Blak Vinyl Peeled from White Cube
A knee-jerk response rooted in white middle-class homophobia.
It wasn’t the images that disturbed them. There were no images. There was nothing explicit or overt—just a reference—but three words: Tom of Finland. Three words that carried the weight of queer history and cultural significance. And yet, in their white middle-class panic, those three words were enough to warrant erasure.
Someone had made the decision—likely after a hasty Google search. Tom of Finland brought up pornography, they said, as if the entire legacy of one of the most influential queer artists could be reduced to a few images online. It was 2024, but their reaction felt decades older—a knee-jerk response rooted in white middle-class homophobia. A desperate need to sanitise and protect their comfortable gallery space from anything that might challenge their carefully curated norms.
And so, they peeled the vinyl letters from the wall. The words Tom of Finland had to go—not because they were obscene, but because their presence made someone uncomfortable. Maybe it was the cultural history those words carried. Perhaps it was the fear of the unknown, the fear of anything that didn’t fit their bland, safe version of art. Either way, the decision was made, and the letters came down as if peeling away vinyl could somehow erase meaning.
But they didn’t understand that meaning doesn’t come with the letters. Meaning sticks to the walls. It lingers in the space, even after the vinyl has been scraped away. The smooth, empty wall they left behind was supposed to be clean, but its blankness revealed the fear and fragility they couldn’t peel away. They kept scrapping, convinced they were removing something dangerous, something improper. But all they were doing was revealing their discomfort, their fear of anything that didn’t fit the narrow confines of their white middle-class world.
This wasn’t about a gallery wall. It was about the ongoing attempt to sanitise queer history, to control whose voices are heard and whose stories are erased. They thought they were sanitising the space, making it more palatable. But in their rush to peel away the words, they exposed their anxieties. It wasn’t an act of curation—it was an act of fear. And in their fear, they made the words Tom of Finland even more powerful. The meaning they tried to peel away remained louder now for being silenced.
But queer history is not so easily erased. It thrives in the hands of those who carry it forward and know its weight and power. The words may be peeled away from the walls, but they live on in the art, stories, and people who continue to make space for them. They peeled away the words, but in doing so, they peeled away something deeper—my right to tell my story, my place in that history. Peeling away at the walls, they revealed more about themselves than they could have imagined. Because meaning doesn’t disappear when you scrape it off—it stays, lingering in the empty spaces where the words used to be.
They can scrape away the words, but they can’t scrape away history. It lives in the art, the stories, and in every person who carries it forward, louder and stronger for having been silenced.
In honor of the Tom of Finland Foundation’s 40th anniversary, this work celebrates the enduring legacy of queer art and history. Tom of Finland’s impact continues to inspire, reminding us that our stories cannot be erased. Here’s to 40 years of preserving and uplifting queer creativity and culture.
Clinton Hayden is a Wiradjuri Blak queer artist and writer based in Melbourne. His practice spans photography, AI image creation, print media, drawing, and bricolage, exploring the intersections of personal and collective histories. Clinton’s work is deeply informed by his commitment to preserving and promoting Wiradjuri language and engaging with Indigenous Queer Futurism.
