by Emily Cathcart

How an age-old symbol became the modern embodiment of diversity and liberation. 

Though you may have thought it’s a relatively recent invention, the rainbow flag has popped up repeatedly in various forms throughout the centuries, each with its own vibrant meaning.

In an early example, the Protestant Reformation used it to signal a new era of social change in the 1500s. After the First World War, a version was proposed by artist Martiros Saryan to mark Armenia’s regained independence, using subtle tones reminiscent of the country’s traditional textiles; even more recently, a variation was adopted by the Italian peace movement as the ‘PACE’ flag in 1961.

Rainbow-hued banners were also taken up decades ago by the international co-operative movement and designated as the official flag of the city of Cusco, Peru. In those cases—with both featuring very similarly styled bright horizontal bands—having been eclipsed by the ‘new flag in town’, the forerunners have since been updated to avoid confusion with the design now so closely associated with Gay Pride and LGBTQ+ rights.

That new flag came into being in 1978. Artist, activist and performer Gilbert Baker, known for his magic with a sewing machine (and a fabulous drag costume or two) was asked to whip up something for San Francisco’s Gay Freedom Day that year. The original eight-striped design assigned a symbolic meaning to each colour: hot pink for sex; red for life; orange for healing; yellow for the sun; green for nature; turquoise for art and magic; blue for serenity; and purple for the spirit.

As the day of the celebrations approached, on the rooftop of a gay community centre at 330 Grove Street yards and yards of fabric were being hand-dyed in large trash cans. Two huge flags were made in collaboration with fellow activist/artists Lynn Segerblom and James McNamara—and with the help of dozens of volunteers. As Segerblom remembers in a 2018 KQED interview, “Those were very large heavy flags. There’s no way one person could even carry one of those, much less make one all by themselves.”

Baker himself reminisces in the GLBT Historical Society’s online exhibition, Performance, Protest & Politics: The Art of Gilbert Baker recalling how the humble, handcrafted group effort was carried out on a shoestring budget: “Five hundred dollars for 1,000 yards of muslin, 58 inches wide. Three hundred dollars for 10 pounds of natural dye in eight colors, and 100 pounds of salt and ash. And the rest for art supplies.”

With the originals long thought to be lost to time, in 2021 a precious fragment resurfaced and subsequently came home to San Francisco after 43 years. Having been found water-damaged and mildewed, what was salvaged is on display at the GLBT Historical Society in the heart of the Castro District, a neighbourhood synonymous with queer culture. Still vivid in its glass case, the well-preserved remnant of this universal icon of revolution, identity and inclusion—a sign of hope appearing on the horizon as darker skies depart—reminds us of how far we’ve come, and the road yet to be travelled.