sun!” grins Ingrid Sparbo, disbelievingly, lifting her face to the light and closing her eyes. A retired secretary, Sparbo has lived all her life in Rjukan and says people “do sort of get used to the shade. You end up not thinking about it, really. But this ... this is so warming. Not just physically, but mentally. It’s mentally warming.” Two young mothers wheel their children into the square and stand in the sun. On a freezing day, an elderly couple sit on one of the new benches, smiling at the warmth on their faces. Children beam. Lots of people take photographs. A shop assistant, Silje Johansen, says it’s “awesome. Just awesome.” Pushing his child’s buggy, electrical engineer Eivind Toreid is more cautious. “It’s a funny thing,” he says. “Not real sunlight, but very like it. Like a spotlight.” Heidi Fieldheim says she heard all about it on the radio. “But it’s far more than I expected,” she says. “This will bring much happiness.” Across the road, in the Nye Tider café, sits the man responsible for this unexpected access to happiness. Martin Andersen is a 40-year-old artist who moved to Rjukan in the summer of 2001. The first inkling of an artwork Andersen called the Solspeil , or Sun mirror , came to him as the month of September began to fade: “Every day, we would take our young child for a walk in the buggy,” he says, “and,