First, there was the choosing of the painting. Of all Rothko's works, how can you pick just one? A few years back I followed "theDailyRothko" on Tumblr and, let me tell you- it's madness. I have over 200 Rothko's saved to my drafts folder. And after days and days of debate, I managed to narrow it down to three. One for the colour, another for the emotion and the third for it's pertinence to our class discussions of black and red. 

However, every time I began to write the words just wouldn't come. Not for lack of things to say, but for lack anything else to say. Every painting I picked simply said it all. The colors became catalysts that set off emotions that I could easily relate to class discussions. As is the nature of the game. But writing about art requires so much more than that. One must spend quality time with the work, really get to know it. It's not supposed to be so obvious. 

Therefore, I chose this one. Not for the color, emotion, pertinence -- but for its mystique.

A thin stroke of azure pulls the eye back, across the grassy, field-like region to a sky that's opaque and unforgiving. Blue bleeding from the edges of the beryl green expanse gives the illusion of a faint florescent glow somewhere in the great beyond. The feeling of a warm summer night, running in a field of freshly cut grass, nothing but moonlight radiating about you. It tempts you, pulls you in, only to be pushed away by the impenetrable murky green. Its strangeness is enticing, its lawlessness is enchanting. But, sooner or later, a thick fog of melancholy washes over you. You realize that summer is over, the nights are no longer warm, and the grass is teeming who knows what. 

From reminiscence to reality, Rothko's Untitled 1967, reveals both a seductiveness and soothing quality, never before seen in the color green.