Of all my favourite artists, Egon Schiele is the one I find hardest to explain. His art is rarely conventionally beautiful. He tells few stories and fights no political battles. I struggle to point out any single work as a ‘masterpiece’. His scope is small, narrowed down to the souls he could see tossing in his bed and reflected in his mirror, and intensely personal. And yet I cannot escape him. His art has a style that is all his own, a view of the world that feels painfully, and sometimes gleefully, honest.

Midnight. Dozens of watches, alarms and grandfather clocks chime in rapid succession. A corpse falls. Lovers pause in the act. Big Ben erupts in flame. Rhett Butler comforts his child. And Orson Welles is impaled by a clockwork soldier.

Welcome to one of the many climaxes of The Clock, Christian Marclay’s remarkable video installation-slash-cinematic mix tape. I wish I could have found a way to watch all 24 hours. I may have to settle for 4 or 5. And I’ll still exit feeling it was time well spent.