We are so quick to judge a multi-billion-dollar petrostate for taking nearly two decades to build a contemporary art museum. But what if they are simply protecting their peace?
I have noticed a pervasive exhaustion in our modern timeline. We are always rushing to the next milestone, the next deliverable, the next trending outrage. I was thinking about this during my Sunday reset, staring at my bespoke linen calendar, when it hit me: we have lost the art of the long game. We demand immediate results from our careers, our relationships, and our monumental cultural institutions, completely ignoring the emotional toll of such a frantic pace.
Which is why, when I saw that the Guggenheim Abu Dhabi is finally opening this December, a full eighteen years after it was first announced, I didn’t feel frustration. I felt a profound sense of peace. Because if you really look at the situation, this isn’t a story of bureaucratic stalling, geopolitical maneuvering, or supply chain crises. It is a stunning, high-visibility exercise in self-care.
Frank Gehry’s sprawling, shimmering vision for Saadiyat Island was first unveiled to the world in 2006. In our current culture of instant gratification, eighteen years sounds like a lifetime. But call me old-fashioned: I think there is something incredibly chic about refusing to be rushed. The United Arab Emirates looked at the frenetic pace of the global art market, looked at the pressure to deliver a massive architectural wonder on a conventional timeline, and simply said, no thank you. We are not available for this level of stress.
We could all learn a lesson from the Abu Dhabi Department of Culture and Tourism. How often do we say yes to a social obligation just because we feel pressured? How often do we launch a project before we are truly ready? The Guggenheim Abu Dhabi did not let the critics, the international press, or the relentless ticking of the clock dictate its journey. It took a deep breath, centered itself, and allowed its complex steel cones and inverted glass structures to evolve at their own organic pace, completely unbothered by the external noise.
I mentioned this to some friends recently, pointing out how the museum’s glacial progress is basically the ultimate soft launch. Naturally, some people immediately brought up the so-called controversies. They mentioned the reports of migrant worker exploitation on Saadiyat Island, the staggering carbon footprint of air-conditioning an open-air art village in the desert, and the inherent contradictions of a Western free-expression institution operating under strict state censorship.
To which I say: can we please stop policing how other people choose to build their multi-billion-dollar vanity projects? It is frankly exhausting. We are all on our own unique wellness journeys, and sometimes that journey involves importing thousands of laborers to construct a titanium-clad monument to 1960s pop art in 115-degree heat. If we are going to talk about toxic environments, maybe we should start with the relentless negativity of the Western press. Let people enjoy things.
We do not view the past eighteen years as a delay, but rather as an extended period of institutional self-care and chronological boundary-setting.
When I was at a dinner party in Mayfair last month, seated next to a minor European royal who consults on Gulf state acquisitions, we spoke at length about the specific aesthetic value of making people wait. He agreed that the Guggenheim’s focus on art from the 1960s to the present requires a certain temporal distance to truly appreciate. You cannot simply throw a Warhol or a Basquiat into a newly minted desert metropolis and expect it to resonate immediately. You have to let the desert yearn for it.
And what a yearning it has been. For nearly two decades, the empty plot of sand on Saadiyat Island has served as a physical manifestation of a firm boundary: the absolute refusal to compromise on Frank Gehry’s vision of chaotic, colliding geometric shapes. It is, in many ways, the architectural equivalent of leaving the entire global art elite on read for a generation. There is an undeniable power move in making the world's top curators wait almost twenty years to sip champagne in your lobby.
Consider the other institutions that share the island. The Louvre Abu Dhabi managed to open in 2017, rushing to the finish line after a mere ten years of development. The Zayed National Museum is also hurrying along. But the Guggenheim stood firm. By holding out, the museum is effectively forcing us to romanticize the act of waiting itself. It is asking us to look at the conceptual pieces that defined the late twentieth century and view them through the pristine, highly curated lens of an absolute monarchy that simply refuses to check its email over the weekend.
I plan to be there when the doors finally open this December. I have already started planning my outfits, leaning heavily into breathable silks that scream my appreciation for post-war abstraction while acknowledging the realities of the Persian Gulf climate. Walking through those long-awaited galleries will be a profound experience, not just because of the unparalleled collection of contemporary art, but because of the sheer, unapologetic boundary-setting energy radiating from the walls.
We owe it to ourselves to be more like the Guggenheim Abu Dhabi. The next time you are asked to hit a deadline, or finish a renovation, or answer an urgent request from a colleague, I want you to channel the spirit of this magnificent, unbothered institution. Take eighteen years if you need to. Spend billions of dollars. Ignore the haters in the human rights organizations. At the end of the day, true luxury isn't about having the most expensive art. It's about making everyone else wait until you are emotionally ready to show it to them.