First things first: put your bags in the cloakroom. That's not overofficiousness, just practical advice. And leave your heels at home, too. Because this is not your usual stand-and-stare, quietly-stroke-chin sort of exhibition. This one only comes to life at all if you, the viewer, get involved.
The idea that art only becomes complete with the spectator's own response has never been more true than in this ambitious exhibition dedicated to the interplay between art and dance from the '60s until now. The subject is choreography - how objects and people are arranged in time and space. And, more often than not, those people are not dancers but audience members themselves.
Whether creeping and crawling through the fun house/obstacle course that is Lygia Clark's 'The House Is the Body. Penetration, ovulation, germination, expulsion' (a lot less icky than the title suggests), or attempting to balance on one of Robert Morris's 'Participatory Objects', this is an experience that asks us to consider our own physical presence - our matter, our muscles and the manner in which we fill up space.
These ideas were simmering in the US in the '60s with choreographers like Anna Halprin, Simone Forti and Trisha Brown, who took choreography beyond theatrical expectations. Forti's brilliant 'Angel' (1976), on show here, is a neat example. A holographic cylinder reveals a ghostly image of Forti that moves only when the viewer does. We don't watch the work; we create it with our own movement.
Think of all the million possible ways a body can move and add up how many of those you actually use most days - standing, sitting, walking and possibly not much more. Some of the exhibits here aim to edge us out of our everyday straitjackets or test how we react when offered up an empty space - leaping to fill it or clinging to the walls.
In Dan Graham's 'Present, Continuous, Past(s)' (1974) and Franz West's 'Adaptives' from the early '70s, mirrors and video cameras throw our own images back at us - heaven for narcissists and exhibitionists. Athletes will be tested by William Forsythe's deceptively fiendish 'The Fact of the Matter' (2009), a jungle of hanging gymnastic rings to be traversed without touching the floor, which makes you instantly aware of your own balance, control and strength. Or lack of it.
From basic concepts like gravity, freedom and restriction to more knotty topics such as the ownership of movement, there is a plethora of ideas to consider from a very broad range of artists, all tied by a common, if slightly amorphous, thread.
Some pieces engender a strong physical response. Bruce Nauman's very narrow 'Green Light Corridor' (pictured) inspires claustrophobia at first glance, but get inside and it's almost a tool of transformation. One of the more recent pieces, Boris Charmatz's 'éâtre-élévision' takes us, solo, into a blacked-out room, where you lie on a grand piano and watch a television screen populated with weirdo dancers, themselves stuck in a black box. When sounds from the screen begin to emanate from the room around you, your sense of space and orientation starts to blur.
The biggest new commission is Isaac Julien's 'Ten Thousand Waves', a film projected on nine hanging screens that begins with the tragedy of the Chinese cockle pickers who drowned in Morecambe Bay in 2004. It expands to the vistas of Shanghai and southern China in an absorbing and beautiful piece. The audience can move around the screens, but this one is really about mass movement and migration, taking the exhibition's key idea to a political level.
As well as all the spectator-performers, there are dancers in the gallery too, performing some revived works (like Simone Forti's 'Huddle' (1961), and Yvonne Rainer's classic, ultra minimal 'Trio A' (1966)) and some new ones, such as Pablo Bronstein's amusing 'Triumphal Arch'. And when you've tired of the playground, there's a huge video archive to explore, spanning an impressive range of artists and intentions. You really could lose hours here. And a few inhibitions.