In the entrance to the Tate Modern gallery is a large hall, perhaps 20 meters high. Its ceiling is paved with mirrors. On one end is a large, yellow sun – half real, half reflection. The room is kept smoky and misty and dense, and the light is dark yellow like a dying star. The people lie on the ground to look up at their reflections from the ceiling, waving and photographing – but when viewed from above and to the side (and with echoes of Gaiman, Zelazny and Powers in my mind) they are prostrate in prayer, worshipping the orangl sicky sun. Not raging, perhaps, but moaning at the dying of the light.

Addendum:
The artist itself, it seems, misinterprets his own work. “Introducing natural weather phenomena into a unnatural environment to help man identify his relation to nature” my ass. That sun is as natural as a Diet Coke. It’s The Sunset of Doom. I’m right, he’s wrong, and that’s that.

Additional Addendum:
A few pictures of the place can be found here, here and here.