Accessibility and Archives: Telling Sarah Biffin’s story ethically

In this, the second guest blog in the sequence of blogposts around disability and inclusion from the Accessibility working group of ARA’s Diversity and Inclusion Allies, Ellie Smith introduces the life of an overlooked disabled woman artist and reflects on the importance of centring the disabled perspective when sharing past disabled lives with the public.

In 2022, an exhibition on the artist Sarah Biffin was held in London, for the first time in over 100 years. The Times described her artworks ‘exquisite’ and the Financial Times celebrated her ‘direct gaze’, so why had it taken over a century for her work to re-enter the limelight? Unfortunately, the answer lies in the long legacy of ableist and sexist rhetoric that governs much of the art historical canon. In this short blog, I would like to outline some of the ways we confronted this exclusionary narrative to re-present an artist who had, in our minds, been deeply misrepresented.

 Biffin was born to a humble farming family in Somerset in 1784. As stated on her baptism record, she was born ‘without arms or legs’. From a young age, she learnt to sew and write using her mouth and shoulder – these early creative inclinations aided her rise to fame as an astonishingly talented portrait miniaturist. She began her career exhibiting at county fairs, where paying crowds would pay to watch her paint, draw and sew using her mouth and shoulder. She soon established herself as an independent artist and throughout her long and successful career, she travelled extensively, took commissions from royalty, and recorded her own likeness through exquisitely detailed self-portraits. Her artworks – many proudly signed ‘Without Hands’ – are a testament to her talent and accomplishment.

Unfortunately, the life and work of Sarah Biffin has been largely overlooked by art historians. Many who have attempted to illustrate her life have perpetuated misleading fallacies and Biffin’s artistic reputation had suffered as a result. Almost all written material relating to Biffin sensationalised, trivialised or otherwise ignored her artistic talent. Framed through disability tropes such as the ‘triumphant’, ‘inspirational’ or ‘redemptive’ individual, Biffin’s voice was starkly absent within any biographical notes.

Above all, the premise of the exhibition began with a desire to uphold the voice of the artist. Our tactic was twofold. Firstly, rigorous research from the ground up: this involved looking further than the average exhibition might require - newspaper advertisements, pension lists, medical textbooks, contemporary novels, even folk songs. The most valuable resources were, without question, anything written or recorded by the artist herself. Collating and documenting anything produced by Biffin offered a genuine development in our knowledge and a corrective to the more dismissive or sensationalist accounts of her life and work. Her artwork and letters became the foundational structure on which the exhibition was built. Each section (six in total) began with a quote from the artist, foregrounding Biffin’s presence within all interpretive material. The artist’s self-portraits remained central to the display, and, thanks to the contributions of national institutions, every self-portrait produced by the artist was represented. Her self-portraits offered an invaluable insight into how the artist viewed herself, and how she wished to be viewed by others. All her life, Biffin’s appearance had been scrutinised by others and her disability was continually remarked upon by contemporaries. Through her self-portraits, Biffin took control of her own image and presented herself as a confident, professional artist.

 Secondly, we recognised that we needed specialist knowledge beyond our area of expertise, and this required seeking the advice of someone with lived experience. This relationship formed the bedrock of the exhibition. We sought the help and advice of internationally acclaimed artist Alison Lapper who, like Biffin, was born with phocomelia. Lapper herself shared ‘I know only too well what it is like to be born without arms and hands and the obstacles that were in my way whilst striving to be an artist, not only as a woman but as a woman with a disability.’

Thanks to Lapper’s involvement, we were able to view archival documents, letters and artworks through the perspective of an artist with lived experience and this afforded Biffin’s writing, advertisements and self-portraits a new depth of meaning. During one conversation with Lapper, she candidly pointed out that the large hats worn by Biffin in self-portraits would have been impossible for her to paint in; as a result, Biffin emerged as a woman of formidable knowledge with an awareness of wider societal structures, who continually presented herself as a fashionable, respectable and, above all, professional artist.

Some may argue that the gulf between Lapper and Biffin reaches too broad a time scale to warrant any meaningful comparison. However, Lapper herself was ‘astonished at the parallels between [their] lives’ and pointed out ‘I’m still struggling now to break through the same barriers Biffin faced.’ This sense of pertinency highlighted the significance of certain issues, particularly regarding the display and interpretation of historic artefacts. For instance, if these issues are still relevant today, how do we display objects which contain harmful or distressing language and imagery? Can you ensure that the visitor will engage with any written or otherwise contextualising material? And how can a curator present objects in a way that disputes their harmful contents without negating the significance of their existence? These questions arose for us in a very prevalent manner when exploring the interpretation and presentation of artefacts which related to Biffin’s early career, specifically while she was exhibiting at county fairs. Biffin’s exhibitions were advertised via handbills and broad-sides which employed highly sensationalist language that would be deemed offensive today. The presentation of these objects required thoughtful curation and we undertook this challenge by physically separating this material from the artist’s work. This provided the viewer with the appropriate context and space required to understand the nuances of Biffin’s early career, without perpetuating or upholding the sensationalist rhetoric.

It was important to us to provide a diverse range of interpretive material that stretched far beyond the remit of standard ‘wall labels’. Although thoroughly researched and clearly written contextualising material remained crucial to the curation of the exhibition, we wanted to offer alternative modes of interpretation. This included video material (which would outlive the physical exhibition), panel talks (which provided a platform for contemporary artists), curators' tours (which delved deeper into the intricacies of the show’s curation) and an exhibition catalogue in which academics and specialists contributed contextualising essays with a full catalogue of all artworks exhibited.

The curation of Without Hands: The Art of Sarah Biffin was a steep learning curve. It required critically assessing the narrative we were presenting to our viewers by listening to the voices of those who had previously been absent. Above all, I hope that we were able to demonstrate the ways in which Sarah Biffin excelled in an artistic career of her own making.

Other guest contributions to this blog series are welcomed, particularly if you are working with records of disabled people or with disabled people.  If you are interested, in the first instance, please email diversityandinclusion@archives.org.uk .

Feature image is Sarah Biffin, Self Portrait, 1842 courtesy of Philip Mould and Company.