On Rothko's No.3 / No.13

Went to the MoMA yesterday. Spotted this Rothko. Peered here and there. Set pen to paper.



No.3 / No.13

A parrot of a painting. We are drawn immediately to the twilight of the center zip—cool, crepuscular, merging cream into the profoundest purple—the deep purple of sleep, of death: a pool of nocturnal quiet. And yet how vivacious! bright coral, green grass: all pools of being. We are engulfed by the dreams, the jungles, the clouds of youth, to be deserted in the thickness of the night. We are dazzled, distracted, doomed. And a sense of foreboding—a deep, black denizen lingers above us, seeping into to the mind, blinding one, silencing one, gorging on the light.