The loss of Sam’s Collective, a special space in Dublin’s queer scene

When one of the performers began singing “The Parting Glass” at the last Sam’s Collective night at Wigwam, Sam Stewart was overwhelmed by emotions.

For Stewart, it was the perfect moment, there in the crowded dimly lit room in the basement venue on Middle Abbey Street in Dublin, they said during a Zoom call on 15 March.

For two years, Sam’s Collective had been organising nights like this – first at the Beckett Locke hotel near The Point, and then at Wigwam, Stewart said.

On each of these nights, the Collective presented a line-up of poets, musicians and drag artists, both seasoned performers and newcomers.

The events were about boundary-pushing and reinvention. Even traditional Irish music was redefined by gender-queer performers, Stewart said. “It felt like we were expanding the limits of our culture in certain ways.”

That last night in June at Wigwam was a great summation of everything the Collective stood for, Stewart said.

Although Wigwam’s doors remain open, the end of Sam’s Collective marks the end of an era for this part of Dublin’s underground artistic community, a place for queer belonging and creative expression.

Its closure adds to ongoing challenges in securing safe and inclusive spaces for artists to continue their work.

Others should take Sam’s Collective as an inspiration and fill that gap, said award-winning drag performer Coco Fabulasio during a WhatsApp call on 14 March. “If anybody has the desire and the ability, I would say, look, anyone can do this. Let’s build new things.”

Stewart, who had poured so much of themselves into the collective, said they wished they could “pass the torch to someone”. “We could be there to support, and we could take a back seat in doing it,” they said.

The birth of Sam’s Collective

When Stewart moved back to Dublin in March 2022 after five years in New York, they noticed the city was lacking a place where queer artistic minds could gather to share their talents, bond as a community and simply be.

Stewart had performed poetry before, but only in places where they felt safe to do so, and they longed to create that kind of environment in Dublin. “Before I started the collective, I was terrified to get up on stage,” Stewart said.

“The only reason I would get up was because someone like the host made me comfortable enough to do it.”

If there wasn’t a space like this in Dublin, Sam would make one, they decided.

In 2022, During Pride Month, the creation of Sam’s Collective began. Thinking it would be a one-time thing at Beckett Locke.

“But all the seats were taken. There was like people standing up against the walls. Like it was absolutely packed. And everyone kind of went, so when are we doing this again?” they said.

Stewart said this was when they realised they were not the only one looking for this kind of space. From there, Sam’s Collective thrived.

They started hosting the open mic every two weeks, and soon it became a regular Sunday event. Soon, musician Sweeny Lee joined the collective.

“It wasn’t just an open mic anymore, it became a place for people to feel safe, to be themselves, and to connect with others,” Sam said.

In addition to the open mic nights, the collective also hosted a range of other free events, including gender-free clothes swaps, art exhibitions and performances, all aimed at promoting radical expressions, and inclusivity.

Early on, Sam had second thoughts about calling it “Sam’s Collective”, they said.

“I regretted putting my name in it,” Stewart says. “I never wanted it to feel like it was just about me.”

But over time, the name came to symbolise something bigger, they said. The collective wasn’t just Stewart’s, it belonged to everyone who walked through the door, who shared their stories, and who supported each other, Stewart said.

The collective was an impressive operation, said Fabulasio, the drag performer. “The music, the sound, the organisation – everything was, like, super well done and consistent, to a professional level,” they said.

Stewart’s attention to detail ensured that every event felt polished, something not easily achieved in a community-driven space, Fabulasio said.

Through this space, artists including Fabulasio found a medium to shape their craft.

“I created my drag act through performing at Sam’s Collective,” Fabulasio said. “I started as a singer, and with each performance, I grew in my confidence to express my queerness.”

Over time, Fabulasio embraced different styles, in clothing and makeup, until they became the drag artist they are today. For Fabulasio, Sam’s Collective wasn’t just a space for performance, it was a launchpad for their drag career and their pride.

“Sam is one of my middle names,” they proudly added. “I am of the house of Sam’s Collective.”

For others, like drag king Laddie Oscar Wilde, Sam’s Collective provided a crucial sense of validation. “I don’t wear glasses or contact lenses when I perform, so I can’t actually see how the audience reacts. I can only hear their shouts and cheers,” they said.

During a standout performance, they walked through the crowd tearing paper, and someone shouted, “This is art!”

“That was all I wanted to hear,” they said. “Before drag, I did visual arts and always wanted to be recognised as an artist. Hearing that was validating.”

The ending

After two years of bringing people together, Sam’s Collective came to an end in June 2024.

The closure came down to a mix of financial and personal challenges, Stewart said. “We started off as a free event because that is how I wanted it, like I wanted it to be accessible for people to come.”

But when the Beckett Lock closed its bar, they were forced to find a new venue. “We had to charge because we had to pay for the space, the photographer, the sound engineer … I was paying everything and left with nothing.”

This shift to charging for admission wasn’t easy, Stewart said. There was backlash from the community, highlighting the difficulties of balancing accessibility and the financial realities of operating an event.

Fabulasio, the drag performer, witnessed the backlash. “In our community, we see these spaces as unique and needed, but we don’t realise it’s just one person, working full-time, studying, and struggling financially,” they said. “It’s hard to balance everything, especially when the costs of running events are so high.”

The collective faced competition. “Of course, you’re competing with commercial entities who are putting on nights and competing for spaces in bars and stuff like that,” says Fabulasio.

“So, it’s tough to draw that line between community and making it financially viable,” they said.

For Stewart, the workload was simply too much, they said. “It was too much for two people. I was doing it because I loved it, but it reached a point where I just couldn’t keep going.”

Stewart’s personal commitments, including health issues and returning to work full-time, only added to the challenge. “If I was making enough money, I could’ve kept going, but that wasn’t the case.”

Ultimately, Stewart and Sweeney concluded it was time to step back. “We’ve done our time,” Sam said. But “I knew giving up wasn’t just on me; it took away a space for people who really depended on it.”

Stewart’s dedication to showcasing everyone, regardless of experience, was something Fabulasio deeply admired, they said. “They always let everybody perform. It didn’t matter if you were a beginner or advanced – everyone got a chance.”

The loss

As Sam’s Collective’s last night, last June, came to an end, the air in WigWam was thick with emotion, say Stewart, Fabulasio and Laddie Oscar Wilde.

The collective had been more than just an event; it had been a home, a sanctuary, a space where people could gather, express, and connect.

Now, as the doors closed one last time, there was a noticeable feeling of loss, Fabulasio says.

As a final act of connection, Stewart left blank cards on the table during that last night, inviting everyone to share their feelings about the space.

“I have them in the attic right now,” Stewart said on 15 March, their voice softening. “I’m hoping to find a way to display them. It was like … I’m always going to carry that with me. It was a really cool thing to have experienced alongside everyone else.”

For Fabulasio, the void that the closure of the collective created still remains.

“I think it’s difficult because there isn’t really a lot else like it,” they said. “You’ve got one thing, and if that closes, well, you don’t have that thing anymore.”

Though other great spaces exist, like Haus of Schiaparelli, none offered them quite the same sense of belonging, they said. “It’s a big loss.”

Drag king Laddie Oscar Wilde said similar. “Something’s just been taken out of a lot of people’s lives,” they said.

“If you’ve been going to this every month for two years, and it’s just taken from you, then yeah, it’s a loss,” they said.