As part of the Wellcome Trust funded project Challenging Archives: Delivering research access, public engagement and the curatorial care of the Franko B archive , writers-in-residence Mary Paterson and Maddy Costa are engaging creatively with the Franko B archive as it is catalogued, conserved and made accessible.
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Further details, including the booking link, can be found here. The blood on the piece of canvas Lister stands beside as she says this is evidence of a kind. This is difficult, because the blood itself keeps active. And the chemical processes of the blood are still ongoing. Blood is moving in the canvas right now, dissolving its threads, eating its innards.
During ten performances over six years, the artist covered his body with white paint and covered a long strip of floor with white canvas. He walked up and down the canvas, like a model at a catwalk show. The audience was packed in tightly on either side. Maddy, who wrote these words, has a different set of memories: of school holidays spent in the clothing factories where her parents worked, cutting, sewing, pressing, trimming loose threads from each garment, soon learning enough to set up a factory of their own.
After performances of I Miss You, Franko B gave the canvas catwalks to designers and asked them to fashion a wearable garment, according to their own taste and whims. For Julian Warren, archivist at the Theatre Collection at the University of Bristol, these are now art works in their own right: not remains of the moment, but beyond the moment.
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The blood keeps moving. Its existence is mutable. It is part of the choreography of time. But the room is also serene : classical music whispers in the background , and when a textile item is not being worked on it is protected beneath a drape of snow -white sheets. Only this one is made of feathery silk, stitched in the early s for the first Duke of Wellington.
Four years of exposure to sunlight had damaged the fabric irreparably; as I took the curtains down they crumbled in my hands, into skin cells, into dust. These textiles were made to be laid next to the skin, held close for comfort. The fabric asks to be cared for. It asks for care.
When she works on the tapestry, Lister leans in close , tracing the original stitches with her own. Each mark she makes in the act of repair is sewn onto a secondary backing. She is writing a crib sheet for questions, expected but as yet unknown. Every new stitch must be accounted for, identifiable as such, as a modern intervention.
There is a difference, Lister says, between preventive fabric conservation — the measures taken to avoid decay before a textile work is even made — and interventive. As a private practitioner, intervention is where her focus lies. Once, she says, she found a centuries-old human hair woven into the back of a carpet.
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There is a human tactility to fabrics: they were made by people, worn by people, and those people are here with you. It makes a sound like fresh snow. But his images are sewn into the fabric of time. Their mortality is part of their language. Here are you. And here is another human being. And here are you. There is no room for gaps, for endings; there is no end to this work: it is a practice of being alive.
I lean in close to examine the stitches on the kilt.
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Sure enough, the stitching of the kilt is wayward, wobbly; I can see the hands of the person attempting to sew it, struggling to control the material as they fed it through the machine, unable to produce a truly straight seam. I realise that as remains of the moment of performance, an iconic performance by Franko B, the canvas itself is so monolithic that I feel little connection with the man, naked and hurting. Instead it is an object beyond the moment, and becomes alive to me differently, as a record of the vulnerability of another human being. The liveness continues, says Lister.
The protective fabric sheeting of her studio will be replaced by protective sheets of tissue paper, interleaved between every delicate fold. There might be dirt ingrained in the fabric but that too was of the moment. From now on it will be the responsibility of every visitor to the archive not to damage it further with their touch. Certainly the art market and performance market are wildly different financial beasts.
At a discussion event with Franko, attended by Alison Lister, the textile conservation specialist who has been working with his canvases, we talked about how the canvas held by Tate is sealed within a protective environment, whereas Alison sees the organic properties of the work, its propensity to degrade where stained, as integral to the experience of interacting with this archive. My conversations with Stefan and Justin started with these questions but soon journeyed elsewhere, in directions focused less on abstract notions of value and more on the human aspects of the encounter within the archive.
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That the doors to the library are still heavy and intimidating, that to reach the archive requires passing through a wood-panelled vestibule, dark and austere. It might feel risky, as though something is at risk. I ended up doing queer history by accident : sifting through different materials, poring over images, slipping through the margins. Cultivate your queer Spidey sense. I want to propose this as a proper methodology: just flipping through things, something grabs your eye.
This might be the springboard for a new line of research, for a lifetime of slowly unfolding work. Some of what you see might surprise or unsettle you. Think of the archivist as your companion and guide, translating from catalogue to object, text, or image. They might say informally: do prepare yourself. Prepare yourself with trust.
Notice the affective power in actually holding materials. What has degraded over time, because of this touch? Harm is inevitable.
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What you are looking at is not just a spectacle : it is profoundly political. To know this you need the context. That queer Spidey sense moving through and between, evaluating, reflecting back on the period, and seeing what that means to us. Whisper back to me what you see. That the opening of the archive to the social and cultural experience of queer Britain has been one among a series of profound and positive shifts in understanding human relations, that heterocentricity has shifted off centre, that heteronormativity no longer claims normality.
These archives stand as reminders that the routes to those changes were complex and multifaceted; that queer history is not just about being annoyed and pissed off, about protest, campaigning, going on pride marches. What might be required to think yourself back, to the rancour and violence of my time? Might the blood shed on a sheet of canvas do it? An image of a man bound in hospital paraphernalia, shaking a nightclub crowd out of its complacent hedonism?
Has the violence of language been tempered? What words need excavating for the difference between your now and mine to burn clear? Classification — how people have been named and identified in the past — is really interesting. What do we do with keywording that either leaves us out entirely, or uses words and terms that lose meaning or gain different meanings or become offensive? I lean towards the latter.
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The work of classifying and cataloguing addresses the past from the present. I hope you recognise that past as a distant landscape, narrowing your eyes in relief. What has been saved? While everything around it has crumbled has the archive somehow managed to settle, like geological layers compressed in time? That the archive was deemed precious, worth saving. And that happened because of how archivists now and in the future steer people here. This is the work of the archivist, this guidance. Someone comes in and says, I want to see something or I want to know more about this, and your job is to facilitate that person to go away having learned more about that.
You hold a position of power framed by generosity. You hold a position of vibrant authority.
When an archivist moves on, institutional knowledge is lost. The loss of the knowledge that was there can feel like it deadens an archive. Knowledge passes palm to palm. You recognise how this job is laced with political decisions , especially when the archive in question involves bodies, queer bodies, leaking bodies, bodies abraded, pierced, scarred. What you choose to protect is political. So is the question of who.