The Indianapolis Museum of Art at Newfields is a place where time stretches and bends. Wandering its halls, I felt the hush of history settle over me, punctuated by the quiet conversation of colors and forms. Each room held a different kind of magic—some radiant, some brooding, all speaking in the universal language of art. I had come with anticipation, knowing that I would finally stand before Sunlight by Frank Weston Benson and The Fifth Plague of Egypt by J. M. W. Turner, but the museum offered far more than I had expected.
Benson’s Sunlight (1909) – A Study in Radiance
If ever a painting could capture the golden haze of a summer afternoon, it is Sunlight. Benson’s young woman stands with an effortless grace, her white dress catching the warmth of the sun in shades of lemon and soft blues. She is poised yet unguarded, the embodiment of a fleeting moment of peace. Seeing her in person, I was struck by the way the brushwork seems both precise and spontaneous, as though Benson painted not just what he saw but what he felt.
I have always admired how Impressionist painters depict light, but Benson’s work holds something even more special—a sense of intimacy. The background dissolves into loose brushstrokes, mere suggestions of landscape, reinforcing that what truly matters is the subject: a woman, alone with the sun. I stood before it for a long while, watching the light shift across its surface, thinking about how art captures not just moments, but the very feeling of being alive in them.
Turner’s The Fifth Plague of Egypt (1800) – Light as Wrath
Where Sunlight is soft and welcoming, The Fifth Plague of Egypt is grand and unrelenting. Turner’s storm churns with impending disaster, the sky suffused with a light that is not gentle but consuming. The scene is biblical in scope—literally, as it depicts the plague of pestilence upon Pharaoh’s lands—but it is also, unmistakably, Turner’s own interpretation of power and destruction.
Standing before it, I was overwhelmed by the sheer force of the painting. The city in the background is bathed in an eerie glow, half-shrouded in golden light that feels more like judgment than salvation. The figures in the foreground, bowed and desperate, seem insignificant beneath the sky’s oppressive weight. Turner understood the raw power of nature, the way it dwarfs human existence. Seeing this piece in person confirmed what I have always suspected about his work—he does not just paint landscapes; he paints inevitabilities.
More Than Just the Expected
Though I had come for these two, other works reached out to me unexpectedly, proving once again that a great museum visit is as much about discovery as it is about reunion.
Childe Hassam’s The South Ledges, Appledore (1913)
Hassam’s impressionist touch has always felt deeply American to me—loose, free, capturing motion and moment rather than strict realism. The South Ledges, Appledore is no exception. The scene is simple: a woman in white (echoing Benson’s subject) stands on the rocky shore of the Isles of Shoals, the sea stretching infinitely beyond her. What makes it striking is Hassam’s mastery of color—the blues and greens of the water vibrate with movement, while the warm rocks contrast with the cool brightness of the sky. It feels like summer distilled onto canvas, wind and salt and sunlight captured in dabs of paint.
Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait (1629)
Coming across a Rembrandt self-portrait is always a moment to pause. In this early work, his expression is young but knowing, his gaze sharp yet weary. The chiaroscuro—the signature play of light and shadow—is immediate and dramatic, the highlights on his face cutting through the darkness like a single candle flickering in a shadowed room. Seeing Rembrandt up close, you realize how much he understood himself, even at a young age. Every brushstroke reveals something about the man behind it—his confidence, his doubts, his relentless self-examination.
Georgia O’Keeffe’s White Flower (1930s)
O’Keeffe’s flowers are famously sensual, but White Flower felt different in person—less about intimacy, more about space. The petals unfurl with an almost geometric precision, stark against a dark background. In a museum full of classical works, O’Keeffe’s modernity felt like a moment of silence—a deep breath, an exhale. Her work has a way of demanding attention through restraint, of turning something small into something monumental.
A Place of Unexpected Resonance
There were countless other pieces that caught my eye—Dutch still lifes that held entire worlds in a bowl of fruit, sculptures that seemed impossibly alive, abstract works that buzzed with energy. Some spoke in loud declarations; others murmured their truths quietly.
That is the joy of a museum visit—expecting to be moved by certain pieces and instead finding yourself drawn into entirely new conversations. I left with my mind full, my senses overwhelmed, and my thoughts still lingering in the spaces between paintings, in the gaps where memory and experience collide. The light of Sunlight, the storm of The Fifth Plague of Egypt, the quiet intensity of Rembrandt’s gaze—all of it stayed with me.
As I stepped back into the Indiana cold, I realized that art has a way of following you. And I was glad to carry these moments with me.
