After Brian Haw
Onlookers take photos of Amanda Ward Culver’s newly-installed statue of Brian Haw, in Lambeth. Photo: Richard Keith Wolff
In Grant Gee's film 'Innocence of Memories' (2015), the part documentary, part extension of Orhan Pamuk's novel 'The Museum of Innocence' (2008), one of Pamuk's characters observes that when people and objects meet, stories emerge. Last Sunday, at the unveiling of Amanda Ward Culver's statue of peace campaigner Brian Haw in Lambeth, you could not move for stories.
In his speech, actor Mark Rylance joyfully recalled Brian defeating a law enacted to remove him from Parliament Square – key provisions of the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act 2005 were ruled not to apply to existing protests; Amanda explained how her statue of Brian references the one of Churchill in Westminster - including Brian's crutches is in part a nod to the walking stick with which Churchill is represented; and Chris Nineham of Stop the War suggested Brian's protest – positioned on the side of the square facing Parliament – acted as a mirror in which politicians were forced to see themselves, as they went about voting for war.
Once the crowd at the unveiling had dispersed, I walked up to Parliament Square with artists Richard Hards and Joseph Walsh. On our way, we passed the entrance to the Leake Street graffiti tunnel which runs beneath Waterloo Station. After Brian died, there was a mural of him there by Solo One and Shucks One ID. Such is the quick turnover of images, the work will have since been covered by hundreds of layers of paint.
In the square, the only physical trace of Brian is in a metal frame by the Nelson Mandela statue, the statue closest to Westminster Abbey. The frame houses a notice listing activities now forbidden. At a time when a government is taking money from disabled people to fund warfare, that the area is clear of protest might indicate today's restrictions are tightly enforced. Perhaps they are. But is it not also the truth that most people have come to accept the miserable state of things, to expect nothing else, and to internalise the fear of what is to come?
Richard, Joseph and I were joined in Westminster by members of Brian's family, as well as by artist Mark Wallinger and anti-war campaigner Maria Gallastegui. The stories continued. Pete Haw-Tierney, Brian's son, relived the first day of his dad's protest – how he had driven Brian to the square on 2 June 2001, and then driven back to the Midlands, alone. He explained that at university he came to see his dad every week, bringing him whatever he needed. Maria, an unsung hero of peace activism in London, recounted how in 2005 she had been Brian's electoral agent when he stood for the Cities of London and Westminster seat; to drum up support she drove around the area in a van with a loudspeaker. As a group, we discussed whether it might be time for a restaging of 'State Britain', Mark's 2007 reenactment in Tate Britain of Brian's encampment. Tate formally acquired the piece in 2016. The Duveen Galleries must be free soon? Or the Turbine Hall?
In 2018, I made an audio monument to Brian. 'And There Was Brian' can only be heard in Parliament Square through the website www.andtherewasbrian.uk. The primary voice is another supporter of Brian, actor and activist Michael Culver, the late husband of Amanda Ward Culver. Michael died last year aged 85. As well as giving Brian money and emotional support, he designed Brian's trademark white-red-and-black t-shirts and many of his banners. Having met each other in the square in the summer of 2001, Michael visited Brian two or three times a week for the next ten years. In the audio monument, Michael gives a thunderous account of the protest from inside the store of the Museum of London (now London Museum) where 800 objects from the encampment are stored. The objects were confiscated by police from Brian and his supporters and then donated to the museum by Brian's family in 2012. Without a doubt, many more stories are still to be told through this collection.
Such was the intensity of the storytelling initiated by the statue, it felt like Brian was close by all day. Or rather it felt like the affective flows that sustained him had returned, however briefly. But as Brian would observe, stories and goodwill only go so far in challenging power, in taking on injustice. It's action that ultimately counts. "Don't pat me on the back," he would say. "What are you going to do about it?"