It’s hard to describe the feeling of standing in the dark, watching twelve massive beams of light meet high above Gothenburg. Knowing you were part of something that actually changed the city skyline — even for just a moment.
But there I stood, New Year’s Eve 1999, with the river wind on my face and a smile I couldn’t hold back. We had done it. The Millennium Hourglass was alive.
The Birth of a Crazy Idea
It began months earlier, when Gothenburg planned its millennium celebration. The city wanted something big — something that symbolized time, peace, and progress.
A city of light.
The idea was as simple as it was insane: create an hourglass of light above the sky. Twelve huge searchlights, synchronized and controlled to form a perfect, luminous symbol.
But where would anyone find twelve working searchlights from the Second World War?
Relics From Finland
The answer came from Finland.
There stood twelve enormous searchlights, relics from the war, rusty but intact.
They had once scanned the skies for enemy aircraft — now they were to illuminate the sky in peace.
I became one of the technicians brought in to make them work again.
We would bring these steel giants back to life — not for battle, but for beauty.
LV6 – Our Workshop of Madness
The restoration took place at LV6, the old military compound in Gamlestaden.
The irony wasn’t lost on us — rebuilding weapons of war to create art.
We stripped away the old military systems and replaced the original carbon arcs with modern, high-intensity lamps.
But the moment we removed a single piece, the entire structure lost balance. These machines were built with millimeter precision. Change one thing — and everything changed.
Worse, the mirrors started cracking.
At first from vibration, then from heat.
We replaced glass, rebalanced frames, improvised cooling systems, and slowly learned that we were working with something between engineering and alchemy.
Nights at LV6 were filled with metal dust, burnt fingers, and laughter. We cursed, we repaired, and we refused to give up.
The Harbor Container
When the lights were finally ready, we moved everything to the harbor, where the twelve lamps stood in a perfect circle.
Control came from a shipping container turned command center.
Inside, we installed transformers, servos, and a wireless control system that would trigger the lights each night.
At exactly 8:00 PM, the beams were supposed to ignite, make a slow pirouette toward the sky, and then lock into the hourglass shape.
They would shine until midnight, occasionally moving to mark the passage of time — all automatically.
At least, that was the plan.
Reality had other ideas.
When Automation Failed
Automation rarely worked.
Sensors froze, radios desynced, and timers refused to cooperate.
So the container had to be manned manually every night.
We sat inside, two at a time, listening to the hum of the fans and transformers, steering each light by hand.
At eight sharp, we powered them up.
Slowly, the searchlights stretched their necks toward the sky — hesitant at first, then powerful and precise.
And it was magic.
Guiding those twelve beams across the heavens felt like conducting a celestial orchestra.
When they finally met in a perfect hourglass shape, the entire city glowed.
Reflections danced across the river; the sky shimmered.
For a few moments, time truly stood still.
Kent Flod – The Man Behind the Light
The mastermind behind it all was Kent Flod — a man who saw light not just as physics, but as poetry.
Kent believed light could tell stories.
For him, the Millennium Hourglass wasn’t just art; it was a message of peace and human ingenuity.
When others said it couldn’t be done, Kent smiled and said, “Let’s try again.”
And so we did. Again and again, until it worked.
When Gothenburg Held Its Breath
On New Year’s Eve, people gathered across the city — on bridges, hills, and rooftops.
Inside the container, we were silent as we brought the lights to life.
One by one, they rose into the night.
The sky erupted in light.
Gothenburg fell silent.
Applause spread across the harbor.
People hugged, laughed, cried.
And I stood there — exhausted, frozen, but proud.
I knew I had been part of something unforgettable.
A moment where history met the future.
When the Lights Went Out
Eventually, the project ended. The lights were dismantled, stored, and silence returned to the harbor.
I remember that final night. The fans wound down, and for a moment the city felt darker than ever before.
Those searchlights, once instruments of war, had become a beacon of peace.
They had connected generations — engineers, artists, dreamers.
For me, it wasn’t just a project.
It was a reminder that the impossible only stays impossible until someone decides to try.
Afterglow
Even today, when I stand on a hill overlooking the Göta River, I can still feel it.
The hum of the lights. The pulse of the city. The warmth of that glow.
We lit up the sky.
And for one brief, luminous moment — time stood still.
By Chris...