Art has the power to unite us, but can it also save the world? That’s the bold claim at the heart of Olafur Eliasson’s work, and his latest exhibition, Presence, is no exception. Stepping into the Gallery of Modern Art (Goma) in Meanjin/Brisbane, I’m immediately struck by an overwhelming sight: a colossal sun suspended above, its surface alive with what appears to be a cascade of miniature atomic explosions. It’s both mesmerizing and unsettling, especially when it seems to mirror my movements—stopping when I stop, as if acknowledging my presence. But here’s where it gets controversial: is this interactive experience a mere spectacle, or does it truly challenge us to confront our role in the world?
In the dimly lit mirrors surrounding this glowing orb, I catch glimpses of Eliasson himself, the Icelandic-Danish artist famed for his large-scale installations that distort perception. He’s mingling with the crowd, posing for selfies, a reminder that his art isn’t just about observation—it’s about participation. This is the opening night of Presence, a sprawling exhibition spanning Eliasson’s 30-year career, and it’s a testament to his ability to blur the lines between art, science, and activism.
Among the highlights is Riverbed (2014), a room filled with 100 tonnes of sand, pebbles, and rocks, which feels like stepping into a post-glacial landscape. Alongside it are immersive works that manipulate light, color, and movement, as well as photographs that starkly highlight the climate crisis. The sun installation, also titled Presence, echoes Eliasson’s 2003 masterpiece The Weather Project at Tate Modern, which became a communal space where strangers found what he calls “we-ness”—a shared sense of humanity. But this is the part most people miss: Eliasson isn’t just creating art; he’s creating experiences that force us to question our place in the world.
During our conversation, Eliasson explains, ‘When you move, it moves. The sun is asking you to notice that your presence makes a difference. It holds up the fact that your actions have consequences.’ He sees his audience as ‘active co-producers’ of his work, a philosophy that’s evident in pieces like Your Negotiable Vulnerability Seen From Two Perspectives (2025), where the polarization of light shifts as you move, transforming black to white and dullness to vibrancy. It’s a visual metaphor for the fluidity of perspective—a reminder that we don’t all see the world the same way.
In Beauty (1993), something as mundane as dripping water becomes a transcendent experience. It’s not magic—just a curtain of droplets and a strategically placed light—but it feels otherworldly. Stand in the right spot, and a rainbow appears, bridging the gap between the ordinary and the extraordinary.
Presence transforms the gallery into a labyrinth of surprises, each turn revealing something unexpected. Some rooms are so dark your eyes struggle to adjust; others are blindingly bright, almost clinical. Eliasson’s upbringing in Denmark and Iceland shaped his fascination with primordial landscapes, which he captures in photographs that anchor the exhibition in a reality both beautiful and alarming. Like Australia, Iceland is grappling with rapid climatic changes, a fact driven home by his Glacier Melt series—30 pairs of photographs taken two decades apart, revealing a shocking transformation.
Riverbed, acquired by Goma after the 2019 Water exhibition, takes on new meaning here. Designed to confuse the eye, it features a trickling stream winding through rocks—a haunting reminder of what will remain when the glaciers are gone. Eliasson hopes we can ‘become un-numb’ to this reality. ‘The collapse is now,’ he says. ‘The collapse is our inability to deal with the way it is collapsing.’
But here’s the controversial twist: Eliasson rejects the idea that nature inside a gallery is somehow less real than nature outside. ‘There is no outside and inside,’ he insists. ‘There is only the world. The gallery is inside of what is outside. You don’t step into a gallery to disappear into the void. You go in to see more clearly; to see things that outside are contaminated, politicized, and weaponized.’
Despite his despair for the world, Eliasson calls himself a ‘prisoner of hope.’ He draws inspiration from Indigenous philosophies that view nature as kin and the growing movement to grant legal ‘personhood’ rights to natural features like mountains and rivers. ‘It’s comforting to know people have the capacity to change how they see things,’ he reflects.
Presence doesn’t offer easy answers; instead, it fosters a sense of connectedness and possibility. In one interactive piece, visitors can collaborate to build a dream city using 500,000 white Lego bricks, part of Eliasson’s 2004 work The Cubic Structural Evolution Project. ‘How do we spark off each other, and dream, and make a city where energy, materials, and creativity cycle in different ways?’ asks curator Geraldine Kirrihi Barlow.
Barlow spent two months with Eliasson’s studio team—a rare opportunity for both artist and curator. She marvels at the ecosystem of experimentation among the 90-member team, which includes architects, craftsmen, historians, and technicians. Eliasson often asked her, ‘Where am I blind? What can you see that I can’t?’ This collaborative spirit is at the heart of his creative philosophy.
As our conversation winds down—after more than an hour, double our allotted time—Eliasson smiles and exhales. It’s a gesture he hopes visitors will carry with them long after leaving Goma. ‘This gallery, like Iceland, is a place where I can exhale,’ he says. ‘I don’t have to always be on my heels. I can soften. That softening is the currency of tomorrow. That type of tenderness is actually fierce. And that is presence.’
So, here’s the question for you: Can art truly save the world, or is it just a beautiful distraction? Does Eliasson’s work challenge you to act, or does it leave you in awe but unchanged? Let’s debate in the comments—I’m eager to hear your thoughts.
Olafur Eliasson: Presence is at the Gallery of Modern Art (Goma) in Meanjin/Brisbane until 12 July 2026. Don’t miss it.
