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Nothing Beyond The Dream

The wall with Rothko's multiform work is broken only by his Violet, Green and Red, 1951, the vertical longer than the horizontal, I like its looming presence. The pristine white border accentuates wavering, separate colored lines, how it disperses what bears down on me; not solitude, that too intellectual a word for how my gut feels. It is closer to loneliness, being alone in a strange town though I have lived here for decades, but not so long as Mark's life of sixty-six years.

I have disposed of clutter in my life, the print the singular feature on an otherwise naked-walled apartment. Pleasure builds whenever I watch, yes, watch the print with its vibration and assent. I keep an eye on the loneliness factor, how it shifts surrounded as I am with blank walls except for the distinguished one, colors inflating my courage to get through another day.

Rising with the sun, sitting in a rocker, I say, gotcha, and point my forefinger at the Rothko. How focused the print is as it directs attention to me as I to it, both it and I no longer alone, observer and observed, out of which emerges the living and the dead. How we inhabit shared spaces of color, wounds bleeding us to zero.

What else but to wake up another morning? I watch Rothko's dream conceal the nothing beyond.

Story by:

George Sparling

2 September 2013