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Nature doesn鈥檛 work for me. The light鈥檚 no good. (Ken is amused.) All those bugs 鈥� ach! I know, those plein air painters, they sing to you endless paeans about the majesty of natural sunlight. Get out there and muck around in the grass, they tell you, like a cow. When I was young I didn鈥檛 know any better so I would haul my supplies out there and the wind would blow the paper and the easel would fall over and the ants would get in the paint. Oy ... But then I go to Rome for the first time. I go to the Santa Maria del Popolo to see Caravaggio鈥檚 Conversion of Saul, which turns out is tucked away in a dark corner of this dark church with no natural light. It鈥檚 like a cave. But the painting glowed! With a sort of rapture it glowed. Consider: Caravaggio was commissioned to paint the picture for this specific place, he had no choice. He stands there and he looks around. It鈥檚 like under the ocean it鈥檚 so goddamn dark. How鈥檚 he going to paint here? he turns to his creator: 鈥淕od, help me, unworthy sinner that I am. Tell me, O Lord on High, what the fuck do I do now?!鈥� (Ken laughs.) Then it comes to him: the divine spark. He illuminates the pictures from within! He gives it inner luminosity. It lives ... Like one of those bioluminescent fish from the bottom of the ocean, radiating its own effulgence. You understand? Caravaggio was 鈥�(He abruptly stops. Ken looks at him. Beat. Rothko stares at his painting. He tilts his head. Like he鈥檚 listening. Like he鈥檚 seeing something new in the painting.) Bring me the second bucket. (Ken, excited, brings him a brush and a bucket of dark maroon paint.)