
Light in New York: We are Children of Mark Rothko and James Turrell — New York
Nov 2 · 2 min read
Memories of New York in autumn run through my head, flashes of light fold time, origami stars. The darkness of the cemetery lies naked next to the candy-orange glow of the wind-up flats. Of course it would be the sun’s brightest glimmer that reveals the darkest depths of our eyes. Then we are there like Rothko’s lights of painting, next to Turrell’s…
