I NEVER MET the dancing man. I watched him plenty of times in a Hobart mall, but not once did I shake his hand or ask him his name. He was just the dancing man. I suppose, though, without ever speaking to each other, we had a friendship of sorts. Each day when I walked past him on my way to work I would smile and nod. I never could tell if his head-wobble and body-shake in reply was a reciprocal greeting or just another wacky dance move, but he always seemed to boogie with an extra burst of enthusiasm when I went by. I liked to think the additional little flurry was an acknowledgment of my presence. And I liked to think this was how he communicated with the world.

The mall was much like any other mall in Australia: a busy sliver of garish consumerism ripping through a city block. Full of chain stores and smoking teenagers and anxious-looking old folks walking their wares in tartan-covered carts. To most, the mall was simply a place to shop and sit and enjoy the one hundred metres of respite from the cars grinding impatiently through the streets. To the dancing man, however, the mall was a stage.