Riverside, London, 2017. A long room on the water, brick and old timber, one wall given over entirely to glass. The Thames moved past it all day, and then at dusk the room went flat and grey and there was nothing left to look at. We were asked for warmth without glare, and for something worth watching once the river went dark.

What we placed in the room

We began with spheres. Hand-woven aluminium wire, open enough to see through, one small bulb held at the centre, so the light is caught by the metal instead of hidden behind it. Two stand on the floor near the window, the larger a metre across, and a third sits low on the side table where the room narrows. Along the wall behind them, thin copper stems carry removable glass lenses, each one throwing a small pool of direct light onto the stone and the books. Nothing is bright. Everything is placed.

What the space gained was depth. The wire throws a loose net of shadow across the brick, and it shifts a little as the bulbs warm. The copper lenses keep the eye low, so the ceiling stays in darkness and the water outside remains the brightest thing in view. We dimmed the whole arrangement to a quarter of its output. Guests lean in. They always do.

Light here waits inside the objects. The objects do the rest.