Physically, it's getting impossible for me to travel that much.

The words of Larry Gagosian, uttered with the weight of experience, are more than the simple confession of a weary traveler. When he declares, “Physically, it’s getting impossible for me to travel that much. I want to support my artists by showing up at their openings, but I can’t always be in Hong Kong one minute and Geneva the next,” he speaks not only of his own body’s limits, but of the eternal tension between human desire and mortal constraint. In this truth lies a lesson for all generations: though the spirit longs to be everywhere, the body is bound to one place at a time. The fire of loyalty and support burns bright, yet flesh is frail and time unyielding.

Consider how in the days of the ancients, mighty kings would wish to be present at every battlefront, to lift the spirits of their soldiers and oversee the glory of their banners. Yet even the greatest emperors could not be both in Rome and in Gaul, nor in Egypt and in Britannia within a single turning of the sun. Julius Caesar himself, who crossed seas and rivers with unmatched speed, could not escape the laws of distance. Thus he entrusted generals, ambassadors, and envoys to carry his presence where his body could not. The longing of Gagosian echoes this same struggle: the yearning to multiply oneself, to honor all, to give the gift of presence—and the bitter acceptance that one cannot divide beyond the bounds of nature.

The meaning of the quote reaches deeper than the confession of fatigue. It reveals the sacred burden of responsibility that leaders carry. To “support my artists” is not merely to shake their hands beneath the gallery lights. It is to affirm their existence, to stand as a witness to their creation, to whisper to them, “You are seen.” In this act lies the nourishment of the soul, for artists labor not only for themselves but for recognition. Yet how cruel is the paradox: the greater the number of artists under his care, the less possible it becomes for one man to honor them all in person.

Let us pause and recall the story of Alexander the Great. He stretched his empire from Macedonia to the distant reaches of India, desiring to stand beside each city he conquered, to weave his presence into their fabric. But even Alexander, despite his swiftness and insatiable drive, perished at thirty-two, undone by exhaustion and the weight of his endless march. His dream of omnipresence collapsed beneath the truth of the mortal frame. So too does Gagosian, though ruling an empire of galleries rather than kingdoms, confront the same ancient reality: that greatness demands more than the human vessel can sustain.

Yet do not hear despair in these words. Instead, hear wisdom. For when a man admits, “I cannot be everywhere,” he is not surrendering; he is acknowledging the need for trust, delegation, and balance. To empower others—to send trusted stewards, curators, and voices in one’s place—is not weakness but wisdom. Just as Caesar’s legions marched under the standards of his name even when he was absent, so too can Gagosian’s artists draw strength from the knowledge that his support remains, even when his body cannot attend. Presence is not only measured by footsteps upon the ground, but by commitment, faith, and the constancy of one’s heart.

For us, the lesson is plain. Do not believe you must attend every event, fulfill every task, or carry every burden in person. The illusion of omnipresence is the path to ruin. Instead, honor your limits. Support those you love in ways that are sustainable: sometimes through your presence, other times through your words, your messages, your encouragement. Let your loyalty be steady, not scattered like ashes in the wind. For those who matter to you, the strength of your intent will shine brighter than your absence.

Therefore, let each reader take this as both warning and encouragement: Be present where it matters most. Do not chase the impossible dream of being everywhere, but cultivate depth where you stand. To live wisely is not to divide yourself across the earth until you break, but to choose with courage where to plant your presence, so that it yields the greatest harvest of love, loyalty, and meaning. And when your body fails to travel, let your words, your trust, and your spirit travel in your place—so that those who look to you may still feel your unwavering light.