Red Bird 1964

Agnes Martin’s 'Red Bird', at the MoMA, whispers with delicate lines drawn on paper. I imagine Agnes, with ruler in hand, carefully plotting each line, a meditation in blush tones. The pale red almost disappears into the creamy surface, like a faint memory or a blush rising to the surface of the skin. It's not a shout, but a murmur. Think of the hand moving ever so slightly—imperfections in the lines suggesting a pulse, a breath. The overall grid is so incredibly still. I see this as part of a wider conversation, a push and pull between control and chance, precision and feeling. Like the drawings of Sol LeWitt, yet somehow softer, more human. Martin invites us to slow down, to really see, and to find the extraordinary in the ordinary, reminding us that art is not just about what is there, but what we bring to it.