Mojabe by Norman Bluhm (1966)

A slash of cadmium red cuts across the canvas. Norman Bluhm’s Mojabe is here, raw and unfiltered. Thick black lines coil around pools of ochre and cerulean, like vines strangling a forgotten ruin. The red isn’t just a color—it’s a wound, a pulse, something alive. Beneath it, layers of white and gray flicker, half-erased, as if the painting itself is breathing. Hang it where the morning light hits the wall. The red will wake before you do.