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design, with its sharp lines soaring ever upwards, with the crumbling pile of dark, stained concrete and glass it had become? Both fascinated me. Perhaps the fact that Golmi had placed his art installation in one of his own buildings meant that he, too, had realised the spectral potential of the tower. Had he also come to relish this desolate space in the teeming metropolis?
    I entered the foyer and made my way to a single desk situated in the very centre of the otherwise empty space. There was a simple sign declaring that the installation began on floor twenty-six and that payment was to be made at the end of the show. There was no attendant to direct the visitors, but next to the sign was a schedule of entry times. My watch told me that the next available slot began in five minutes. The last visitor had signed the register five minutes previously and marked the time clearly, as required in the box provided. A handwritten note at the top of the page stated that admittance was staggered to ensure the isolation necessary for each visitor.
    I faithfully signed the register and when my time came I made my way over to one of several lifts and pressed the button. A small sign informed me that this was the one to be used in order to visit the installation. I watched the numbers on the indicator above the single door flash from twenty-six downwards. While I waited I looked at the remnants of company names printed on a wooden board. They must have been defaced by disgruntled employees as their companies gave up and vacated the building.
    When the lift arrived I opened the outer door and then pulled across the trellis gate that separated me from the panelled wooden cage within. The interior was not large, having a capacity for a maximum of four people. At first I simply thought it small for a building with such a potentially huge occupancy. It had obviously seen much use. I thought from its design that the lift must date to the 1950s. So perhaps the building was older than I’d thought? I was feeling a certain amount of confusion, perhaps due to my excitement at the prospect of the installation, but also because of the claustrophobia caused by being in such a small space and the reflection of myself in the full-length mirror on the back wall of the lift. Gazing into it I was somewhat startled by my anxious-looking appearance. My eyes seemed to stare wildly from behind my glasses and my cheeks were flushed. The business suit that I was obliged to wear to work seemed comically apt, as did the briefcase I carried. Since I had come directly from my office I had not had the opportunity to change my clothes.
    The lift rumbled upwards through the shaft, and floor after floor flashed by before it reached the twenty-sixth. The cage jolted to a halt and I pulled back the trellis door, opened the outer one and entered a long, deserted corridor, dimly lit and utterly silent. The floor was covered in tiled linoleum, but it was well worn and curled upwards at the edges. In patches it had come away altogether, revealing stained concrete beneath. As I proceeded uncertainly I could see holes in the false ceiling, where the covering polystyrene tiles had fallen down. Out of these holes trailed cables and wires.
    It was not obvious where I should be going, so I looked in through a half-opened door to my left. It was an abandoned gents toilet, thick with dirt. The cubicle doors hung ajar and the toilet bowls and urinals were broken, with fragments of porcelain scattered on the floor. I returned to the corridor and after a few more paces finally noticed a sign with an arrow, indicating the direction I was to follow.
    I turned right. This corridor seemed to be exactly the same as the first. I was beginning to feel a sense of emptiness creep over me, deadening my spirits, replacing the tension I’d previously felt. And then I realised what should have been obvious: this was the installation! The sense of isolation and dislocation was complete.
    I felt