

The first gallery was filled with his undulating Hive sculpture, reminiscent of when he filled the Tate Modern's Turbine Hall with Marsyas.

The exhibition feels alive; especially as the scents from each medium permeate the space - from the cool cement of Greyman Cries, Shaman Dies, Billowing Smoke, Beauty Evoked, to the melted wax and smoking cannon of Shooting in the Corner.

I'm glad I'm not whatever got shot. Not much left of it.
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