This was originally published on Andrew Groves: Menswear, Archives, Systems substack
Last Saturday I queued for ninety minutes to get into a pub.
Utopia, by Trackie McLeod, rebuilt a working men’s club inside Factory International, Manchester’s major contemporary arts institution. It ran as a functioning bar, pints were pulled and music played. There was a dartboard, a fruit machine, even a karaoke screen. The exhibition was built into its routines.
The Haçienda once promised a utopian space, where music and dress could reorganise class and culture, where architecture itself could redistribute belonging. Utopia inherits that promise, but under very different conditions.
Within minutes of the 3pm opening, the venue hit capacity, with around a hundred people still queuing on the stairs.
Saturday 3pm is usually kick-off time for the football, so in a traditional working men’s club you would already be inside. Here, entry was controlled through headcount. This ‘pub’ began with controlled entry, yet the queue revealed a desire for a room that felt social without feeling hostile.
The traditional working men’s club didn’t create anticipation; it was routine. Here, the wait became value. Access was staged; scarcity was produced.
Before you reached the bar, you were shown the bar. A monitor downstairs ran live CCTV from the pub upstairs. You stood in line watching drinkers on a split-screen feed. Through surveillance the room was visible before it was accessible. It could be simple crowd management, but it read as staging: surveillance as the first threshold.
Working men’s clubs were never neutral social spaces; they ran on codes: dress, accent, familiarity, allegiance. Clothing did the quiet work: no football colours, no workwear, smart casual only. What mattered was what it might signal: trouble, respectability, risk. Menswear operated as a low-tech surveillance system. It enabled judgement at a glance; men were sorted by what they wore.
That is what I have termed surveillance masculinity: a regime in which male dress makes the body legible in advance, signalling readiness, threat, discipline or self-control before any action occurs. The garment does not simply express identity; it anticipates suspicion.
The artwork Jeans and a Nice Top (2026) captures this calibration. It is not a uniform; it is a protocol for looking unremarkable. Not scruffy, not showy. Enough effort to read as compliant, without spectacle.
Utopia restaged these codes but drained them of any consequence. The signage was there: “No football colours. No tracksuits”, yet people in sportswear moved freely through the space. Masculinity was referenced rather than enforced.
Mr. Brightside (2026) assembled a compliance kit: Next shirt, Levi 501s, Ben Sherman shoes. This is what gets you through a “no tracksuits” door policy without friction.
The point is legibility. You look like you know how to behave. But the small plastic packet in the centre of the work exposes the weakness of that system. Dress codes sorted bodies by what could be seen; they could not sort what was carried. As long as the clothes read correctly, the body passed. Menswear filtered appearances, not behaviour.
But when clothing stops sorting bodies, sorting does not disappear; it moves.
In Utopia, the club’s old door logic was absorbed by institutional liability. Queueing manages bodies; card-only payment produces a trail; CCTV makes everything reviewable. The judgement once performed by reading clothes was instead administered by systems.
In the traditional club, authority was informal: a nod, a refusal, a quiet word. Familiarity mattered. That informality was arbitrary by design, producing belonging for some and hostility for others. Mostly, it relied on men monitoring other men.
In Utopia, safety was structured differently. No one was turned away for the wrong trainer. No one was read as a risk because of a logo. The volatility that once attached to certain garments had been neutralised. But the space was not unregulated. It was intensely regulated. Oversight was constant, embedded in digital systems.
This is where surveillance masculinity becomes infrastructural. The sorting no longer happens through clothing. You are not assessed by your jacket; you are made accountable through systems. A system does not stop operating when it stops being noticed.
For a period, I stopped scanning the walls and drank my free pint. The installation dissolved into use. The room was real — messy, social, inhabited — and that is precisely why its mechanisms matter.
That effect was not accidental; it was deliberate system design. The installation demonstrated that working-class space isn’t defined by objects alone, but by interaction, proximity and rhythm. It recreated those dynamics under contemporary conditions.
Masculinity here became aesthetic residue: the dartboard, the signage, the ban on tracksuits. The cues remained, but the old garment-based sorting has been displaced into systems.
Instead, Utopia did not claim that autonomy. It restaged a working men’s club inside an arts institution whose governance is already fixed. The volatility that once attached to male-coded spaces was managed before anyone entered. In the traditional club, sorting was visible and embodied: it happened at the door, in the glance, in the quiet refusal. It could be negotiated, argued with, even defied. In Utopia, regulation is infrastructural. What once operated as informal masculine scrutiny now appeared as neutral procedure.
Step back outside and the mechanism is obvious. The installation built a world that could only exist under certain conditions — ones it neither hides nor escapes — and calls it Utopia.
