I think in some ways the question is inapplicable to these creations. I tend to think the point, perhaps, is that there isn't anything to necessarily think about.
A painting of, say, the crucifixion from some Renaissance master is pretty straight forward in terms of what it's conveying and what we are to think and feel about it. But a lot of modern art is deliberately un-straight forward in terms of what it's trying to convey and how we are to react to it. Take Duchamp's Fountain, as you show us above. What the hell am I supposed to think when seeing some New York urinal? Who knows. Maybe even Duchamp doesn't know.
This is actually the reason why I don't like this kind of "art." It strikes me as a pointless waste of time, since art for me is transportative - it takes me out of myself for a short while - whereas staring at a urinal or some paint splotches on a canvas do not have such an effect. They mostly make me irritated. There are exceptions, of course, but modern art has always rubbed me the wrong way. — Thorongil
You seem to be lumping together abstract paintings with Duchamp's urinal, all under the category of "modern art". In doing so, there's a lot you will miss. Duchamp's urinal is one of the first examples of what we now call conceptual art. This is art that mocks artistry, skill, training and mastery, and renounces what was always fundamental in art: the artist as
maker, applying his or her hand to a material. Many conceptual works, like those of Damien Hirst, are not actually made by the artist; they are assembled by assistants or gallery staff according to the artist's instructions. When challenged on this practice Hirst speaks with contempt about those who apply their own artistry: "A man who is great with his hands might as well make macramé." Apparently it is the job of artists to create concepts. The true artist then, for Hirst, is now a kind of stunt philosopher.
When you complain about "modern art" what you don't see is that this conceptual stuff is a world away from what painters such as Rothko, Pollock, Kandinsky, and Picasso were doing. These were brilliant, immensely skilled people who were driven to stand in front of a canvas and make things (Picasso for instance is widely considered to be one of the most technically accomplished painters of the twentieth century). I would say, that is, that they were true artists.
I am not seeking to change your taste—there is no special reason why you should be interested in looking at colours and shapes and textures arranged in certain ways—but I
would like you to consider a different way of looking at abstract paintings, and at least recognize that, unlike charlatans such as Damien Hirst, these painters were doing something eminently, even traditionally artistic. They were making objects for people to look at, with their own hands, struggling to capture or explore aspects of nature and perceptual experience. These objects didn't usually have a message. They didn't usually try to tell stories. Rather, they invited people just to use their eyes, for the hell of it. What can be more straightforward than that?
Skilled, trained, and dedicated painters, who wanted to make a mark on the world, and who a hundred years before would have painted figuratively, wanted to try different ways of representing reality, or they wanted to explore, among many other things, the beauty, balance, and sense of energy, space, or movement that is achievable by the manipulation of basic forms and colours and textures. These paintings don't have to mean anything. Even so, I would class these artists as maintaining a millennia-long tradition, one of personal mastery and creativity.
It's easy to dismiss Pollock, but he didn't apply the paint randomly. His paintings were made with utmost care, and the result is expanses of paint with a buzzing sense of both harmony and chaos, fascinating to look at. And the Rothko, just look at it! Imagine the sheer optical pleasure of standing in front of that towering glowing canvas, and the intellectual satisfaction inherent in the experience of being confronted with one's own perception. People want to make such things because they see how deeply beauty runs through the world, right down to its basic constituents, and they have an urge to make things nobody has seen before, to extend the field of what can be made.
Even if you think abstraction is a blind alley, that a painting cannot be transportative without being figurative, it is really quite unfair on these painters to associate them with conceptual art.
And just where do you draw the line between the figurative and the abstract? What do you think of these landscapes by Turner, Cézanne, and Strindberg?
Maybe I can disarm you with an appeal to Schopenhauer. As you know, for him music was the highest art, and within the realm of music he placed
absolute music, which is not about anything in particular, above
program music, which is tied to a non-musical narrative (a love affair, the seasons of the year, and so on). Music, when done right...
...does not express this or that individual or particular joy, this or that sorrow or pain or horror or exaltation or cheerfulness or peace of mind, but rather joy, sorrow, pain, horror, exaltation, cheerfulness and peace of mind as such in themselves, abstractly… — Schopenhauer, WWR 289
If abstraction is so good in music, then why not in visual art? I'm not saying that it is equal to music in its range and depth, and it is true that abstract art cannot evoke the emotions as music can, but there is much it can do without the burden of narrative and representation. If Schopenhauer had lived later and been less temperamentally conservative I think he might have approved of abstract painting.
And perhaps,
@Bitter Crank, some of the above goes a way towards responding to your questions in the OP. I think I know what you mean when you say these works can seem, under a certain aspect, "empty and dull", though I don't think I agree.
There's something wonderful that John Cage once said:
When I hear what we call “music”, it seems to me like someone is talking; and talking about his feelings or about his ideas or relationships. But when I hear traffic, the sound of traffic, here on Sixth Avenue for instance, I don’t have the feeling that anyone is talking. I have the feeling that sound is acting. And I love the activity of sound. I don't need sound to talk to me, I'm completely satisfied with it by itself.
If I say that abstract art is somewhat akin to this attitude—for example I might say that painters no longer wanted their paintings to chatter at the spectator but instead
allow space and colour to act—then it might be asked, "so what?" Isn't this a bit vacuous, a bit non-committal? A bit empty and dull? My answer, other than "not really", will have to wait.