Bonnie Greer: I wanted to make my own mind up about Exhibit B

On Wednesday night, I was planning to visit the Barbican with a couple of
artist friends, two African Americans from New York. We wanted to see
Exhibit B – an installation which involves actors in various tableaux
depicting the degradation and the horror suffered by the victims of the
Atlantic slave trade. On the Barbican’s website it is described as a
critique of the “human zoos” and ethnographic displays that
exhibited Africans as objects of scientific curiosity through the 19th and
early 20th centuries.

Art that depicts the transgression of the black body in order to tell a story
or make a point is hardly unusual. Steve McQueen’s film 12 Years A Slave
featured graphic depictions of flogging; the only truly offensive thing in
it to my mind, however, was the deus ex machina of Brad Pitt who rescues
Solomon, the enslaved hero, at the end of the picture. While some African
American commentators protested about Brad’s convenient appearance and the
camera’s lingering over the effects of the whip, the film became a box
office triumph. We were free to watch it and draw our own conclusions.

My friends and I were just as keen to visit Exhibit B. It sounded daring and
controversial – qualities essential to thought-provoking contemporary art.
But we were denied that chance by the Barbican. The five-day run was
cancelled before it had barely begun after protesters at the entrance to the
venue were deemed to be some kind of threat, even though the police walked
away.

If it was public engagement that the artist was after, then he got it. I would
have been willing to cross the picket, and willing to come back outside
after having seen the piece to debate with those who did not want me to go
in. But the Barbican thought otherwise, and they are largely to blame for
this whole fiasco. If there had been any diversity at the Barbican’s
executive level, then they would have understood the strength of emotion –
the anger and the rage and the pain – that the show was always going to
rouse. Then, perhaps, they would not only have “protected” the actors and
their staff, but also defended the work; or not programmed it at all; or put
another work alongside it, from a black artist so that the works would have
been “in conversation”. In other words, the Barbican should have made an
informed decision about a delicate and controversial piece of art. They
failed everyone.

But the demonstrators who opted for complete censorship are also to blame
here. Some vehemently protested and signed petitions without actually seeing
the work, and some are even using that archaic term “Uncle Tom” – and worse
– to describe anyone who disagreed with them. These people largely reacted
from hearsay, ideology, photos and the reactions of others who had seen it –
not their own experience.

I’ve seen people like this before, self-appointed judges, roaming the internet
in search of what displeases and offends them. One protester went so far as
to issue an absurd analysis of the possible psychological damage Exhibit B
could cause the actors involved. It was ignorant and insulting psychobabble.

I don’t want to be stopped from seeing a work because, in their opinion, it’s
“inappropriate”, “incorrect” or “racist” – words which are, at best,
moveable feasts. I want to think for myself.

It all reminds me of a trip I took, a few years ago, while in Ghana. I
travelled down the coast to see the old slave fort, Elmina, now a tourist
attraction and shrine. On the way there I was assured that I would cry,
howl, be racked with rage and sorrow and pity. When I arrived, I was shaking
with trepidation, steadying myself for a devastating experience.

As I walked around, there were, indeed, people crying, some on the verge of
fainting. And Elmina was horrible in the sheer banality of its inhumanity –
those dungeons where people were crowded together like livestock. I was
moved, but I did not cry. I did not feel sad. I stood on the ramparts and
looked down at the treacherous, brooding Atlantic beating against the rocks
and I felt proud. I felt triumphant. Somebody on one of those boats, making
the great crossing to Hell, had the will to live. My ancestors had decided
that they would have descendants – and that those descendants would be a
testament to human survival, to black transcendence. I felt this because I
was allowed to experience Elmina for myself. To make up my own mind. And it
changed my life.

The Barbican, thanks to its poor decision, and those who protested against
Exhibit B without even seeing it, quite simply refused me the choice to live
my own life. This, in its own way, is a tyranny, too.