In China, there are an extraordinary number of museums. I recently visited the Zhejiang Art Museum in Hangzhou on a Sunday, and it was packed. 

There’s something deeply reassuring about seeing people visit museums. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but each time I watch someone step into a space dedicated to art, it fills me with a sense of hope for humanity. Perhaps it’s the simple act of taking time for contemplation that makes me feel like we still care about beauty, reflection, and our connection to the past.

For me, visiting a museum is more than just a casual pastime: it nourishes me. Every time I leave, I feel invigorated, as though something inside me has been reignited. It’s almost a physical sensation, similar to how I feel after a good massage. My blood flows better, my mind feels lighter, and my body straightens up. I walk with my back a little straighter, as if the weight of the world has lessened.

The world outside the museum appears more serene, more humane, as though the act of seeing art has soothed the edges of everyday life. Being in an art-filled space reshapes how I engage with reality, as if I’ve realigned myself with something bigger, something timeless.

At the Zhejiang Art Museum, several impressive exhibitions were on display, but one stood out: “Scenes Once Familiar”, featuring the oil paintings of Pan Honghai. Pan’s work has an unmistakable connection to street photography—his paintings capture everyday moments, the familiar landscapes of Jiangnan water towns, yet they aren’t candid; they’re staged, carefully composed, presenting life not as it is in a fleeting instant, but as a deliberate, thoughtful scene.

There’s a unique quality in this. While his work evokes the spontaneity of everyday life, there’s a controlled, almost dreamlike essence to it. It reminds me of the pastoral scenes painted by artists like Antoine Watteau, with a slight touch of the eroticism found in Jean-Honoré Fragonard. Though Pan’s subjects are rooted in contemporary Chinese life, there’s a sense of nostalgia, an idealized world, much like the elegant, idyllic rural moments in the Rococo visions of Fragonard and Watteau.

Like them, Pan doesn’t simply document reality—he transforms it. His paintings are imbued with a sense of control and emotional depth that moves beyond the immediate. What we see in his canvases isn’t just the present but a space where time stretches, where memories blend with the real, and the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

I left the museum that day, once again, with a sense that the world had become a little lighter, a little brighter. There’s something about art—and the act of witnessing it—that changes the way you see everything else.

A glimpse into my visit to the museum, capturing moments of art and reflection. Taken during a peaceful Sunday stroll through the exhibits.

Thank you for taking the time to read my reflections on the museum experience. I hope it inspires you to visit one soon and take a moment to enjoy the beauty that art can offer. It’s in these quiet spaces that we can reconnect with ourselves and the world around us. If you’ve had similar experiences, feel free to share your thoughts in the comments—I’d love to hear from you.