I n the last nine years Tate has had some hits, but its misses have become embarrassing. Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall is currently occupied by a feeble installation that would be weak in an ordinary-sized art space, let alone this gigantic one. It’s become genuinely hard to understand what Tate’s priorities are when it chooses artists for the annual Turbine Hall commission. And the Turner prize is even more mystifying. Once the stage of shocking, provocative art that engaged – whether they were for or against – a massive public, it has retreated into wilful obscurity, its trips around the UK starting to seem part of a studied wholesomeness. What’s the point of staging it in Bradford when the shortlist just exports the enigmatic tastes of a metropolitan elite?

Is Maria Balshaw, who is

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