We’re in Sweden for a few days to visit dad (grandpa), who lives on the country’s west coast, a place close to my heart where I spent every childhood summer. We stop in Hunnebostrand, one of the many old villages that once thrived as fishing communities. These days, they’re popular summer destinations for those keen to enjoy the fresh air, salty sea, good food and cold beer. But we’re not here in summer. It’s October, grey, drizzly and quiet. Still, I love it. The smooth granite mountains, the wide open sea meeting the sky. It feels timeless.
As we leave the restaurant after lunch, I notice a strange pillar on top of a mountain. Despite the wet and slippery rock, we decide to carefully climb up and see what it is. When we reach the top, we find a needle-shaped sculpture about five metres high, rising straight from the bedrock. I touch it. It’s solid granite, carved from a single block.
Bohuslän, the region we’re in, is famous for its stone industry and granite quarries. During the 19th and 20th centuries, Bohus granite was one of Sweden’s major exports, used in buildings and monuments across Europe. You can still find traces of old quarries all over the area. I can only imagine the skill and effort it took to shape a piece like this, cutting, forming and erecting a perfectly balanced stone needle on top of a mountain.
But why a needle? Google doesn’t offer much, but I learn that the sculpture is called Needle (Nålen) and was created by German sculptor Hubert Maier. The town of Hunnebostrand purchased it and placed it here as part of an outdoor granite sculpture park. Someone from the local municipality told my mum that large sewing needles (stoppnålar) like this were traditionally used to repair fishing nets. Now it makes sense. A needle in granite here is perfectly symbolic of the work of human hands meeting the timeless strength of nature. Brilliant!
I guess I’m hooked on Wordle. Not so much that I want my day’s head-scratching to last longer than my early morning cup of tea. I’ve a starter that moves from guessing towards deduction. It’s two words: ADIEU followed by STORY whatever.
It’s much faster. It’s surprising how often the first word I enter at step three is correct. I’m nearly always there in four. (Although I have got stuck in the dead-end alley of FOUND, BOUND, WOUND, HOUND, MOUND and POUND!) This formula works because so many words are eliminated after two steps. There’s less guessing and more deduction. You’ll get a feel for it.
The main staircase of the Royal Scottish Academy has a new carpet. I’m smitten the moment I walk in.
‘Wool runner’ Sheep fleeces on netting, 2025
‘Wool runner’ comprises dozens of fleeces bearing the farmers’ colour coding that signify the owner of the sheep or which ewes have borne twins. The fleeces are attached to netting by thorns. It is simple in concept and stunning in effect. I stop and gape. I have the feeling that the fleeces are running up the stairs close-knit(!) and enjoying their new freedom. Andy Goldsworthy could offer no better welcome to an exhibition celebrating fifty years of his astonishing work.
‘Fence’ Reclaimed barbed wire, 2025
At the top of the stars, I encounter ‘Fence’. Two doric columns are joined by multiple tense strands of barbed wire all reclaimed from farms. It jives with the fleeces and serves to emphasise Goldsworthy’s work on the land, obstacles encountered and boundaries pushed.
‘Wool runner’ and ‘Fence’ are just two of a number of site-specific works. The two chambers flanking the stairwell are each dedicated to installations that defy my photographic abilities. ‘Skylight’ depends on the light from a hexagonal skylight from which hundreds of stalks of reed mace (bullrushes) are hung giving an otherworldly beam-me-up feel. With ‘Gravestones’, Goldsworthy has covered the floor with rocks that were dug out of the ground and abandoned by the grave-diggers of 108 different Dumfrieshire graveyards. The work emanates the passage of time, abandon and sadness.
‘Oak’ Branches of fallen oak trees. 2025
My first impression of ‘Oak’ is a floor covered by leafless branches. Viewed from one end of the room, though, I find that hundreds of similarly sized branches have been laid out in a gorgeous and angular symmetry that draws my eye and invites me to walk toward an intriguing and balanced serpentine work on the far wall.
‘Fern Drawing’ Ferns and thorns. 2025
I can’t help it. I walk in close and examine how Goldsworthy has made ‘Fern Drawing.’ I’m in awe. Just how much time has he spent on this? Further, will it outlive this exhibition?
‘Flags’ Dyed cotton. 2020
A whole room is dedicated to ‘Flags’. There are fifty. They have different hues of an earthy colour that hum to the theme tune of this exhibition. I have to turn to the exhibition guide for the backstory. ‘Flags’ is a commissioned work for the Rockefeller Center in New York. Each flag is dyed with the reddest earth that Goldsworthy could find in each of the states of the USA. He makes reference to the powerful connections us humans make between earth and flags. He hopes that the boundaries and cultural differences currently associated with flags could be transcended and would no longer be a source of division.
As I move through the other rooms, I discover a sumptuous tribute to the decades of imagination, creativity, determination, technical expertise and environmental concerns of one of Britain’s best-known contemporary ‘artists.’ The photographic history presented here focuses on his ephemeral and temporary works. I adore these; their creativity is, intentionally, given by the second law of thermodynamics. Goldsworthy understands entropy; that all things in the universe inevitably move to a more stable state.
Feathers plucked from dead heron and cut with a sharp stone. 1982
I stand in front of a photograph of one of Goldsworthy’s most iconic and exquisite temporary works; it is made from the feathers of a dead heron. I become aware of something I feel whenever I look at Goldsworthy’s work. Something beyond admiration. It creeps up on me. It’s a kind of jealousy that sits somewhere between ‘It’s not fair!’ and ‘I could have done that!’ ‘It’s not fair!’ that one person can have such a wide-ranging imagination. ‘I could have done that!’ is instantly followed by the obvious autoreply: ‘Well, I didn’t, did I!
Still from ‘Maine Coastline’ Video 2021
I am not a fan of videos in an exhibition. They tend to the banal and steal minutes of my life. I see a group of ten people transfixed by a screen showing a rocky Maine coast. Sea weed heaves and swirls gently as the tide comes in. I look at the guide. It lasts twenty-nine minutes! Nevertheless, I join the others. One says ‘I don’t believe this!’ Another says ‘He’s gonna die!’ The tension is palpable. And then I get it. Andy Goldsworthy has buried himself in the sea weed. At twenty eight minutes, in soaked tee-shirt and jeans, he emerges only when the rocks and sea weed are entirely covered by sea water. We all clap!
‘Black sand, Morecambe Bay, Lancaster’ Photo 1976
This portrait of the artist as a young man is now more famous than whatever it is he was working on in Morecambe Bay. He just felt he was engaging with the world. By the way, I couldn’t have done that!
