Untitled 1968

Editor: We're looking at Mark Rothko's *Untitled* from 1968, an oil on canvas piece. The two blocks of muted, deep color just kind of hang there, one above the other. There's a somberness to it. What strikes you most about this work? Curator: That somberness, as you say, is really at the heart of late Rothko. By '68, he was exploring these deeper registers of color. I often wonder if these works were painted, or brewed. See how the upper dark section isn't a solid black? It's more like a bruise, hinting at blues and purples trying to fight their way through. It's like looking into a soul undergoing immense pressure, wouldn't you agree? Editor: It does feel incredibly intense, but I’m also curious about why he abandoned titles later in his career. Is it a cop-out, or a deliberate choice? Curator: Abandonment isn't the right word. Maybe more of a…release. Titles can be so limiting, can't they? Rothko wanted the colors, the relationships between the blocks, to speak directly to the viewer, to bypass that verbal processor in our brains. Think of it this way: has a piece of music ever changed its meaning with the addition of lyrics? I wonder if Rothko worried about the art equivalent. Editor: I get it. So the painting's 'title' is really just… whatever I feel when I look at it. Curator: Exactly! It's an open invitation to reflect, not just to see. And that’s far more potent than any descriptive label, wouldn't you say? Editor: Definitely gives me a lot to think about. I appreciate that it's more of a feeling than an object, which is so intriguing. Curator: My pleasure. Maybe it also has a certain something to do with the artist's impending passing?