Taking Space, Making Space: Reflections from Under Our Skin

Under Our Skin is an exhibition that looks closely at what we carry beneath the surface: the lessons we were taught, the masks we learned to wear, and the moments when those masks begin to crack. Through diverse queer perspectives, the exhibition explores how identity is shaped, tested and embodied. These works remind us that what gets under our skin often stays with us, shaping who we become. While rooted in LGBTQ+ experiences, the exhibition speaks to something universal that feels especially resonant today: the ways in which all human beings, regardless of identity or sexuality, are marked by what they have lived through.

Being part of the panel discussion invited me to reflect on questions that feel urgent right now, questions that continue to push at the doors of institutions, and perhaps even at their very skeletons: Where is queer work shown? How is it framed? And what does it mean to place it within spaces that were not historically built for queer lives?

Showing queer work within so-called “normative” institutions is important. These spaces shape cultural narratives, and when queer work enters them, it can challenge assumptions, disrupt silence and insist on visibility. But there is always a risk that something gets lost. Without care and context, queer work can be flattened, softened, or made safer than it should be. Its complexity, anger, tenderness or contradictions can be pushed back under the surface in favour of something easier to consume.

This leads to the question of pinkwashing. I have seen queer exhibitions used to signal progress without deeper, structural change. Visibility on its own is not enough. Meaningful inclusion requires long-term commitment, ethical practice, and a rethinking of working structures and systems. It requires a willingness to reflect on power: who decides, who is listened to, and whose experiences are centred.

At the same time, local and community-led contexts remain vital. Finding your people, building trust, and creating work at a local level can offer forms of care and belonging that large institutions often struggle to hold. These spaces allow queer work to be messy, intimate and responsive. They remind us that cultural change does not only happen inside major buildings, but through relationships, conversations and shared presence. Of course, not every institution is the same, and there has been progress, but there is still much to do, to shake, to build, and to disturb.

For me, queer art is about both taking space and making space. Taking space within institutions that need to be challenged, and making space elsewhere when those institutions are not ready, willing or able to hold difficult conversations. Progress means moving between these positions, not choosing one over the other. I want to see inclusion that exists all year round, not only during designated moments. Queer artists, Indigenous artists, Black artists, Women artists, artists in the diaspora or exile, migrant artists, and artists creating under the shadow of genocide deserve continuity, care and sustained attention, not just visibility but support, listening and accountability.

I want to thank Xavier for curating the exhibition with such sensitivity and inviting me to the panel discussion, James for being such a thoughtful peer in the panel conversation, and all the artists involved for contributing work that felt honest and generous. It was a safe space not because it avoided complexity, but because it allowed it to exist.