Those familiar with the work of Agnes Martin know that her art can seem overwhelmingly simple. Her gridded paintings aren’t a traditionally beautiful landscape or portrait.
Martin’s work reminds me of something Rainbow Rowell once wrote: “art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.”
Her art can seem minimalistic. But there’s no denying that it fills its viewers with a feeling of something.
Admittedly, my favorite piece of hers is quite pleasing to look at. It’s a somber shade of blue, with dots inside of each square of a tightly gridded surface.
But Untitled (1965) also makes me feel. I have no way of knowing whether or not this was Martin’s intention, but her work fills me with a deep sense of loneliness.
