Anne Imhof: Sex review — In using viewer as a performative tool, this feels genuinely original

My first glimpse of Anne Imhof’s 15 performers is as strobing shadows in the darkness of the South Tank. Some viewers have gained entry onto the raised platform beneath which they perform, the rest of us can only look in. But before too long they’re among us, in the East Tank, drifting and expressionless.

They’re dressed casually, some with co-ordinated T-shirts: two have images of Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, the heroine of the US Left.

In the East Tank, everything is reversed: the “stage” of beams and metal platforms, is above the audience, the space is light, the viewers dispersed rather than contained. Imhof’s chief collaborator, Eliza Douglas, sings a beautiful, mournful operatic song. If the performers have a leader, it’s Douglas. She’s magnetic: her songs – with music by another of the performers, Billy Bultheel – are the sonic foundation of the piece, her guitar is a raw, jarring accompaniment.

She regularly crouches, mobile phone in hand, to receive texts — the work’s score — from Imhof, and exchange them with the other performers.

Performers pause to vape, lounging on mattresses. The sound veers between serene poise and industrial noise, and moments of repose are interspersed with intense activity: tussles and embraces in the East Tank; back in the South Tank, a kind of hypnotised, manic walking around the platform. And at each point, we, the audience, are pulled with them.

I’ve never been as aware of an artist using my presence as a performative tool. In coordinating this collision of performer, viewer and extraordinary space, Imhof’s work feels genuinely original.

Installation until Jan 31, ticketed performances Mar 28-Mar 30 (020 7887 8888, tate.org.uk)