Mothlight (2025)

Mothlight captures the fragile quiet of illumination, the kind that flickers softly at the edge of darkness. A pale figure, her skin ghostly under a cold blue glow, stands surrounded by white moths that seem both alive and spectral. Their wings scatter faint light across her face, catching her in a moment between awakening and disappearance. Her gaze drifts somewhere unseen, detached yet transfixed, as if she has become part of the very light she’s drawn to.

⤷ Cox’s Mothlight feels like a study in vulnerability and quiet obsession. The palette, stripped of warmth, gives the painting its haunting, lunar quality: a world lit by reflection rather than flame. The moths serve as emblems of fragile desire, creatures that seek brightness, knowing it burns. Their presence around the woman suggests communion rather than danger, as though she, too, has accepted the inevitability of her pull toward the light.

The atmosphere is one of suspended breath. Darkness surrounds everything, yet never swallows. In this piece, light does not save — it simply reveals what cannot hide.