the right and be powerless to resist its pull. Inspired by Robert Burton’s seventeeth-century book Anatomy of Melancholy , it measures more than 13 feet high and 53 feet wide and displays many of the hallmarks of Twombly’s genius, including his graffiti-like scrawlings, his appreciation for epic literature (he quotes Keats), and his uncanny ability to convey space and ephemerality. “Its appeal is that it takes you out of your moment of time,” says Josef Helfenstein, the director of the Menil Collection. “It doesn’t represent anything, but there are strong elements of destruction, very powerful moments of physical presence, and poetry.” Since Twombly’s death in July, at the age of 83, there has been renewed interest in the famously divisive (and press-shy) legend, who was born in Virginia but moved to Rome in 1957 (“a symbolic act” of his outsider status, says Helfenstein). The Renzo Piano–designed gallery, which Twombly provided the initial sketches for, feels even more sacrosanct now, as does its meditative crown jewel. “ Say Goodbye is vast in its layers of meaning, and it triggers different reactions,” says Helfenstein. “We’ve had visitors who have literally danced in front of it.”

HOUSTON

Rothko Chapel (1971)

MARK ROTHKO

In 1964 Houston philanthropists John and Dominique de Menil commissioned Mark Rothko to create a series of murals for a Catholic chapel that was to be designed by architect Philip Johnson and built on the University of St. Thomas campus. But that’s not exactly how things turned out. Johnson withdrew from the project after clashing with Rothko on the plans. The de Menils decided to build the sanctuary, which they intended to use as an interfaith gathering space, on property they owned in Montrose. And Rothko, who wrote to the couple that the project “exceeds all of my preconceptions,” never saw the chapel: he committed suicide a year before it was completed. Despite this inauspicious beginning, the sanctuary has since become one of the most visited pilgrimage sites in the state. Though the brick building’s exterior is as humdrum as a DMV office’s, the interior is a different story. Standing in an intimate octagonal cocoon, you are surrounded by Rothko’s fourteen gigantic rectangles of black pigment. As you stare into the nearly monochromatic canvases, subtleties of color rise to the surface, and your eye begins to pick up on underlying purples, maroons, and deep browns. Though the paintings are devoid of images or symbols—or perhaps because of this—they’re like Rorschach tests: everyone sees something different in the inky surfaces, a fact that matches up with the de Menils’ ecumenical vision. As Dominique said to the crowd who gathered forty years ago for the chapel’s dedication, “We are cluttered with images, and only abstract art can bring us to the threshold of the divine.”

NASHER SCULPTURE CENTER, DALLAS

Tending, (Blue) (2003)

JAMES TURRELL

One of the most beloved works of art in Dallas is tucked away in a terraced hill in the back of the Nasher Sculpture Center’s garden. To access James Turrell’s site-specific “skyspace,” you pass through a small illuminated vestibule into a room that is lined with stone benches and has a square aperture cut into its roof. The opening, which measures nine and a half feet across, is framed by a rim so thin it’s hard to perceive depth. In addition, programmed permutations of red, blue, green, and yellow lights bathe the smooth ceiling. The resulting optical effects—colors appear more intense, the sky seems close enough to touch—are spellbinding. “On a clear day, it looks like there is a color-field painting above you or as if the sky has been pulled, like a sheet, across the opening,” says Jed Morse, the Nasher’s curator. Unfortunately, clouds and the occasional bird aren’t the only things you can see from inside the contemplative space these days: a 42-story condo development going up nearby has begun to obstruct the view. This means Tending, (Blue) has been temporarily closed, but visitors need not fear—Turrell is devising a new concept that the museum hopes to implement as soon as possible. “This work is of particular significance for Turrell because it introduced several of his innovations,” says Morse. “He’ll make sure that it continues in some way.”

MUSEUM OF FINE ARTS, HOUSTON

Portrait of a Young Woman (1633)

REMBRANDT VAN RIJN

No one knows for sure who she was. But this flame-haired woman, who had her likeness captured by a 27-year-old Dutch painter named Rembrandt, invites continual scrutiny. Her portrait, painted onto an oval wood panel, is a well-​preserved example of Rembrandt’s technical prowess and begs for closer inspection—much to the dismay of the security guards at the MFAH, which purchased the work in 2004 for somewhere around $14 million. You’ll want to pore over every nuance, from the ultrafine touches of hair at her temple to the thick sweeps of white across her collar. Though Rembrandt was prolific, producing hundreds of paintings and etchings and thousands of drawings, Portrait of a Young Woman is one of only two of the old master’s paintings on permanent view in Texas. (The other is Bust of a Young Jew at the Kimbell.) Rembrandt “was able to evoke a personal presence beyond that of the more static portraits of his peers,” writes Edgar Peters Bowron, the MFAH’s Audrey Jones Beck curator of European art. “It is easy to see why the artist was in such demand at this moment of his career.”

•••••

Art © Estate of Robert Rauschenberg/Licensed by VAGA, New York, NY

The 
Rauschenberg 
Roundup

A PRIMER ON THE TEXAS MASTER AND WHERE TO SEE HIS WORKS

There were early signs that Milton Ernest Rauschenberg, born in Port Arthur in 1925, had a creative bent: when he was ten he painted his bedroom with red fleurs-de-lis, and in high school he designed theater sets. But incredibly, Rauschenberg (who changed his name to Robert as an adult) didn’t lay eyes on his first painting until he was a nineteen-year-old Navy medical technician stationed in