At the back of the Turbine Hall, three people are dancing. If it weren’t for the vinyl dancefloor and the white line separating it from the audience, however, you might not immediately realise it. You could be forgiven for thinking that they were performing some idiosyncratic form of Tai chi or, if this were a different dancefloor, that they had taken rather too many drugs: one rolls around on the ground, another stretches his arms out wide, a third sinks to her haunches and touches her toes. All appear so enthralled by the actions of their own bodies as to be oblivious both to their partners onstage and the audience in front of them.
This being Tate Modern on a Friday afternoon, that audience includes not only art school kids dressed in the same casual fashions as the performers onstage, but also babies screeching from pushchairs and mischievous schoolkids shouting heckles from the mezzanine. None of this seems to perturb the dancers. Having completed her routine, one walks away from the mat and disappears through a door at the back of the hall. The others follow in their own time, and the audience applauds. After a short interval, they are replaced on the stage by a new trio of performers, and the dance begins again.
