Mark Rothko untitled

After the exceptionally delicious orange experience, I was so elated, I thought I’d try it again, this time with something more abstract, and I hit upon a painting presumably by Mark Rothko. Though the canvas was large, one never really understands the scale until one portals into the scene, and with something essentially abstract, who knows? I was interested in more than the size: I wondered if the there would be a sense of heat or cold. That fiery red-orange between cool green. Would the green above and below lend a swampy air to the sunburnt middle? I understood the dangers of attempting to attribute anything beyond shape and color to an abstract work of art, but I couldn’t help thinking that the bottom panel was some kind of bench, and I could sit or lie upon it. I approached cautiously. I lifted my leg. I stepped in.

No scent especially. But heat, yes, a fuzzy, frizzly growl of a glow encompassed me. And below, oh my! A liquid loveliness like nothing so much as a lover’s kiss. Pure tease, though, and after a while of waiting, I had to take action. Abstraction only goes so far. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.