Rían Kearney is a Queer History Curator.

Category: Short Text

  • Thoughts on the accessibility and permanency of exhibitions and archives of displacement

    British Art Network
    March 2024

    At the time of writing, I am working my way through the hours of interview recordings that I have been putting off transcribing for weeks. As part of my ongoing research on the history of Birmingham’s LGBTQ+ venues, I have been asking those who attended these spaces from the 1960s to the 1980s to draw them from memory. While sketching, interviewees describe just about anything that comes to mind: the colour and texture of the furniture, the pulsating vibrations of Hi-NRG, and the sex behind a thick, black curtain dividing the dancefloor. Few photographs of these venues exist, and many have long since been demolished due to redevelopment.

    Birmingham’s Gay Village came into existence in the late 1980s thanks to the availability of large industrial premises and cheaper rents south of the city centre.[1] In recent years, however, residential developments have been built on many of the now-derelict industrial sites and car parks that were once scattered across the Village. Since 2019, a quarter of Birmingham’s LGBTQ+ venues have closed or were forced to move.[2] Now is as good a time as any to share histories of Birmingham’s LGBTQ+ venues and their ongoing fight for space, but I find myself oscillating between issues of exhibition efficacy and archival permanence.

    Exhibitions are a format I worked with previously. In 2019, I interviewed those who attended Birmingham’s longest-running LGBTQ+ venue, The Nightingale Club, and tasked them with drawing its previous venues from memory. These drawings were displayed alongside excerpts from the interviews and 3D renderings produced by Intervention Architecture in an exhibition titled The Club’s Conception (or, How the Egg Was Cracked) at Recent Activity, a project space in Digbeth in May 2019. A second iteration of the exhibition was presented at Birmingham Hippodrome in November 2019 on the site where the club previously stood. 

    A couple of years have passed, and exhibitions seem to be becoming a difficult medium for information sharing, particularly in the Midlands where galleries have been faced with temporary closures and cuts to funding. The Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery has been shut since 2020 due to essential maintenance work, and in February 2024, the now-bankrupt Birmingham City Council announced a 100% cut to arts funding by 2026.[3]  Though this funding gap has now been plugged by a government grant, these cuts told the people of Birmingham that its arts and culture were non-essential.[4] Exhibition-making is in an increasingly precarious position.

    Public archives are an alternative to exhibitions, but these are not without issues of accessibility. Unlike displays in galleries and museums, archives require visitors to register, pre-select the materials they would like to see and reserve an appointment. This is a process that many of us as researchers have grown accustomed to, but it is a barrier for many. 

    Web archives offer a means for accessing information from home, negating the bureaucracy of the archive. As data scholar Cassie Findlay puts it: 

    We need to shake off the vision of the impartial archivist safe in her fortress (and her cardigan) and look to the coder/recordkeeper making truly alternative systems of memory available to the marginalised, the vulnerable, and to the journalist/archivist releasing records with the power to shift the course of global affairs, and making sure they remain available and usable forever.[5]

    The activist’s archive is digital, distanced from the traditional, often-times-stuffy origins of record-keeping. Writing on the displacement and redevelopment of the Heygate Estate in Elephant and Castle, urban scholar Susan Pell refers to the 2016 website Heygate Was Home (www.heygatewashome.org) which shares interviews with displaced residents.[6] Heygate Was Home is an online resource for those who lived on the estate or who are experiencing a similar form of displacement at the hands of local councils and developers.[7] At the time of writing, however, this website is no longer accessible, as are the interviews and resources it once held. This is not a criticism of Heygate Was Here, but it evidences the issues of permanency that digital resources face. There are costs associated with maintaining an online presence and a single missed payment or expiration of a domain name can render information inaccessible. This is not necessarily a concern for an organisation with means, but for a community-run initiative, it can be difficult to meet the burden of indefinite costs and administration. 

    An understanding of the history and efforts of Birmingham’s LGBTQ+ people is essential for overcoming ongoing threats of redevelopment and venue closure. We deserve the opportunity to access history with ease and on our own terms. Whatever form this might take, I would like to ensure it is an accessible and permanent means.

    Bibliography

    Collins, Alan, ‘Sexual Dissidence, Enterprise and Assimilation: Bedfellows in Urban Regeneration’, Urban Studies, 41.9 (2004), 1789–1806 <https://doi.org/10.1080/0042098042000243156&gt;

    Findlay, Cassie, ‘Archival Activism’, Archives and Manuscripts, 44.3 (2016), 155–59

    Gilbert, Simon, ‘Arts Funding Boost for West Midlands after Council Cuts’, BBC News, 7 March 2024, section Birmingham & Black Country <https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cxeznd7pkl6o&gt; [accessed 4 April 2024]

    Harris, Gareth, ‘“Cease Funding for Cultural Projects”: Arts Institutions in Birmingham, UK, Face 100% Cuts’, The Art Newspaper, 21 February 2024 <https://www.theartnewspaper.com/2024/02/21/cease-funding-for-cultural-projects-arts-institutions-in-the-uks-birmingham-face-100-cuts&gt; [accessed 4 April 2024]

    Kearney, Rían, ‘Museums, Galleries, and Archives of LGBTQ+ Displacement’, in Queer Exhibition Histories, ed. by Bas Hendrikx, First (Amsterdam: Valiz), pp. 67–76

    Pell, Susan, ‘Documenting the Fight for the City: The Impact of Activist Archives on Anti-Gentrification Campaigns’, in Archives, Recordkeeping, and Social Justice, ed. by David A. Wallace, Wendy M. Duff, Renée Saucier, and Andrew Finn (London: Routledge, 2020), pp. 169–82

    Wade, Cathy, ‘What’s Next for Birmingham’s Cultural Institutions and Galleries?’, Frieze, 2023 <https://www.frieze.com/article/whats-next-birminghams-cultural-institutions-and-galleries&gt; [accessed 4 April 2024]

  • Queer Space Archive

    Artlicks Magazine
    August 2022

    July 2017: I stepped in from the rain and made my way into the foyer of the Library of Birmingham, where I was directed to a queue waiting to ascend the escalators. Rather than wait, I made my way to a staircase behind a pair of fire-exit doors. The smell of pasties wafted from the café as I made my way up a fluorescently lit, concrete staircase to the archives on the fourth floor. I signed in, placed my bags in the locker, and took my seat at a table where a few cardboard boxes were placed. As I flicked through folders comprising the city’s LGBTQ+ heritage, venues including clubs, bars, and community centres became reduced to a seemingly endless supply of meeting minutes, financial records, and annual reports. While this gloss hinted at the struggles and resiliencies of community spaces on the margins, a lack of photographs paired with the knowledge that many of these sites were now demolished, made them feel more ephemeral than the social structures they were.  

    ***

    Looking to forge a visual understanding of these spaces, I worked with Intervention Architecture and a small number of people who attended Birmingham’s longest-running LGBTQ+ venue, The Nightingale Club, on the exhibition The Club’s Conception (or How the Egg Was Cracked) at Recent Activity in 2019. Using only their memories, they sketched rough and undirected floor plans of the now-demolished structures, before walking me through their sketches as they shared stories, anecdotes, and snippets of gossip. This way of working now forms Queer Space Archive, a social and cultural initiative that hopes to retrace LGBTQ+ venues across Birmingham. 

    I recently went back to the archives and stumbled across a floor plan of the city’s Gay Community Centre which operated from 1976 to 1979 – one of the first of its kind in England. It was not a blueprint, nor did it include measurements that might suggest a practical use. The original building also remains in Digbeth – resilient on the cusp of Birmingham’s HS2 high-speed rail development where neighbouring structures have been demolished. Now formed of shop fronts and flats, the building stands seemingly unaware of its queer significance. So, what is the role of sketching from memory in retracing space when missing depictions are found, or when a building still stands?

    Memory-based drawing is used mostly in the field of criminology studies, where researchers have praised its ability to aid witness accounts. In 2015, researchers Fiona Jack, Elise Martyn, and Rachel Zajac asked participants to view a video of an environment, before splitting them into three groups: the first with a photograph; the second with an existing sketch; and the third with the task of sketching the environment from memory.[1] This study found that giving participants a photograph or existing sketch was just as effective for recalling memory, however, those who sketched provided more accurate details.[2] The physical act of putting pencil to paper is thought to be behind the success of sketching past events or environments accurately, and this ethos carries through to autobiographical studies, where research has credited drawing past personal events with feelings of self-relevance and authorship.[3]

    Since 2019, a quarter of Birmingham’s LGBTQ+ venues have closed permanently due to urban redevelopment, accelerated by the difficulties facing the hospitality industry during the coronavirus pandemic. While sketching will not remedy the displacement of Birmingham’s communities for unaffordable residential developments, I like to think of it as a way of recording past venues and using conversations around heritage to try and future proof the existence of spaces by and for queer people.

  • British Art Uncannon

    British Art Network
    January 2022
    Link

    From Victoria Centre flats – also known as Fairy Towers or Vaseline Villas by queer residents – The New Foresters, Nottingham’s only LGBTQI+ space, sits east. A city of three hundred thousand from where I write this text.

    My hometown of Birmingham’s Gay Village lies fifty-something miles southwest, in a flux of closure since the 1970s. Four out of sixteen spaces have closed since 2019, with more expected due to residential developments responding to HS2, a new high-speed railway that will reduce journey times to the capital by a whopping 32-minutes. A further hundred-or-so miles southeast – transiting the line that will make Birmingham a commuter city – nearly sixty per cent of London’s queer venues have closed since 2011. Casualties of redevelopment, accelerated by the coronavirus pandemic.

    This banner was held by demonstrators outside The Joiners Arms, a queer pub in East London that was purchased and closed by property developers in 2015. Emblematic of the realities facing many community spaces, the Friends of the Joiners Arms formed to combat closure and successfully campaigned for the venue to be recognised as an Asset of Community Value. This recognition led Tower Hamlets Council to grant permission for the site to be developed, under the condition that a queer pub was included with a lease of 25-years and late-night licensing hours mirroring the original venue.

    Tracing queer geographies reveals communities that are threatened but resilient – set in motion to occupy and rebuild meaningful space.

  • Ian Giles: Trojan Horse / Rainbow Flag

    this is tomorrow
    June 2019
    Link

    Before occupying their own spaces, queer communities would gather at ‘gay nights’ in establishments where drinks prices were raised for punters with no alternative. Subverting previous migratory notions, Ian Giles presented ‘Trojan Horse / Rainbow Flag’ at the queer-run Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club. The event featured a screening of his new film by the same name, alongside video works by five other artists that discuss the past, present and future of queer spaces. 

    In a room where gold fringe curtains help tick every gay cliché, ‘Chariots Slide Show’ (2019) by Prem Sahib opened the event. The images feature Chariots Shoreditch, the UK’s largest gay sauna that was torn down in 2016 for new housing. While glory holes outline the sexual intentions of the venue, the images are a walkthrough of a space where sex was just one layer of a multifaceted queer communication. Likewise, ‘Pink Rooms’ (2017) by Hannah Quinlan and Rosie Hastings provides a sense of progression as Tina Turner’s ‘Let’s Stay Together’ moves in and out of clarity over an empty dance floor. The audio evokes a pulsation similar to what is heard in a club’s smoking area or toilet, allowing viewers to consider the themes of queer permanency through the familiarity of a club setting. Despite the venue still existing, Quinlan, Hastings and Sahib’s works trace the need to document spaces while they still stand. 

    Moving away from documentary, ‘Trojan Horse/Rainbow Flag’ (2019) by Ian Giles evokes the memory of the late Joiners Arms through role-play. Script in hand, participants re-enact the artist’s conversations with activist group Friends of the Joiners Arms, who campaigned against the closure of the iconic venue. While the site closed in 2016, conversations seem far more historical – actors phase in and out of character, expressing wishes to have attended the pub or seen the area pre-gentrification. Nostalgic sentiment paired with the recent nature of the film’s events echo the fast-paced nature of queer displacement. 

    Not all films touched upon a loss of space; ‘LHB’ (2017) by Charlotte Prodger confronts a lack of queer territory and kin through clips of urinating onto the countryside she traces. There is a literal intention to the act, which claims the land where an LGBTQ+ existence is undoubtedly solitary. Similarly, ‘Weed Killer’ (2017) by Patrick Staff tackles the loneliness produced by exclusion in safe spaces. One particular scene presents artist Jamie Crewe lip-synching in a bar, and while some initial interest is shown, the on-lookers grow dismissive, provoking thoughts around the exclusion of Trans bodies in spaces thought to be welcoming.

    A panel discussion ended the evening, which quickly turned to the topic of inclusion. Bernice Mulenga and Mahta Hassanzadeh from club night Pxssy Palace, highlighted their initiative to provide a free taxi service to and from the venue for Trans attendees. While the preservation of spaces proves important, my lasting thoughts centred on the changes still to be made in providing a safe space for those still marginalised under the LGBTQ+ umbrella.

  • Some Kinda Love

    Celine Gallery
    October 2019

    As a teenager, I used to walk past one of Birmingham’s last remaining saunas every day on my paper round. Spartan has occupied a repurposed terraced house on the cusp of inner-city Birmingham for over 30 years, nestled between neighbouring structures serving their intended domesticity. Without signage, one of the only ways you could know of its existence is through word of mouth, or in my case, through a risky Google search on the family computer.

    Each urban area has cruising spots – sanctioned venues like saunas and sex clubs, or discursive forms such as public parks and toilets. The Silver Slipper, for example, was a large Victorian public toilet on Hill Street in Birmingham City Centre that remained a popular haunt for rent boys and cottagers until it closed in 1987. The toilet is said to have gotten its name in the 1950s when police stormed the facilities and caught two men cottaging. One of the men managed to escape, so fast his shoe fell off, while the other was arrested and charged. It is said that a police officer picked up the discarded shoe from the ground and uttered the words ‘and whoever the slipper may fit, shall be the one’.

    As a community, we rely on fragmented recollections like this to retrace the past. I know The Silver Slipper was adjacent to a ballet shop and likely got its nickname from its signage that featured a silver ballet slipper, but still I prefer the rumour.

  • The ‘Gale Comes of Age

    In The Pink
    November 2018

    I began my research into Birmingham’s queer scene through the archives at the Library of Birmingham; boxes filled with gay publications, badges of sexual resistance and architectural plans for spaces which would never be. Two cardboard boxes relate to The Nightingale Club, which formed out of a Moseley house in 1969, celebrates its 50th birthday this coming May.

    Spaces such as ‘Gales can so often seem ahistorical; it is a fixture within the city’s queer community and many of us have grown all too familiar with its three floors. However, the club’s history is a long and resilient one born out of gay-only nights in the city’s straight establishments – where drink prices were hiked up for the occasion – and role-playing communities which provided distance from the realities of stigmatisation.

    The ‘Gale first operated out of the Queen Victoria Club in Victoria Square before moving to a derelict Indian restaurant – from which the name ‘Nightingales’ was taken – at Number 50, Camp Hill. After the building and surrounding area was bulldozed due to a road-widening scheme, the association took over a football social club on Witton Lane, Aston from 1975 to 1981. However, the gays who occupied the establishment did not erase its patriarchal remnants; women picketed for membership to be extended to them but were not allowed to enter the club until the early 1990s unless accompanied by a member. A lack of integration disregarded the crucial role that queer solidarity played in overcoming the impending AIDS crisis and its accompanying anti-queer rhetoric.

    The focus of the ‘Gale was to allow its members to function outside the confines of marginalisation. Founded in the 1960s by Peter Scott-Fleeman and Laurie Williams, ‘The Royal Court of Campania’, was a members-only group and fictional country where all its inhabitants were gay; it was a space where queer individuals could co-exist without heterosexual nuisance. Honorary titles such as ‘Prince Regent’ and ‘Duke’ preceded the individual’s place of birth, and court members were presented with medallions and ribbons from the Rag Market, each bearing the country’s seal in a display of camp solidarity.

    The club occupied another premises on Thorp Street in 1981 before moving to its current location in 1994. Endless meeting minutes display a back and forth between the club’s future, accompanied by architectural plans which outlined the potential of moving to The Institute on Digbeth High Street. While the proposal suggests that the establishment would be five-minutes from Hurst Street by car, it raises questions around the street’s functionality and how Birmingham’s queer nightlife could have been different today without the club’s proximity to nearby venues. Nightingales invites us to consider the city’s cross-generational queerness; a symbol of a community’s progression from secrecy to unrestrained mode of being.

  • The Oscar Wilde Temple

    this is tomorrow
    October 2018
    Link

    Martyrdom has long been used to position queerness within the respectable realm of Christianity. The patron saint of the homo-erotic, Sebastian, mirrors the queer experience; executed by the Romans due to his religious beliefs, he draws links between queerness, the pornographic delight found within his arrow-penetrated form and the plight of the LGBTQ+ community during instances of stigmatisation and disease. 

    Referring to martyrdom’s queer capacity, McDermott & McGough’s ambitious installation ‘The Oscar Wilde Temple’ at Studio Voltaire promotes an awareness of cross-generational queer activism. Upon being led through gold-tassel curtains, the gallery space is unrecognisable: its concrete floor replaced by wood panelling, rows of chairs provide a means of worship and the pungent aroma of frankincense evokes recollections of Catholic mass. Symbols of religious significance are found throughout. Wilde is adorned with golden halos in ‘The Stations of Reading Gaol’ (2017), twelve paintings which narrate his imprisonment for sexual deviance and seize the familiarity of Christ’s crucifixion. Through a vehicle of Christian acquaintance, the viewer is presented with an understanding of the writer’s demise from beloved figure to pervert.

    At the centre of the gallery’s back wall lies the focal point of the exhibition. The ‘Oscar Wilde Altarpiece’ (2017) takes the form of a raised wooden platform, an effigy of the writer and several candles which make a heart, recalling street-side forms of commemoration. The permanent and make-shift memorial is blended, reflecting the frequency of queer deaths and the need for their remembrance within the public sphere. 

    In using tools of Christian dominance, McDermott & McGough provide exposure for lesser-known martyrs. To each side of the space appear twelve studies of queer torchbearers and victims of hate-crimes; among those included are American revolutionary Marsha P. Johnson and Jody Dobrowski, who was killed at a cruising spot in Clapham Common in 2005, moments away from the gallery space. Resting on side-altars beneath each study are texts – or funeral cards – outlining the life and times of each individual.

    Sitting on a pulpit towards the end of the exhibition lies ‘Book of Remembrance’ (2017), which continues from the installation’s previous display at New York City’s The Church of the Village in 2017. In its pages, visitors are encouraged to write the names of partners, family members and queer-kin who have suffered at the hands of marginalisation and disease. The invitation embodies the exhibition’s communal purpose; the LGBTQ+ are called to engage collective reflection and mourning, a right which is so often denied and is only reclaimed through the display’s explicit appropriation of the religious.