What is this! My slow solo walk through the big rooms of Tate Modern suddenly came to a halt. I held my breath. No movement. Just a little tremble on the inside.
A huge red canvas dominated the entire room. Radiant colors. Deep red on another red. Vague at the edges. I let it all in.
“Mark Rothko, Number…,” read the little white label next to the painting. I was fifteen years old and had never heard his name before. But something within me got touched. I knew I had to stay where I was. Me and the painting.