A few weeks ago, my husband and I visited Mass MoCA, the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art. One wing of the museum is devoted to the creations of James Turrell, an American artist who has been exploring light, space and color for the past six decades. As we approached one room within the exhibit, a museum guide surprised me when she called out, “You will need to stay for 15 minutes to see the art.”

We stumbled through a carpeted hallway until Peter realized there was a railing to guide us into the space. One wall contained a dimly lit rectangle, but other than that, we saw nothing. We stood, disoriented, in the dark. I had no sense of the size of the room, or whether I might trip over objects. I couldn’t tell if other people were there. So I stopped. I stood still. I waited.

Soon enough — five minutes later? three? — I noticed a wooden bench along the back wall. I made my way to it and sat down. My pupils slowly expanded to allow more and more light. The artwork came into view— glowing pink and white and shimmering before my eyes. The room itself grew lighter and lighter. I could make out the dimensions — a simple, flat, square floor. We sat together, in silence. And I realized we could only see this beauty, we could only comprehend this space, we could only receive the light, if we waited, and if we paid attention.

Most of my life requires very little waiting and very little attention…

Go here to continue reading my essay: You will need to stay for 15 minutes to see the art | Religion News Service

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