ROULA CARROLL

Can you tell me a bit about yourself and what you do?

 

I wear three hats. My background is in production management and stage management. I had a production company for 12 years, which feels relevant in terms of being a person of colour, a woman, a business owner, and a single mum at the time. It was a competitive market, and we worked on many art installations and events, including building Frieze every year.I sold my business during the recession, which meant all 12 of my staff secured jobs—except me. It was hard to re-enter the job market for various reasons, so I volunteered at my son’s school and trained as a special needs teacher. I worked as a special needs teacher for a couple of several years before joining the Southbank Centre as an Access Ambassador. My specialty there was supporting non-verbal children with severe disabilities engaging with art. It was about bringing people with disabilities or neurodiversity into the art world and seeing how it impacts them.

Southbank Centre is Europe’s largest arts centre, housing orchestras, contemporary music, and an amazing art gallery. I found it fascinating because it brought together everything I loved. Having spent many years working as a stage manager and later as a tour manager for Amy Winehouse, contemporary music has always been something I loved, but I hadn’t explored classical music before. So, Southbank Centre allowed me to immerse myself in that world, and I spent 9-10 years there.

Throughout that time, I worked as a Project Manager, Visual Arts Producer, Curator, Visitor experience Manager and as Front of House staff, and finally as a technical producer. My biggest project there was Reframe, a creative career development programme in partnership with Apple. It was Southbank Centre’s first project working with an external partner, and I was honored to lead it. The goal of Reframe was to offer emerging artists, particularly from underrepresented backgrounds, a chance to improve their careers and break into the creative industries.Now, I work freelance. I help people with funding proposals and assist artists with technical aspects of their exhibitions and installations. I specialize in audiovisual, and sound design, particularly in immersive and interactive AV installations. This area is where I feel most passionate and have developed a real expertise.

 

That is so interesting to hear that you've done so much. So, in terms of my more focused questions, they are mostly on blackness. Can I just ask what your ethnic background is, if you don't mind?

 

I'm half Irish, half Anglo-Indian. My background is Asian, mixed heritage. I usually call myself Eurasian because I don't like ticking boxes. I don't want to fit into categories—I want to provoke. If you want to know what's different about me, here it is. I like to explain myself, especially when the "other" option allows you to elaborate on your heritage.

 

Thank you for explaining that. So what does Blackness mean to you?

 

To me, blackness means origin, identity, culture, and kinship. My immediate experience of blackness is through family and friends. I've been surrounded by blackness all my life, whether through family members, friends, or the people I choose to walk with.What is your view on how Blackness and/or race is curated and represented in contemporary British exhibitions?So my first answer to this was dubious. Just the word "dubious." I was chatting about it with my son, and he said, "You're going to have to substantiate that, you're going to have to expand on that." So, I’m obviously very pleased to see more black artists and black art. I’m really pleased to see representation being more prevalent in contemporary art and in arts institutions all over the world. And I say that because I’m thinking about somewhere like the Venice Biennale, which is a significant event in the global art calendar.

But in practice, I don’t think much has changed since George Floyd. George Floyd was a catalyst. It was a catalyst for more inclusive practice in most arts organizations, and it was definitely a provocation for all of us to respond. I felt that that initiative could and should have been seized with both hands in order to create change, but actually, it wasn’t. It felt like a rush response, a knee-jerk reaction. It was a rush to use George Floyd’s death to correct things or to prove a position, to define their allegiance with the audiences they should have been speaking to all along.

And that's why I say "dubious." Because whenever I see a poster, a catalog, a brochure, an advert, or a piece of social media related to an exhibition that includes black artists or art on that subject, I’m immediately engaged and intrigued. But then I have to consider and dig deeper. I need to think about the provocation, the resonance of the exhibition, the curation, the curatorial point, the artist’s intent, and what message is being conveyed. Before I step any further, I want to make sure I’ve really tested all of that for myself. That’s why I say "dubious"—because over the past four years, we've been bombarded with content and opportunities for artists to present their work, which is often serving the institution or trying to reach a new audience in a rushed way. It can be positive, but it’s often done poorly.

 

Yeah, and that's exactly what I'm trying to get at. I feel like a lot of these institutions are trying to access black communities, but not necessarily for the right reasons. Maybe it's for optics or to access more funding. I think that’s really unethical. Black people aren't just pawns, nor are any other marginalized communities. We’re not just tools to be used for someone else’s advantage down the line. People’s creativity is sacred and should be respected, just like someone's heritage and cultural history. For my next question, what curatorial methods might you already use?

 

So, in responding to Reframe and other projects I’ve worked on, like In The Black Fantastic with Ekow Eshun and PhotoFantastic, which was a youth response to that exhibition, I believe when delivering a curatorial brief, you need to have a framework that sets the stage for discussion. You need to think about the provocations and deeper meaning, and how the conversation will unfold. You also need to question should the artworld have a responsibility to curate with conscience? OR should all content be presented for open discussion and be without a position or a stance?

With Reframe, it was a brand led opportunity, essentially a social campaign. We seized the opportunity from Apple and redefined it as a platform for social mobility. We used it as a cause and reshaped it—hence the name Reframe—because the project initially didn’t have a name. The idea was to take control and transform these opportunities delivered by brands and arts institutions to make change.

The curatorial theme was climate emergency, and when you gather 77 young Black artists in a room, it's incredibly moving, empowering, and exciting. One of the artists said, "I feel like the X-Men are assembling." That was exactly what it felt like. We sparked something, and I do that when approaching exhibition curation— I think you do have to start with provocation; you have to sort of consider what the curatorial theme is. When have Black artists ever been given the opportunity to respond to the climate emergency? How do we bring power to that response?

We had a very healthy discussion over three days, bringing in experts from different fields. Initially, we started in the room with just the artists, then expanded into smaller groups. Two film, two photography, and two sound experts from the 77 artists were grouped together. They didn’t know each other, and we brought in Black climate scientists—most of whom were women, because I felt it was important to have science from people who looked like us.

We also brought in exhibition curators, all Black or of mixed heritage, and experts in their fields, including TV and film directors, as well as sound and photography experts. These experts helped us unpack the curatorial theme and how to approach it. It got heated, especially because when you think about climate emergency, you feel like people might be upset or angry. However, what we discovered was much deeper. We reflected on our heritage, on global impacts of the climate crisis, and how it affects the countries and communities where our families come from.

We talked about how our communities don’t contribute to climate change but still face its consequences. We discussed the African diaspora and how families repurpose items—like using Tesco carrier bags to wrap your hair or old shortbread tins for sewing kits. It’s the same in the Asian community, where my grandmother’s handbag was always full of repurposed items, wrapped in elastic bands or pieces of cloth.

Bringing in expertise and allowing space for debate was crucial. We created an environment for critical discussions as the ideas began to form. I suggested that if we had artists working in three different disciplines, they should collaborate, so their work would come together cohesively. That’s how we arrived at an immersive, audio-visual installation that incorporated photography, filmmaking, and sound design.

In preparing the project, we spent months researching with social and anthropologists to understand the challenges Black artists face. The statistics show less than 3% of Black artists reach senior leadership in the creative sector. We learned that many Black artists work in isolation, fighting their own challenges and not seeking help. For example, filmmakers might not speak to editors. We worked on overcoming these challenges and creating an environment for collaboration.

One of the biggest barriers we identified was the lack of creative writing skills, often due to education, confidence, and the ability to confidently present and sell oneself. These were all areas we focused on supporting, helping these artists find their voice and build their networks. The entire curatorial process for Reframe lasted about two weeks, with intensive daily sessions. The program lasted three months in three different regions: London, with 30 artists; Manchester, with 24 or 25; and Birmingham, with 20. Each region had two weeks of sessions, followed by a gathering of all 77 artists at the end of each phase. Once the curatorial theme was introduced and the artists began thinking about how they would respond and what they would create, we moved into the technical phase.

There were plenty of discussions and opportunities to invite experts to share their knowledge. The program didn’t stop after those two weeks—every day throughout the entire program, we had drop-ins from technical experts, such as editors, lighting technicians, designers, and sound engineers. They would support the artists, looking over their work and offering advice, like, “What have you created? Where are you going with this? Did you know you could try this?”—helping them build and refine their work.

 

Have you heard back from any of the artists that you worked with about their experience with that kind of curatorial process?

 

I’m still in touch with many of them to this day—almost half of them were at my wedding. The wedding photographer and videographer were both Reframe artists. We employed several of them, and I’m constantly in individual and group WhatsApp chats with all of them. I no longer work at Southbank Centre, as I finished in March, so this ongoing connection is completely personal, unpaid, and by choice.

Since then, I’ve supported many of the artists in getting into master’s programs, finding job opportunities, and I check in on their emotional well-being almost weekly. Through Reframe, we built a tight-knit family, a safe space where we supported each other through challenges, tears, and heartbreak. We didn’t just address the themes of the project but also explored our emotional experiences, which continues today.

The curation gave the artists a platform and an opportunity to share their voices, and I believe the exhibition was a huge success. After I finished, we created a director’s cut by revisiting the work. I secured £25,000 in funding from various sources, and we worked collaboratively in a “hive” of editors across all three regions. We ensured that no one piece had just one editor; instead, five people worked together on each piece. We premiered the director’s cut at Factory International in Manchester, which was especially meaningful for the Manchester Collective, and also showcased it in London and Birmingham. We had a week-long exhibition where we showed the director’s cut and a lot of the artists' work in their home cities.I’m really proud of the collaborative partnership we’ve built. The WhatsApp group is always buzzing with requests like, "I have a shoot—does anyone have [a particular item] I can borrow?" or "I’m writing a curatorial piece for an exhibition—can someone proofread it?" They constantly support each other, which is fantastic. It's really heartwarming to see this community grow from one shared experience.

 

It sounds like it was a really pivotal experience for these artists, and I think shows testament to how important these kinds of experiences are for marginalized artists and marginalized creatives in general.

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We really lit a fire under everyone, and they developed their own voice. They've created their own slogans, their own shout—we are Reframe, the collective. They wanted to step away from Apple and its brand identity but hold onto the name because they defined it. It was important because they chose it.

The impact has been significant. My provocation on the first day was, “We’re here to kick doors open across the creative sector, at institutions everywhere, and we’re going to walk right through them, leaving them open for others to follow.” And that’s exactly what they’ve done. Some of them have gone on to amazing opportunities—one artist even sold pieces to Tate. We’ve had lots of wins, but there are also smaller successes happening. One of our artists is curating at Bold Tendencies, for example. There’s a constant swirl of creativity, with everyone supporting and bringing each other back in. It’s all interconnected and ever-growing.

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I feel like that's a grassroots approach to art exhibitions and curating. How do you feel that that kind of grassroots methods match up with working with big corporate funders?

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I think this is the key—this is the answer to your last question: how do we navigate this? We have to educate and steer brand partnerships, patrons, sponsorships, embassies, and funders— make sure that they truly stand with and support the community in the way we need. They have to back this approach honestly, with genuine faith and commitment.

Honestly, that was my biggest challenge throughout managing the project, trying to keep integrity and truth for the artists and their voices and to balance the brand expectation and not impose their way of doing things. There were many challenges it's not easy, working with the black artists or tackling tough, sensitive topics, or even supporting mental well-being. My biggest struggle was fighting on behalf of the artists, pushing back against the sponsor’s direction. We had to be brave and bold to keep the integrity of the project and still drive the project and meet criteria of the funders, who were indeed in unfamiliar and new territory.

So, that’s how we can promote a grassroots approach, sustain it, and keep it alive—by protecting it from external influences and ensuring that the people funding and supporting it are genuinely aligned with the values and vision. That way its a win for everyone all round.

 

Okay, I feel like that leads well into my next question: what does ethical curation mean to you, and is it something that you're concerned with?

 

This is a really tricky question for me to answer. I spent a few years as a curator, and it was during the lockdown that things became especially challenging. It was a time when all the buildings and arts institutions were locked up, and it was heartbreaking to see huge public spaces and cultural organisations with bicycle chains around their doors. That was brutal to witness—people being turned away, the buildings closed, when they hadn’t been closed in over 70 years, places where people seek sanctuary and hope and inspiration.

The curation we did during that time was very sensitive. We wanted to present work by artists who were already in incarceration or in social isolation, just like everyone else during lockdown. It felt appropriate to showcase that experience. We also looked for ways to present work on the building itself—so, for the first time, we projected films onto the building’s exterior. We focused on topics like carnival, especially since it was August Bank Holiday. We also highlighted activism and protest work, using film and photography to bring those issues to the forefront. Rather than shy away from sensitive topics, we embraced them. We also presented beautiful portraits of NHS workers and others who helped us through those challenging times.

When navigating controversy and handling sensitive subjects, you really need to think about your ethics and where your boundaries lie. There’s a fine line between ethics and morals, but you can lean into controversial topics that provoke conversation, debate, and open people’s minds. It’s a balancing act, especially when dealing with art that confronts difficult subjects.

Photography curation, in particular, has a unique power in what it lends to the viewer. Strong, thought-provoking artists leave the audience with something that stays with them long after they’ve left the exhibition. We discussed this in Reframe too: Is it the artist’s responsibility to create works that respond to political or social issues? We couldn’t come to a clear agreement on that, and I think that’s a question that’s still open for discussion.

As a curator, I believe it’s important to maintain a human, social, and professional responsibility. When you’re building work as an artist, it’s often something deeply personal, coming from within. But as a curator, you're working on behalf of a body of people—the artist, the audience, and the institution. That brings a different perspective and lens through which to view these responsibilities.

 

Thank you, that is a great answer. What are some of the issues that you faced around curating race or issues that you could experience?

 

I think it’s pretty obvious, but silencing artists, whitewashing their work, or putting their work on a pedestal just to make a loud statement—one that’s not for the artist or the audience, but for the organisation—happens a lot. And I think that’s exactly what you're addressing in your work. I have numerous examples of artists I’ve worked with who have faced this issue.

Take, for example, the work of Samson Kambalu on the plinth outside the National Portrait Gallery and the National Gallery. When I worked with him after he won that opportunity, we had some intimate discussions about the piece. It holds so many layers of meaning—it's not a one-dimensional work with just a single message. There’s great value in that, and it’s a piece that needs to be out there in front of the public to be explored. The story it tells is different for each viewer, and that's what makes it powerful.But I think it’s important to approach this carefully. Sometimes, art does need to be placed in prominent spaces so that it can be seen and explored, but the context matters. Another artist I feel strongly about is Hue Locke. His work also tells a clear story, but in a different way. It's important that his work gets space in big institutions, but within the right context. What I appreciate about his work is that there are often talks, Q&A sessions, and opportunities for the audience to meet the artist. In these instances, the artist can speak for themselves and continue to tell their story, which is a good way to ensure the work is understood in its full depth.

 

That is interesting. How do you feel like it affects the artists, on a more human level, to know that they’ve been fetishised for the sake of being from a particular background?

 

I think an experience that stands out for me involved a very young artist who, on this particular occasion, felt that I wasn’t curating their work but rather working on the technical installation side. From their perspective, it was a huge opportunity to have their work seen and heard, and they felt they were using the organization to elevate their own work. It was a slightly different dynamic, a transactional exchange, if you will.

Some artists navigate this balance very well without it affecting them or their audience. They manage to "fly the flag" without any negative impact. One artist who comes to mind is Lina Iris Victor. She’s a surreal, futuristic artist who works on a large scale and requires big commissions and significant opportunities. She’s also a piece of art herself—whenever she goes out, she dresses in character, embodying her artwork. This gives her some separation from the character, but she certainly uses the opportunity to her advantage.

 

I suppose that if you're aware of the transactional nature of some of these relationships, you can leverage them to your benefit. However, this opens up a whole can of ethical concerns that, frankly, I think I won’t delve into in this dissertation—it’s already quite broad as it is! My next question is, have you faced any challenges with engaging with Black communities in a professional capacity?

 

I also curated a piece based on Linton Kwesi Johnson’s poem about the [Deptford] Fire, which we presented as a sound installation. The poetry was played throughout the trees on the South Bank, and most people weren’t aware it was there until they sat and listened. The poem enveloped them, which was a very interesting experience. However, it also brought up some challenges, particularly with feedback from the Black community, as many found it triggering. This was especially poignant because the installation coincided with the anniversary of the Deptford Fire, which added a layer of sensitivity.It really brought ethics into focus—being thoughtful and considerate during the curatorial process was essential. While some of the reactions were negative, many people appreciated that the piece was being played in such a prominent, central area, which added a sense of visibility and recognition to the work.

 

What would you have done differently in that kind of curatorial process?

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For that particular piece, I would have leaned on invigilation and used press and marketing to better explain why the piece was there. We wanted it to serve as a moment of reflection, a time for people to grieve, and to act as a symbol of respect for the community. Looking back, I think it would have helped to include responses from people who were directly affected by the disaster, or from those who had family members involved, making it more personal. We could have contextualised the piece with posters or additional information to provide clarity, rather than letting it feel abstract or obscure, especially given how sensitive the topic was. It might have been a little too abstract for such a sensitive subject.In addressing difficult topics like this, it’s a balancing act between offering an experience and ensuring the audience understands the intent behind it. You can’t just expect the meaning to be fully absorbed without some explanation, but at the same time, you don't want to strip the artwork of its artistic value by over-contextualising it.

When it comes to improving curation around race in large British organisations and institutions, I think one of the key approaches is to involve community stakeholder groups early in the curation process. This means going into communities, opening up discussions from the start, and actively involving professional groups—artists, curators, and technical experts—early on. It’s about creating a conversation around the themes of the work, so the exhibition is built from the knowledge and input of people who are directly connected to those themes.

Also, I think there needs to be less control from backers, sponsors, and big brands. It’s an impossible task unless the government funds everything, but more representation in leadership positions, especially for people of color, women, and those with disabilities, is key. There is great representation in the music industry, and I think the art world can follow this model. Additionally, increasing the number of Black gallerists, directors, and producers would make a significant difference.

We also need better access to role models in the art world. The art world lacks the same kind of figureheads you see in other industries. Getting influential figures like David Olusoga to speak to communities is difficult, but there are other ways to provide access and inspire younger generations. Education departments in arts organizations should be better funded, given more prominence, and be involved from the start. Involving young audiences, giving them a voice, and creating spaces for their feedback is essential.

With the Reframe project, we worked with schools across the country, creating zines, and connecting them with artists to explore cultural themes in depth. We aimed to spark conversations from a young age and give children the opportunity to engage in curatorial practices themselves. This collaborative approach also extended to marketing. We didn’t rely on Southbank Centre’s marketing team—we worked with Tomorrow’s Warriors, a youth orchestra, to create our own promotional materials, giving the youth a direct voice in the process.

That’s how we start creating change—by amplifying the voices of those who are underrepresented and empowering the next generation to lead conversations about race and representation in the arts.We created a photoshoot with them, and of course, we paid everyone involved. It’s about keeping things within the community, maintaining that grassroots approach. Everyone was compensated for their time and contributions, which is essential for creating an equitable and sustainable project.

One last point I want to emphasize is the importance of considering the societal impact of every exhibition we put on. When people walk away, we need to think about the messages, provocations, and resonances they carry with them. What is the cultural impact once they leave? It’s not just about getting people through the door; it’s about what happens after they’ve experienced the work. We need a way to keep the conversation going, beyond just a generic feedback form.

While it’s tricky to find the right approach, perhaps something like a quick iPad survey with five focused questions could be effective—though I don’t know how feasible it is to have someone standing outside the exhibition with a microphone asking for feedback! However, I do think it's important to find ways to keep that dialogue open and measure the impact of our work on audiences in a more dynamic way.