Untitled c. 1944

Mark Rothko made this painting on a sheet, using ink and watercolor. I can imagine him standing over it, his arm swooping across the page, making those dark, bold lines—the kind that seem to want to grab the whole composition and pull it into focus. Looking at this, I wonder if Rothko felt like he was wrestling with something intangible, something just out of reach? I see the ghost of shapes and figures, half-formed and floating in a dreamy blue haze. The watercolor is thin, washy, letting the paper breathe beneath it. But then those black lines come crashing in, full of doubt, anger, and maybe even a little bit of playful energy. I am reminded of other artists who were similarly possessed, like Philip Guston. It feels like they are all in a secret conversation across time. A conversation about what it means to be human, to be uncertain, and to keep searching for meaning in a world that doesn't always make sense.