Gilroy Brown

Q1. To set the scene: how did art become marginalised in English primary schooling?

From the late 1980s onward, policy and practice increasingly placed art at the periphery of the school day. The ‘core’ subjects—English, Maths, Science (later the broader STEM frame) and technology—were timetabled and assessed with intensity, followed by geography, history and D&T. Art was pushed to the other end. Because it was not treated as a core or a high‑stakes subject, many schools felt little press to teach it consistently or deeply. The result was structural marginality: insufficient time, few specialist teachers, and very limited progression. Those of us who helped draft curriculum guidance hoped art would be integral; the policy climate didn’t push in that direction.

Q2. What did that look like in classrooms and in children’s development?

One symptom was a plateau in drawing and making. By ages eight or nine, many children’s drawing skills had not progressed since reception or Year 1. Without a clear developmental pathway—sequenced skills, projects that spiral in complexity, and regular critique—children lost confidence. By KS2 we heard, heartbreakingly often: “I don’t like drawing; I can’t draw.” This was not a lack of imagination—most children enter school curious, experimental, and expressive. Rather, schooling inadvertently narrowed their opportunities to explore materials, iterate ideas, and build craft.

Q3. What alternative did the ‘WELD’ centre provide?

‘WELD’ (a community arts hub in Handsworth) operated as a parallel arts education system. It recognised that many pupils simply weren’t getting sustained access to the arts in school. So it offered after‑school clubs and summer projects, creating structured, low‑barrier pathways to visual art, photography, writing, theatre and dance. Crucially, it placed art at the centre of a holistic model of the child—arts as a medium for confidence, community, language, citizenship, and joy.

Q4. How did programmes run, and who delivered them?

WELD convened a network of consultants and sessional workers—practising artists and educators—who contributed skills while allowing participants to chart their own paths. Provision ranged from regular clubs to intensive holiday projects. The pedagogy emphasised experimentation, portfolio‑building, and public sharing (exhibitions, readings, performances). Children and families encountered art as a living practice rather than an occasional classroom activity.

Q5. Which figures and organisations shaped this creative ecology?

The ecosystem was rich and interlinked. Practitioners associated with WELD included photographers and artists who influenced a generation. Names cited by the interviewee include Derek Bishton, Vanley Burke (who famously lived in the darkroom), Pogus Caesar, and Alvin Kelly; among emerging artists who benefited from the milieu was painter Hurvin Anderson. Film and community media mattered too—Horace Ové’s documentaries circulated widely, as did community theatre and South Asian performance networks such as Sampad. The point is less any single name than the interplay: a web of mentors, peers and platforms that normalised serious creative work.

Q6. Did this activity seek validation from mainstream institutions?

Not initially. Many artists refused to wait for validation. They built alternatives because the existing system had not been designed to include or promote their communities. In the 1970s much of this lived ‘in community’. During the 1980s, institutions like the ICA or Ikon began programming Black and Asian artists more visibly; that recognition had real benefits, but it also posed risks of co‑option and loss of autonomy. The lesson learned was to partner on clear terms, retain authorship, and prioritise community‑rooted spaces.

Q7. What curriculum did you use—where did the content come from?

We used ourselves as a resource. Practitioners pooled repertoires, histories and skills to design programmes responsive to local needs. That meant drawing on Black British, Caribbean, and South Asian cultural forms alongside European traditions, foregrounding lived experience as a legitimate source of knowledge. Funding helped when it came, but work began without waiting for grants. Over time the loose network was formalised to ensure continuity and sustainability.

Q8. Can you sketch the wider political backdrop and your own formation?

At home I learned civil‑rights history and contemporary politics—Muhammad Ali’s stance, Malcolm X’s analysis, Martin Luther King Jr.’s organising. That gave me a positive sense of self and a critical vocabulary. In school, low expectations from some teachers didn’t derail me because I already knew who I was. As a teenager, the Black Panther Party’s assertiveness resonated. That personal grounding fed directly into how I later taught, mentored and made work: art as self‑definition, refusal of stereotype, and a tool for collective agency.

Q9. How inclusive was WELD’s governance and participation?

Strikingly inclusive. A multicultural committee, united in purpose, stewarded the space. Participants spanned generations—parents, elders, teenagers—and professions: teachers, artists, tradespeople, students. For many young people who struggled to ‘fit’ at school, WELD became a second home. Staff supported parents with advice and advocacy, recognising families as co‑educators rather than mere ‘recipients’ of provision.

Q10. What did a typical evening look like?

Thursday ‘arts evenings’ ran from about 7–10pm. You could rotate through stations—drawing/painting, pottery, printmaking, leather‑craft—spending an hour at each. Beginners were welcomed; experienced makers had their practice extended by established artists. There was food—Caribbean cooking by community caterers—which turned the session into a social commons. Work produced was exhibited locally, and many artists ‘were born’ in that forum. Entry was free or donation‑based.

Q11. Were there artist collectives alongside WELD?

Yes. The interviewee helped found an art collective in 1980–81 with siblings, exhibiting across Birmingham and in partnership with WELD. The collective’s name (G O D A B R O O) amalgamated the members’ initials—a symbolic reminder that identity and authorship were plural. Collectives provided peer critique, shared resources, and a platform for public showings.

Q12. Beyond Handsworth: what other nodes mattered?

The Lozells area interwove with Handsworth—shared boundaries, shared struggles. Activists like Dave Butcher worked on housing and tenants’ rights. Press clippings from the period now serve as primary sources on policing and local politics. Poetry and performance were strong—names mentioned include Martin Green, Sue Brown, Roy McFarlane—and dance was energised by South Asian and Caribbean traditions. The landscape was polyphonic: many ‘major and minor’ players, each instrumental in the whole.

Q13. How do you characterise the move from grassroots to mainstream in the 1980s–90s?

The 1970s were dominated by community‑organised culture. By the mid‑ to late‑1980s, major institutions began to notice—sometimes inspired by, and sometimes productively partnering with, grassroots work. But as local authorities and funders stepped in, some independent energy dissipated, and with it, the autonomy to challenge. A caution follows: resources are welcome, but not at the price of critical edge or community control.

Q14. What does ‘art as weapon and witness’ mean in practice?

It means art that does political work without surrendering aesthetic ambition. Think of US ‘walls of pride’—murals of freedom fighters—and Northern Ireland’s political murals; or, in South Asia, street theatre carried to marketplaces. In each case, poetry, images, and performance created a shared language of memory, dignity and direction. In my own training (art and English in the 1970s) I chose Black subjects; when asked ‘why all Black?’, I asked in return why their canvases were all white. For me, art affirmed beauty and humanity against stereotype, and narrated where we were going, not only where we had been.

Q15. What is the case for monuments and public memory now?

Commemoration matters. The Windrush generation transformed Britain, yet memory is uneven. National statues (e.g., London termini) help, but cities beyond London also need permanent markers that acknowledge Black British presence and contribution. We should not wait only on municipal permission: communities can commission plaques, murals and installations on properties we already own, while continuing to press for central civic siting.

Q16. What present‑day structures could carry this work forward?

Community‑led hubs—cafés, studios, archives—can act as ‘mini‑WELDs’: places to gather, make, teach, and exhibit. The principle is to hold our own ground first, and invite institutions in as allies on terms that protect authorship and mission. With more people now in roles of relative power, there is scope to design equitable partnerships from the outset—capacity‑building rather than extractive projects.

Q17. How do you see youth engagement and intergenerational work today?

Young people are not apathetic; they often haven’t been invited in meaningful ways. When engaged as agents, they respond. One recent example: a group of teenagers (mostly of African‑Caribbean heritage) visited a Black woman mayor. She hosted them in her office, donned her ceremonial regalia, and discussed her path—why she pursued politics despite under‑representation. Her message—‘dare to dream’—landed. Encounters like that, paired with regular creative practice, seed durable civic confidence.

Q18. What lessons should educators and policymakers take from this history?

First, don’t treat art as enrichment; treat it as core to cognition, language, and citizenship. Build sequenced curricula and protect time. Second, resource community partners who already do this work—on multi‑year cycles, with co‑governance. Third, design for care: child‑minding, food, and family learning are not extras but the infrastructure of participation. Finally, insist on autonomy: partnerships should strengthen, not dilute, critical community voices.

Q19. If you could summarise WELD’s legacy in one claim, what would it be?

That a small, determined, multicultural committee, working with practising artists and families, built a parallel arts education that changed lives—not by waiting for permission, but by doing the work with what was at hand. Its ‘spirit’ persists in the people shaped by it, and can be revived wherever a community claims space to make and learn together.