#vancouver art gallery

This story would probably be classified as an everyday micro aggression, but micro aggressions can be huge, blatant, discriminatory and very, very public.

I’m an artist by trade and have been since my late teens (I’m 34 now), I’ve lived in Vancouver since 2007 and I’ve been to the Vancouver Art Gallery more times than I can actually count (also, I have memory problems so that’s probably a major reason). I’ve been physically disabled for years, but due to internalized ableism among many other things I wasn’t able to admit it to myself until I had a stroke in late 2013.

That’s enough backstory. Today. Today, I use a wheelchair. I haven’t been to the Vancouver Art Gallery since I started using a wheelchair (although I have been many times with my walking cane and knew a wheelchair was probably inevitable due to the fact that I suffer from progressive conditions and so I’ve been mentally making notes of their wheelchair accessibility for a long time). I’ve seen several other visibly disabled people visiting the gallery in the past, and a number of wheelchair users. The gallery has fully accessible entrances, shop, floors, lifts - even a street-level dedicated 2 hour disabled spot next to the drop off zone right outside their doors.

There are some things that are less accessible - in order to gain access to the café you have to ask a member of staff to take you to the service elevator and once you get up there you better be ready for a fuss because someone will need to move tables AND chairs around to accommodate your wheelchair. The disabled bathroom (on the ground floor) also requires that you physically go around the corner to the security office and ask them to open the door for you (it is automatic - YAY - but locked). Some art plinths are too high to really see what’s on them from a wheelchair.

Still, it’s a ‘very old’ building (for Vancouver, mind) - it used to be the courthouse and the main building was completed in 1905. This was obviously long before it was believed disabled people should ever be seen outside of institutions, so they’re doing very well considering we also have no Canadians with Disabilities Act.

I’ve made mental notes of all of these things, so I thought I was well prepared to zip along in my tiny manual wheelchair and enjoy some fine art.

First of all, let me tell you. I’ve been used to having art gallery security follow my every move with their sharp little eyes and turny little heads, having walked around with a mobile phone in my hand or my camera around my neck; clearly worried I’m going to break that archaic rule of no photographs in some exhibitions. Today, both of those things were tucked away. From the moment I wheeled past the (very friendly) doorman into the galleries the security staff’s eyes were on me. They followed my every move, even stood watching me while I sat still and read some of the large texts on the walls. Obviously they were terrified I was suddenly going to lose control of my little manual wheelchair and go zooming around crashing into rare paintings sculptures all willy-nilly.

“Whatever” I thought “I’m used to this attention”. (I’ve somehow always made security staff suspicious of me - whether in an art gallery or simply at the drug store, it’s the same story; followed everywhere). I have to laugh because at this point I probably sound a wee bit paranoid, but believe me. This is my life.

Having consumed and enjoyed many classic Canadian paintings I make my way to the lifts up to the second floor to see Korean artist, Lee Bul’s exhibit. I am most excited about this, having seen some of her drawings and models online before. A giant room of her drawings spin around me, I take them in with glee, thoroughly enjoying them, and zip round the corner into the room with her latest work; large interactive sculptures made of mirrored shards and a mirrored floor. Several of these sculptures you pass through and experience the shapes and reflections, giving the viewer a chance to gain their own highly personalized experience of the piece. I patiently wait my turn by the first sculpture as I’m excited that it is clearly more than large enough for me and my tiny wheelchair. (I’m very petite and so a manual wheelchair fitted to dimensions I need is luckily very compact - I take up little more room than a person sitting in a compact office chair).

The sculpture clears of the couple of people in front of me (I’d rather wait a turn than cram in there with them, and thus just see my own reflections and in turn ‘reflect’ on my solitary existence and narcissism!). I take a couple of photos (photos are allowed on this floor, as they often are with these kinds of artists and exhibits - the large room has four large sculptures and is filled with people taking selfies).

Suddenly, out of nowhere a member of the security staff has appeared in front of me, bending down with hands on knees (wheelchair using friends, you know the shudderingly condescending stance I refer to; as if I were a small child that needs to learn a lesson). I sweat a little, as is my usual response to the sudden appearance of security staff. I’m fully expecting a ‘no photos please’, even though I know that photos are allowed - I always check.
But what comes out of her mouth is this, “Wheelchairs can’t come through here.” No politeness, no niceties, no pleases, no addressing me as a person. I am object. She says it very loudly, likely because I’m obviously physically disabled and either I won’t understand her or I won’t hear her - maybe both!

I am so utterly stunned I just say “WOW OKAY”, turn myself around so that I’m facing away from her and wheel myself out; past the crowd of people that were behind me waiting for their turn. I wheel around the sculpture (which I will note had no more room than inside the sculpture), proclaim loudly to my significant other (‘M’) “Apparently I’m not allowed through there.”, in my best (but shaky) Cross British Voice. He just asks “What? Why?”, so I point over my shoulder and state “SHE SAYS SO”.

At this moment the utter humiliation of the situation sets in completely and I have no choice but to wheel myself away as fast as I can into a corner, behind all of the sculptures and hide. I have no idea if I want to burst into Loud Ugly Tears or spontaneously combust with the very rage of the entire thing. I should state here that I have a number of social and sensory processing issues that all feed into some terrible anxieties; the worst of which is probably Confrontation with Strangers. As a disabled person I’m faced with this reality almost every time I leave my house, even if it’s imperceptible to others.

I stare at the sculpture that’s in front of me with its flashing lights and its surreally appropriate words and blink back hot tears. I grip so tightly on the grip bars of my wheels that I dislocate a knuckle. The bile that regularly burns my stomach and esophagus has turned itself up to 11 and I just want to pop out of existence with a little ‘pffft’ and cartoon dashes in my absence. I wait what seems an impossibly long time, watching the sign on this sculpture flash on and off, off and on. I can’t get any coherent words to line up with my Secondary Voice in my head, just the pictures that my thoughts often exist in are left behind, reeling and spinning and floating around. I’m dizzier than usual. I am outraged, I am deeply hurt, I am horrifically humiliated. I am a young disabled person who appears even younger than she actually is. I wear Doc Martens, biker jeans and have tattoos and extremely short hair. Who the fuck cares.

I stare at every single interactive sculpture in this giant cave of a room, I look down at the mirrored floor, scratched from thousands of feet marks, and hopefully a few wheel marks too. I see my wavy, wobbly, swaying face. I mouth the words ‘None of this is for me.”

M finally rounds the corner of the big, black mountain of an interactive sculpture I chose to hide behind. He tells me he’s spoken to the security manager, because the lady who told me I couldn’t wheel through the sculpture didn’t know anything about official policy. The manager has gone away to check whether this is ‘in writing’ or not, but he generally thinks it’s probably a ‘common sense’ rule. I ramble, perhaps incoherently about why this is such an outrage and why it was handled in exactly the wrong way, and why I just wanted the proverbial ground to swallow me until the manager returns to the floor.

The manager was good. Clearly all about customer service and smoothing things over. He introduces himself, states that no, this isn’t a written policy and that the security staff clearly have a difficult job of making sure everyone enjoys the art safely and respectfully and that yes this clearly wasn’t handled in the best way. Miraculously (I don’t know how) I take a deep breath, pull myself together, and words start eloquently flowing from my mouth of their own accord. “Yes”, I say, “but I just want you to know that the way I was spoken to today was rude and utterly humiliating. It is absolutely discrimination.” He agrees, apologizes and says that yes, he took a look at all of the interactive sculptures and he agrees, I would have no problem fitting in any of them and I should feel free to enjoy them as anyone else. M tells him how he hopes he can spread the word and educate his staff on how to handle this situation in the future and again, somehow eloquently my mouth opens and I state “My wheelchair is a part of my body, I know its boundaries just as anyone does, and have control over it just as much as any other person in here”. He didn’t once crouch down to talk to me, didn’t once raise his voice, he shook my hand, he spoke directly to me, made promises and apologized. We will still be writing in to follow up.

Was the situation rectified before I left? Mostly, yes. Was the security manager good at his job and the ultimate smooth talker? Absolutely. Did he understand how to address a disabled person and speak to them as he would anyone else. Definitely.

I have a number of other things I need to have you listen to before I stick these aching, swollen fingers into a heat pack and give them a rest.

1. This should never have happened. First off, there was so much room for me in there, remember that I was able to turn myself around, with ease, and leave. Yes yes, I understand that I could have crashed and damaged the art. I am not ignorant (something the security staffer clearly assumed I was). But here’s the thing, so could have any ambulatory person that walked through there. Anyone could trip, stumble, turn around too fast, be too wrapped up in taking selfies with friends, run through in a wild manner - I could go on. Me using a wheelchair does not make me any more likely to damage the art than any of the other hundreds of people that will go through it while it’s on display. This is a risk that both the artist and gallery take into consideration when creating an interactive sculpture. Had I in fact been too large to fit through there (as could have any ambulatory person), she could have easily said, in a quiet professional and friendly tone, something along the lines of “I don’t think you’ll fit through this next bit, would you like me to guide you out of here?” Yes these people have pretty crappy jobs of telling people NO all day, but I wasn’t breaking any rules or doing anything other than using wheels to move around instead of legs.
2.  So, I wasn’t actually able to go back and enjoy the sculptures I’d been kicked out of. How could I? That experience was thoroughly ruined. I was still reeling from the whole thing, hot coals burning in my guts, tears burning in my eyes and the memory of how the group of people behind me backed away and averted their eyes as I stalked out of there (yes you can stalk in a wheelchair, believe me). I am very awful at shrugging things off and moving on. Really it’s one of the biggest things I struggle with mentally, but I am trying my absolute hardest to practice this whenever I can. Today, I actually did manage it to some degree. I turned my back on the shiny interactive sculptures, and slowly and deeply took in Lee Bul’s smaller, darker, intenser models. I am a dark intense person anyway, so this probably suited me. I sought out the quiet corners of the gallery and revelled in the distant sounds, the beautiful art that nourishes my brain meat and tried my damnedest to reset my sensory systems so that I could continue on and enjoy my day without even a meltdown.

Here’s the crux though. Why, above anything else these things shouldn’t happen. I will never be able to go back to the Vancouver Art Gallery, or any art gallery, for that matter, without this incident burned into my highly detailed visual memory. Every time I visit a gallery this will be on my mind: Am I allowed to be here? Is this art for me?

I am a person. Disabled people are people. I am an adult; disabled adults are still adults. Talk to me like a person and an adult. Include me in your decision over whether my body and my mobility aids are suitable for something. Stop watching me like a hawk while neglecting to watch other patrons. Do not exclude me because you think you know better about my ability to control myself or my mobility aids than I do.

Have some bloody compassion. Disabled people are people.

All aggressions are harm. Many actions have lasting consequences long past your part in it.