Rothko is now one of those mythical artists, an icon of 20th century creativity, the central figure in a tragic legend. Which means to say that one is pretty much compelled to agree that everything he did was wonderful, a manifestation of genius. I have to say that I find myself increasingly resistant to this approach.
Some works by Rothko I do in fact respond to, with their glowing blocks of color. Even then, however, I find myself resistant to the suggestion, promoted by the artist himself, that his paintings are somehow to be thought of as devotional objects. Spirituality may have been the aim, but the exact nature of that spirituality always remained cannily undeclared.