Red on Maroon, 1959. I scribbled it down in my notebook, Red on Maroon, Mark Rothko, RMMR, it was at this moment that I became aware of myself, I felt vulnerable. I looked down at my tablet: now covered in girlish cursive, peppered with sentimental displays of adolescent lust: hearts. What was happening to me? I devolved into a girl, a girl I never was! When I was fifteen, I sported Chuck Taylors and took myself very seriously, I thought I came into the world fully formed and with a raised fist. I made fun of the girls that drew hearts on notebooks.
I was in a room full of people, all participating in the same experience, but I felt singled out. It was like high school all over again, I was caught staring at my crush. Only this time, all I could do was relax my mouth and let saliva have its way with me. I uncomfortably tried to manage this cocktail of hormones, and deal with my inability to control my motor skills! But, at least people are leaving me alone, I must have looked "touched".
In short, it only takes half an hour to reduce yourself to scribbles and drool; this event will be endlessly haunting as I approach my elder years, and it becomes daily practice. However, that experience changed how, and why, I enjoy the event of looking. Time literally stood still, I was unaware of my own bodily functions, I was blissfully drunk through sight. At first, I have to admit, I was nervous. This piece had been built up so much in my head, there was definitely celebrity factor: the reproductions, the verbal discussion, its place in history... But, when it was finally just the two of us, it all made sense. And I think he got me, too.
(The author has been waiting by the phone for him to call, no word yet on the outcome.)
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