Bernice Mulenga: “The club is my church”

‘Let me know when you reach’ is a phrase that evokes different meanings. For the boomers among us, or even any upper-end millennials who might need to subtly  consult Urban Dictionary, ‘LMK’ stands for ‘let me know’. It’s an abbreviation passed between friends, lovers, and group chats. It’s casual, a signal of care. But ‘Let me know when you reach’ – where, exactly? The phrase, and title of Bernice Mulenga’s new show at Auto Italia, speaks to literal arrival but also a sacred crossing-over, maybe even ascension. There’s something gently devotional about it, like a prayer sent over text. It’s not intended for art critics, but more likely for the subjects in the photographs on display in Bernice’s exhibition. 

Although this is Bernice’s first solo institutional show, it presents a body of work that has been in the works for a decade. When I eventually did reach the Bethnal Green gallery, the first thing that hit me was a huge black-and-white photograph covering the right-hand wall. No full faces, just bodies mid-motion, some blurred, some briefly in focus. It reads almost more like a painting than a photo; almost like a shrine. The London-based, British-Congolese artist’s practice is wide-ranging – last year, they won the Circa Prize last year for their short film Lets Move On – but it’s mostly photography that they’re known for, particularly the ten year archival project #friendsonfilm.

Approaching the gallery, I realised I was feeling pretty nervous to meet Bernice (having followed their work for some time; I’m a bit of a fangirl). But I was immediately disarmed. “Dora, like Dora the Explorer,” they joke, grinning. Warm, quick, chatty, a bouncy energy, the kind of person you don’t really need to interview because they’ll just start telling you everything you actually need to know, to the point that you almost forget that it is one.

The room is silent, except for the faint sound of rain falling outside, and although there’s an air of tranquility in the gallery, it feels loud, filled with throbbing bass and laughter that goes along with the people in Bernice’s photographs. A lot of the settings in Bernice’s work are at parties and nights out. To Bernice and their Black, queer community, the club is a place for sanctuary. “I see it as such a spiritual thing,” they say. “So many people talk about how the club is a church. The club is my church. Especially for Black women, Black people. So many of us grew up in church. There was something about a whole community coming together and singing under religious terms. There’s something about doing things together, that shared joy.” 

It’s a thread that runs through the show. A woman throws her head back, peroxide hair catching the light, eyes rolling back in euphoria, like the way that religious icons do, or people mid-dance, mid-high, mid-something bigger than themselves. Her dress is lit up electric blue, and that same glow bounces off everyone around her. They’re all grinning at her like she’s just blessed the room.

In the second room of ‘LMK WHEN YOU REACH’, about 350 prints from Bernice’s #friendsonfilm archive are laid out. The photos are displayed on a transparent glass panel in the middle of the room, so that the backs of all of them are exposed, showing dates, names, and little messages written both by Bernice. They’re scattered, not messy, but not arranged. It feels more like you’re in a family living room than a gallery. The kind of setup where someone goes, “Wait, I remember this night”, and suddenly everyone’s crowded around one image, reminiscing. For Bernice, the instinct to document runs deep. Their first memory of using a camera comes from their mum, who was always filming: weddings, parties, funerals. Growing up in Tower Hamlets, Bernice is self taught, after dropping out of a fashion course in Nottingham.  

“It’s about the shared experience,” Bernice says. “The collective memory. I love people coming and being like, ‘Yeah, I was there when you took that’. I’m not just passing through in this life, I’m part of something.” It’s intimate, a thread that runs throughout the show, for artist, subject and viewer. “When I think of intimacy, I think of moments. Your friend asking if you want a drink. Someone fixing your hair. Touching your necklace. It’s in all the little things.”

It’s not so much about just bodies touching and more about trust. You can sense it in the eye contact of the people in the photos. “I feel like when people think about the word intimacy, they think about it sexually,” Bernice tells me. “Which is interesting, because when I’ve said that word to people, they look at me like, ‘what do you mean by that?’ And that’s a question I can never really answer. I guess that’s what I’m searching for. But it’s not like I’m looking for an end. I’m just exploring it.”

Bernice’s subjects aren’t passive, they have ownership. A smouldering smile and hair flick here, a poised arm in the air, looking directly into the lens. Bernice isn’t taking anything from anyone – but is, instead, working with them. The press release for the show mentions the tradition of photography significance in colonial interests – where communities in Africa, Asia and elsewhere were subjects of ethnographic examinations, to exoticise, prod and objectify. Violence is ingrained in its terms: ‘shoot’, ‘capture’, ‘subject’, ‘take’, all words that feel violent and militarised – as if someone is being hunted. (Susan Sontag (*bows*) famously compared the camera to a gun in her work, and the way in which photography can be used to control and oppress). “Why does it have to be harsh? Why not soften it?” Bernice says. ‘LMK WHEN YOU REACH’ turns that notion on its head. It’s not about extraction, but rather exchange and care. It feels like a love letter. 

Between 2020 and 2023, a total of 3,011 nighttime venues shut down in London and its surrounding boroughs. Now imagine how much worse that is for queer venues and nights. It’s not new; the slow death of club spaces has been happening for years, but COVID definitely poured petrol on it. What’s being lost isn’t just places to dance. The club is a third space, something that is rapidly disappearing in London. It’s where people talk, plot, flirt, fall out, hold each other up. Without these spaces, we slide deeper into the trap of individualism. Every closure tightens that grip. In a climate of right wing politics that is growing ever more hostile for POC and queer people, those spaces are ever more important. It’s a form of resistance, and it feels particularly pertinent that it is Trans Pride the weekend after Bernice and I meet. They tell me they’ll be right at the front for the speeches – armed with a camera of course. 

“Some of the people in these photos have transitioned. Some have become exes. Some have passed away,” Bernice says, scanning the slates. “Over time, so much grief has become part of my work.”

“If you don’t document, you are forgotten. It’s proof of memory. It’s my story too.” Bernice points out someone in a photo who has since passed away. At the time, they were taking a break from art and taking photographs. “I was like, ‘Maybe I should just stop’. I was just really at my limit. But then a friend passed away. Afterwards, I got loads of messages telling me how much my photos mean to people. People were like ‘hey, actually, I think it’s important that we do tell you what the work means and how it makes us feel’. I really needed that in that moment”. We both start welling up. The press release contains a short bit of text that Bernice tells me was written by one of the people who had died, Dr Melz Owusu. They read it out: “To love is to heal, to heal is to love.”