Welcome to the exhibition ‘Hard Graft: Work, Health & Rights’.

Exhibition curator Cindy Sissokho explains everything you need to know.

This is Stop 1, providing practical information about the exhibition.

Stop 2 is an introduction to the exhibition themes by curator Cindy Sissokho.

Stops 3 to 12 focus on key artworks in the exhibition, as described by some of the artists and Cindy.

When you arrive, there are portable folding seats that can be picked up near the exhibition entrance.

There is also seating available throughout the exhibition.

If you need assistance, you can find a member of staff in the gallery space wearing a Wellcome Collection t-shirt. They can answer questions and support your visit.

You can use our WiFi for free. Turn your device’s WiFi on and connect to Wellcome WiFi. Tick the box to accept our terms and conditions, and tap the button to connect.

At each stop you will find a QR code and number. The QR code and number is tactile. Scan the QR code with your camera to access the guide.

You will be given an option of: audio descriptive, British Sign Language. When watching BSL, you can adjust the speed of the video. Click on the Settings cog. Then click on ‘Playback speed’. You can then choose whatever speed you want. The lower the number, the slower the video.

If you want to access the exhibition texts, you can also link to those from this page.

This pick-up station has a variety of guides, including large print, a map of the tactile floor line, and a list of all the digital guide stops.

A visual story provides information about the exhibition, using images, symbols and short written explanations. You can look at this before you visit or look at it onsite before you view the exhibition.

A sensory map gives information about where in the exhibition space there are displays with loud noise, bright lights or challenging content, so that you can avoid it if you wish.

How to use this digital guide

Hello and welcome to the first stop of this guide to ‘Hard Graft: Work, Health & Rights’. My name is Cindy Sissokho, I am the curator of the exhibition, and I am going to explain how this guide works.

There are 12 stops, ranging from around four minutes to six minutes long.

This first stop provides information about access resources. To skip to information about the exhibition, go to Stop 2, which is an introduction to the exhibition and to a silent film by artist Adelita Husni-Bey. Stop 2 is just inside the glass entrance doors, on the wall to your right.

In stops 3 to 12 I will talk about some of the key works in the exhibition. You will also hear from some of the artists. This is combined with some visual description of the artworks.

You have accessed the guide by scanning a QR code. You can also access the audio information by picking up one of the handheld players and a headset from the pick-up station on the wall, where Stop 1 is located. 

A white tactile floor line is designed to support wayfinding between the stops. When you arrive at an artwork which has a stop, this is indicated on the floor by a grey square with raised dots.

You will find a tactile QR code and stop number within arm’s reach of the grey square. The QR codes are circular dark green discs, 18 cm in diameter, with a tactile number at the top. They are located either on the wall, on a freestanding label holder next to the work, or on the work itself.

If you need any assistance, there are three members of our team in the gallery, one in each section, wearing a black Wellcome Collection top. 

The floor line from the main entrance brings you to a dark green pick-up station, which is on the right side of the floor line as you stand on it.

At the left end of this pick-up station you will find a screen with a BSL introduction, and shelves with several different printed guides. A white, A4-sized large-print guide includes a map of the floor line, as well as a list of all the digital guide stops. You will also find a green, A4-sized visual story booklet. This provides pre-visit information about the exhibition, using images, symbols and short written explanations. There is also a yellow, A4-sized paper map of sensory elements in the exhibition, such as bright lights or sound.

As you follow the tactile floor line towards the entrance, there is a sofa on your right-hand side. There is more seating throughout the exhibition, which will be indicated in some of the stops. There are also folding seats that can be picked up just inside the exhibition entrance, to your right.

The tactile floor line will finish at Stop 12, in the last room of the exhibition.

The next stop is an introduction to the exhibition. With the pick-up station on your right, follow the tactile floor line to the tactile square for Stop 2, which is just inside the exhibition entrance, on the wall to your right. Note that the glass doors are quite heavy, and the flooring inside the exhibition is brown carpet.

Hello, my name is Cindy Sissokho. I am the curator of the ‘Hard Graft’ exhibition.

In a series of clips, this film shows many different hands at work.

This silent film was shot by artist Adelita Husni-Bey. She filmed it in Jakarta, Indonesia in the Kampungs.

Kampungs are independent community settlements where lower-income families and migrants live and work.

The artist used Super 8 film, the grainy texture showing the intimacy of these spaces.

I chose this film as the starting point of the ‘Hard Graft’ exhibition because it brings together many of the ideas threaded throughout the show.

While curating this exhibition, I kept thinking about the questions: Who does what work, where, and how?

What is the effect of work on the bodies and minds of workers?

What work do we value more than others, and why?

‘Hard Graft’ draws connections between historical and contemporary accounts of underrepresented forms of labour.

This labour is often essential for society to function, but remains unpaid or low paid, and unacknowledged.

The people who do this work are often marginalised and exposed to unhealthy and unsafe working conditions.

During the Covid-19 pandemic and the subsequent lockdowns, we were ordered to isolate and stay at home.

But for some people, they had to go out and do face-to-face work.

This brought the idea of what constitutes “essential work” into sharp focus.

Health inequalities were revealed between people in lower-paid, public-facing jobs and those who were able to isolate.

This exhibition looks back at the past to the present, recognising workers who systemically remain on the margins.

Workers have also created lasting histories of resistance, collective action, and non-Western spiritual and medicinal healing.

‘The Plantation’ highlights the exploitative conditions of work within the plantation economy and how we can trace its legacy in society today, from agricultural work to prison labour.

‘The Street’ focuses on the city streets as a workplace that can be precarious and unsafe.

Workers such as sex workers and sanitation workers are exposed to environmental risks from city developments, infectious diseases and heavy surveillance.

You might think that ‘The Home’ isn’t a workplace.

But it is, hiding multiple forms of exploitative and unrecognised work.

The exhibition includes around 160 different items, including historical documents and books, photographs, paintings, video projections and installations.

Some of these installations involve out-loud sound and flashing lights and effects.

Many of the historical documents and artworks are particularly sensitive to light damage.

To help preserve them, the light levels are lower in some areas of the exhibition.

You may need to allow a moment for your eyes to adjust as you move through the gallery space.

The exhibition includes references to enslavement, abuse and suicide.

It also features material related to sex work.

There is seating available throughout the exhibition.

If you need further assistance, please speak to a member of staff.

Gestures of Labour

In front of you as you enter the exhibition, is a silent film projected onto a screen about 75 cm high by 1 metre wide. The film shows different hands at work – hands sewing, ironing, cutting thread, sorting flowers. The rhythmic repetition of the workers’ practised gestures is both graceful and machine-like.

The film, ‘Gestures of Labour’, was produced by artist Adelita Husni-Bey in the kampungs of Jakarta, Indonesia. Kampungs are neighbourhoods where lower-income migrants live and work, often within the same spaces. The intimacy of these workspaces is emphasised by the grainy texture and low contrast of the Super 8 film, which has been transferred to video.

The film is made up of a series of short clips. In one clip:

A dark brown hand slides an iron over a short-sleeved white cardigan.

The other fingers pinning the fabric down

then patting-down, pressing-down, caressing-down.

In another clip, a person is preparing flowers, delicately stripping stray yellow petals from long green stalks, then stacking them neatly on the floor; the flowers were used in a funeral ceremony and are now being recycled for sale in a market. An ingenious way to create work and value from discarded materials.

In a third clip, a person sits on a tiled floor, crossed legs stretched out in front. Using scissors, they snip threads from a brown woven garment, flicking the offcuts to the floor with deft fingers.

Hard Graft explores the impact of work on health, considering links between underrepresented work, the people who do it, and where it takes place. The exhibition asks: What work do we value, and why? What traces does it leave on the body, and how does work reinforce inequality and dispossession?

Hard Graft draws connections between historical and contemporary accounts of marginalised forms of labour. This labour is often essential for society to function, but remains unpaid or low paid, and unacknowledged. The people who do this work are often exposed to unhealthy and unsafe working conditions.

Each section of the exhibition explores a space of work that is unconventional, starting with the plantation, then the street, and finally the home.

- ‘The Plantation’ highlights the exploitative conditions of work within the plantation economy, and traces its legacy in society today, from agricultural work to prison labour.

- ‘The Street’ focuses on city streets as a workplace that can be precarious and unsafe. Workers such as sex workers and sanitation workers are exposed to environmental risks from city developments, infectious diseases and heavy surveillance from the police.

- ‘The Home’ is the last section of the exhibition. Despite being an intimate space, it is also a workplace that can hide multiple forms of exploitative and unrecognised work.

Work remains the most common reason for migration and is closely tied to questions of citizenship, and rights such as healthcare and housing. Workers have often taken these concerns into their own hands to create lasting histories of resistance through collective actions, or spiritual and medicinal healing, for example.

This exhibition includes a broad range of materials, including historical documents and books, photographs, paintings, video projections and installations. Some of these involve out-loud sound, flashing lights and vibration. 

Many of the historical documents and artworks are particularly sensitive to light damage. To help preserve them, the light levels are lower in some areas of the exhibition. You may need to allow a moment for your eyes to adjust as you move into and through the gallery space.

The exhibition includes references to enslavement, abuse and suicide. It also features material related to sex work.

There are seats available throughout the exhibition. If you need any further assistance, please speak to a member of staff.

Artist Md Fazla Rabbi Fatiq’s ongoing photographic series documents the lives of workers on tea plantations in the Sylhet region, in the northeast of Bangladesh. The plantations are also known as “tea gardens”. The series title ‘Dark Garden’ evokes the surface beauty of the gardens as well as the violence of the plantation economy that sustains them. In the late 19th century, plantations were developed by British colonial merchants to grow tea plants. In Sylhet, there are 135 tea gardens, including three of the largest tea plantations in the world. To clear the forest and cultivate the tea, the British brought in workers from other parts of India, including Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Assam. Many of their descendants still live and work on the plantations.

Dark Garden highlights the exploitative working conditions experienced by today’s tea-plantation workers, revealing how these continue colonial power dynamics and injustices. Between April and September, during the growing season, the workers pick tea leaves. Working in physically demanding conditions, they need to pick 24 kg of leaves to earn £1.14 a day. This is one of the lowest wages in the world. December to February is the dry season. During this time, workers spray chemicals to protect the plants from diseases or bugs. Exposure to the chemicals affects the workers’ health, damaging their eyes and skin, as well as the biodiversity of the plantation ecosystems.

Workers experience accidents, hazards and unhealthy working conditions as they have very few safety protections. Compared to other industries in Bangladesh, the tea-picking workers have less rights and safety protections. Some workers are not formally employed and so do not have any workers’ rights or guarantee of work. Take a look at the different photos. Some photos show the brutal impact of plantation work on the workers’ bodies. Other photos show the different animals in the gardens, and workers’ precious moments of rest and prayer.

There are also photos showing that for many of the workers, the plantation is not only a workplace, but also their home. They live in mud huts that they have built themselves. Their wages are not enough to buy land of their own, and to leave the plantation would mean losing their home.

Dark Garden

When facing this work, there is a yellow bench behind you.

Hello, I am Cindy Sissokho, the curator of the exhibition again.

‘Dark Garden’ is an ongoing photographic series by artist Muhammad Fazla Rabbi Fatiq, documenting the lives of workers on tea plantations in the Sylhet region, in the northeast of Bangladesh.

The photographs document the traces of plantation work on the workers’ bodies, as well as their precious moments of rest, prayer and softness, for example through their relationships with animals.

Spread across the wall are nine colour landscape photographs ranging from A2 to A5, in dark brown wooden frames. Three of these will be described.

The largest photograph, on the far left, is of a hilly plantation bisected by a towering, bare tree. A young man of South Asian heritage looks out at us from his perch in a fork of the tree, the right side of his body pressing into the sandy-coloured trunk, his left arm resting atop a protruding branch stump. He wears a dusty white shirt and worn dark trousers, sleeves and hems rolled up. Underneath a crop of black hair, his face is relaxed in this moment away from work. The tree stands on a parched slope, surrounded by tea bushes and dry, prickly grass. In the hazy background, a vast earthy-brown hill is dotted with uneven rows of tea plants and the occasional wiry tree, intersected with narrow pathways.

The next photograph, the upper of two, centres the back of a man’s head as he faces a dark teal-blue wall. A common myna bird – the man’s pet – perches on top of his head, its feet disappearing into his short, dark curls. The bird’s head bows down to the right, its beak is a piercing yellow, open as if in mid-peck, or mid-cry. Its sleek feathers are black and brown, with sky-blue tips on its wings and tail. A blurry shadow of the duo is cast onto the wall, on the left side of the image.

In a third photograph, in the upper centre of the display, a dark brown arm of South Asian complexion reaches into the centre of the image against a black background. This arm belongs to a worker injured by machinery for processing tea and is direct evidence of the risks of this work. The fingers are outstretched, except for the third and fourth, which curl towards the palm. Emerging at the wrist and running along the thumb is a dark protrusion on the palm of the hand, resembling an extra finger. The forefinger is severed to half its length and its nail and the forearm is scaly with old burn marks.

The plantations are also known as “tea gardens” and the series’ title, ‘Dark Garden’, evokes the violence that sustains them. As the artist, Md Fazla Rabbi Fatiq, describes:

“When I took the photograph of the field of glowing green fireflies on the far right side of this installation, the tea garden felt like a magical place. But the hand of the worker who was injured in an accident while working on a machine in a tea factory brought me back to the harsh reality of his working conditions. I think the everyday experiences and lives of the workers gets overshadowed by the beauty of the tea plantation, and its vastness.

“There are 135 tea gardens in Sylhet, including some of the largest in the world. They originated as 19th-century plantations developed by British colonial merchants to grow tea plants from China. The British brought in workers from other parts of India, including Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Assam. Many of their descendants still live and work on the plantations, where exploitative conditions continue colonial power dynamics and injustices.

“Between April and September, during the growing season, the workers pick tea leaves. They need to pick 24 kg of leaves to earn £1.13 a day – one of the lowest wages in the world. Picking tea puts a lot of strain on the body and there are few safety protections against accidents or health hazards. The chemicals sprayed to protect the plants from bugs or diseases affect the workers’ health, damaging their eyes and skin, as well as the biodiversity of the local ecosystems.”

Through this ongoing series of photographs, Fatiq seeks to develop and raise awareness of people’s working conditions as well as share the beauty of the landscapes that were a key part of his childhood memories, when visiting Sylhet with his family. Fatiq’s project is a long-term commitment, during which he has developed kinships and friendships with tea-garden workers.

Hello, my name is Charmaine Watkiss. I’m a London-based artist. My work explores botanical legacies of the Caribbean. I’m particularly interested in the sacred knowledge African-descendent women have of healing practices and their relationships to plants and nature. My art practice came out of memories of my mum treating me and my brother with herbs. It occurred to me that this herbal knowledge must have travelled across the Atlantic, along with the enslaved.

I began to think about how culture is formed through migration – and about what things people carry with them, and what is left behind or erased. The sculpture is a bust of a woman captured in a moment of serenity. Her high forehead is framed by thick kanerows – tight braids laid in continuous raised rows along the scalp – starting from a centre parting. The cloak is made of brass. She wears a garment made of woven raffia that bursts into a bushy skirt.

I use materials and techniques that connect to traditions of making on the African continent. Historically, lots of women in the diaspora have used craft to make things to earn extra money to survive. This is still happening in the present day as well. Next to the sculpture are two glass bottles. One contains a ‘cerasee’ tincture made from a plant (Momordica charantia), which is used to detoxify the body. The other bottle contains lemon balm (Melissa officinalis), which is used to calm stress and anxiety.

Both are used widely throughout the Caribbean and I have placed them here as a symbolic support for the ancestors who endured the difficult journey across the Atlantic. In Britain, we have only scratched the surface in talking about the legacy of the transatlantic slave trade. The title of the sculpture, ‘Still Waters’, alludes to the phrase “still waters run deep”. The flow of ocean currents was also a flow of people – my ancestors were forced across the ocean to be placed on plantations to work. Nowadays people are still crossing oceans, risking their lives.

On each side of the sculpture are portrait drawings of women from my ‘Plant Warrior’ series, African-descendent women preserving and holding sacred knowledge of medicinal plants. These women have the same face but reflect a multitude of imagined ancestors. All of the women have elaborate kanerow hairstyles and wear a neckpiece embellished with the fruits or seeds of a specific plant: delicate yellow flowers of the shea plant. Bushy stalks of rice. The plump red peppery Aframomum melegueta seeds were a much sought-after spice used as a purgative, to reduce inflammation and to increase breast milk.

Some of the plants in my drawings were carried to the Caribbean by enslaved people. They hid seeds in their hair during the transatlantic journey, then cultivated them in small gardens for their own use. Colonial botanists gained a lot of medicinal knowledge from enslaved Africans and Indigenous people, and this debt has only recently begun to be acknowledged. The women in my drawings are seated in dignified, formal poses – backs upright, hands folded in their laps. This resembles the poses in old oil paintings, or photographic portraits of people with a colonial history.

Their faces are turned slightly so that they look away from us: it’s intriguing to wonder what they are thinking about. The large drawing is called ‘The Matriarch I’; three women are posed together in a more relaxed style. One woman has a sage plant hanging around her neck. I’ve drawn the women in pencil, but the plants they carry are in watercolour. Sometimes I incorporate other materials such as coffee, or Reckitt’s Blue – an ultramarine-blue pigment that is used to whiten clothes during washing. At the bottom of the picture is a bell jar of green manchineel apples and a “do not touch” sign.

Many of the plants in my drawings are used for healing, but some, like this apple, were used as poison for liberation.

Charmaine Watkiss

Hello, my name is Charmaine Watkiss. I’m a London-based artist.

My work explores botanical legacies of the Caribbean. I’m particularly interested in the healing practices and relationships to plants and nature that African-descended women have.

My art practice came out of memories of my mum treating me and my brother with herbs. It occurred to me that this herbal knowledge must have travelled across the Atlantic, along with the enslaved. I began to think about how culture is formed through migration – and about what things people carry with them, and what is left behind or erased.

Placed within a niche in the wall and protected behind glass, my sculpture ‘Still Waters’ is a 40 cm-high clay bust of a woman captured in a moment of serenity. Her eyes are closed, as are her full lips. Her dark brown terracotta skin is smooth and her high forehead is framed by thick kanerows – tight braids laid in continuous raised rows along the scalp – starting from a centre parting. They blend with her head and neck in an unbroken dark brown.

The woman’s short, bell-shaped torso is adorned with a golden cloak made from hammered brass, the shiny tiles overlapping like fish scales. The front of the cloak is open, revealing a neat garment of pale yellow woven raffia, which bursts out into a bushy cluster from beneath a 2 cm-wide copper band crossing her chest, disrupting the stillness of the figure. A raw flax crochet mat peeks out from beneath the base of the sculpture.

I use materials and techniques that connect to traditions of making on the African continent. Lots of women in the diaspora who have been displaced from Africa have used handcraft to make things to earn extra money to survive. This is a historical thing but it’s happening in the present day as well.

Two small brown glass bottles are placed in front of the bust, like offerings arranged on an altar. One contains a ‘cerasee’ tincture (made from the plant Momordica charantia), which is used to detoxify the body, and the other, lemon balm (from Melissa officinalis), which is used to calm stress and anxiety. Both are used widely throughout the Caribbean and I have placed them here as a symbolic support for the ancestors who endured the difficult journey across the Atlantic.

The title of the sculpture, ‘Still Waters’, alludes to the phrase “still waters run deep”. In Britain we have only scratched the surface in talking about the legacy of the transatlantic slave trade. The flow of ocean currents was also a flow of people – my ancestors were forced across the ocean to be placed on plantations to work, and people today are still crossing oceans, risking their lives.

On each side of the sculpture are portrait drawings of women from my ‘Plant Warrior’ series, who are preserving and holding sacred knowledge of medicinal plants used by African-descended women. There is one drawing on the left, and three to the right. These women have the same face but reflect a multitude of imagined ancestors. All of the women have elaborate kanerow hairstyles, where rows of braids meet at the forehead in a tightly wound coil, or two-strand twists are gathered into a regal updo. They wear their neckpieces embellished with the fruits and seeds of specific plants: plump red seeds of the peppery Aframomum melegueta, delicate yellow flowers of the shea plant, bushy stalks of rice. Aframomum melegueta was a much sought-after spice used as a purgative, to reduce inflammation and to increase breast milk.

Some of the plants in my drawings were carried to the Caribbean by enslaved people, who hid seeds in their hair during the transatlantic journey, then cultivated them in small gardens for their own use. Colonial botanists gained a lot of medicinal knowledge from enslaved Africans and Indigenous people, and this debt has only recently begun to be acknowledged.

The women in my drawings are seated in dignified, formal poses – backs upright, hands folded in their laps – that resemble the poses in historic oil paintings, or photographic portraits of people with a colonial history. Their faces are turned slightly so that they look away from us – it’s intriguing to wonder what they are thinking about.

In the large, life-size drawing on the far left, called ‘The Matriarch I’, three women are posed together in a more relaxed style. One woman stands with her back to us, a red-and-yellow peacock flower spread across her back. Another kneels, her eyes closed, with her head on the lap of the third woman, who is seated with a sage plant hanging in a pouch around her neck. I’ve drawn the women in graphite, but the plants they carry are in watercolour. Sometimes I incorporate other materials such as coffee, or Reckitt’s Blue, which is an ultramarine blue pigment that is used to whiten clothes during washing.

At the forefront of the drawing is a pair of green manchineel apples in a glass bell jar, with a “do not touch” sign. Many of the plants in my drawings were used for healing, but some, such as the manchineel apple, were also used by the enslaved as a poison, for liberation.

This is a vibrant oil painting by Maria Auxiliadora da Silva. Her paintings teem with joy and movement, documenting the daily lives of Afro-Brazilian people. This painting captures an Afro-Brazilian religion named Umbanda. Umbanda blends Indigenous, African and European religions. It also shares some similarities with an earlier religion, Candomblé, developed by enslaved West Africans on plantations in Brazil.

The artist painted this work in 1968, but the scene recalls enslaved Africans centuries before. They survived and resisted by using spiritual healing, singing and dancing. The ritual takes place in an Umbandan temple named terreiro. The woman is a priestess named ialorixá and her dress has detailed stitching. The artist learned embroidery from her mother and later worked as a seamstress, and the ialorixá’s clothing is a reflection of her skill.

Next to the man with arms raised in devotion is a black pentagram star symbolising harmony of the five elements: fire, earth, water, air and spirit. At the back you can see three religious figures. In the past, enslaved Africans wanted to carry on practising their religion on the plantations, but enslavers forced them to submit to the Roman Catholic religion. So they hid their religion in plain sight by using Roman Catholic saints to embody West African deities named orixá.

The tallest figure, with four arrows and bleeding wounds, is the Roman Catholic Saint Sebastian. But in the Umbanda religion it is known as Oxóssi, the orixá of hunting and forests. The figure with bloody sores is Saint Lazarus, or Obaluaê, the orixá of health and healing. The figure in the middle is Afro-Brazilian Preto Velho, a wise spirit of enslaved Africans.

Under the altar you can see another figure in the curtains. This is the Indigenous spirit Cabocla Flexeira, known for her knowledge of plants and for protecting against negative energies. In the middle of the painting two drummers set the beat, their hands rebounding up from sacred atabaqué drums. On the wall, a tree sways in the wind. It could be a window to the outside, or a framed painting. The artist is blurring inside and outside, signalling the importance of the natural environment in Umbanda, no matter where you live.

Umbanda

Hi, it’s Cindy Sissokho again, the curator of ‘Hard Graft’.

This vibrant oil painting, measuring 50 cm high by 60 wide and displayed in an oak wood frame, captures a moment of celebratory ritual from Umbanda, an Afro-Brazilian religion. Umbanda blends African, Indigenous and European religions. It has some similarities with Candomblé, an earlier religion developed by enslaved West Africans on plantations in Brazil.

This painting, by Maria Auxiliadora da Silva, teems with joy and movement. Her practice aimed to document the daily lives of Afro-Brazilian people. She painted this work in 1968, but the scene recalls the use of spiritual healing, singing and dancing as forms of resistance and survival invented by enslaved Africans centuries before.

The ritual takes place in a terreiro, a Umbandan temple. The foreground is dominated by four figures in the middle of spiritual worship, while the background includes an altar with figures of saints. The painting predominantly features Afro-Brazilians with dark brown complexions.

At the front left of the painting a woman bends forward towards a child in a blue dress kneeling on the ground to the right, who looks up at her with a toothy grin. The woman is a ialorixá, a priestess. Her beaded rosary swings over her white lace blouse and she balances a cigar between her teeth, its smoke dissipating towards the back of the room. With her right hand she clasps her purple skirt patterned with intricate flowers, which matches her headwrap. Maria Auxiliadora da Silva learned embroidery from her mother and later worked as a seamstress; the detailed stitching on the ialorixá’s clothing reflects her skill.

At the centre foreground of the painting, a young man in a green floral shirt and white trousers lies face-down on the brown floor, eyelids closed. His arms stretch out above his head and almost touch the bare feet of an elderly man who stands with his back to us at the right forefront of the painting. This man’s arms are raised in a gesture of devotion; his head is cocked back and his mouth open. White-gold curls frame his face, and contrast with his royal-blue shirt, worn over white trousers. A white lace cloth is draped over his left shoulder.

Inscribed on the floor above the young man is a black pentagram star symbolising harmony of the five elements – fire, earth, water, air, and spirit. Beside the star, three candles – black, white and red – are brightly burning.

A grey stone wall occupies the full length of the back of the painting. In the back left corner is an altar with three religious figures on top. Historically, the use of Roman Catholic saints to embody West African orixás, or deities, was a way for enslaved Africans to hide their religious practices in plain sight in their homes on the plantation, while appearing to submit to their enslavers’ religion.

Leftmost and standing tallest on the altar is Saint Sebastian, or Oxóssi, the orixá of hunting and forests, four arrows protruding from bleeding wounds on his pale yellow, semi-naked body. Next to him is an Afro-Brazilian Preto Velho, a wise spirit of enslaved Africans, who sits on a low stool. Rightmost is Saint Lazarus, or Obaluaê, the orixá of health and healing, robes parting to reveal bloody wounds. He is also pale-skinned and stands on a small red plinth bearing his name.

The altar is curtained with a vibrant blue fabric, which parts in the centre to reveal another figure beneath, the Cabocla Flexeira, known for her knowledge of plants and for protecting against negative energies. Wearing a red-, green- and gold-feathered headpiece and matching skirt, and clutching a bow and arrow in her right hand, this Indigenous spirit is standing side-on, looking back at us over her right shoulder.

At the centre back of the room, two drummers set the beat, their hands rebounding up from atabaqué drums. Both wear white trousers – one with a red shirt, the other an orange shirt – and necklaces of coloured beads swing around their necks.

On the wall behind them, a tree sways in the wind within a red frame. Giving the impression of a window to the outside, or of a framed painting of a tree inside, Auxiliadora da Silva playfully blurs the distinction between inside and outside, signalling the  importance of the natural environment in Umbanda, even when it is practised in urban environments.

Mosquitoes and humans gather around a central sugar-plantation field. On the left mosquitoes swarm, in the centre is the plantation, and on the right side humans. The mosquitoes are almost the same size as the humans, and some of the humans’ bodies are elongated, echoing the mosquito forms. The net is lit so that the embroidered figures cast shadows onto the wall behind, creating a ghostly imprint.

The artist Vivian Caccuri lives in Brazil, in Rio de Janeiro, where mosquitoes are a constant presence. In the 16th century, Europeans colonised Brazil. Enslaved people were sent on ships from Africa to Brazil to work on the sugar plantations. The slave ships carried mosquitoes and spread yellow fever, malaria, dengue, and other diseases. Epidemics of mosquito-borne diseases were a product of colonialism, but also a major obstacle to it. Efforts to control these diseases led to the beginnings of tropical medicine.

Today, mosquitoes continue to flourish as the world’s biodiversity declines. The artist’s fascination with mosquitoes began with their sound. Why does the mosquito’s whine – made by the rapid flapping of their wings – trigger such feelings of irritation and repulsion? Does this fear have a colonial origin? At the top left of the textile, the sky is a-buzz with scrawny soundwaves: we can imagine the high-pitched hum of these quivering lines. They are crossed by a swarm of spiralling mosquito eggs that winds its way from top to bottom, threading through the humans like the trail of a mosquito on the hunt.

On the top right, the eggs become larvae, a gathering storm cloud threatening to rain down upon the humans. Hanging along the net’s hem are over 100 angular fragments of slate and aluminium slender tubes, hovering like wind chimes just above the floor. The artist walked the city streets and collected these cast-off materials. Aluminium chimes are used in samba, an Afro-Brazilian music style that expresses both resistance and joy.

We are frustrated with mosquitoes, but the artist invites us to imagine a different relationship with mosquitoes, in which we share an environment as equals. To learn to respect the power these tiny creatures have to shape our world, from the design of our cities to our genetic code. To acknowledge the powerful influence of mosquitoes. On the left side of the textile, mosquitoes tangle in pairs, their thick black bodies and spindly legs entwined. They look like they are dancing or fighting, but are actually mating.

The art is monochrome, but you can see a spot of red, a mosquito’s stomach swollen with bright red blood. In the centre, a plantation landscape spans the space like an empty battlefield. A lone male mosquito travels across this zone, surrounded by a faint green line. Male mosquitoes need sugar to survive and reproduce, and sugarcane plantations offer a plentiful supply. On the right side of the textile, the humans gather in clusters. Together they represent stereotyped Brazilian people inspired by colonial representations with Indigenous, African and European descent.

Have a look and find different bodies: some are naked with big round bottoms, full thighs and dangling breasts, or flapping penises. Others wear plumed headdresses and cloths around their waists. More dynamic pairs dance, accompanied by different music. Have a look!

Mosquito Shrine

When facing this work, there is a yellow fabric bench behind you. The bench has back and arm rests.

Mosquitoes and humans gather around a central sugar-plantation field. Their encounter is boldly embroidered in black cotton thread on a vast, translucent white mosquito net, hanging over 2 metres high by 4 metres wide. The mosquitoes swarm on the left side of the textile; the plantation spans the centre; and the humans fill the right side of the textile. The mosquitoes are almost the same size as the humans, and some of the humans’ bodies are elongated, echoing the mosquito forms. The net is lit so that the embroidered figures cast shadows onto the wall behind, creating a ghostly imprint.

Artist Vivian Caccuri lives in Rio de Janeiro, in Brazil, where mosquitoes are a constant presence. Transported from Africa by European slave ships starting from the 16th century, mosquitoes carrying yellow fever, malaria, dengue, and other diseases thrived in Brazil’s sugar plantations. Epidemics of mosquito-borne diseases were a product of colonialism, but also a major obstacle to it, and efforts to control these diseases led to the beginnings of tropical medicine. Today, mosquitoes continue to flourish as the world’s biodiversity declines.

Caccuri invites us to imagine a different relationship with mosquitoes, in which we share an environment as equals, and learn to respect the power these tiny creatures have to shape our world, from the design of our cities to our genetic code.

On the left side of the textile, a dozen mosquitoes tangle in pairs, their thick black bodies and spindly legs entwined. They are mating, but their poses also give the impression of dancing or fighting. One’s stomach is swollen with bright red blood, a spot of colour in the monochrome scene.

A plantation landscape spans the centre of the textile like an empty battlefield. Gentle hills are divided up into fields and planted with strict rows of crops. A lone male mosquito travels across this zone, gangly legs outstretched, surrounded by a faint green line. Male mosquitoes need sugar to survive and reproduce, and sugarcane plantations offer a plentiful supply.

On the right side of the textile, the humans gather in clusters. Some are black silhouettes; others are outlined. Together they represent Brazilian people as being of Indigenous, African and European descent. Some are naked with exaggerated round backsides, full thighs and dangling breasts, or flapping penises. Others wear plumed headdresses and cloths around their waists. Small groups sit on the ground, backs resting against each other. More dynamic pairs dance, accompanied by musicians.

Caccuri’s fascination with mosquitoes began with their sound. Why does the mosquito’s whine – made by the rapid flapping of their wings –  trigger such feelings of irritation and repulsion? Does this fear have a colonial origin? At the top left of the textile, the sky is a-buzz with scrawny soundwaves – we can imagine the high-pitched hum of these quivering lines. Near the centre of the textile, they are crossed by a swarm of spiralling mosquito eggs that winds its way from top to bottom, threading through the humans like the trail of a mosquito on the hunt. At the top right of the textile, a gathering storm cloud of mosquito larvae threatens to rain down upon the humans.

Hanging along the net’s hem are about 150 angular fragments of slate and slender aluminium tubes, each roughly 10 cm long, hovering like wind chimes just above the floor. Caccuri collected these cast-off materials during walks around the city streets. Slate is a common building material in Rio, and aluminium chimes are used in samba – an Afro-Brazilian music style that expresses both resistance and joy.

Sheila Pinkel is an artist and educator. In the early 1990s, she came across a sales catalogue of products manufactured in prison in California. The catalogue included office furniture and other products made by prisoners for very low wages. Californian law says that all California state agencies, including universities, must buy goods from this catalogue, ensuring there is always a market for them.

In this artwork, the artist reproduces dozens of pages from this catalogue. There are more than 60 images, statistics and quotes. Each piece of furniture is bland and functional. Some of the photographs feature smiling white office workers posed in staged office interiors. At its centre is a flagpole with two flags: the United States flag and the California flag, which features a grizzly bear. Beneath the image is the text: “Made by prisoners in a California State Prison.”

On either side are prints with excerpts of articles and studies about current US prisoners and their socio-economic and racial backgrounds. An article by the Huffington Post in 2013 says: “Looking at current incarceration trends and applying it to men born today: One in every seventeen white males will go to prison in their lifetime. One in every six Latino males will go to prison. And one in every three Black males will go to prison.”

On the plantations, Black people suffered violence because of race, geographical displacement, control and surveillance. This racialised violence continues today in prisons. In the 19th century, prison labour was intended as a punishment, or a means of spiritual and moral reform. Today in the UK, work can’t legally be used as punishment, but it is often compulsory. Prisoners who refuse to work can have benefits or family visits reduced, or even face solitary confinement.

Much of the work available is repetitive: prisoners maintain the prison’s facilities and services, as cleaners or kitchen workers. Or they may work for private companies, manufacturing or packing goods, or repairing equipment. Consumers who buy these everyday products become unknowingly complicit in the exploitation of this captive workforce.

Prison workers do not have the same rights as other workers. For example, they do not have to be paid the National Minimum Wage: full-time work is paid as little as £4 a week. Outside of the workplace, prisoners also often experience dehumanising living conditions – such as overcrowding, poor sanitation, solitary confinement, and little choice over what they eat – which impact their mental and physical health. The loss of social connection and control over their day-to-day lives leads to high rates of depression and anxiety that often continues even once a prisoner is released.

At each corner of the grid is an identical print resembling an optician’s eye test chart. Each reads “SEEING IS BELIEVING”. The artist made this work to show an aspect of the prison system that is usually not seen or talked about.

Site Unseen

Hi, it’s Cindy Sissokho, curator of ‘Hard Graft’ again.

In the early 1990s, artist and educator Sheila Pinkel came across a sales catalogue published by the California Prison Industrial Authority, which manages factories and service industries operating within California prisons. The catalogue included office furniture and other products made by prisoners for very low wages. Californian state agencies, including universities, are required by law to buy goods from this catalogue, ensuring there is always a market for them.

In ‘Site/Unseen: The Prison-Industrial Complex’, Pinkel reproduces dozens of pages from this catalogue, along with statistics and quotes, totalling over 60 images. They are arranged in a large grid measuring almost 2 metres high by 2.5 metres wide. The prints are neatly arranged in portrait format, in 6 rows of 12. Each contains a photograph of a piece of furniture against a neutral background, captioned underneath with its listing title. The top row includes a two-seater sofa, a cement park bench, a brown fabric swivel chair, a metal shelving unit, a single-seater grey fabric lounge chair, and other similar items. From row to row each piece of furniture is uniformly bland and functional. Some of the photographs feature smiling white office workers posed in staged office interiors.

At its centre, the grid is interrupted by a larger print around the size of four of the smaller prints. It depicts a flagpole with the United States flag and the California flag, which features a grizzly bear. Beneath the image is the text: ‘Made by prisoners in a California State Prison.’ On either side of the larger print with the flags are prints with excerpts of articles and studies on the socio-economic and racial backgrounds of people currently in prison in the US. One of the sources, from the Huffington Post in 2013, declares: “One in every three Black males born today can expect to go to prison at some point in their life, compared with one in every six Latino males and one in every seventeen white males, if current incarceration trends continue.”

At each corner of the grid is an identical print resembling an optician’s eye-test chart, with rows of white letters in decreasing sizes against a black background. Each reads ‘SEEING IS BELIEVING’. Pinkel made this work to show an aspect of the prison system that is usually not seen or talked about: the use of prisoners as a cheap labour force. Through quotes and statistics, Pinkel also shows how prisons continue the racialised violence of the plantation through the geographical displacement, control and surveillance of people.

In the 19th century, prison labour was intended as a punishment or a means of spiritual and moral reform. Today in the UK, while work can no longer legally be used as punishment, it is often compulsory. Prisoners who refuse to work can have benefits or family visits reduced, or even face solitary confinement. Much of the work available is repetitive: prisoners maintain the prison’s facilities and services as cleaners or kitchen workers, or they may work for private companies, manufacturing or packing goods or repairing equipment.

Consumers who buy these everyday products unknowingly become complicit in the exploitation of this captive workforce, who do not have the same rights as other workers; for instance, they do not have to be paid the National Minimum Wage and may earn as little as £4 per week for full-time work. Outside of the workplace, prisoners also often experience dehumanising living conditions – such as overcrowding, poor sanitation, solitary confinement, and little choice over what they eat – which impact their mental and physical health. The loss of social connection and control over their day-to-day lives leads to high rates of depression and anxiety that often continue even once a prisoner is released.

Hello, my name is Vikram Divecha. I have been living and working in the United Arab Emirates for many years now. My practice often sees me negotiating with urban systems and working with the everyday processes that surround us, such as municipal gardening, demolition and sanitation.

For this art, I collaborated with five workers: Assainar, Khayyum, Rafique, Altaf and Afzal. Employed by the city authorities, their job is to keep the streets clean. Like many migrant workers, their labour, which is essential to the functioning of our cities, often remains unacknowledged.

Spread across the wall are six colour photographs and a street map. The photographs document the workers sweeping the streets. In 2016 I spent three months walking individually with each worker. During this time, I got to know them, their work and dynamics of the area. They worked in Al Shuweiheen, Sharjah, in a busy residential neighbourhood lined with shops and restaurants. Located in this area is also the Sharjah Art Museum, a high-walled building.

Each worker is dressed in green, carrying a green bag to pick up refuse. They swept alone, following a specific route through narrow streets and by-lanes, circulating their designated area three to four times, from early morning until lunch. The litter was mostly paper cups, cans, bottles, wrappers, cigarettes, receipts, dust and other waste. The translucent bags were archives of the neighbourhood’s consumption habits.

All of these workers were from India, part of a large South Asian workforce. Most lived away from their families. We all spoke a common language – Hindi – and exchanged a lot about our lives during our walks and when we all gathered at a cafeteria. I was made aware of a map on which their routes were plotted. After many discussions, one morning we decided to change the maps so they now ended outside the museum’s entrance. This turned into a daily performance.

After each worker finished a cycle, he would deposit a bag of refuse on the sidewalk in front of the museum. A row of about 25 green bags would accumulate until 2 pm before being cleared by the garbage truck. You can see a photograph of the bags nestled together between the museum’s wall and the grey street. This line of green trash bags was remade every day for a few months.

Near the centre of the display is the new route map. Each different coloured lines belongs to a different worker’s route. Arrows along the lines indicate the direction of the routes, which meet at the museum. This art draws attention to what we overlook. In presenting trash, the workers claimed their labour as a creation of beauty. Waste also became a mediator, initiating encounters between the neighbourhood, the museum, and the workers.

Still today, Afzal recounts the museum staff pushing the trash bags away from the entrance. But we would bring them back. Pedestrians paused and enquired. Shopkeepers spun their own theories. Some stories were recounted to me. Some stories, perhaps, still reside in the neighbourhood.

Sweeping

Hello, my name is Vikram Divecha. I have been living and working in the United Arab Emirates for many years now. My practice often sees me negotiating with urban systems and working with the everyday processes that surround us, such as gardening, demolition and sanitation.

For this work, ‘Sweeping’, I collaborated with five workers – Assainar, Khayyum, Rafique, Altaf, and Afzal. Employed by the city authorities, their job is to keep the streets clean. Like many migrant workers, their labour, which is essential to the functioning of our cities, often remains unacknowledged.

Spread across the wall are a street map and six colour photographs, four of which will be described. The map is in the centre of the display, with three photographs on either side, spanning about 4 metres in total. The landscape-oriented prints are different sizes, and hung at different heights, to suggest movement and mapping. The photographs document the workers sweeping the streets. All are dressed in bright green uniforms: trousers and matching shirt, with reflective silver stripes around the chest and calves. They wear sturdy black boots and black gloves, leaving only their faces uncovered beneath bright green caps. Each worker carries a long-handled broom to collect refuse in a green trash bag. In the leftmost image, a worker sweeps refuse from the kerb while members of the public pass by in black abayas and a white thobe – loose fitting, full-length garments – and open-toe sandals. In the next image, a worker and the cream-coloured residential buildings around him are reflected in a puddle of rain, as he navigates a street lined with shops with brightly coloured signs with Arabic and English lettering.  In the third image, a worker pauses to look down at his mobile phone.

In 2016 I spent three months walking individually with each worker. During this time, I got to know them, their work and the dynamics of the area. They worked in Al Shuweiheen, Sharjah, a busy residential neighborhood lined with shops and restaurants. Located in this area is also the Sharjah Art Museum, a high-walled building. Each worker swept alone, following a specific route through narrow streets and by-lanes, collecting refuse in green bags, circulating his designated area three to four times, from early morning until lunch. The litter was mostly paper cups, cans, bottles, wrappers, cigarettes, receipts, dust and other waste. The translucent bags were archives of the neighbourhood’s consumption habits.

All of these workers were from India, part of a large South Asian workforce. Most lived away from their families. We all spoke a common language - Hindi – and exchanged a lot about our lives during our walks and when we all gathered at a cafeteria. I was made aware of a map on which their routes were plotted. After many discussions, one fine morning around the cafeteria table the workers and myself replotted their routes on the map so they all ended outside the museum’s entrance. This turned into a daily performance. After each worker finished a cycle, he would deposit a bag of refuse on the sidewalk in front of the museum. A row of about 25 green bags would accumulate until 2 pm, before being cleared by the garbage truck. The photograph at the far right of the display shows the bags nestled together between the museum’s high, cream-coloured exterior wall and the street. This line of green trash bags was re-inscribed every day for a few months.

Near the centre of the display is the map showing the workers’ replotted routes. The black-and-white printed map depicts rows of buildings intersected by straight roads, and bordered by large main roads. The buildings are represented by simple squares and rectangles. “08 Al Shuheen Sector-1” is printed across the bottom right of the map. Five hand-drawn lines in different colours trace the routes around the streets in the top half of the map. A red line circles six blocks down the left side of the map; a blue line encompasses a large semi-rectangular-shaped plaza that horizontally spans the map’s top-left corner; a green line weaves around tightly clustered blocks in the top-right corner; a pink line follows a row of units in the centre; and below these, a yellow line loops around terraced buildings. Arrows along the lines indicate the direction of the routes, which meet in a huddle of coloured dots outside the museum, a long horizontal oblong beneath the plaza in the top centre of the map. 

‘Sweeping’ draws attention to what we overlook. In presenting trash, the workers claimed their labour as a creation of beauty. Waste also became a mediator, initiating encounters between the neighbourhood, the museum, and the workers. Till today, Afzal recounts the museum staff pushing the trash bags away from the entrance. But we would bring them back. Pedestrians paused and enquired. Shopkeepers spun their own theories. Some stories were recounted to me. Some stories, perhaps, still reside in the neighbourhood.

Hello, my name is Lindsey Mendick. I’m an artist based in Margate. I developed the idea for my installation with sex workers from the Sex Worker Advocacy and Resistance Movement. SWARM is led by people who work in the sex industry in the UK, campaigning for their rights and safety. This art shows the realities of sex work and the workers’ stories and histories. We wanted to foreground the main reason that most people sell sex: to make a living or because they are unemployed or too low paid to survive on.

In my research and in speaking with sex workers, I found the same stories repeating again and again. Sex workers are still not being listened to. Laws meant to protect sex workers often don’t reflect the realities of their lives and what they need to work safely. In the UK – except for Northern Ireland – it’s legal to buy and sell sex, but advertising sex, soliciting, kerb-crawling and working indoors with friends are all criminalised. Being fined or spending time in prison makes it harder for people to leave sex work and find other jobs.

Stigma can also lead to sex workers facing discrimination when accessing healthcare and other services. Cities are always changing, and arrests of sex workers increase as an area becomes more gentrified. The police and media describe this as “cleaning up the streets”. This language is harmful and suggests that it’s OK to treat these people like dirt. Sex workers who work on the streets face a higher risk of violence than those who work indoors.

My installation takes the form of a church. I wanted to reclaim this sacred space to create a sanctuary for the stories and histories of sex workers. Can you see the different moneyboxes? Each one of them relates to a different issue, historical moment, person or organisation relating to sex work. Churches have played a key role in the history of sex workers’ activism.

In 13th-century Paris, sex workers organised and built their own chapel with Mary Magdalene as their patron saint. In 1917, in San Francisco, America, there was a plan to evict brothels, so hundreds of sex workers marched to a Methodist church to demonstrate against it. In June 1975, in Lyon, France, sex workers were fed up with their ‘inhumane’ working conditions, so 100 sex workers occupied the Saint-Nizier Church for eight days to draw attention. In November 1982, in London’s King’s Cross red-light district, sex workers were fed up with police brutality and racism. So the English Collective of Prostitutes occupied the Church of the Holy Cross to protest.

On the back wall of the church, where the central arched window would be, is a video projection of Mendez, a Jamaican-British author, performing a sermon. Mendez was raised within the Jehovah’s Witness faith and formerly worked as a sex worker, becoming estranged from both their church and their family. Their sermon addresses sex workers’ demands for better rights and safety. On either side of the central projection is a stained-glass window. The left window has three women. They are sex workers who became Christian saints, such as Mary of Egypt.

The right window is a mother nursing a child, wearing a mask. I chose this image because globally, most female sex workers are also mothers. And when sex workers protest, they wear masks to protect their identities. There is also a neon light that says “Workers Workers Workers” as an ode to the recognition that sex work is work.

Money Makes the World Go Round

When facing this work, there is a yellow fabric bench behind you.

Hello, my name is Lindsey Mendick. I’m an artist based in Margate.

My installation is a stage-like set representing a church. I wanted to reclaim the church as a sanctuary for the stories and the histories of sex workers, which are represented by ceramic moneyboxes occupying the church.

Over 4.5 m wide and 2 m deep, the roofless structure has three walls, reaching about 3 m high at their tallest point. The fourth side is open behind a wooden altar rail. The left half of the church is painted as grey stone, while the right half is red brick, giving the impression of two churches fused together. The facade boasts bricked-up doors and double steeples; high in the centre is a pink neon sign that reads “Workers, Workers, Workers”. Inside, clusters of ceramic tiles and two stained-glass windows flank an arch-shaped video projection in the back wall’s centre. Around 60 elaborately decorated ceramic moneyboxes of different shapes and sizes are scattered around the interior, perched on pews, shelves, plinths, and the floor. They are each 20 to 30 cm high.

I developed this installation with sex workers from SWARM – the Sex Worker Advocacy and Resistance Movement – and the author Mendez. SWARM is a UK-based sex-worker-led collective that campaigns for the rights and safety of everyone who sells sexual services.

We wanted to show the realities of sex work and the stories and histories of sex workers. Sex workers aren’t being listened to; laws meant to protect them often don’t reflect what they need to work safely. In the UK – except for Northern Ireland – it’s legal to buy and sell sex, but advertising sex, kerb-crawling, and working indoors with another sex worker are all criminalised activities. Being fined or imprisoned makes it harder to leave sex work. Stigma can also lead to discrimination when accessing healthcare and other services.