Non-Fiction
In Place of the Empty Plinth / Liam Wiseman
Image by Sam Saunders via https://www.flickr.com/photos/samsaunders/50115984232.
A statue is gone, but the plinth remains. 2020 saw Bristol reject the statue of slave trader and merchant Edward Colston, severing the statue of this vile man from its plinth in the city centre and sending him hurtling headfirst into the murky harbour of the River Avon. The statue of Colston was drowned, consumed by waves and the anger of the many who sent him to his watery grave.
Dredged from the river a few days later, and placed in M Shed (one of the city’s museums), the statue now lies horizontal, and it’s clear how quickly nature reclaimed him. The statue emerged, with seaweed and algae haphazardly spread across its bronze frame after only four days. Laden with the graffiti and paint splashed over it from the riots, the statue has found rest in its new home, lying horizontally as if in a grave.
I first came to live in Bristol in 2017, to work for the Bristol Old Vic theatre. As someone who had visited the city numerous times in the past, and had fallen in love with its casual, artistic, and eco-conscious vibe, it felt almost inevitable that I would find myself residing there at some point in my life. But despite the bubbling tensions regarding inequalities in the city in 2017, no one could have anticipated that just three years later, fevers would reach a boiling point, resulting in the visceral physical removal of a landmark that represented one of the most horrific events in British history.
I wanted to explore the connection between the events in Bristol in 2020, and the significance of nature and the environment in discussion about racism in Britain. Bristol is far from an outlier in terms of environmental racism in this nation, but it stands tall as an example that the people of this country do not have to accept the everyday racism that thrives here, and that we can push back against the suffering it brings.
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Bristol is lined with the steep hills of the Avon Gorge, and the River Avon, murky from the silty mud of the seabed, flowing through it. To stand on top of the Clifton Suspension Bridge offers a spectacular view of the city and its scenic nature all around, and from there it is hard to imagine the city’s troubled history or its deep-rooted social issues. Despite the history of the city, Bristol was also the first major European city to have a Black mayor, when Marvin Rees was elected in 2016. In a time of political turmoil and heightened aggression against people of colour in Britain due to the Brexit debate, Bristol stood out as a city looking to unify people, not separate them.
In the past, Bristol had been a hub of heavy industry for the South West in the 18th century, hosting many of the companies that traded in enslaved people and benefitting wildly from British colonialism. It witnessed many lasting horrors of the Empire that spread with colonialism and imperialism, one of which is the rapid expansion of humanity’s aggression against nature, and the ensuing climate change that erupted from it.
Interestingly enough, Bristol is now one of the greenest cities in the UK, and many of its citizens are active climate activists, pushing the government to increase their commitments to combat the threat of climate change. There is an increasing focus on sustainability, community farming, and community feasting. Combining these two facts, it is both fitting and ironic that a human act of protest against colonialism took place here in the form of throwing a statue into the sea: forcing nature to take on and help us rid of what we have deemed useless or harmful.
Yet there is somewhat of a beauty to this cycle. Where the plinth once stood, there now exists space for other things to grow. A man like Edward Colston, an aristocratic man benefitting from the worldwide enslavement of human beings, would not have cared for nature, just as he did not care for the suffering and murder of thousands of enslaved people through his company. His only goal was profit, at any cost. His legacy, and the legacy of colonialism that fuelled both the man and this period of history, can still be felt across the city, but the tearing down of his statue has opened up the space for other things to claim its place.
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Since the fall of the Colston statue, many things have stood on that plinth in his place. A statue of Black activist and campaigner Jen Reid, a miniature model of Bristol favourite Ursa the Bear, and even augmented reality virtual statues that allowed passers by to view potential replacement statues to the plinth via an app, and to even add their own ideas and designs. Whilst replacing the Colston statue with another person would make a significant impact, it’s clear that regardless of who stands upon the plinth, the platform it provides remains powerful. It’s the same in nature, a mountain is noticeable because of its size and elevation, not in spite of it. If we are to address the inequalities in our society, we should work to make the voices of those who have been silenced stand as tall as mountains, to hear their voices loud and clear across the world. But despite Colston’s statue being removed, his presence remains, with his name on everything from street names, to schools, and even towers.
What’s more concerning is that, despite being removed from its central position in the city, the statue still has a place in Bristol. Finding itself in a museum where context for his actions can be discussed on a series of museum plaques and interpretation, the statue of Colston implies a different meaning now. It doesn’t matter where he is in Bristol; his hold remains within the environment, in the street signs, and on the sides of buildings. The visage of the man that performed and supported such violent activity may no longer be in a position of power, but one that invites scrutiny. It is taking up space; it has a place. Place is important. Place confers power. If you have a place within a community, you have a voice, you have recognition. Most importantly, you have a remit to take action. And in Bristol, the Black community has never had a voice, nor a remit to take action. So people were forced to take action.
For Black communities in Bristol, place has been an issue constantly interlinked with segregation. The “place” for Black communities often means the poorer and less fortunate wards of the city. Stokes Croft, Lawrence Hill, Easton, and St. Pauls are some of the places known for being “diverse” or “disadvantaged”, often a shorthand in the UK meaning areas populated by Black or Asian communities. The way the city has expanded, the way the areas are designed, and the way the local council has decided to split the city up has assigned a “place” for Black people in Bristol: one that exists on the fringes, slowly edging further and further out as gentrification rapidly develops.
Often, in areas where people of colour either settle, or are forced to settle, access to nature is limited. More than likely, these areas are close to factories or industrial spaces, polluting the surrounding landscapes with their toxic pollutants and lack of responsible stewardship. Often, the local authorities put in little to no effort in keeping those spaces clean and restoring green spaces. Deprived of their rights to a safe and clean environment, people of colour face constant and deadly injustice, living in these economically and ecologically marginalized areas.
Despite the fall of Colston statue, racism still exists, Bristol remains segregated, and Colston’s presence can still be felt widely across the city with street signs and towers still emblazoned with his title. But on the other hand, it did bring about a few important changes, as well as a startling reminder of the society that we live in now.. The radical act has forced conversations about the art and culture of the public realm in Britain from people across the country. It has forced people to think again about the history of the UK, and the legacy of the British Empire. At the same time, it also revealed the grim reality of the current political climate in the UK: since the incident, the government placed extreme further protections for listed buildings and public realm art. Under the new Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill, you could receive a longer prison sentence for knocking over a statue of a slave trader than you will for rape. Ten years for vandalising a statue, five years for rape. Place has once again been chosen over people.
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For now, the statue has found its home in M Shed museum, a place for the horrific events like the Transatlantic Slave Trade to be examined and explored by members of the public. Whilst the museum appears to be the logical place for an item like this, it does mean that the statue is likely to endure much longer than it would do otherwise. Statues, by their normally public nature, are designed to be exposed to the elements, and to last for years through their hardy materials. Museums allow history to endure beyond the perils of nature, and provide context for new generations.
Perhaps there is a better way for these discussions to be had. All too often, in museums, heritage sites, and history books, the histories of people of colour are omitted, masked, or manipulated in Britain. And when they are discussed, it is through the lens of a struggle, such as the fight for the abolition of the Transatlantic Slave Trade, or overcoming racism. But I believe that this is in reality only a small slice of what it means to be a person of colour in Britain. The true joy of our lives lies in our everyday encounters and actions: the conversations between Black men in a barber shop, or sharing a home cooked meal with your family that actually has seasoning in it, these are the joys that tell our story. It’s vital to educate people about racism, of course, but for once, I’d like to go into a museum and see an exhibition about our joys and successes over more tales of suffering.
In some ways, the removal of the Colston statue was one of these moments. In hauling the statue off its pedestal and into the depths, Bristol delivered a significant blow against the horrors of history, showing that this injustice will not be accepted in modern society. It was a chance for people of all backgrounds to come together and say that this is not our only story, and by coming together we can create a new one. But whilst the people of Bristol may have been successful at rejecting the tyrants of history in order to make their city more inclusive, few other British towns, cities, and villages have followed suit. Surely it is time to revisit what is acceptable in British public spaces and natural environments to ensure that everyone can feel accepted as part of society. To truly confront the horrors of the past, and say unequivocally, “No more”. And most importantly, to recognise the power that a platform such as a public plinth can bring.
The man may be gone, but the plinth remains.