Not much was expected that morning. I left my house without a map or any plans, just a vague idea to walk for a while and see something different, something beyond the usual echo of routine. Somehow, I ended up at the Cultural Museum of Carabobo almost by accident, like someone seeking shelter from the sun without realizing they were about to stumble into something much bigger than themselves. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I felt that thick silence only found in places that hold true beauty. It wasn’t a solemn quiet, but one that keeps you company, matches your pace, and lets you look around without rush. I entered as if I owed nothing, and left owing myself a new way of seeing what surrounds me.
Walking through rooms that seemed to hold other eras, and others that screamed present day with almost electric colors, I was surprised by the curation, the cleanliness of the spaces, the lack of chaos. Maybe I expected disorder or neglect, but instead found a living structure, cared for and free. The lighting was exact, the paintings seemed to breathe on their own, and there were no guides telling you how to feel. It felt like walking through a conversation without an owner, where each piece whispered quietly to whoever chose to listen. That’s what I liked. I liked not having to fake interest or pretend an intellectual stance. I was simply myself, looking.
Seeing the works of Soto made me think about movement. Not just the kinetic, but the need to see things from different angles in order to understand. Reveron, on the other hand, gave me that dirty, luminous nostalgia, like remembering something you never lived but still feel. Some names I knew, others I didn’t, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was what happened between my eyes and their strokes, between my body and the space. Sometimes I paused longer in an empty room than in the most recognized piece. I took pictures, yes, but with respect, keeping distance. Not because a sign said so, but because something inside me understood that some things aren’t to be touched.
Finding a place to walk without hurry, without anyone pushing or setting the pace, felt rare. Quiet moments like that are hard to come by, where you can just be. The museum wasn’t crowded, but not empty either. There were children, older women, a few lost tourists. Still, we all seemed to move with an unspoken agreement, as if the art set its own rhythm. Thoughts came to Venezuela, what we are, what we’ve been, and I wondered if that was also painted on the walls. In part, yes. But also, there was what we could be if we learned to look without fear. Maybe that’s why the experience moved me more than expected.
Unexpectedly, it became an emotional discovery. Something simple yet profound. I didn’t leave transformed or crying, no exaggeration there. But I walked away with a clear feeling that beauty still exists in places people don’t often look. You don’t have to travel thousands of miles to find something worth holding onto. Sometimes just stepping into a local museum and letting yourself be carried away is enough. I left walking like I arrived, but with a different light inside. Not a blazing one, but a quiet glow, like those paintings that keep speaking even after you’ve stopped looking.
All photographs and content used in this post are my own. Therefore, they have been used under my permission and are my property.
