Recently I had the chance to spend a full day wandering through the Minneapolis Institute of Art, letting myself drift from gallery to gallery, following the quiet pull of curiosity. There’s a rare kind of magic in moving slowly through such a vast and varied collection—the feeling that time stretches just enough for you to notice the subtle pulse of creativity that hums in every corner.
I was particularly drawn to the Japanese art sections, where the careful craftsmanship and serene beauty of each piece held me in a quiet, meditative awe. The intricate patterns, delicate brushwork, and timeless sense of balance reminded me how art can speak across centuries and cultures.
As I moved through the Western galleries, I paused before works by some of my favorite artists: the raw intensity of Francis Bacon, the mastery of light and shadow in Rembrandt, the bold, expressive forms of Matisse and Picasso. There were really way too many to list! And then there was Van Gogh—a piece that first inspired me to pick up a brush. Standing in front of it, I felt the familiar spark of wonder, the same spark that first made me fall in love with painting.
With my own work returning to oil painting, I found myself keenly observing the ways this medium has been used over the centuries—how layers of pigment can convey texture, light, emotion, and energy. From the subtle glazes of Rembrandt to the thick, expressive strokes of Van Gogh, I was reminded of the endless possibilities the medium holds, and of the responsibility and joy that comes with exploring it.
Although I have visited this museum many times, this trip left me feeling especially humbled and awed. To be surrounded by such abundant creativity, to witness centuries of human imagination and skill in a single day, is a rare gift. I left with a renewed sense of possibility, a quiet gratitude, and a deepened love for the act of making art.
