Writing

Some rows of staircases down the historical municipal bank in Birmingham, away from the clinking mugs and coffee from the early risers at the Exchange cafe, I slink into the Vaults, home to the exhibition “A Place to Call Home”.  At the door, the printed face of a black woman with a head wrap welcomes me with a smile. I feel at home, walking into the room’s wide open arms. A few feet below the noise upstairs and outside, the room feels sacred, drawing you into what home means to many people. Arranged in a semi-circle, different artworks—large pictures printed on plastic with texts divided by a screen playing short interview responses to the question ‘What is home?’. This semi-circle is divided in the middle by wood carvings of people’s interpretations of an ideal home, what makes a home ‘tick’. In front of the screen, there are carved half-moon-shaped benches to sit on, to feel at home, the question—what is a home?—swirling around you. Titled “A Place to Call Home”—an art exhibition organised by the University of Birmingham—the catalogue states, “Home can be a joyful space where we hold celebrations and express ourselves, somewhere we associate with happy memories of food, family, and comfort. But it can be an unhappy or uncertain place, or somewhere we have had to leave behind, and not everyone has a place to call home.” A product of a collaborative study featuring different research units at the university and external institutions—St. Basils, Changing Lives, and the National Literacy Trust—this exhibition brings the town and the gown together to speak on one theme and reach different audiences. The exhibition explores several factors that shape our definition of home. It queries: How do our personal life experiences shape what home means? How do policies affect home? What does home mean to the homeless and displaced? What does home mean to those in the adult social care system? I categorise the exhibition’s response into two broad spaces: home as a (permanent) physical (space) and home as a (shifting) mental (space). “Home is a place I go to after a long day at work… where I’m greeted by my dog and a cat, also the place to feel safe and experience the challenges that life throws our way,” starts a respondent. In the first category, home is a space where many rest their legs after a long day at work, welcomed by their pets or loved ones, warm hugs, and laughter. It is also an address to which, in the United Kingdom, everything—access to quality healthcare, education, finances—is attached In most cases, the address is chosen by you, but for people in care homes and hospitals, it is not their choice. Still building on the idea of the ‘permanence of home’, it also extends to home as a space for stories. “Home is a place where their story belongs, where they feel like their story is part of the fabric of the place. They’re not an outsider… They’re part of what makes that place so wonderful. And I think having the confidence and knowing that their story is valuable is so important. And that’s what really feels like home.” Consequently, home is a solid, supportive community where your story is safe. Yet, the idea of a ‘solid home’ is quickly punctured through the history of homelessness. Once upon a time, according to the 1824 Vagrancy Act (only scrapped in April 2022), to be homeless is to be termed a vagrant and punished for it. Through the tired eyes of Victorian and Edwardian people criminalised for being homeless, we understand the history of access and exclusion. For other people, home is not a physical address; it is this space of the mind, which can sometimes be shifty. Ask immigrants trying to make a home in new countries (diaspora) yet connecting with their homelands (birth countries). “Home is two places in particular, it is Oxford where I live and it is Napoli,” says a respondent. For these people, while new associations are being made in the diaspora, there remains a psychological connection to their homelands, making the definition of home loose. This sense of ‘looseness’ increased with Brexit. Enter Eurochildren, a classic example of “how mixed-nationality EU families living in the UK express their sense of belonging in relation to the UK and EU.” This is leading to the different forms of disconnection, especially for the children who now have to unlearn what it means to be ‘British’ and find and rebuild new homes across Europe. A decade from now, when Leo—the Brexit baby born in 2018—will ask his parents, Shahadat (born in Bangladesh, now British) and Valeria (from Mexico) ‘Where is home?’, it will likely have multiple meanings. Beyond the questions, in the middle of the exhibition are carvings of the different things that make an ideal home. One thing is clear: an individual cannot build a home; it takes different stakeholders in the community—individuals, organisations and governments. And just like the research, stakeholder collaboration is important to finding a home. Consequently, participants were also welcome to create their ‘dream homes’—in a corner, small wooden pieces are available for children; beside it is a pencil and a note for adults to respond to the exhibition question. As I write, I think of myself, a new immigrant who left her home country seven months ago to start afresh in the United Kingdom: “Home is everything left behind and everything waiting to be made.” As I leave the Vaults, I realise the exhibition does not end there; the narrativising of home is never complete. It transcends a physical or mental space and is constantly being sought as humans move through the wide open arms of this home called Earth. This exhibition happened in February 2023, and this piece was submitted for the Burlington Contemporary Art Writing Prize 2023.