I haven't been that great at attending my own openings. Still

The words of James Turrell—“I haven’t been that great at attending my own openings. Still, I’m learning to enjoy this a lot more than I used to.”—shine with quiet humility and the timeless wisdom of self-awareness. They come not from arrogance, but from introspection; not from detachment, but from growth. Turrell, the artist of light and space, whose works transform architecture into portals of perception, here reveals that even those who create beauty often struggle to stand in its spotlight. His statement is a confession of a soul more interested in experience than applause, more drawn to the inward journey than to the outward celebration. Yet, in his words “I’m learning,” we glimpse a deeper awakening—the realization that joy, too, is an art, one that must be learned and practiced with the same devotion as craft itself.

The origin of this quote lies in Turrell’s lifelong exploration of perception and presence. For decades, he has worked with light not as an object, but as a living medium—inviting viewers to see not the artwork, but the act of seeing itself. Such a man, immersed in silence and luminosity, naturally shies from the noise of public acclaim. He is the monk of the modern art world, shaping cathedrals of light in volcanic craters and desert plains. When he admits to avoiding his own exhibitions, it is not out of disdain, but because the public moment feels small compared to the sacred process that precedes it. And yet, with age and wisdom, he learns what all creators must eventually accept: that to share one’s gift is also part of the spiritual cycle of creation.

The ancients would have understood Turrell’s sentiment well. The philosopher Lao Tzu taught that the master builder constructs the bridge, then walks away, for the bridge is no longer his—it belongs to the travelers who cross it. Likewise, Turrell’s art, once released into the world, becomes the property of the beholder. His struggle to attend his own openings mirrors the humility of those who serve their calling not for recognition, but for revelation. But as he grows, Turrell comes to see that gratitude is also a form of artistry—that the act of receiving appreciation completes the circle of giving.

There is an ancient story of Leonardo da Vinci, who after years of painting The Last Supper, refused to attend the public unveiling. He claimed that the work was unfinished, that it never truly could be, for art is but an echo of the perfection the soul yearns to express. Like Turrell, Leonardo understood the torment and beauty of imperfection—the sense that one’s creation is always a fragment of something larger, something ineffable. Yet centuries later, the world continues to marvel at that unfinished perfection. Perhaps Turrell, in his later years, realizes this same truth: that art need not be perfect to be powerful, nor must the artist be absent to be pure.

In his words, “I’m learning to enjoy this,” we find not resignation, but evolution. It is the sound of a man who has lived long enough to see that humility and joy can coexist. To learn enjoyment is to soften the ego without extinguishing the spirit, to understand that art is not diminished by praise but magnified when it touches hearts. For the artist who creates from truth, celebration is not vanity—it is communion. When others stand beneath his crafted skies of color and silence, feeling wonder rise within them, Turrell learns that the act of sharing that wonder is itself an extension of creation.

This reflection extends beyond the gallery walls. It speaks to all who labor in silence—the teacher, the craftsman, the healer, the parent—those who build without expecting applause. Like Turrell, we must remember that to give joyfully, we must also receive gratefully. The art of life is not complete in solitude; it finds fulfillment in connection. To learn to enjoy one’s own achievements, not as trophies but as offerings, is to honor the divine source of creation that flows through us.

The lesson, then, is simple yet profound: Do not flee from the light of your own labor. It is not pride to stand within it—it is gratitude. Celebrate not for ego, but for balance. For every act of creation is a dialogue between the inner world and the outer one, and when you allow yourself to rejoice in what you have given, you keep that dialogue alive. Attend your own openings—literal or metaphorical—and see them as ceremonies of gratitude to the universe for having worked through you.

Thus, James Turrell’s humble words become a parable for the artist in all of us. We are each builders of light, shaping meaning from the raw material of experience. Like him, we must learn to walk into the rooms we have built, to breathe the still air of our own accomplishments, and to let the glow of joy wash over us—not as self-praise, but as thanksgiving. For to create is divine, but to celebrate creation is the completion of that divinity. In learning to enjoy the light we’ve kindled, we honor the endless process of becoming—a work of art, forever illuminated, forever unfinished.