"Congratulations!" I blurted to Richard Andrews when I learned he is planning on leaving his job in February.

There was a pause, and then he said, "Thanks. I mean, a couple of other people have said the same thing to me, and I guess that's the right thing to say."

"Yes. Right. I didn't know what to say, actually," I said. "I guess it's a good thing. You're getting a break, and it has been a while, after all."

"Well put," he said, deciding to laugh instead of take offense at my awkward reference to his 19-year tenure as the director of Henry Art Gallery.

I meant well, anyway. Andrews has led the Henry in becoming the best kind of contemporary art museum—the kind that's an institutional force for innovation. (And often the only such force in Seattle.) The museum's commitment to the artists it supports, especially through commissions, is impressive.

Andrews, 57, knows what it is to be an artist. He doesn't make art anymore, but he was trained at University of Washington as a sculptor and is married to artist Colleen Chartier. They're planning to stay in Seattle. "Who knows what I'll do? Maybe become a Zen monk. I don't know. Seems less likely," he said, in his characteristic way of throwing out something mildly surprising, and then responding to it almost academically. His volunteer work recently ramped up significantly. He was named president of Skystone Foundation, the group that oversees the development of artist James Turrell's masterwork: the shaping of Roden Crater in the Arizona desert. Andrews raised the money for a Turrell skyspace at the Henry in 2002. Now, Turrell's big project needs more than $25 million to be completed, but I'd say it's in good hands.

Turrell has been toiling at his crater for about as long as Andrews has been administering art programs. That's why, after 32 years, Andrews says he needs a break. He started out in public art at the City of Seattle, went to D.C. to head up the visual arts program at the National Endowment for the Arts, and then he took over at the Henry in 1988. Since Andrews's arrival, the Henry has ballooned in size and prestige, and it has cemented its role as the city's contemporary-art museum (prior to Andrews, the mixed-rep museum flirted, in a series of late-19th-century exhibitions, with becoming an American art museum).

His biggest splashes came in the early 1990s, including Ann Hamilton's era-defining installation of yellow canaries and rooms whose walls and floors were covered in smudge marks from burning candles. He describes Hamilton's installation as the ideal relationship between a museum and an artist. When she was high up in one of the museum's skylights preparing her show (the artificial lights were turned off for the duration of the show), she kept looking down at Andrews, telling him, "Richard, I can't believe you're letting me do this." recommended

jgraves@thestranger.com