In the modern art wing at the Art Institute of Chicago hangs a painting that is, literally, entirely black.  An over 100 foot square of canvas painted in nothing more--and nothing less--than black.  Some might say that this is not art, but nonsense.  Others might opine that while it may be the work of an artist, it is not art on the scale of a Degas or Picasso.  But some will say that it is indeed art.  Why?  We could cite a number of reasons, but one way to think about an entirely black canvas is to say that it, in its own way, is representing the nature of existence.  Existence is a mystery, indeed, a mystery that, though it overflows with brightness and light, is ultimately beyond comprehension.  Yet before existence ever was (or ever "existed"), there was a greater mystery still.  There was emptiness, there was nothingness, there was the utter darkness of a total lack of "somethingness."  In the artist's picture of black, we see the darkness of our own origins.  Not necessarily darkness in an physical sense, but an epistemological one:  how do we know why we are here?
     Maybe that's why the black canvas:  in the end, we're captives of mystery.  Ah, but what an exciting one.  Just think:  without a sense of mystery, we would not know that we are not everything that is.