Recently, I was playing a board game with a good friend when, out of nowhere, the name Mark Rothko came up. I immediately perked up—there was no way anyone else at the table knew who he was, right? Rothko’s work tends to divide people, so in my enthusiasm, I jumped at the chance to explain his approach. But the response I got was one I’ve heard plenty of times before: Why is that considered art?
What makes something art? It’s not a simple question to answer. It’s one of those questions that opens up a much bigger conversation about what we value, how we see the world, and who gets to decide what counts as meaningful. Some people look at a Mark Rothko painting—huge fields of color blending together, no clear subject, no obvious “skill” in the traditional sense—and their first reaction is, I don’t get it. Or worse, I could paint that.
The short answer? No, you couldn’t.
Mark Rothko – Untitled (Yellow, Orange, Yellow, Light Orange) – Sold at Christie’s recently for $46,410,000
I’m not saying that because I think you’re untalented, but because making something simple and powerful is actually incredibly hard. A child with a paintbrush might cover a canvas in color, but Rothko’s work wasn’t random. It was deliberate. Every shade, every edge, every contrast was carefully chosen to evoke something specific—often a feeling of deep emotion, even spiritual weight. Whether or not you personally feel that standing in front of one of his paintings doesn’t change the fact that others do. That’s the thing about art: it isn’t about proving anything objectively. It’s about connection. Some people will feel something, some won’t. And that’s okay.
The real mistake is assuming that art should always be something specific––pretty, realistic, recognizable, skillful. There’s this idea that great art is judged somehow by technical skill or it needs to show off technical mastery, the way a hyper-realistic portrait does. But that’s a very narrow way of thinking about art and being an artist. Skill isn’t just about precision; it’s also making someone feel a certain way. It’s about understanding composition, color, space, and tension—things that aren’t necessarily flashy but make a piece work in a way that feels almost inevitable when you see it. It’s actually incredibly difficult.
That’s why abstract art is often misunderstood. The cleaner, messier, or the more abstract it looks, the more people assume it must have been made by someone with no artistic talent. But try it. Try to paint something minimal and balanced and actually make it work—not just as decoration, but as something that holds your attention, that creates a mood, that makes a space feel different when it’s in the room. You’ll find out pretty quickly that it’s not as easy as it looks.
Mark Rothko – Untitled – Sold at Christie’s recently for $31,275,000
And yet, not everyone is going to care. That’s the other part of this conversation that matters. Art is incredibly personal. What moves one person might leave another cold. Maybe it’s meant to actually make you connect with a negative feeling and many people will be repulsed by that. What some see as deep and profound, others dismiss as empty nonsense. That’s not a flaw in the system. That’s just how taste works. In the end, appreciation is really about empathy. It’s about recognizing that just because you don’t love something doesn’t mean it lacks value. It just means it wasn’t made for you. And in a free society, that’s the way it should be.
No single person or institution gets to decide what counts as art. We all do, in different ways, by engaging with it, responding to it, arguing about it. Some works stand the test of time, others don’t. But if something speaks to even a small group of people—if it makes them feel something, think differently, pause for a moment—then it’s doing its job. Dismissing that just because it doesn’t personally resonate with you is like saying a song isn’t music because it’s not in your favorite genre.
Mark Rothko – Untitled – Sold at Christie’s recently for $17,565,000
What’s also frustrating for many people is why Mark Rothko left many of his paintings untitled. It isn’t because he was lazy or unable to do it. His paintings had deep meaning for him. The reason he didn’t want to title his art is because he didn’t want to dictate how people should experience them. He was deeply invested in the idea that art should create an emotional and almost spiritual response, and slapping a specific title on a piece would nudge viewers toward a fixed interpretation. If a painting were called Despair or Hope, for example, the audience might feel pressured to search for those exact emotions rather than engaging with the work in a more personal way. Rothko’s goal was to remove barriers between the viewer and the art, and sometimes, words can be barriers. Instead of guiding people with labels, he wanted them to just stand in front of the canvas, absorb it, and have their own reaction—whether that was awe, discomfort, or even indifference.
Of course, it wasn’t just about avoiding overly prescriptive titles. Rothko saw his paintings as experiences rather than objects, and a name could make them feel too much like products. He famously resisted the idea that his work was purely about color or form; for him, those elements were just the medium for something much bigger—intangible but deeply felt. And while some of his pieces do have titles, even those are often vague or functional, like No. 14 or Red on Maroon. It’s not that he was trying to be elusive for the sake of it; he simply believed that meaning should come from the interaction between the painting and the person looking at it, not from a pre-packaged explanation. Rothko trusted his audience enough to let them find their own way in.
Mark Rothko – Number 14
At the end of the day, abstract art—and really, all art—isn’t about proving anything. It’s about experience. It’s about curiosity. It’s about opening yourself up to perspectives beyond your own. And even if you walk away from a Rothko painting still not understanding why people love it, the fact that you’re asking the question at all means the art has value.