The first day of June 1950 was a Thursday. A day he would always remember. The day he was reborn. As a child. As an artist. His wife Mell woke up before him, opened the window of their room and let the early breeze of the eternal city flow into the room. Then she crawled back into bed smiled at him and said. "I'm pregnant". He smiled back at her silently, gave her a long kiss and got up. He put on his shirt, pants and slippers and left to buy something to drink. Good news need to be celebrated. The city was still empty. He walked the surrounding streets to the bar where they usually had their morning coffee hoping they would sell him a bottle of wine. Suddenly he noticed something he had never seen before. The Roman walls. It was like seeing them for the first time. They all had spots that were painted over with smaller and larger rectangles. Not in the same color, not in a different color, but in a similar color. The whole city was a huge palette of infinite reds and browns that changed with the different light of day and made him feel like he was living in a warm metropolitan cave. A womb.
ROTHKO IN ROME / Roma 11/21