Alex Gibbons enjoys a sleepover with Matisse and Picasso

At a time when most people are asleep, with ungodly hangovers brewing, hundreds of brave souls spent the night at Tate Modern in order to catch a final glimpse of the Matisse Picasso exhibition, which was open for a special 36-hour stint from Saturday morning to Sunday evening. But who were these people, and why come at such a peculiar time? Armed with curiosity and a hefty caffeine budget, I set off to find out by pulling my first "all-nighter" in an art gallery.

It was an oppressively hot evening in London, making the first priority some refreshment. Fortunately, there were free drinks. Less fortunately, there was only an absinthe bar, hardly conducive to hydration. But most people decided it would be churlish not to experience Picasso and Matisse's favourite tipple, and promptly set about trying all the available types.

The evening's highlights were billed as the special exhibition tours. First up was George Melly: writer, jazz legend and wearer of silly hats. Oddly, his speech was presented in one of the smallest rooms, which led to an unruly scrum reminiscent of a journey on the Tube. Soon, the undercurrent of brutality in Matisse's work appeared to seep into the crowd's unconscious and a furious jockeying for position began. All the while, the unflappable Melly was being hounded by a set of brusque photographers.

A public debate was raised as to who was better, Matisse or Picasso, resulting in a resounding 5-2 victory to Picasso. Lizzy Cowling, exhibition co-curator, offered an insight into the artists' special relationship. After describing Picasso's sense of drama, Cowling was on the receiving end of an untimely heckle from a man demanding to know why Matisse's work didn't reflect incidents in his life. Unfortunately, the gentleman was determined to shout over any answer she may have wished to give. After fending off his crapulous attack, she received a warm round of applause. It was as if a special late-night community, with a shared passion for the eccentric, had formed.

As time crept ever forward and lethargy consumed the building, the number of portable, fold-up chairs increased exponentially. Why three people situated themselves in the middle of the room was a mystery. An attempt to mirror Picasso's Three Women at the Spring perhaps? Three Idiots in the Way seemed more appropriate.

Breakfast loomed, but the numbers never dwindled. A few tired children were dragged around; tourists, punks, goths and, predictably, students (mostly drunk) lingered through the night. Some had come thinking it would be "cool", others had assumed the gallery would be empty, and some were already looking at other exhibits and deciding to stay the night. Not everyone could take the pace, as some succumbed to snoozing in the comfy chairs in the concourse, or were encouraged to do so by an eager press photographer looking for the right picture.

As dawn broke I was reduced to flicking through When Pigasso met Mootisse in the gift shop, a cartoon book about two animal artists with cubist and fauvist tendencies, respectively. By this time, it was all my withered brain could absorb. I spent my final minutes on the balcony overlooking the Millennium Bridge, as light flooded the Thames and reflected off the Dome of St Paul's. The noise of the previous hours subsided into a respectful hush as the survivors and organisers celebrated their achievement. It is testimony to Picasso and Matisse that so many should congregate at such antisocial hours. Paintings and sculp- ture, so perfectly realised, should never be put to sleep.

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