Rothko

The artist had heard the name “Rothko” mentioned in tangent with critiques of his work more times than he could count, and this was purely nonsense because Rothko did not invent the rectangular shape, and Rothko simply did not have the paint that the artist did, for no other artist ever thought of using rat’s blood. The painting in front of him not only incorporated rectangles, but circles with a maroon tint that he had created by blending his paint with blackberries. His eyes directed his fingers as to where to move, so fixated that his ears hardly processed the doorbell’s ring. The artist hadn’t been expecting anyone to join him for lunch today. The artist left the paintbrush and went to the door, greeted by a man that he hoped to never see again. He entered the studio without an invitation. “Still making the Rothko’s, I see?” he remarked with a sly grin as if he had said something clever. Suddenly, the artist knew what would stop anyone from comparing him to a Rothko again as he ran his paint scraper across the man’s neck, unboxing the finest paint that he had ever set his eyes on.