The theory is that if subtlety is taken to extremes what remains to be seen must be so intrinsic to the process that it cannot be eliminated.
But if the theory reduces the range of deviation within the whole to almost nothing then how can anyone discern the even smaller range we refer to as genius that lays between under-doing and over-doing?
Two rectangles, two large rectangles, one the color of white socks after they have been washed several times with your dark shirts. The other is painted an equally discouraging shade of a green which gives off the heavy savor of a pasture in late summer, near dusk, somewhere in the past where an old forest grows near and casts its shadow upon the field that is beside and a bit below. The kind of green that prompts any reliable Carpathian governess to gather up her clutch of little virgins and return them to the castle.
Two rectangles, one on top of the other, press an off-tilted wrenching almost sick-at-sea. You are inclined to tip the frame a bit to set it even; but still there is this torque between the horizontal and the vertical that forces you to rotate the canvas once again. And then again. Until you realize that balance is impossible. Peace a lost art. No matter how you twist the frame you will always “see” a rectangle but always “feel” a square.
“Green on Maroon” painted by Mark Rothko in 1961 at the Museo Thyssen Bornemisza, Madrid, Spain