You sometimes forget how important this building is to so many people
At the top of one of Liverpool's most enduring landmarks, a former hospitality manager turned amateur historian is quietly reweaving the city's memory. Chris Devaney has spent years gathering archival fragments and personal testimonies to animate the western clock tower of the Liver Building as a living exhibition — one that traces Liverpool's long arc of loss and renewal. In doing so, he reminds us that the truest history is never housed in documents alone, but in the stories people carry with them when they finally come home.
- A building locked to the public for over a century has opened its clock tower, and the rush of personal memory flooding in has surprised even its curator.
- Devaney races against the fading of living memory, chasing original schematics to Leicester and sifting archives for details that official records never thought to preserve.
- Visitors keep arriving with fragments — a relative at a pre-erection dinner on the clock face, a face recognised in a century-old photograph — and each one reshapes what the exhibition can be.
- The exhibition now reaches visitors from roughly 80 countries, yet its most powerful moments remain stubbornly intimate: a mother and son standing beside a photograph of their own ancestor.
- Devaney is building toward something larger than a tour — an evolving archive where the building's monumental history and individual human lives are held in the same frame.
Chris Devaney runs the visitor experience inside the Liver Building's western clock tower, where a curved panoramic film carries audiences through Liverpool's history — the trading port, the Blitz, The Beatles, the city's repeated reinventions. For Devaney, the building is above all a story of resilience: a place that has witnessed catastrophe and come back stronger every time.
The tower only opened to the public in 2019, after Corestate Capital purchased the building in 2016 and began transforming its upper floors. Devaney, who had spent his career in hospitality, seized the chance to finally use his history degree. He buried himself in archives, and in early 2020 travelled to Leicester to track down a clock enthusiast holding the original schematics of the building's clock faces — documents that had proved critical when the clock hands were replaced four years earlier.
His research turned up details that bordered on the unbelievable. The iconic Liver Birds, bronze sentinels that have watched over the city for more than a century, cost just £70 each to cast in the 1910s — the equivalent of roughly £8,000 today. Five weeks of work, £70, and they have outlasted almost everything around them.
But it is the visitors themselves who have most transformed the exhibition. One man mentioned a relative who had attended a dinner laid out on the clock face before it was even installed. A woman recognised her husband's ancestor in a historical photograph and, in that moment, Devaney was able to photograph her and her son beside the image — a family portrait spanning generations. People arrive from Australia tracing ancestors, and locals come simply because a grandparent once worked there.
From the 15th floor, Devaney can still see his own childhood bedroom window across the water in Seacombe. The building, he says, belongs to everyone who has ever looked up at it. The personal stories pouring in are not a supplement to the history — they are the history, and he intends to keep collecting them.
Chris Devaney stands inside the western clock tower of the Liver Building, watching visitors turn slowly as Liverpool's history unfolds around them on the curved walls. A panoramic film traces the city's arc—from its days as a major trading port through the devastation of the Blitz, the cultural explosion of The Beatles, and its reinvention as a city of culture. The Liver Birds, those iconic bronze sculptures perched atop the two towers, guide the narrative. For Devaney, who runs the operations for this exhibition space, the building's story is one of resilience. "After a period of tragedy, or something disastrous happens in the city, like the Blitz or Hillsborough, it always regenerates and comes back stronger," he said. "It's amazing to tell that in an easy way that everyone can access."
The western tower opened to the public in 2019, marking a significant shift for a building that had served as office space for more than a century. Corestate Capital purchased the Liver Building in 2016 and began plans to open it up to visitors. Devaney, who had spent years running bars and restaurants across the country, saw an opportunity to put his history degree to use. He threw himself into the work of building the exhibition, digging through archives and piecing together the building's past.
But the real magic, Devaney discovered, comes from the people who walk through the doors. A visitor once mentioned that his relative had attended a dinner laid out on the clock face before it was even erected. Another woman recognized her husband's relative in a historical photograph displayed on the green screen—an image of the Liver Bird in pieces. Devaney was able to photograph her and her son standing beside it, creating what amounted to a family portrait spanning generations. "It's quite awe-inspiring in a way because you sometimes forget how important this building is to so many people," he reflected.
The building itself holds personal significance for Devaney. From the 15th floor, he can still see his old bedroom window across the water in Seacombe, a reminder of how deeply the Liver Building is woven into the fabric of Liverpool life. His research has taken him across the country in pursuit of its secrets. In early 2020, he traveled to Leicester to meet a historian and clock enthusiast who possessed the original schematics of the building's clock faces—documents that proved invaluable when the clock hands were replaced in 2016.
Among his archival discoveries was a detail that seemed almost impossible to believe. The iconic Liver Birds, those sculptures that have watched over the city for more than a century, cost just £70 each to build in the 1910s. Accounting for inflation, that translates to more than £8,000 in 2021 money. "When you think of what we have on the roof now and how they stood the test of time, £70 pounds and five weeks to build them, that's crazy," Devaney said. "You wouldn't believe that could be true."
Not everything Devaney uncovers makes it into the final exhibition. The origins of the Royal Liver Friendly Society, the organization that built the structure, felt too local for the panoramic film. But Devaney remains hungry for more personal stories—the kind that transform a building into a living archive of human connection. The tower has welcomed visitors from roughly 80 different countries, many of them locals with family ties to the place. "My grandma worked here, my grandfather," visitors tell him. Others have traveled from Australia because their ancestors had links to the building. These threads of connection are what Devaney believes matter most. "Those personal elements are the key for me, because they're the emotive connection to the building, which we all feel," he said. As the exhibition continues to evolve, it is these stories—the ones that tie individual lives to the city's larger narrative—that give the Liver Building its deepest meaning.
Citas Notables
After a period of tragedy, or something disastrous happens in the city, like the Blitz or Hillsborough, it always regenerates and comes back stronger.— Chris Devaney, operations manager
Those personal elements are the key for me, because they're the emotive connection to the building, which we all feel.— Chris Devaney
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What drew you to take on this work, given your background in hospitality?
I had a history degree that I'd never really used professionally. When the opportunity came to help shape how people experience this building, it felt like the right moment to apply that knowledge in a way that mattered.
You mention visitors recognizing their own family members in old photographs. How does that change what you're doing?
It completely reframes the work. You realize you're not just displaying history—you're holding up a mirror that lets people see themselves in the building's story. That emotional connection is what makes it real.
The Liver Birds cost £70 each. Does knowing that detail change how you see them?
It does, actually. It makes them feel more human somehow. Someone built those birds by hand, in five weeks, for what was a modest sum even then. They've outlasted everything else around them.
You can see your childhood bedroom from the 15th floor. Does that personal connection influence how you tell the building's story?
Absolutely. I grew up looking at this building across the water. Now I'm inside it, uncovering its secrets. It's like the building has been waiting to tell me something.
What stories are you still looking for?
The ones that haven't been told yet. We have visitors from all over the world with family connections to this place. Every conversation is a chance to find another thread, another piece of the puzzle that makes Liverpool's story complete.