Billy Monk and the Glorious Grit of The Catacombs
A Sanctuary for Outsiders
The Catacombs was more than just a nightclub; it was a third space—a refuge in a deeply divided society. Formally situated in a “white” area of Cape Town, its patrons openly defied the oppressive segregation laws of apartheid. On the dance floor, sailors from around the world mingled with sex workers, members of the LGBTQI+ community, and jazz musicians from District Six. It was a cultural crossroads where differences were celebrated rather than policed.
Despite the apartheid regime’s efforts to enforce racial and social hierarchies, The Catacombs welcomed everyone. It was loud, dark, and dingy—a world away from the sanitised order the government tried to impose. The Immorality Act of 1957, which criminalised interracial relationships, loomed over South African society, but at The Catacombs, love and lust knew no such boundaries. This was a space for people who didn’t belong anywhere else, where rules and judgement were left at the door.
Billy Monk: The Reluctant Documentarian
Billy Monk, the man who immortalised this world, was as enigmatic as the club itself. A self-described drifter, Monk had dabbled in everything from leather sandal-making to crayfish poaching. By the 1960s, he was working as a bouncer at The Catacombs. Monk’s bisexuality and short temper made him both a magnet for adventure and a source of friction in Cape Town’s underground circles.
It was at The Catacombs that Monk began taking photographs, not with the intention of making a political statement but as a way to earn extra cash. Using a borrowed Pentax camera, he captured patrons in moments of joy, defiance, and tenderness. His subjects, whether they were Japanese sailors (granted “honorary white” status by the government for economic convenience) or mixed-race jazz bands, radiated authenticity and vitality.
Craig Cameron-Mackintosh, archivist and manager of Monk’s estate, explains, “Through research, interviews and reading old letters written by Monk, it’s evident that he had no intention of making any social statements with his work. He was simply documenting an exciting world that he was a part of and had nightly access to.”
A Snapshot of Resistance
While Monk may not have set out to create “resistance art,” his photographs stand as quiet acts of defiance. In a society obsessed with categorising and controlling people, his images are a celebration of fluidity and connection. Each photograph is an invitation to step into a world where love and laughter flourished, even under the shadow of apartheid.
Monk’s work also serves as a historical record of a vanished time and place. The Catacombs was located near District Six, a neighbourhood that epitomised multiculturalism before it was systematically destroyed by the apartheid government. By the late 1970s, District Six had been razed, and its residents forcibly removed. Monk’s photographs are among the few surviving artefacts of this vibrant cultural milieu.
As Ashraf Jamal writes, “In a society—South Africa under apartheid—that sought to objectify the world, to reduce its people to objects, Monk’s resistance is as ethical as it is existential, as metaphysical as it is mysterious.”
Hidden Trophies of Defiance
Monk’s photographs were initially intended as souvenirs for the people he captured. Sailors, sex workers, and partygoers would buy prints as keepsakes of nights spent at The Catacombs. These images, perhaps hidden in jewellery boxes or tucked into wallets, became private symbols of resistance and remembrance.
The aesthetic of Monk’s photography is both stark and tender. Despite the harsh flash, his subjects exude warmth and humanity. Unlike photographers such as Roger Ballen or Diane Arbus, who often highlight the grotesque or surreal, Monk’s work is rooted in intimacy. His sitters are neither objects of spectacle nor symbols of a larger cause. They are simply people, captured in moments of unguarded authenticity.
Rediscovery and Recognition
Monk’s photographs might have remained forgotten if not for South African photographer Jack de Villiers. In 1979, de Villiers discovered Monk’s contact sheets, meticulously numbered and dated, in an abandoned studio in Cape Town. Recognising their significance, de Villiers organised an exhibition at Johannesburg’s Market Gallery in 1982. Tragically, Monk never saw the exhibition. On his way to attend, he was killed in a drunken bar fight over a trivial argument.
As Lin Sampson recounted, “Monk died protecting his friend Lionel in a tacky argument over moving furniture… Before he fell to the ground, he stood there helpless and plunging, his arms spread out in shock and pleading. ‘Now you’ve gone ’n’ killed me,’ he said.”
For years, Monk’s work remained in relative obscurity. The South African National Gallery’s 1993 exhibition “From the Bridge to the Catacombs Club” brought some attention to his photographs, but it wasn’t until the early 2000s that they gained international recognition. In 2010, Monk’s work was featured at the Brighton Biennale, followed by a retrospective at the Stevenson Gallery.
The Catacombs may be gone, its floors no longer sticky with brandy, its walls silent. But through Monk’s lens, its spirit endures—a testament to the resilience of those who dared to live and love freely, even when the law forbade it.
