Copyright Martin LeSanto-Smith. All rights reserved.
It’s 5.20am in the morning, and I’m sitting on a small folding stool at the side of Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall. Its strangely soothing listening to the musical nighttime sounds. The drone of the air conditioning units forms the backdrop to a cacophony of dull repetitive chimes, scraping of chairs and cordons as cleaners work, distant frustrated clanging of management doors, and a ghostly gusting of wind through the corridors and rafters above.
In front of me, a bright line of books reflects the rising morning sun. To the left of these books, a cluster of friends and journalists sleep, sniffling and snoring, surrounding a store of precious water and food. To the right, a tired group of performers, heads veiled, kneel to scrawl charcoal messages of hope and despair on the floor. The squeaking of charcoal sounds like so many happy mice, busy at work. We’re 17 hours into the unsanctioned performance against oil sponsorship of the arts, and Tate’s patience is wearing thin.
