Notes From the Studio: Light, Fear and The MET Cloisters

Welcome to Notes from the Studio, a new series where I share my reflections on art, creativity, and the quiet moments that shape my work.

I’ve always loved journaling, reading, and a forgotten love: writing essays. This space is a way to bring that part of me back, to slow down and think together.

This first entry began at The Met Cloisters, on a cold autumn day filled with color, culture, and stillness. It’s about light, fear, beauty, and what happens when everything that shouldn’t belong together somehow does.

Notes From the Studio: Light, Fear and The MET Cloisters

What is it about light that makes us stop? Is it beauty, or the reminder that beauty exists at all?

That day at The Met Cloisters, the light felt alive.It moved slowly through the stained glass, soft and golden, painting the cold gray walls with color. I stood there watching how it landed on the stone, how it changed everything it touched. It was the kind of light that makes you quiet, not because you have nothing to say, but because words feel unnecessary.

Why does light make me feel connected to something bigger? Maybe because it doesn’t belong to anyone. It moves, transforms, gives meaning to what it touches. And that’s what I want my art to do.

Inside the museum, people were celebrating Día de los Muertos. There was music, color, laughter, and a cold wind that carried the scent of marigolds through the arches. I remember thinking: What are we doing here, all of us, strangers, surrounded by medieval art and Mexican altars? It shouldn’t have made sense, but it did. It was humanity at its best, different worlds meeting in the same breath.

Can beauty exist inside contradiction? Maybe that’s where it truly lives.In Art & Fear, Bayles and Orland write,

“The seed of your next artwork lies embedded in the imperfections of your current piece.”

I think the same is true for us. Our harmony is born inside our mismatched edges.As I walked through the open courtyard, the air was cold, but the light was still warm. I thought about how, no matter the century or the culture, we’ve always used color and ritual to feel close to something sacred. Maybe art has always been our way of saying: I’m here. I’m alive. I’m trying to understand.

Why do I make art? It’s not a question I can answer fully, but that day, the light whispered something close: Because beauty anchors you. Because even in fear, even in confusion, the act of noticing is enough.

I left The Cloisters carrying that thought, that maybe art isn’t about permanence or perfection, but about illumination. About catching the moment when all the things that shouldn’t belong together suddenly do, and for a second, everything feels right.

“Maybe art isn’t about permanence or perfection, but about illumination”

Watch the visual diary from this day: here

If this reflection resonated with you, feel free to share your thoughts or reflections in the comments.

You can also find more essays like this under Notes from the Studio: a series about creativity, transformation, and finding beauty in the in-between.