This moment lives on Ocean Avenue, on my way to the art store—a road I’ve taken so many times that I stopped seeing it, until one evening I didn’t. The sun was lowering itself behind the hill, and suddenly the entire street became something else. The cars paused at the intersection, suspended in warm orange light, while long violet shadows stretched across the pavement. The hill hid the sun just enough to let its presence be felt rather than seen. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. But it was complete. I remember sitting there, not in a hurry anymore, watching how the light simplified everything into shapes and color.

I painted this because I didn’t want to lose that feeling—the sense that even the most ordinary routines carry moments of unexpected beauty. This crossing is not just a place between one destination and another. It is a reminder that we are always moving through light, whether we notice it or not. On my way to buy materials to create something new, I was reminded that the real work had already happened. The light had already painted everything for me. All I had to do was stop, see it, and carry it home.