I'd like to claim it as my favorite time of day, but really that'd just be a disservice to the other twenty three (give or take) hours. However, dusk - especially during fall - is something I've always looked forward to. When I was younger it meant that I'd be going to soccer practice soon, warm, natural light fading in favor of cool, artificial stadium lights. Now it usually aligns with the end of my work day.
Thanks to early darkness coupled with colder temperatures, isolation becomes an inherent part of this time of year. Not to mention that the holidays summon our dutiful, self-evaluations, "Where was I this time last year? Where will I be this time next ____?" It's only natural we become introspective in our isolation. Be it on our walk home from work with just the company of crunching leaves or simply sitting in an armchair watching the sun duck below the trees.
Personally I've always welcomed this specific type of sadness. Well, maybe it's more of a melancholy. Dusk ends up being an ideal time to let you mind go widescreen, look at the bigger questions, or to play through your mental memory reel. You can only half-picture the past, and simply guess at the future. Dusk let's us exist on the cusp, suspended in the in-between.
Edward Hopper's 'House at Dusk' beautifully captures this melancholy. We see the top floor of an apartment building as the light begins to fade to night. The only person visible is a woman seated in an orange armchair. All of the other windows are half-shaded, empty. Our eyes follow the path from the bottom right corner to the foot of an opaque line of trees - resulting in a vague sense of dread. What lies within/beyond their reach? It's a quiet, calm melancholy being tugged at on the corner by this big question. But it doesn't unravel the scene. It simply coexists.
My original intent was to simply include this painting and a companion playlist, which I've included below. If you read all of the above, thank you! (And sorry for going long.)