A lot of my works deal with a passage, which is about time. I

Hear the words of Maya Lin, artist of memory and architect of silence, who proclaimed: “A lot of my works deal with a passage, which is about time. I don’t see anything that I do as a static object in space. It has to exist as a journey in time.” In this saying, she lifts the veil on her vision: art is not merely stone and form, not merely walls and angles—it is a passage, a movement of the heart and the soul through time. Her creations are not frozen monuments but living journeys, carrying those who behold them from one state of being to another.

The origin of these words lies in Lin’s work as a designer, most famously her conception of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. When she, as a young student, envisioned a simple black wall etched with the names of the dead, she did not imagine it as a static sculpture standing in a field. Instead, she conceived it as a path—one descends into the earth, walks among the names, confronts grief, and then ascends again toward light. It is not an object; it is a journey in time, binding the living and the dead, sorrow and healing. Her art demands not only sight, but participation.

This vision recalls the ways of the ancients. Consider the labyrinths carved into the floors of cathedrals in medieval Europe. These were not meant as mere designs, but as pilgrimages compressed into stone. To walk the labyrinth was to take a symbolic journey through time—from sin to redemption, from confusion to clarity. Likewise, Lin insists that her works exist not as frozen relics, but as experiences that unfold, changing those who move through them. Her insight carries the weight of the old wisdom: that the deepest truths are lived, not merely observed.

The emotional force of Lin’s quote is this: life itself is not static. Nothing in this world remains fixed. Even the mountain erodes, even the star burns out, even the monument gathers moss and rain. What gives meaning to art, and to life, is its unfolding as a passage, its ability to carry us through time, to reflect our grief, our longing, our growth. To create with this in mind is to mirror the human condition itself—a journey, never still, always becoming.

Her words also teach us about memory. A static object can be admired and then forgotten, but a journey leaves a mark on the soul. The Vietnam Wall does not simply sit; it transforms those who walk it. They enter one way and leave another, carrying with them the weight of names, the silence of loss, and the fragile thread of healing. Lin shows us that true creation is not about permanence, but about transformation.

The lesson for us is clear: do not think of your life as a static object in space. You are not a fixed statue, unchanging and cold. You are a passage, a journey unfolding in time, and your meaning is found not in where you stand but in how you move. Accept that growth, change, and transformation are the essence of your being. If you cling to stillness, you will wither; if you embrace the journey, you will live fully.

And what actions, then, should we take? Approach the world as a passage. When you encounter grief, let it be a walk into shadow that leads you toward light. When you encounter joy, let it flow like a river that carries you further, not as a pool that stagnates. In your work, in your art, in your relationships, seek not to create objects that merely exist, but experiences that transform, that unfold across time. In this way, your life itself becomes a living work of art, a memorial, a song, a journey.