the now, my mentor, whom I loved very much, is no longer in my life, and I am left to shake my own fist at the world, make my own art and tell my own stories. When I read this play about an event that is so familiar to me, that sounds SO much like my own experience in an artist studio, I have to ask the question: “Why are men only playing these roles?”

This story is shared by many artists regardless of gender and it is my hope that you, the audience, see that too.

–Sarah Andrews