What we are seeing is the very moment when light emerges from the depths of darkness — not as a beam or object, but as being itself, dissolving the line between birth and existence.

At the center, fractured layers of blue and violet seem to ignite from within, as if the cosmos is remembering how to begin. Surrounding this core, golden light ascends gently — no longer imposed from above, but rising from within, diffused and softened by luminous veils that resemble both celestial mist and spiritual breath.

There is no sky, no ground — only the atmosphere of becoming. Cracks once read as surface now echo like primordial veins, holding the memory of pressure, expansion, and release. This is not an explosion — it is a quiet unfolding. A sacred pause before time begins.

Rather than depict a specific phenomenon, Birth of Light invites the viewer into that existential stillness — where light first realized it could be, and the cosmos took its first breath.

Herein lies Hokusai’s discerning eye for beauty.