His materials were minimal, their purpose to highlight certain aspects of a space and then recede, letting the viewer’s observational senses take command. At times his transformations were so subtle they were easy to miss. But those who got it, got it, and in Irwin’s eyes the act of getting it—that poignant moment when awareness acknowledged itself—was tantamount to lightning caught in a bottle.

His inquiries into consciousness biased him toward the ephemeral, and for many years he didn’t allow his work to be photographed, or frozen in time. Lane dug up stills of some of his early installations, and they’re featured alongside interviews Irwin gave to various museum curators. He comes across as a fast and unpretentious talker, an approachable and even anti-intellectual philosopher, and a journeyman on the road less traveled. He also comes across as a renegade. He was proudly self-taught, at school he never possessed any notebooks, and he skipped college. He mostly managed without a studio, never sought a gallery or any form of representation, and saw no need to make anything sellable. Because he valued curiosity over notoriety, he endured periods of obscurity—times when he was content to hang out at the racetrack or polish his dance moves. As he often said, experience is the object.