Event professionals often speak of transforming blank canvases—turning parks, squares, or streets into vibrant cultural moments. But that “blank canvas” is a myth. Every space comes with a history, a set of stories, and often, contested meanings.

Consider Monument Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. For over a century, its towering Confederate statues stood not just as relics, but as everyday reminders of exclusion—signals of who was welcome, and who was not. When protestors finally succeeded in removing those monuments after George Floyd’s murder, they didn’t just alter the skyline—they disrupted a century of spatial storytelling designed to enforce racial hierarchy. (Marcus, 2020; Elliott, 2023)

Events and festivals unfold within these spatial narratives. A music festival held beneath a statue glorifying colonial conquest sends an implicit message, whether intended or not. A community celebration in a plaza once off-limits to marginalised groups becomes an act of reclamation.

For organisers, the lesson is simple but uncomfortable: spaces are never empty. They carry the weight of history, and ignoring that context risks perpetuating exclusion—even in the name of celebration. Responsible event design starts by asking: whose stories does this space tell—and whose does it silence?

Protests and festivals may seem like opposites—one confronts power, the other often entertains—but both reshape public space. Both are forms of “politics in the streets,” asserting who belongs, whose stories matter, and who claims visibility.

Throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries, Black communities in the United States, excluded from formal monuments and political power, turned to parades, festivals, and commemorations to assert their presence. British Emancipation Day celebrations, Juneteenth parades, and civic gatherings were more than festivities—they were strategic acts of belonging, designed to rewrite exclusionary narratives. (Clark, 2005; Kachun, 2006; White, 1994)

The same principle applies today. Black Lives Matter protests, Pride parades, Indigenous festivals, and women’s marches all use space to challenge dominant histories, demand recognition, and reshape civic identity. Each moment makes the invisible visible—turning protest into public education, and celebration into a declaration of belonging.

For event organisers, the implication is clear: your event is not just entertainment. It’s a spatial intervention. Whether consciously or not, it participates in shaping who feels seen, welcomed, and empowered in public life. Ignoring this risks reinforcing exclusion. Embracing it opens the door to deeper civic impact.

One of the most persistent myths in debates about public space is that monuments simply preserve history. In reality, monuments are never neutral artefacts—they are deliberate expressions of power, designed to project specific narratives into public space. (Cox, 2021)

The rise of Confederate statues in the United States between the 1890s and 1920s wasn’t a spontaneous act of remembrance. It was a coordinated political campaign, led by groups like the United Daughters of the Confederacy, to rewrite Civil War memory and reassert white supremacy during an era of segregation and disenfranchisement. (Cox, 2003; Brundage, 2005)

This same logic applies globally. From colonial monuments in European capitals to statues of authoritarian leaders across the Global South, what gets memorialised—and what gets erased—is a reflection of who holds power, not a balanced account of history.

For those working in events and festivals, this is a critical insight. Every event space—whether a square, park, or street—carries these layered histories. The presence (or absence) of certain symbols shapes the atmosphere, the meaning, and the audience’s experience.

Events can either passively inherit exclusionary spaces—or actively question, reframe, and help communities make different choices about how history is represented.

It is easy to celebrate the removal of statues or the success of large-scale protests as victories of justice. But history shows that change is rarely linear—and always contested. For every moment of progress in reclaiming public space, there is often a coordinated backlash.

In the wake of the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests, hundreds of Confederate monuments were taken down across the United States. Yet, within months, states introduced “heritage protection” laws preventing communities from making local decisions about those same symbols. In some places, renamed schools reverted to honouring Confederate generals; in others, protest itself became criminalised through harsh new penalties. (SPLC, 2022; Wahlers, 2016)

The same dynamic plays out globally. Calls to decolonise statues, rename public spaces, or reframe civic identity meet organised resistance—from political leaders, well-funded lobby groups, and segments of society invested in preserving exclusionary narratives.

For event professionals, this presents a dilemma. Designing inclusive, empowering events in contested spaces is not a one-off success—it is part of an ongoing struggle. Civic change requires persistence, partnerships, and recognising that events sit within broader political currents.

Events can ignite awareness, build community, and reclaim space—but real transformation means staying engaged long after the banners come down.

Representation in public space is powerful—but token gestures are not enough. Communities notice the difference between genuine inclusion and superficial visibility. Festivals with diverse performers but staged beneath exclusionary monuments. Parades celebrating equality that take place in gentrified neighbourhoods pushing marginalised groups out. These contradictions erode trust and reinforce the perception that space—and the stories within it—are not meant for everyone.

Historical examples show that visibility can build civic identity when it is intentional and community-led. The post-Civil War Emancipation parades, for instance, weren’t just symbolic. They asserted Black citizenship, cultural pride, and political demands at a time when exclusion was written into the fabric of the streets themselves. (Cox, 2021) In today’s context, we see similar examples. When Pride parades reclaim urban centres, or when Indigenous festivals animate spaces of historical erasure, these are more than events—they are acts of visibility with deep social meaning.

For event organisers, the lesson is clear. Inclusion isn’t about optics—it’s about substance. Who is consulted? Whose histories are centred? How does the event reshape not only what people see, but how they feel in that space? Visibility, done well, builds belonging. Done poorly, it risks deepening divides.