The chair that day was Walter Crane, an artist and dedicated socialist. He spoke from first-hand experience, his own work having been frequently adapted for banner designs. Principally in demand with labour organisations, specialist manufacturers had found themselves inundated with work – preeminently the firm of George Tutill, which had built the largest jacquard loom in the world at its London premises in 1881 to cope with the demand. These firms made banners using a range of techniques, including weaving, painting and appliqué. These banners were compositionally complex affairs, up to 5m wide. They typically featured illusionistic swags, narrative scenes, and also slogans such as “unity is strength”, “knowledge is power”, and “God helps those that help themselves”. A proper banner was a serious investment, illustrating the political clout of the owner. They were used not only in marches, but also hung in meeting halls or on architectural facades, and in the heightened political atmosphere of the time, were treated as sacred emblems.
This type of richly illustrated banner had emerged in the 1820s, when in the memorable phrase of historian Gywn Williams in his introduction to John Gorman’s 1973 book Banner Bright, workers’ associations had come “blinking out of their dark and secret conventicles into the fitful sunlight of a precarious legality”. Although collective bargaining technically remained illegal, organised labour groups nonetheless began to gain both members and strength. For their emblems, they adapted the basic format and some of the imagery of religious pageants – particularly those ofthe nonconformists and temperance activists – and gradually, a distinctive working-class iconography began to develop. One can still see this tradition in all its glory at events such as the annual gala of the Durham Mining Association, first held in 1871. It remains a proud panoply of regional trade union identities, despite the closure of the mines themselves under Margaret Thatcher in the 1980s.
With the creation of the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies in 1897, the protest banner found a new group of adherents. The women of the movement typically made their own banners. They were often simpler than those manufactured by Tutill’s, but this perhaps made them all the more effective when photographed as part of the NUWSS’s highly choreographed marches, and reproduced on the front pages of daily newspapers. The Suffragettes were among the first to realise that a protest could be even more effective in second-hand reports than when seen in person, and they spared no effort in ensuring a coordinated visual spectacle, wearing matched clothes and hats, all decorated in the movement’s colours of white, purple and green.
This golden age of the political banner ended in the 1920s. In Britain, new legislation forbidding mass protests was put in place, women succeeded in winning the vote (in 1918 for women over 30 and in 1928 for women over 21), and unions found it more effective to work through the official channel of the Labour Party. Today, however, the banner is undergoing another renaissance. Progressives – and those who previously considered themselves unpolitical – both in the USA and Britain are marching in record numbers, enraged by the actions of governments that have fallen ass-backward into power. The tactics of these contemporary protests are fundamentally similar to those of Pankhurst’s time: show up in force and elbow your way into the headlines. Just as banners made a march newsworthy a century ago, they now dovetail with the hashtag dynamics of social media.
So what goes into a protest banner? First and foremost, a great deal of hard work. The banner-maker Ed Hall, who has achieved renown not only for the quality of his work, but also his long-running collaboration with the artist Jeremy Deller, is one of the few remaining independent artisans who works within the unionist tradition. Though he uses fabric dyes to render centrepieces in fine detail, he works principally in appliqué, cutting swags, letters and borders from cotton cloth. A good banner, Hall says, should be double sided and looped over a crosspiece to ensure it is displayed without drooping: “The best banner in the world misses its target if it cannot be read”. It should be unfixed at the bottom, lest a strong wind should fill it like a sail, and ought to be carried on either side by two bearers holding upright poles. However committed the marchers, they will tire eventually so it’s best if two teams are assigned to each banner, taking turns throughout the course of the march.
As to the content, Hall says that it rather depends on his client. Images are usually provided to him in the form of photographs, along with preferred slogans, which tend to be fairly direct expressions of dissent, such as “Not one more day – Tories out”. He concedes that he’s “never heard a real corker,” although he was fond of the tube workers’ strike motto, “underground, but never ground under”. He then works these various motifs into elaborate, symmetrical compositions. Key images are positioned on the front, usually surrounded with swags bearing text, with the back of the banner repeating the identity of the organisation.
One project can take Hall a week or longer to complete, though he is the first to admit that “some of the best banners have been made overnight by someone who’s never made one before”. Presuming his works are not confiscated by the police (as does happen occasionally), they are made to last for decades of repeated use. But these days, Hall’s intricate banners are the exception to the rule. Protests are often put together quickly, in response to a particular outrage, and it may be that a hastily painted phrase or single image is truest to the spirit of the form. As the artist Walead Beshty noted in his contribution to ‘How Important is Art as a Form of Protest’ in issue 186 of Frieze, “Protest is quick, fluid, forceful and, by definition, it eschews the solidity of institutions”. While the lockstep aesthetics of the Suffragettes and the elaborate trade union style that Hall has inherited are both impressive and dignified – and can be effective in certain situations – sometimes what is wanted is raw urgency.
That is certainly the tenor of most protests today, given that the internet has rendered everyone, no matter how ill-informed, a pundit. There is an online echo chamber of constant and instinctive commentary. Activism takes place against the backdrop of this inflammatory discourse, and a general atmosphere of an existential battling for the future. For a comparable sense of cultural emergency, you have to go back more than a generation, to the time of the AIDS crisis. It produced powerful images; think of the pink triangle and “Silence = Death” emblem of Act Up, which is essentially traditional banner iconography (emblem plus slogan) that has been processed through the logic of abstraction. Or take the AIDS quilt project, comprising hand-crafted panels dedicated to people who died from the epidemic. In Fray: Art and Textile Politics, art historian Julia Bryan-Wilson notes that, “by any reckoning (from the number of participants, to the actual acreage of the quilt), [it’s] the largest ongoing community arts project in the world”.
It’s early days yet, but it looks as though the sheer awfulness of recent events is ushering in another vital age of protest design. This time round, the copywriting has been corking. The anti-Trump Women’s March of January 2017 bequeathed the world such instant classics as “girls just wanna have fun-damental rights” and “super callous fascist racist extra braggadocious”. Hastily written signs have come to the fore, but banner-makers have been getting busy too, with a particular emphasis on open-source strategies. Stephanie Syjuco, an artist based in San Francisco, is a leading exponent. She has committed much of her time since the election to making banners, and put “Making Fabric Protest Banners: Tips and Tricks” on the internet for others to use.
Syjuco’s preferred material is iron-on fusible fabric, which can be reinforced with stitching to increase longevity, while her preferred aesthetic is clip art, which she sees as a populist mode that's “easily accessible and completely ubiquitous”. Quite unlike the symmetrical and hierarchical layouts of a traditional banner, her images are like off-kilter infographics. In one of them, a Cheeto-orange Trump spouts garbage, tweets, money and a pussy-grabbing hand. He has a belching factory for a cerebrum. The serpent of his id slithers directly toward his lips. Subtle it ain’t, yet the pictorial intelligence of the banner is considerable. The imagery is both condensed and allusive, recalling early American revolutionary iconography (the famous “Don’t tread on me” snake of the Gadsden flag) and the work of German satirists such as John Heartfield and Hannah Höch.
In parsing the historical precedents for her work, Syjuco has said that she wants to “combine the crafted nature of the Suffragette banners with the messaging visibility of Act Up”. She makes the obvious but important point that a handmade object, simply by virtue of the investment placed in it by its creator, possesses an innate credibility that a mass-produced cardboard placard simply cannot. This is a vital consideration in the current political environment, which often seems to reward expressions of conviction more readily and fully than carefully reasoned argument. Syjuco also notes that the lengthy process of making a banner encourages her to interrogate her own views: “the slowed-down timeframe of having to actually make and sew something forces me to spend more time thinking about what it was that I was arguing for […] the commitment to making a fabric banner can speak volumes about your conviction to a message”.
This belief in the transformative power of craft also animates an initiative in Chicago: the Protest Banner Lending Library (PBLL). This collective project, founded by Aram Han Sifuentes, takes Syjuco’s distribution tactics one step further, circulating handmade banners to anyone who wishes to borrow them for a march. For three months, the PBLL was headquartered at the Chicago Cultural Center, where visitors could check out banners and also learn to make their own through a series of hands-on workshops. Many participants who make a banner ultimately leave it for the collection. Once completed by Sifuentes and her lead collaborators Verónica Casado Hernández, Ishita Dharap and Tabitha Anne Kunkes, a banner can be loaned out.
The level of interest has been high. In less than a year, the library has accumulated more than 150 banners, whichhave been used not only in marches, but also in schools and in one instance, as the set of a community theatre production. So far, participants seem to be respecting the honour system of the lending library. A few banners have been “checked out indefinitely,” as Sifuentes puts it, but nearly all are returned, carrying with them “the histories of the hands that made and held them, and the places they have and will travel”. This collective approach stands against the individualistic, anti-civic ideology of current right-wing politics.
Like Syjuco, Sifuentes and her team use fusible cloth to make their banners. Their design sensibility is much more straightforward, however, with simple block letters against uniform backgrounds. It takes about two hours to make one and slogans tend to be direct, such as “black lives matter”, “no wall” or “otro mundo es posible”. Sifuentes says that many of her artistic choices derive from the inexpensive cloth she sources. On her trips to the ubiquitous Jo-Ann fabric shops, Sifuentes likes to choose particularly outré patterns – “the ones where you ask, who would ever buy this?” – and these sometimes suggest a certain motto. PBLL banners are also uncomplicated in their construction. Some have a stitched-in sleeve for a crosspiece, but most simply have straps at the corners, which can be cable-tied to poles or used for carrying. Often, protesters end up wearing them as capes, providing another reason to stick to unfussy, centralised designs.
The pragmatism of the PBLL approach extends beyond graphics into a broader consideration of agency. Sifuentes says the idea for the library came from her own experience as an immigrant to America and that of being a new mother. Though she now has her citizenship, she empathises with people who fear arrest or even deportation. A march, she points out, is not necessarily a safe space. “The banners that my immigrant community make can be used without fear,” she says. “It becomes a stand-in for us and our voices”.
It is a long way from the earnest simplicity wielded by the PBLL to the edgy graphics employed by Stephanie Syjuco, and still further to the elaborate creations of Ed Hall. These banner-makers do, however, still share an important set of commonalities, which go well beyond the literal matter of stitched cloth. All are concerned to support a sustainable infrastructure for protest, aware that the fight is likely to go on for many years to come. In their material and visual choices, they also look back to the great activist movements of the past – and deeper still. Just as Walter Crane suggested, their creations can be seen as a carnivalesque inversion of medieval heraldry – a repurposing of the knight’s pennant, to which soldiers once rallied. Few who march are likely aware of it, but in the contemporary protest banner, this ancient iconography of power is inverted. At a time when many feel disempowered and disheartened by political processes, hands-on activism is more important than ever. Will it help in restoring a more reasonable civic order? It’s hard to say. But if a brighter day does dawn, we’ll know that banner bearers led the way.