Tapering ribbed columns, closely spaced at colossal scale, cropped hard by the top edge so their full height is unknowable, fluted top to bottom with the flutes running the whole height as continuous unbroken lines. The shafts run straight into a dry cracked plain, shaft directly to ground. Strung out in a thin line to the horizon — massed small enough to read as granular surface rather than as people. A deeply saturated orange bloom field with the form in the same orange, under a cobalt sky, the colour almost entirely drained. Mist standing between the planes as a structural layer, each plane separated from the next by a band of it, the air above it clear, bleached, the shadows shallow. The crowd granular and dense, the column shafts smooth and plain. Indifferent and enormous, a holiday happening at the foot of something.