250725 Peter Beacker Rehearsal & The Beginning Of The End

Friday — The Last Two Nights Begin

I didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning of the end.

I headed in to The Butterfly Club on Friday afternoon to take photographs of Peter Beackers' rehearsal for his show Own Priscilla. We had previously worked together on a few Saturday night Butthole Cabaret shows and had hit it off straight away. We had that special combination of respect, curiosity, and genuine enjoyment of each other's work. When someone is excited about my photography, I cant help but get excited right back.

This shoot was technically beyond my book’s projected timeline, but Peter wanted me there, and I wanted to give back. Besides, I needed a breather. My dining area had been totally taken over by my project. From floor to ceiling, it was covered in photos, with piles of prints on the table. I had spent a whole week sorting them, staring at them, moving them around, and struggling to pick my favorites. So I was very happy to get away, capture some new images (even though I knew it would add to the chaos at home), and spend time with creative, inspiring people.

When I entered the Butterfly Club,  I felt a sense of peace and comfort. It had always felt like coming home. Nothing to be suspicious of. Just a small, reassuring feeling that I could be myself and be accepted. I felt safe. 

I popped my head into the office to say hi. It had been about a week since I'd seen everyone. Jack, the venue manager, opened the door and said they were having a meeting. The vibe in the room was serious and focused, but I dismissed it as just workplace stuff and went upstairs.

I walked through the green room (which I only just realised actually had green walls beneath the layers of past show posters), through the tiny backstage area, and into the theatre where I found Peter and Nathaniel, getting the piano and stage ready. We caught up, laughed, and Peter invited me to photograph them getting ready in the green room.

We had a brief but important discussion about consent and made sure we were all on the same page before heading in.

Neptune arrived a little later, while Peter and Nathaniel were costuming and putting on makeup, and we headed into the theatre to start the full dress rehearsal.

We had just started picking up pace in the dress rehearsal, when Jack came upstairs from the bar. In my experience, they had never interrupted a rehearsal, which meant it had to be important, but you could also tell by their tone and stance they really didn’t want to disrupt things. Jack asked Peter to talk to them after. Peter asked if everything was alright. Jack said it was fine, and we continued. It did feel like we were holding our breath for a few minutes, but as the show went on, that feeling faded into the background.

After the rehearsal wrapped, Peter, Nathanial, Neptune and I stayed in the theatre to talk through ideas and small changes for the show. It felt exciting, like we were right on the edge of something great.

Later, as we passed through the bar on the way downstairs, I noticed Jack at the bar (not the venue manager, but barman Jack) looking visibly upset, eyes red. Someone asked what was wrong, but he couldn't say. I wanted to comfort him and I offered a hug. He accepted. I told him I didn't know what was happening, but I had a feeling, and I understood that he couldn't talk about it yet.

Down in the office, the mood was heavy. Jack (venue manager) and Shannon were scrambling to get the place ready for the evening, but there was a hidden tension. I lingered, waiting. Partly for the unknown future of my photo project, but mostly because I could feel something was changing.

Shannon eventually caught my eye while I paced. She sat down at her desk and said, “ I guess I can tell you as well.”

The Butterfly Club was closing its doors. 

Tomorrow (Saturday) would be the last night. Peter’s show was cancelled. All the upcoming shows were cancelled.

All the staff were losing their jobs. The decision had been made by directors or owners, someone higher up, and Jack and Shannon had found out in that meeting I’d walked in on earlier.

The shock was instant and total. We all talked about practical things, trying to keep a brave face. Jack offered Peter the only thing they could. A show on Saturday after the other shows.  It would be the opening night and closing night in the same breath. Peter took it. There would be no announcement, no public farewell. Just one last night.

As I left The Butterfly Club, I called my spouse. I told them I needed them there with me the next night. Underneath the shock and setting in of grief, there was a flicker of panic: had I photographed enough? Could I ever?

Photographs can capture the memory, the feeling, the essence of a place, but they’re not the place itself. They’re echoes. And I had one more night to make that echo as powerful as possible.

Reflection

This moment became a turning point in my project. Up until then, I had approached the work with a kind of open-ended curiosity. I used my time building relationships, chasing moments, and letting the story take shape in its own way. But the sudden finality of the closure forced a shift: from documenting a living, evolving space to preserving something already slipping into memory.

It sharpened my awareness of time, of impermanence, and of the role a photographer plays in holding onto what’s about to disappear. The work became less about compiling a broad portrait of The Butterfly Club and more about distilling its essence in the short time I had left.

• What worked: The trust and connection I’d built with the performers meant I was more than an observer. I could see my emotions reflected back in the people around me, and this is what I was ready to capture the following night.

• What didn’t: The downside to being an insider to this project was now that I felt too close. I knew I would need to contain my emotions as much as possible, so that I could focus on the job at hand.

• What’s next: Make a deliberate plan to use the last 24 hours to capture the final layers of the space: the performances, the quiet in-betweens, and the physical details that would soon vanish. To connect and work with my grieving community in creating a photobook for us. To work with intention, knowing each click of the shutter could be the last one in that room.