by Michelle Letowska

7.30am. There was music and I danced. The invitation was there on a blackboard outside and people joined me. Some glanced in passing, some stopped and stared, many smiled, some didn’t seem to notice. Some danced too.

It was easy. Turn on the music and started dancing. No nerves, shame, embarrassment. That was good. Small children seemed to understand, smiling, dragging big people back, joining in.

Had I been there all day?, asked a pregnant mum wearing a baby on board badge and bringing her daughter in. They’d seen me in the morning on the way to school and had a boogie on the street an the girl had wanted to come in. What was I doing it for? Just for fun I said. They had a dance.

Perhaps art (that which is intended as art) in a shop with big windows next to a busy underground station during rush hours can’t not be a performance or exhibition-ism.

Perhaps it’s only a performance because we have a strong idea of where and when we are supposed to or allowed to dance. To move our bodies in response to music, a beat, in any way we like, unselfconsciously. Remove the alcohol, the entry ticket, the darkness and questions appear. Why are you dancing? What for?

What does it look like? I don’t know.

What does it feel like? Try it and see.