SEEING WITH CLOSED EYES: HOW JAMES TURRELL'S LIGHT ART ILLUMINATES MY GLASS PRACTICE

When I first encountered the work of James Turrell, I wasn’t quite sure whether I was looking at art, standing inside it, or becoming it. That moment, full of disorientation and wonder, has stayed with me. Turrell’s installations don’t simply represent light; they are light. They don’t illustrate perception; they force us to perceive perception. This paradox is what draws me in again and again and continues to shape my own practice as a glass artist.

At first glance, the materials Turrell uses such as light, space, and time might seem very different from the weight and physicality of hot and cold glassmaking. However, Turrell has long insisted that his work is about the materiality of light. In my own practice, I have found that glass, with its ability to hold, bend, and distort light, becomes the perfect counterpart. His installation art and my material experiments seem to be in conversation with each other, connecting across scale, discipline, and medium.

Light as Material, Not Metaphor

Turrell is associated with the Light and Space movement that emerged in California in the 1960s, alongside artists like Robert Irwin and Doug Wheeler. Unlike some of his contemporaries, Turrell pursued light not as a painterly tool but as a physical medium. He shaped and framed it like any other sculptural material. His background in perceptual psychology and mathematics adds a cerebral depth to his work, asking us not only to see but to reflect on how we see.

This way of thinking resonates deeply with the material of glass. When I work with transparent or translucent forms, whether through blowing, slumping, or coldworking techniques, I am also working with a substance that appears immaterial. Glass is simultaneously present and invisible. It catches light and also gives light. It transforms environments without demanding attention. In many ways, it performs the same kind of perceptual sleight of hand that Turrell achieves.

One example is my own mirrored installation work, where I used a one-way mirror to manipulate the viewer’s reflection. This forced them to confront absence rather than their own image. The sense of displacement and self-questioning that emerges in this experience reminds me of Turrell’s famous Ganzfeld pieces, which break down spatial orientation entirely.

Ganzfeld by James Turrell

The Space Between Seeing and Knowing

One of Turrell’s most celebrated works, Aten Reign (2013), transformed the rotunda of the Guggenheim into a glowing, five-storey cone of colour and light. As spectators lay on the floor beneath the light canopy, their eyes slowly adjusted, colours shifted, and time seemed to dissolve. The architectural space stopped functioning as a container and became an optical medium.

Aten Reign by James Turrell

This moment of surrender to perception is something I aim to create in my own work, particularly within the context of interactive art. I am fascinated by the way light can slow people down. When glass is lit from within or behind, or when mirrors distort and double the image, the object becomes a catalyst for what I call slowed seeing. This is not just visual spectacle. It is an invitation to reflect, to pay attention, and to inhabit time differently.

In Turrell’s Roden Crater project, he has spent decades transforming a volcanic cinder cone into a naked-eye observatory. Through this work, he creates a site where light arrives through architectural and geological means. In my own small way, I strive to do something similar. Whether through the eerie reflection of a toy-like rattle in mirrored glass or the unexpected colour shifts of recycled bottle glass, my aim is to make the viewer question not only what they see, but how they are seeing it.

Roden Crater by James Turrell

Light, Glass, and Transformation

There is another connection between Turrell and my practice that feels deeply personal. Both explore transformation. Turrell’s work often dissolves the boundaries between self and world, between subject and object. In recent work, I have been exploring personal transformation through physical and material change. I have repurposed old clothes, incorporated mirrored surfaces, and experimented with recycled glass. All of this echoes my own journey through weight loss, healing, and self-renewal.

As Turrell puts it:

“We eat light, drink it in through our skins. With a little more exposure to light, you feel part of things physically.”

This quote captures exactly what draws me to both his work and to glass. Light is not just a visual stimulus. It is a substance we absorb. It changes us, inside and out.

Turrell once said, “I want to create an atmosphere that can be consciously plumbed with seeing.” That conscious seeing, whether of light, of self, or of matter, is at the core of what I hope to offer in my own sculptures. I am drawn to forms that hover between visibility and invisibility, between solidity and transparency, between innocence and estrangement.

Turrell’s Influence on My Glassmaking

• Sculpting with Light: I am now exploring how light enters and exits the work, using optical glass, mirrored bases, and frosted textures to control how illumination travels.

• Architectural Thinking: Although my work is typically more intimate in scale, I am starting to consider how installations might influence an entire space, much like Turrell’s Skyspaces do.

• The Viewer as Co-Creator: My work is not complete without the body of the viewer. Reflections, shadows, and sightlines involve the viewer directly, making them a participant rather than just an observer.

• The Simplicity Illusion: Turrell’s work appears minimal but is layered with technical and perceptual complexity. I draw inspiration from this, aiming to create playful, childlike forms that reveal emotional or conceptual depth over time.

Final Thoughts

James Turrell is often described as an artist who paints with light. I believe he does more than that. He sculpts with perception. He gives form to what we usually think of as formless. In my own glass practice, I aim to achieve something similar. Where he uses light to shape space, I use glass to shape light. While he works on a celestial scale, I often work on an intimate, bodily scale. Yet the intentions behind both approaches feel strangely aligned.

Both of us are trying to create moments of astonishment, of awareness sharpened by confusion, and of beauty born from not-quite-knowing. In a world that moves faster and grows louder each day, that quiet encounter with light might be more powerful than ever.