The Cloisters, Fort Tryon Park

Childhood memories and medieval time immemorial in the stone walls.

High up in the heights of Manhattan schist, where the subway is so far underground one takes an elevator down to it.

A castle built by the rich, the plundering the of 13^th Century, pillar by pillar, stone by stone, statue by statue. Not to mention the tapestries to warm the walls.
The rooms feel heavy. Maybe it is the centuries of religious prayers, guilt, hope and fears that took place around the altars and objects on display.

But the Merode Room, a revelation and a lightness, a spiritual experience. The Master of Flemalle, indeed. 1428 altarpiece. So so finely seen, so finely painted. 

That candle, just extinguished by the angel, a wisp of smoke remaining. 

Marking the moment just past the immaculate conception, forever.

Being in its presence is divine, even with the thin glass separating its soul from my breath of now.