250725 After Hours - Blu-Tack & Big Feelings

I got home on Friday night, after dinner, hugs, and chats with Peter, Nathaniel, and Neptune, and just crashed. I cried a lot. I cried for the staff. I cried for the club. I cried for the community. I cried for the lost potential and the shows that would never go on there. This creeping sense of loss settled over me, and with it came discomfort. The frustration that The Butterfly Club had closed so suddenly, without warning, without acknowledgement of the part it had played in so many lives. Another small queer arty theatre disappearing from Melbourne. And because so little of its history had been recorded, it could almost feel like it never existed at all.

My photo book of The Butterfly Club had started as a project to document ‘a month in the life’, but now it carried a different weight, a different importance. I won’t lie. I felt intimidated. People told me not to put so much pressure on myself, but I just wanted to hold onto as much of The Butterfly Club as I could, for my own memory, for the people I’d worked alongside this past month, and for those who would never get the chance to say goodbye.

I thought about contacting the media, although I didn't know how. I just wanted people to have one last chance to visit and say goodbye. Then, I saw the news had already been shared on Art Hub (Watts, 2025). Someone else had done what I was considering. Now that it was public, I felt it was okay to share it further, so I posted the link on social media, hoping it would reach as many people as possible.

Saturday morning, I remembered my lecturers’ suggestion to include quotes from performers, staff, and audience members to add more depth to my book. It was now clear that this project was bigger than just a university assignment. It had evolved into a piece of Melbourne, queer, and theatre history. It wasn't just for my grade anymore; it was for everyone who had ever cherished The Butterfly Club.

Whether they’d visited once, started their career there, had a show that succeeded or failed, or worked behind the bar, I wanted this book to hold those memories. I decided then and there I needed to include quotes. I built forms on my website where people could contribute their memories, reflections, and voices directly to the project. I wanted to show that The Butterfly Club was loved by many, and the best way to do that was to include many voices.

That afternoon, I printed a poster with a QR code and stuck it up with blu-tack all over the club (Frawley, 2025) (see below). Almost immediately, quotes started coming in.

Over the next few days, I reached out to people who had commented on the club’s announcement (which came days after the closure), replied to messages, and contacted a few bigger-name artists who’d performed there early in their careers, as well as people I’d worked with before. My approach was simple: if you don’t ask, you don’t get.

I nearly fell off my chair when Amanda Palmer wrote back, “Sure, how many words?”

I was delighted when Sammy J replied, keen to contribute.

And I felt deeply honoured when Mama Alto boosted my post, tagging some people in the comments.

I’m not one to gush over celebrity names, but I know these people already have full plates. For them to stop, see me and my project, and then make time to contribute -  well, there are some big feelings in that.

See the quotes - click here

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(@luckyfrawleyphoto, 2025)

Call for quote submissions poster for The Butterfly Club project and book waiting list, designed and displayed by Lucky Frawley on 26 July 2025 at The Butterfly Club, Melbourne.