The theme for the Tate's UBS party was May Day - but with little sign of the workers' red flag

To Tate Modern for a glitzy launch of the rehang, though the party wasn't celebrating the collection so much as Tate's new sponsor, UBS. As Richard Brooks discussed in these pages last month, the Swiss bank has funded the rehang (rumoured cost: £1m), and will sponsor Tate over the next three years (sum undisclosed).

In recognition of this largesse, the launch party was utterly streamlined and luxurious. Immaculately clad guests moved about the Turbine Hall as if on an elegant liner. The hall was lit with chandeliers; a film showing tulips slowly opening their petals was projected on the giant walls, while floral cut-outs decorated the floor. Further down, an entire wood of living trees in full blossom had been erected, their roots in bags of hessian. We were told they would be spirited off after the party and given to such deserving institutions as primary schools. The theme was May Day, but there wasn't much sign of the red flag for the world's Workers. This was more about the power of the Square Mile than the clout of the proletariat.

Still, UBS is clearly a partner to be reckoned with. The official programme for the evening showed key UBS Meeting Points, perhaps for clients who had pressing business to fit in between the carpaccio of beef with deep-fried artichokes and the pecorino cheese dribbled with acacia honey. We were shown where to go for UBS Equities, UBS Fixed Income and FXCCT (whatever that is), UBS Global Asset Management and Wealth Management, and UBS Investment Banking.

The Tate had one single spot, although when I went to it, neither Vicente Todoli, director of Tate Modern, nor Nick Serota, the Tate group's overall master, could be found in it. The presence of Tate staff overall was quite low-key.

This was UBS's night, although it is unclear what the hordes of wealthy financiers thought of Grayson Perry, the cross-dressing Turner Prize-winning potter. Perry was in sparkling form, sporting a blue sequinned outfit decorated with what my mother would call "suggestive" illustrations, blue bunny ears and bright blue Mary Jane heels. "My feet are on fire," he panted to me at one point. "Now I know what women go through." Quite.

It's six years this month since Tate Modern opened with a similarly vast bash, if more chaotic in style. Naturally, a rehang (even a UBS one) is bound to be more muted than a birth, and indeed once one had walked around the blossoming trees and inspected the opening tulips, the galleries upstairs looked stunning. The passage of six years has given the curators time to weigh up space and light and rearrange the collection chronologically, to great effect. Walls have been removed and clever sight lines initiated. Matisse's great collage The Snail beckons you on through several galleries, and Rothko's Four Seasons sequence of paintings hangs in the inner sanctum of a giant white gallery like a red, pulsating heart.

And if the launch night was somewhat corporate, the sense of public ownership is bound to reappear as the crowds pour in, eager to see old favourites repositioned, as well as arrivals from the Tate collection. Any sense of nostalgia should probably be ascribed, therefore, to this being the last of my NS columns. I'm bound for the page marked Theatre; but it's been a privilege to have had this spot for so long. Thank you.

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