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  • Writer's pictureThea Voyles


Updated: Oct 29, 2020

Tate Modern opened its doors in May 2000.[1] Since then, the gallery has become the most visited museum in the UK and acted as a catalyst for the redevelopment of London’s Southbank.[2] The institution has since become an iconic symbol of the new neoliberal London, and the ‘cool Britannia’ of the twenty-first century. This essay will argue that there is a fundamental conflict between Tate’s mission to be an inclusive, non-hierarchical artist-led space and the economic and political consequences of their branding empire. By exploring the architectural decisions made in Tate Modern’s redevelopment, focussing in particular on the flagship space of the Turbine Hall, I will critique how the museum performs its identity as ‘the twenty-first century commonwealth of ideas’.[3]

The development of Bankside Power Station, the first oil-powered generator in Britain, began in 1947 as energy needs in London rose.[4] The choice of site was controversial, due to concerns about both air quality in nearby residential areas and the symbolic and aesthetic consequences of building a towering industrial megalith directly opposite Saint Paul’s cathedral.[5] However, the benefits of a nearby energy source that would power London’s heating outweighed the concerns. Additionally, London Electric hired Giles Gilbert Scott as the architect of the building – his 1930s Battersea Power Station had been one of the most popular buildings in London.[6] Scott had gone on to design many more cathedrals of power and his style was often praised for helping the plants to fit in more seamlessly into the surrounding architecture.[7] As an architect, he was neither a modernist nor a completely traditionalist architect, and his fusion of the two helped his work avoid identification as part of a single movement.[8] However, by the time Bankside Power Station was finished in 1960, Scott’s particular brand of aesthetic compromise had fallen out of favour.[9] Aesthetically, the building had been left behind. Only fifteen years later, the oil crisis led to its functional closure as well.[10]

By the 1990s, the building had been abandoned for longer than it was in use, and it was nearly demolished several times.[11] In 1994 when Tate purchased the building, it again became the subject of controversy. Many critics believed that a new, purpose-built museum would add more to London prestige.[12] Others, like Sam Wanamaker whose hard-won Globe Theatre was just beginning to be built, argued the building should be torn down as its incredible size dwarfed the rest of Southbank.[13] Proponents of the Herzog & De Meuron design that would eventually be chosen argued that the building would be a beacon for a new Britain, rising above a new London.

In writing about the conversion of Bankside Power Station into Tate Modern, the press often characterized it as a new building that would change London’s landscape, rather than a monument that had been part of the skyline for thirty years.[14] Bankside Power Station became essentially invisible between the 1970s and the early 1990s, despite its enormity and its position directly opposite the city’s financial hub and a major tourist attraction. This reveals how the Power Station was experienced as a site/sight out of mind as theorized by Phoebe Crisman.[15] For Londoners Bankside Power Station was ‘visible but not acknowledged cognitively or experientially.’[16] As an unproductive space in the capitalist urban landscape, the site wasn’t a part of the mental topography of the city. The architect and theorist, Aldo Rossi writes of the city as the ‘locus of collective memory.’[17] A place can be forgotten or erased in the collective memory, while it remains in the physical landscape. These forgotten sites were analysed by Ignasi de Solà-Morales as ‘terrain vague’, whose potential, unlike the capitalist landscape around it, lies in its anonymity.[18] It was only when plans for Bankside Power Station’s reincorporation into the city as a cultural, and therefore productive, landmark began to be made that it once more became visible.

As Crisman has noted in her analysis of abandoned industrial buildings, these monuments to past productivity contain a dual fascination for us: the promise of past utopianism and social cohesion as well as the anxiety caused by the evidence of its failures.[19]. Bankside Power Station embodied both the hopes of Post-war London, united by Blitz spirit and the Festival of Britain along Southbank, and the economic depression of the 1970s. The transformation of the building into a 21st century museum made politically loaded choices about which parts of its history would be retained, and which would be sanitized.[20] Grime and pollution built up by the oil burned in the power plant was removed and other elements with an industrial patina were introduced. Nicholas Serota describes the rough oak flooring and brass grilles inset into the ground as details that have an ‘industrial character.’[21] Visually, at least, nostalgia for an imaginary past of a socially cohesive British working class was favoured over the physical imprint of socio-economic neglect and abandonment.

The desire to exhibit art in industrial spaces can also be tied to two main factors. The first is the growing economic value that an artist’s studio is given. Proximity to the state of production gives a work a financial premium that is recognised by galleries, auction houses and ultimately museums.[22] By creating spaces that resemble those where the works were thought to be produced, the museum fakes a patina of ‘authenticity.’ The second fascination with the industrial art space is rooted in a recognition of the failures of mainstream establishments. Many of the most influential and exciting art happenings of the last century took place in non-art spaces, principally because the media or artist was marginalized by the established art world.[23] Taking on the look of an alternative art space, as the Tate did at Bankside, allowed the museum to reposition themselves within a narrative of contemporary art movements, as well as lay claim to an outsider identity. By rejecting a canonizing institutional identity, Tate Modern ties itself to a broader social and economic mission.

Today, Southbank is central London. The Millennium Bridge connects the Tate Modern and the Globe directly to the economic heart of the city and St Paul’s Cathedral. Throughout the 80s and 90s, however, the area was poor and an obvious victim of the economic crises of the 70s.[24] Though just across the Thames, Southwark was remote and segregated from the economic power of the City, both physically and metaphorically. Nicholas Serota’s decision to make Bankside the site of the new Tate Modern was touted by his supporters, and the Tate, as ‘an act of urbanism’ that would change the topography of London.[25] Serota hoped the new museum would have a ‘public presence’ and looked model the gallery on sites such as the Donald Judd Foundation in Marfa, Texas.[26],[27] Marfa as a template for the Tate Modern demonstrates the scale of Serota’s ambition, as Marfa has become a pilgrimage site. Ironically, this meant that Southbank’s distance from central London and lack of tourist attractions or cultural landmarks besides the Globe Theatre, then under construction, was part of its appeal to the Tate. Alone on the other side of the river, the museum would be able to exert the same dominance over its surroundings and isolation as a pilgrimage destination like Marfa or the Guggenheim Bilbao, without forfeiting convenient access from London.

In the same lecture where he expressed admiration for the Judd Foundation, Serota praised ‘the placement of art in non-traditional spaces, […] to colonise spaces not traditionally associated with fine art.’[28] This way of positioning art and industrial spaces in opposition implicates fine art as the domain of the post-industrial society and explicitly isolates it from history. Additionally, Serota uses highly charged political language in discussing his goals. ‘Colonize’ has clear imperial connotations, as well as implying the erasure of the history of a place. Later articles about the new museum also saw its impact in this light, celebrating its effects on the surrounding areas. One New York Times article writes ‘For Londoners, there is still more to celebrate because the Tate Modern is also helping to gentrify the run-down borough of Southwark and its riverfront.’[29] The enthusiasm over the gentrification of the area also harks back to the imperial language that Serota uses, implying by omission that the people who might be displaced by the gentrification of the borough are not Londoners – further reinforcing the distance between the economically powerful City of London and Southwark. Although Tate has worked with local community groups and has specific hiring schemes intended to benefit the existing population, the rapid redevelopment of the area and demolishment of council houses that took place during the six-year transformation of the building rendered these solutions comparatively ineffective.[30] Additionally, in 2001, Tate proudly noted that property prices were increasing faster in Southwark than London averages.[31] Though the institution didn’t use loaded terms like regeneration or gentrification, the Tate consciously remarked on how the museum would engage with the urban landscape.[32]

It’s clear that Tate was aware of the instrumentalization of the museum as a vector for gentrification and transformation.[33] The global consulting firm McKinsey published a report in 1994 that helped to get funding for the museum as it predicted it would have an annual benefit to London of £30-90 million. This kind of return on investment thinking about art and cultural spaces is unpopular when discussing contemporary monuments, but as the Tate Modern was considered by many in New Labour as a mascot for public-private partnership, the political goals of the patrons should be considered.[34] Other redevelopment projects along the Southbank took place at the same time: the OXO tower was renovated, and the former Royal Festival Hall was converted into shops and restaurants. Since the museum opened in May of 2000, the physical and political landscapes around the Tate Modern have changed radically. Southbank is no longer a run-down riverfront but a lively pedestrian promenade. The area is a slick, commercial-cultural quarter that fulfils the ambitions of regeneration, where “the gallery becomes the anchor of a cultural quarter or neighbourhood that attracts visitors and generates retail trade.”[35]

The choice of Bankside Power Station was often justified as responding to the desires of artists. Tate surveyed artists worldwide on the kinds of exhibition halls they preferred, and respondents apparently chose former industrial architecture.[36] However, the building was purchased before the survey was answered and it yielded almost none of the loft-like exhibition spaces that had been requested.

The internal structure of the Tate Modern divides the Giles Gilbert Scott building in two sections lengthwise. The front section of the building is subdivided into the floors of galleries, the back is the Turbine Hall. Herzog & De Meuron intended the organisation of Tate Modern to be legible immediately on entering the building, allowing visitors to orient themselves.[37] This notion of a clear experience for the viewer carries through the rest of the galleries. In contrast to the versatile spaces being produced by many other museums, Tate chose to build concrete rooms. The architects emphasized how the galleries were meant to be discreet but not invisible, and said they hoped to banish distraction not create an overwhelmingly empty space.[38] Fire, air, and security systems are hidden from view, while details like rough oak flooring and brass grilles apparently link the purpose-built spaces to the industrial exterior. These small details are mentioned frequently in books about the transformation of the building, highlighting the seamless injection of new galleries into the old.[39] Praise of the museum often cites these elements as the indications of the firm’s light hand in the restoration. However, the fusion of the old and new becomes so convincing that the light filled spaces take on an authenticity as pre-existing parts of the building. This blurring of past and present sanitizes the real history of the power station, and the dirt of its original function and eventual economic failure.

The Turbine Hall is often cited as the proof that contemporary art can be popular.[40] The design of the space was also one of the features that made Herzog & De Meuron’s design stand out. Described as an ‘indoor street’ in the contest brief, the idea that the enormous vestibule would provide a venue for a democratic engagement with art closely aligned with the Tate’s mission.[41] The drawing of possible art display in the Turbine Hall depicts one of Rachel Whiteread’s cement cast sculptures. According to the contest briefs, the work in the image is her sculpture House.[42] However, Wouter Davidts astutely notes the work in the drawing is not in fact House.[43] Though drawn on the scale of House, the image is actually of Ghost—a significantly smaller work. House is a series of stacked cement casts of the interiors of rooms in Whiteread’s home; Ghost is the imprint of a single room.[44] This creates a radically different relationship between the work and the viewer than in[45] the artist’s original work – rather than a life size absence of a room, the Turbine Hall image is of a supersized one. Whether the smaller piece was used instead as a visual shorthand, or was an out and out mistake, it illustrates the difficulties of the space’s gigantism. In order to not be dwarfed by the gallery, the art is often developed in relationship to the space rather than to people. This dynamic with the environment as audience is true to the nature of the power station’s history. Most architecture is built in relation to people – classical definitions even personify and gender columns. The scale of architecture developed to house machinery is defined by that inhuman relationship as Rem Koolhaas has with regard to the Reno Tahoe Industrial city.[46] In these spaces, the human occupant is an interloper; only the machinery is at home.

The challenges of this supersized absence are heightened by the neutrality of the Turbine Hall. Herzog & De Meuron aimed to create a space that wouldn’t overwhelm the viewer, that had impact but wasn’t a focus of the experience. This neutrality, Davidts writes, results in a ‘site that appears to be devoid of specifics, a context that seems to confront the artists with the critical impossibility of drawing something ‘specific’ from it.’[47] Besides the gantry crane, there are no traces of the original function of the room reducing it to a generically industrial space, an inflated Lower East Side loft. The architect Rem Koolhaas writes of the Turbine Hall that its ‘neutrality has been extremely unfair to artists because it created an art that needed to feel justified in the enormity of the space.’[48] Without traces of its past functional necessity, the Turbine Hall becomes a sign for an industrial past – one sanitized out of a relationship to the present. Steel girders become the neo-classical columns of the twenty-first century, providing a backdrop of political and economic legitimacy devoid of any details that give them meaning beyond representing a generalised ‘past’. In one Apollo article published to celebrate the opening of the Blavatnik building, the critic Alastaire Sooke looked back on the Turbine Hall commissions. His lyrical description of Anish Kapoor’s Marsyas compares the work to ‘the muscles or innards of a giant turning the rigid girders of the surrounding architecture into mammoth bones.’[49] Strangely, his experience of the Turbine Hall unearths the history of the space beneath the museum’s careful sanitizing. The restauration of Bankside Power station removed the machine ‘innards’ of the building, leaving only a brickwork skin. The impact of the Turbine Hall’s empty exoskeleton is that of one of Koolhaas’s Reno Tahoe beasts eviscerated and rediscovered by future ‘remnants of humans.’[50] If Baudrillard compared the Pompidou to a writhing thing, a creature-machine, the Turbine Hall is its discarded carapace.[51] The White Cube critic Brian O’Doherty described the space as “a coffin for a giant,” a space where enormity goes to die.[52] This is in sharp contrast to the Tate’s own insistence on the space as a vibrant social arena, a public space like the ‘Galleria in Milan’ – accessible but ‘you should feel an atmosphere of art.’[53] How an ‘atmosphere of art’ is experienced has been one of the main challenges of the Unilever and Hyundai commissions over the last twenty years. Due to the Turbine Hall’s ambivalent status as a public social space, artists have treated it in very different ways.

Olafur Eliasson’s 2003 Unilever Commission was a sensation. The Weather Project (Fig. 3) covered the ceiling of the Turbine Hall with a mirror, and fixed hundreds of orange lightbulbs at one end. The fog and strange orange light of the installation created a huge sun. Eliasson treated the Turbine Hall like a shed, rather than trying to respond to the architecture, he created an atmosphere to fill the absence. The foggy microclimate could have been experienced in any empty space, however, the scale of the work dwarfed the individual visitor. Rem Koolhaas critiqued the scale for forcing the viewer into ‘a kind of adoring position.’[54] Visitors lay on the floor of the hall, many would stay for hours, finding and photographing themselves in the overhead mirror. Some even lay on the Turbine Hall floor in the shape of a peace sign to protest the Iraq war, or spelled out BUSH GO HOME with their bodies (Fig. 4 and 5). For the Tate, the commission was the embodiment of the intention for the Turbine Hall.[55] Visitors interacted with The Weather Project, as well as using the space for their own social and political organising. For the Tate Eliasson had created a Galleria with an ‘atmosphere of art.’ Notably, an image of The Weather Project is still used as the cover image for the Unilever Commission page of the Tate website.[56]

The Weather Project also had a remarkable digital effect. It was photographed and appeared all over the image sharing website Flickr, receiving the highest number of tagged hits.[57] Tate Modern clearly became aware of how social media could be leveraged and used to fashion their image. Tate developed an internet savvy that led them to having more than three million Instagram followers.[58] Eliasson’s role in this digital origin story is made even clearer in the digital success of his retrospective at the museum in 2019. However, though Eliasson is a publicly political artist, the commission didn’t address a specific issue nor did the protests target the museum or its sponsors (the work explored ‘ideas about experience, mediation and representation’).[59] By contrast, the protest movement Liberate Tate directly critiqued the gallery and its relationship to BP. According to Liberate Tate’s website, the movement was born out of a Tate workshop on art and activism where participants had been specifically prohibited from critiquing the museum or its sponsors.[60] By contrast, the protests that took place during The Weather Project did not challenge the museum’s identity. Rather, they reinforced the Tate’s image as the flagship for ‘cool Britannia’ and a neutral, if not left-leaning, backdrop.

Ai Weiwei’s 2010-2011 Unilever commission Sunflower Seeds (Fig. 6) created a radically different social response. Sunflower Seeds opened a specific dialogue about globalization, mass production and consumption. The floor of the Turbine Hall was covered in millions of individually painted porcelain sunflower seeds produced by specialists in the city of Jingdezhen.[61] Visitors were intended to walk across the work and experience the materiality of the beach, both individually and as an environment.[62] Ai Weiwei was able to successfully engage audience members with the work. Though he had millions made, each sunflower seed was tiny and meant to be looked at individually. Rather than creating a single object that responded to the Turbine Hall, Weiwei produced pieces that viewers could relate to and experience. The plural nature of the work allows it to respond to both the vastness of the space and the individual viewer, successfully negotiating the contrast between gigantic architecture and human occupant.

Only ten days after the exhibition was opened, however, access to the work was changed.[63] Due to the huge numbers of visitors and reports of jumping on the seeds, the porcelain dust from crushed seeds was thought to cause damage over long-term inhalation.[64] Theft of the seeds was also reported. Instead visitors were invited to look at Sunflower Seeds from the bridge and from sides of the landscape. Museum employees also supervised handling of the individual seeds[65]. This enforced change to the range of engagement with Ai Weiwei’s work reveals tension between Tate’s stated desire for inclusion and the real possibilities of unfettered access. Sunflower Seeds clearly demonstrates how a truly democratic space for art would require a more radical breakdown of the traditional relationship between art and audience, which Tate was unwilling to accept. The Tate’s reaction also conflicted with the artist’s own views on the treatment of the work. Ai Weiwei’s practice has long been based on the subversion of establishment ideas about artistic value and rarity. One of his earlier works, Dropping a Han Dynasty Vase 1995, is a series of photographs of the artist dropping and shattering a valuable historical art object. When asked to comment on the closing of Sunflower Seeds, he remarked that if he was a visitor he would want to take a seed, but ‘institutions have their own policies.’[66] Ai Weiwei succinctly sums up the viewer’s desires and their inevitable conflict with the reality of running an institution.

The most recent Turbine Hall commission, now sponsored by Hyundai, was Kara Walker’s Fons Americanus (Fig. 7). Subverting the architectural tropes of nineteenth century monuments, the fountain comments on Britain’s involvement in the slave trade and confronts the traditional history of London with its more brutal topography. The composition of the sculpture is based on the Queen Victoria memorial in front of Buckingham Palace but replaces classical allegories of Justice and the nation with symbols for lynching and contorted children.[67] The figures are sculpted in the style of racist caricatures of the ‘happy slave.’ Walker installed the sculpture at the far end of the Turbine Hall, mimicking the approach towards the Victoria monument along St James. The sculpture is accompanied by a written statement printed on the wall commanding the viewer to ‘WITNESS’ and ‘behold’ (Fig. 8). The desire of a white audience to look away from the horrors of the past that create the privilege of the present is built into the work. The work specifically addresses how the Tate foundation was started by a gift from the Tate sugar family, whose wealth was indirectly made off of slave labour.[68] Though neither Tate nor Lyle personally owned slaves, sugar was ‘the single most important catalyst for the African slave trade.’[69] Sugar was also one of the main ways that slave labour was made visible in the British home and daily life.[70] Remarkably, despite Kara Walker’s clear critique of the sugar trade, also addressed in earlier works like Sugar Baby, the info page about the work on the Tate website does not mention the foundation’s origins.[71] Rather, they focus on the work’s power as a broad critique of public monuments and a story of the ‘origins of the African diaspora.’ [72] Contrary to Kara Walker’s specific engagement with the Tate space and Britain’s role in the slave trade, the Tate website repeatedly refers to the transatlantic and European slave trade in the abstract, refusing the offered engagement with the foundation’s past and the nation’s culpability.[73] Both terms spread blame with American colonies and other European countries, diluting her attempt at critique. Fons Americanus is especially effective because it uses the Turbine Hall as a controlled public space, conflating the two Britannias. Walker’s engagement with the space links ‘cool’, neoliberal, educated Britain with its Imperialist past. The work’s power is in its subversion and rejection of the museum’s ‘wokeness’ and ‘coolness’. Unlike Eliasson and Weiwei, Walker negotiates the space as a dominantly white, controlled public space rather than as an ivory tower of art interactions.

Through the lens of the Eliasson, Weiwei, and Walker commissions, the rifts between the Turbine Hall’s stated goals of inclusion and democratic access to art and the realities of running a multi-million-dollar, mainstream institution come to light. Tate Modern welcomes more than five million visitors per year, which by nature conflicts with its self-fashioning as an open, outsider-artist-run collective.[74] The Turbine Hall is the most prominent space in which these issues are acted out, revealing how the transformation of Bankside Power Station sanitizes the social and economic conflict of its industrial past. Tate uses the signs of marginal art spaces and past productivity to normalize the gentrification of a neoliberal present.


[1] Searing, The Architecture of the Four Tates, 16.

[2] ‘Tate Modern Becomes Top UK Attraction’.

[3] Nicholas Serota, ‘The 21st-Century Tate is a Commonwealth of Ideas’, n Size Matters! (De)Growth of the 21st Century Art Museum, ed. Beatrix Ruf and John Slyce, pp

[4] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, Building Tate Modern, 182.

[5] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 182.

[6] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 180.

[7] Searing, The Architecture of the Four Tates, 107.

[8] Searing, 107.

[9] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, Building Tate Modern, 186.

[10] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 186.

[11] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 190.

[12] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 17.

[13] Dean, Donnellan, and Pratt, ‘Tate Modern’, 12.

[14] Bradburne, ‘OPINION’, 77. Repeatedly refers to Tate Modern as a ‘new building’

[15] Crisman, ‘From Industry to Culture’, 407.

[16] Crisman, 407.

[17] ‘Aldo Rossi Architecture of the City’, 130.

[18] ‘Glossary: Terrain Vague | Urban Attributes - Andalusia Center for Contemporary Art’.

[19] Crisman, ‘From Industry to Culture’, 409.

[20] Crisman, 405.

[21] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, Building Tate Modern, 43.

[22] Crisman, ‘From Industry to Culture’, 407.

[23] Crisman, 405.

[24] DeVerteuil, Resilience in the Post-Welfare Inner City ,p. 125.

[25] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, Building Tate Modern, 37.

[26] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 37.

[27] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 35.

[28] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 35.

[29] Riding, ‘A Symbol Of Renewal In South London; The Tate Modern, Bright Star On the Thames’s Other Side’.

[30] Maginn, Urban Regeneration, Community Power and the (In)Significance of ‘Race’.

[31] Maginn, Urban Regeneration, Community Power and the (In)Significance of ‘Race’.

[32] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, Building Tate Modern, 37.

[33] Tate, ‘The Economic Impact of Tate Modern – Press Release’.

[34] Donnellan, Towards Tate Modern.

[35] Dean, Donnellan, and Pratt, ‘Tate Modern’p.3.

[36] Crisman, ‘From Industry to Culture’, 407.

[37] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, Building Tate Modern, 39.

[38] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 26–27.

[39] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, 43.

[40] Wouter Davidts, 'A Grey Universe. Tate Modern's Turbine Hall and the Unilever Series', in Sculpture and the Museum, ed. Christopher Marshall (London, 2017), p. 203-204

[41] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, Building Tate Modern, 39

[42] Wouter Davidts, 'A Grey Universe. Tate Modern's Turbine Hall and the Unilever Series', in Sculpture and the Museum, ed. Christopher Marshall (London, 2017), p. 206

[43] Wouter Davidts, 'A Grey Universe. Tate Modern's Turbine Hall and the Unilever Series', in Sculpture and the Museum, ed. Christopher Marshall (London, 2017), p. 206

[44] Wouter Davidts, 'A Grey Universe. Tate Modern's Turbine Hall and the Unilever Series', in Sculpture and the Museum, ed. Christopher Marshall (London, 2017), p. 206

[45] Wouter Davidts, 'A Grey Universe. Tate Modern's Turbine Hall and the Unilever Series', in Sculpture and the Museum, ed. Christopher Marshall (London, 2017), p. 206

[46] Rem Koolhaas, 'Size and Scale in Architecture', in Size Matters! (De)Growth of the 21st Century Art Museum, ed. Beatrix Ruf and John Slyce, pp 120–21.

[47] Wouter Davidts, 'A Grey Universe. Tate Modern's Turbine Hall and the Unilever Series', in Sculpture and the Museum, ed. Christopher Marshall (London, 2017), p. 210

[48] Rem Koolhaas, 'Size and Scale in Architecture', in Size Matters! (De)Growth of the 21st Century Art Museum, ed. Beatrix Ruf and John Slyce, pp. 120–21.

[49] ‘How Tate Modern Transformed London – and Beyond’.

[50] Rem Koolhaas, 'Size and Scale in Architecture', in Size Matters! (De)Growth of the 21st Century Art Museum, ed. Beatrix Ruf and John Slyce, pp. 130.

[51] Baudrillard, ‘The Beaubourg-Effect: Implosion and Deterrence’’, 3.

[52] Godfrey, ‘Public Spectacle’.

[53] Moore, Ryan, and Tate, Building Tate Modern, 54.

[54] Rem Koolhaas, 'Size and Scale in Architecture', in Size Matters! (De)Growth of the 21st Century Art Museum, ed. Beatrix Ruf and John Slyce, pp. 120–21.

[55] Nicholas Serota, ‘The 21st-Century Tate is a Commonwealth of Ideas’, n Size Matters! (De)Growth of the 21st Century Art Museum, ed. Beatrix Ruf and John Slyce, pp. 43.

[56] Tate, ‘The Unilever Series – Exhibition at Tate Modern’.

[57] Dean, Donnellan, and Pratt, ‘Tate Modern’.

[58] ‘Tate (@tate) • Photos et Vidéos Instagram’.

[59] Tate, ‘The Unilever Series’.

[60] ‘Where It All Began | Liberate Tate’.

[61] Tate, ‘The Unilever Series’.

[62] Tate.

[63] Tate.

[64] Tate.

[65] Tate.

[66] Higgins, ‘Is It OK to Steal a Turbine Hall Seed?’

[67] Tate, ‘Kara Walker’s Fons Americanus – Look Closer’.

[68] Tate, ‘The Tate Galleries and Slavery’.

[69] Gikandi, ‘Unspeakable Events’, 110.

[70] Gikandi, 110.

[71] Tate, ‘Kara Walker’s Fons Americanus – Look Closer’.

[72] Tate.

[73] Tate.

[74] ‘Tate Modern Becomes Top UK Attraction’.

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