You’ll eventually notice them if you stroll down practically any street in a city with a vibrant neighbourhood culture. This is not because they demand attention, though they frequently do, but rather because they just won’t be ignored. A face the size of a structure. Reaching across a crumbling wall were faded hands. What was once a utility maintenance facade was crossed by a timeline of a community’s sorrow and resiliency. Although murals have been used for centuries to accomplish this task, there seems to be a recent renewed awareness of the strength of a painted wall.
This is neatly framed academically: murals are “sites of memory,” a term coined by French historian Pierre Nora to describe locations where collective memory solidifies and persists. However, the truth is more human than that if you take a moment to put the theory aside. No museum catalogue or civic plaque can truly duplicate what a neighbourhood does when it takes part in the design of a mural, selecting whose face goes up, which moment is commemorated, and which language the caption appears in. Together, they are choosing what they will never forget.
It’s not always a peaceful process. The murals on Belfast’s peace walls have been depicting two completely different stories on opposite sides of the same street for decades. Diego Rivera’s enormous frescoes in post-revolutionary Mexico were politically charged and commissioned by the government; some people loved them, while others disagreed. The question of whether to restore, repaint, or leave Soviet-era murals as complex reminders of a past that didn’t fully belong to the people who lived under it is a very challenging one, even in modern Ukrainian cities. There isn’t a simple solution. Murals are intriguing in part because of this.
However, they consistently reject abstraction. There is always a mural. Every Tuesday morning, people who walk by this wall in this neighbourhood can see it. In an urban setting, a mural disrupts invisibility in addition to marking a wall. It’s not an accidental disruption. Sometimes, the only archive available for communities that have historically been left out of official histories is a painting on a public wall. Curators at the Barbados Museum and Historical Society have been experimenting with this concept, asking diasporic communities to map their memories onto institutional spaces and emphasising that belonging is a practice of holding multiple stories at once rather than a single story.
Public art has the inherent capacity to democratize expression and act as a communicator across linguistic and class barriers because it is usually free and accessible to all. Sitting with this is worthwhile. Literacy in the traditional sense is not necessary to create a mural. It doesn’t require an appointment, an admission fee, or knowledge of gallery norms. It merely requests that you pass it, which is what most people do. Depending on who is painting and whose story is told, this accessibility is either its greatest democratic asset or its greatest vulnerability.
In this case, the co-creation question is crucial. Community murals frequently begin as initiatives that involve locals in all aspects of the decision-making process, from the choice of artists to the mural’s theme. This inclusivity encourages a sense of participation and belonging as people witness their ideas and stories come to life on a large scale. What distinguishes a mural that truly belongs to a neighbourhood from one that was merely put there by an outsider with good intentions and a sizable budget is that participatory component. Even when they are unable to express it, people appear to grasp this distinction intuitively. When you are in front of one, you can typically sense the difference.
Because so many other forms of public memory have been contested or commercialised, it’s possible that murals are more important now. Statues are being demolished. Quietly, heritage plaques are being taken down. Digital memorialization feels structurally dishonest about its own longevity because it is ephemeral. Despite its physical weakness, a painted wall exudes an honest stubbornness. Indeed, it will fade and may eventually be painted over. However, it holds while it is in place. You can tell a story about local history, values, and collective memory as soon as you stroll through a neighbourhood covered in murals. There is no need to explain that sense. The point is probably that it comes before you’ve had time to consider it.
FAQs
1. What makes murals different from other forms of public memory, like statues or plaques?
Murals are free, universally accessible, and resist abstraction by being rooted in specific places.
2. Why does community participation matter in mural creation?
Co-created murals genuinely belong to a neighbourhood; externally imposed ones rarely do.
3. How do murals function as tools of collective memory?
They crystallise shared histories onto public walls, refusing communities the option of forgetting.
4. Can murals cause conflict rather than belonging?
Yes — Belfast’s peace murals have told opposing stories for decades.
5. Why are murals considered democratic art forms?
They require no ticket, literacy, or gallery familiarity — just proximity.
