Untitled 1947

Mark Rothko made this painting with layers of oil paint, where fuzzy-edged rectangles emerge from the surface, kind of like a memory. I can imagine him, brush in hand, coaxing these forms into existence, one layer at a time, never quite sure where they will end up. I wonder if Rothko felt like he was wrestling with the canvas, trying to pin down something that was just out of reach. He keeps layering those rectangles, making them glow with an inner light. The browns and reds feel earthy, solid, but then that band of blue appears and opens up something deeper, like a window onto the soul. Look at the soft edges of the forms. They seem to breathe and vibrate, creating this sense of movement and uncertainty, as though they could dissolve into the ether at any moment. These colors are like old friends talking, continuing a conversation that was started by Matisse and Bonnard, but with a new, uniquely Rothko-esque vocabulary. It reminds me that artists don't work in a vacuum, and their works are always in dialogue with each other.