rothko face

He wondered if his face warranted the kind of close reading you’d give to a Kandisky or a Klee, but he hoped to God no one thought of him as a Rothko. The thought of someone plopping down one of those meditation pillows at his feet, sitting on it, and proceededing to inhale slowly, exhale slowly, always counting the breaths, always breathing always from the belly or the base of the spine, only to begin weeping uncontrollably – this thought made him want to dissolve his form into something resembling one of De Kooning’s terrying women. How he’d rise from the canvas, a child’s doodle of a monster with jagged-razor teeth and lidless eyes . . .