What Does a Statue Signify?

by Thomas Locke

The tearing down of statues has long been associated with political protest; a stone-faced Saddam Hussein was toppled in 2003; before that, statues of Stalin and Lenin were struck down, as the Soviet Union collapsed in the 1990s. And now, all over the world, statues associated with racism are being struck down as the Black Lives Matter movement resurges in the wake of the death of George Floyd. 

Whilst debate rumbles on as to how productive the removal of statues is in tackling inequality today - and whether removing them encourages support or alienation for Black Lives Matter - the broader question of what a statue actually signifies remains.

Some argue that statues themselves are part of our history - source material, even - whilst others, notably TV historian David Olusoga, argue that statues ‘memorialise’ historical figures and act as symbols of reverence and deity. This is a valid point; one rarely sees a statue with an expression of worry or mischief, statues are designed to show intelligence, power and thought. If we are to accept, therefore, that statues are symbols of reverence, is it surely not justified for the statues of Edward Colston and Cecil Rhodes to come down? Arguably it is. 

But what about the solidified few who are more fluid in character; surely there was more to Winston Churchill than his views on Empire? So what is the consensus, if any, on the removal of statues? And, given that power changes hands so frequently and that morals shift over time, is it not fair to say that statues are always going to be temporary and that what goes up must come down?

Erin L Thompson, an art historian at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice, recently said in an interview with the New York Times that statues are a ‘bid for immortality’. This idea fascinated me, that statues - akin, perhaps, to an embalmed corpse - keep the spirit of slavery, imperialism or political ideology alive. This is evidenced through some of the statues of Lenin; he was often shown with an extended arm as if to guide the proletariat below him, to encourage them to ‘plough on’ with work, perhaps, long after his death. In most statues, though, his movement is limited, as he stands firm to keep a watchful eye over those below him. The idea remains that he lives beyond the grave. A similar comparison can be drawn with the statue of Edward Colston in Bristol. He stands over the dockyard with an expression of thought, looking down, perhaps, at the importing of slaves.

His statue was erected by Bristolians in 1895, remarkably over 100 years after his death. The reason, they say, for the creation of the statue was to recognise him as one of the most ‘wise and virtuous sons of Bristol’. On the surface, this is somewhat ironic; why would ‘virtue’ - synonymous with morality and righteous - be associated with Colston, a man who came to be defined by the slave trade? Were morals really that corrupt towards the beginning of the 20th century? Possibly. But there is another reason for why the statue was put up.

Alongside being a slave trader - directly responsible for the death of an estimated 20,000 slaves who died in transit - Colston was also a philanthropist. He supported local schools and hospitals in Bristol and saw the creation of almshouses across the city. Colston had a positive impact on the city of Bristol and his statue was put up for this reason, alongside the naming of the ‘Colston Hall’, the ‘Colston Tower’, and ‘Colston Avenue’. But then again, this is arguably missing the point or, as a Bristolian once aptly said ‘no one would condone a statue of Adolf Hitler as the great builder of superior motorways’. Fair point. But it’s interesting to note that the statue wasn’t to celebrate slavery but rather to celebrate Colston’s philanthropic work. Although the two are of course inextricably linked (I mean, where did Colston get his philanthropic funds from?) it demonstrates that Bristolians, by 1895 at least, weren’t necessarily keen on promoting slavery publicly. By striking the statue down, therefore, do we not undermine his charitable endeavours, or is it right for him to be defined by his role in the slave trade? These questions of morality are hard to judge.

But there is a bigger question to be asked here. Slavery and Empire were well-entrenched aspects of British identity when Colston was around in the 1600s. It was not seen as morally repugnant as it is today; his term in office as a Member of Parliament demonstrates that. Laws have, of course, changed, as have our attitudes, but to what extent should Colston be blamed for the attitudes of the country as a whole? Arguably, the statue of Colston - which signified charitable endeavour, not slavery - should have remained. But one cannot detach Colston from the slave trade.

This complexity of character is true of most of the statues whose stony foundations suddenly seem less secure. Take Winston Churchill. Yes, he fought the Nazis and secured the Allies’ victory in World War Two, but he was the same Winston Churchill who called subjects of the British Empire ‘primitive’ and was the Vice-President of the First International Eugenics Conference which, among other aims, sought to give legitimacy to the idea of black inferiority. Both of these aspects of character can, and do, co-exist with each other. To brand Churchill as either a hero or a villain is wrong because, arguably, he was both. The same is true for George Washington. He played an important role in the American Revolution, keeping troop morale high as they fought against the British in inhospitable conditions and served as the first President of the United States. But the same George Washington was the owner of 123 slaves and described as a demanding master. Much like Colston, there are paradoxes here; how can a man devoted to a nation which, at its heart values liberty and freedom, keep slaves?

When one takes a step back to consider an individual holistically, as both slave trader and philanthropist, war hero and eugenicist, President and slave owner, one can begin to appreciate that these historical figures, who we are quick to judge and label, are rarely as straightforward as we might like. Whether we should revere them and ensure their ‘immortality’ - as Thompson might call it - is up for debate, but it’s worth considering that these figures are multi-faceted and complex. Although ironically, we only stop to think about these historical figures and their complexities when their statues are being toppled.