I love the outside big-light. I hate the inside big-light.
During the day I want as much sunlight as possible. I want to be soaked in it. I want it to fill the room. As soon as the sun goes down, I want as little light as possible, especially from right above me.
I don’t know when I first noticed this about myself, only that I can’t remember a time before it. Perhaps I was born hating the big light. If I bothered to Google it, I suspect that would be the consensus.
It’s a visceral feeling—both my love of sunlight and my hate of overhead, bright-white artificial light. I feel pure joy when soaked in sunlight and borderline-distressed whenever I’m subjected to that big light in the ceiling—as if it’s a beam from an unfriendly extraterrestrial and I’m about to embark on an unwanted adventure.
The perfect artificial light comes from 1-3 warm-toned lamps, casting just enough light to go about your business, but no more. If I could afford both the money and the risk, I’m sure that I’d simply light hundreds of candles every evening instead (unfortunately or fortunately, I cannot).
My love for sunlight and distaste for artificial light means that I spend an odd amount of time thinking about light. It’s the reason that I enjoy yellow quite so much, perhaps—sunlight that I can draw and organize and surround myself with, even when the sun goes down.
Creating an environment that brings you joy is one of the kindest things that you can do for yourself. You don’t always get to do this, of course, and when you share an environment you have to compromise—but all the more reason to surround yourself with small reminders.
Lately I’ve taken to standing in my office—the only light coming from my Benq ScreenBar Pro set to the warmest tone—staring at my art that I’ve increasingly started to make only in yellow. The kind of yellow that feels like sunlight at golden hour. The kind of sunlight I love.