Give teenagers taking ‘selfies’ a break – their phones have seen them through the pandemic

I haven’t seen so many teens en masse for ages – and at first I felt a bit annoyed with them. And then something struck me, writes Jenny Eclair

They were having a ball and yes, maybe they were pretending to be at a club (Getty/iStock)

I went to Tate Britain the other day. I prefer this “little sister” gallery to its oversized Tate Modern sibling, which has sadly outgrown its charm thanks to the recent bulbous extension. What is the new space for, why are the lifts so hopeless, and why does it smell weird?

Anyway, back to Tate Britain, which has got some new summer shows to entertain you, should you be able to visit over the holidays.

We’d booked for the Paula Rego (of which more later) but first we were treated to a new Duveen Gallery installation. This gallery is essentially the main entrance hall of Tate Britain, and for months was home to Steve McQueen’s brilliant Year 3, a vast collection of traditional “school photographs” featuring year-3 primary school children. Rows of seven- to eight-year-olds, some sitting in matching sweatshirts, others uniform-free, facing the camera – their simple pre-pandemic lives caught in the lens forever.

This exhibition seemed to stay in situ for ages – it was there before Covid, and it was still there months later when the Tate came out of lockdown; and despite it being undeniably great, there was also something rather heartbreaking about seeing all those innocent pre-corona faces.

How many of those children had lost an elderly relative in the intervening months? How many of them had changed immeasurably since they were asked to sit with Miss and smile for the photographer?

In any case, as a very regular Tate visitor, once you’ve seen the faces of thousands of kids who aren’t yours a couple of times, you’re ready for something new. And something very new has landed at the Duveen.

Entering the Tate now is like walking into one of those clubs you occasionally stumbled into, back in the nineties, only to find yourself in a completely different psychedelic universe.

Heather Phillipson’s utterly transformational installation in this elegant old building is the ultimate apocalyptic disco experience. Her other work includes the disturbing yet cartoon-style THE END – otherwise known as Trafalgar Square’s fourth-plinth “ice cream cone with fly” piece, which has been turning heads in town for the past year or so.

Her new Tate installation, snappily titled RUPTURE NO 1: blowtorching the bitten peach, made me grin on entering. This felt new, felt worth coming out for: this was a full-on sensory experience. Animal eyes on screens watch your arrival, and – as you head deeper into the madness of Phillipson’s imagination – it feels like you could be in a steampunk video game. I don’t have the language or the knowledge to give you a proper critique of this piece; all I know is that it made my pulse beat a little faster and it made me laugh.

The other thing that struck me about my visit was the teenagers. I think they must have been on a school trip because there were loads of them, probably around the age of 15 or 16, obsessively taking selfie after selfie.

I hadn’t seen so many teens en masse for ages – and at first I felt a bit annoyed with them. It was the preening and Love Island-style pouting that disturbed me. “Ridiculous creatures,” I thought. Were they even interested in the art? Where did they think they were – at a club?

And then it struck me: they were having a ball, and yes, maybe they were pretending to be at a club. But who could blame them? As they posed against an ever-changing digital backdrop, I felt a sudden intense sympathy for them – these beautiful almost-adults who, for 18 months, have been denied their rightful en-masse dancing and snogging. All they’ve really had is their phones.

Of course, when I was their age, a disco comprised little more than three traffic-coloured lights which flickered on and off in quick succession and a DJ playing vinyl requests in an old scout-hut. Who cared? We weren’t very sophisticated in the seventies; and anyway, it was the music and the boys and the getting off with each other that we were really there for. We were out of the house, and away from our parents, and not frightened of anything.

Who am I to sneer at these teens and their Instagram and TikTok madness? Fingers crossed they stay well and have a ball this summer.

When I look back, my teen weekends were mostly spent in a Photo-Me booth, making very similar faces. The difference between then and now, of course, is that today’s teenagers have been denied their freedom for so long – so who can begrudge them their selfie binge? (Also – may I just say right now that 21st-century teens have got much better eyebrows than we ever had.)

But now, on to the Rego. This is essential viewing. It’s all there: what it is to be a woman, the pain and the struggle, the sheer brutality of life. It is one of the best shows I’ve ever seen, but so emotionally overwhelming that after an hour it felt good to stumble back out into the disco with the kids.