Inside Chernobyl

Just an update to my last post. I struggled to convey my thoughts as I merely looked at images of the accident. Imagine what it must be like to be inside the damaged areas of the plant itself. My friend and colleague Michael Forster Rothbart, the photographer working on documenting Chernobyl affected communities has just written a thoughtful and compelling post (with pictures) about his visit inside the power plant and the trip inside the now-abandoned Control Room 4. Read the entire post on his blog.

Understanding Chernobyl

I remember much talk at one point in among American museums about collecting the 20th century: Barbie dolls, Tupperware, and more. Those objects--and those conversations-- seem simple in comparison with my experience today. I visited a place that's charged with interpreting an incredibly complex event of the 20th century---the Chernobyl nuclear accident. The interpreting is done by the Information Center of the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant in Slavutich, about 150 miles outside of Kiev--I suppose, a sort of industrial history museum, operated by the power plant itself. There's a Chernobyl Museum here in Kiev, which I haven't visited yet, but Slavutich is the new town, constructed after the accident, to house people from the contaminated city of Priypat, now totally abandoned. 3800 Slavutich residents still work at the Chernobyl plant. So the history here is not a theoretical one, but one that affected every single resident of Slavutich and continues to affect them in many ways.

The exhibit starts as many industrial history exhibits do, with the construction of the plant which opened in 1971; after several years of exceptional performance, they were awarded a special certificate--a sort of naming of the plant connected to Lenin. But then, literally, time stops as the accident occurs--something represented by a large stopped clock and date at the end of the room--on April 26, 1926, at 1:23 AM, during a safety test, a power surge overheated reactor 4 which then exploded, sending massive amounts of radiation into the air, crossing international borders. It's hard to imagine, in these days of twitter, cell phone photos and the Internet, how much the Soviets controlled information. The residents of Priypat, the nearest town, where radiation was incredibly high, were only informed that there had been an accident, mostly contained.

We were shown around the museum by Sergei Kasyanchuk, director of the museum, who has made it his life's work to document and collect material about the plant, the accident and the aftermath. Along with first photo taken of the burned out reactor after the explosion, taken from the air, there are photos of workers in hardly any protective clothing, funerals, and a guest book from the small museum in Pripyat, the last entry from the day before the accident.



Three sections of the exhibition will stay with me a long time--one is that large image of the burned out reactor with the stopped clock. The second is the memorial room, a red circular space featuring images of the men and women who were workers at the plant the night of the accident and died immediately or soon thereafter. Many died in Moscow, where they had been evacuated to for treatment, and are buried there as well, quietly, with no ceremony, in lead coffins. Without any text other than names, the space invites contemplation.



The last was perhaps the most surprising. The rest of the plant, 3 other reactors, was not shut down until December 2000, by Leonid Kuchma, then president of a newly independent Ukraine. A panel in the exhibit shows the ceremonies of the plant workers. At a place where many were frightened, others killed, and whose very name has become a synonym for disaster, these workers commemorated the final charted records and placed carnations on top of the reactor, the place that had been their work home for years.

Sergei continues to work and collect information about the accident. The end of the Soviet Union (hastened, some say, by Chernobyl and the aftermath), has made his research easier, but his dedication helped to remind me how important the work of museums can be in commemorating, sharing and documenting difficult stories.

Top to bottom:
Sergei Kasyanchuk at the large mural
Memorial Room
Plant closing Panel

Why Do We Collect?

Soviet Realist paintings? Rushnyky? Old postcards? Medals? Small china figurines? This weekend I went with a group of Fulbrighters to an indoor antique/flea market across the river here in Kyiv. In a way, it was just like any similar place in the United States--long rows of tables, bored looking dealers, and piles of merchandise.

But the merchandise was both the same and different--old photos, china figurines, yes; but other items shared hints of a more complex history--one familiar to Ukrainians and not to me. One painting showed a school girl reciting her lessons underneath the watchful eye of a bust of Stalin; another showed members of a communal farm listening to one of their members make a speech; an album of photos showed real photo postcard images of Russian soldiers in the trenches and field hospitals of World War II; many, many medals for sale. It seemed to me that there were far fewer items from the 1950s-1970s, items almost always now found in American antique markets and I suspect it may be because many Ukrainians are still using those items. Or maybe another reason I'm not imagining.

Why do people collect? I've worked on a couple projects where we talked with kids about collecting. Many kids in the US collect something: rocks, bird feathers, little toy trucks, bottle caps. They begin collecting as young as 6 or 7 and the elements of collecting include a display of sorts and an organization of the collection in some way--and of course, the urge to acquire more--more of the same thing, more slightly different things, bigger things, smaller things. Are kids here the same? I haven't discovered that one way or another, but suspect that my students can enlighten me.

That same collecting impulse seems to work for adults as well. I'm guessing that most of the people there today were looking for something specific: a particular medal from the Great Patriotic War (World War II to Americans) or a postcard of a particular place. But my museum career has lessened my urge to be a real collector, to organize, to know in complete detail, to be surrounded by multiples of the same thing--and of course finances rarely allow owning the very best of anything.

I find the collecting impulse on display in museums here. Objects and art are often presented without the context that allows us to fully understand their importance, but arrayed in ways that embrace the collecting mindset. It sometimes seems enough just that the museum possesses the item; displays it in a row with other similar items, and expects that we will be able to understand the meaning of those items. Of course, many Ukrainians do, but as fewer and fewer Ukrainians live in villages and hold a connection to traditional life, that knowledge will disappear as well and museums will be the places to find those connections and meaning.

So what did I buy? Two rushnyky (an all purpose word meaning towel, but now often with ritual importance)--one, an old one with a great red design and several mends, making it affordable; and two wood block prints from the 1970s. All because I liked and enjoyed them, the best reason to collect.

Above: my new rushnycky

Russian, Ukrainian, English: A Tangle of Words

I've just completed another Russian lesson, with the patient Vika, who makes house calls in a valiant attempt to teach me a bit of Russian while I'm here. For my non-Ukrainian readers, you may or may not be fully aware that both Ukrainian and Russian are in use here in Ukraine. Ukrainian, is of course, the official language and spoken most widely in the west of Ukraine. Russia was, also of course, the official language in Soviet times, and is spoken most widely in the east of Ukraine. So why am I attempting to learn Russian? For me, it seemed the language that would have the broadest use in future travel, however I respect and admire Ukrainians' desire to more fully root their own language in every aspect of life here.



Learning a new language--with a new alphabet and new sounds--is a challenge. I feel victorious when I recognize and pick out a word in the stream of conversation, or painstakingly spell out, and perhaps pronounce correctly--a word I see on a sign.

What does this have to do with museums? I've worked on two bi-lingual projects at home in the US as part of a commitment to make museums accessible and interesting for as many people as possible. That's been reinforced for me here, where my lack of language makes my understanding of any given museum experience pretty limited. Most museum information here is conveyed through minimal labels in Russian and/or Ukrainian, and more extensive information through a guided tour--which is often available in English but you need to know how to ask for it in Russian or Ukrainian.

Today, at the Kyiv Museum of Russian Art I had a chance to review their English language audio tour which hopefully, will soon be available for English language visitors. (and English language visitors include not only Americans and Britons, but many others for whom English is a second language). I had visited the museum before, and had been a bit interested in the collection, displayed in a very traditional sense, but had not been able to put it into context. The audio tour, presented on an iPod, was great. I learned about St. George and his eventual adoption as a symbol of Imperial Russia; about portrait painting in the 18th century; and about the 19th century work that reflected more democratic changes in Russian society.



I also came away with an ongoing appreciation for the complexities of language and translation. For instance, I learned that the act of painting and the act of writing are the same word in Russian, so in the English translation, it emerged as an artist writing this work, when discussing a painting. I was pleased to be offered the opportunity to comment on the tour by Tanya Kochubinska of the museum and I look forward to working with her to make a few small corrections, provide ideas from my colleagues in the US on how to manage the rental of the iPods, and then, a successful debut of audio tours at the museum.

Above: poster outside the Kyiv Museum of Russian Art Tanya Kochubinska of the Museum of Russian Art A school group at the Museum of Russian Art

The Cold Economic Winds Blow

The cold economic winds seem to blowing on both sides of the world. I hear regular updates from US colleagues about layoffs, cutbacks and funding uncertainty. The same thing is happening here. Not surprisingly, museum workers are not paid well here, and economic issues, are having a chilling effect on museum staff--as they are on all Ukrainians. Unpaid leaves, pay postponed for months, and layoffs are just part of the picture for Ukrainian museum professionals. Housing, transportation and food here are all becoming more expensive as Ukrainians have less money, so a one month furlough presents severe hardships.

We talked today with a small group about regular get-togethers to discuss museum issues and whether it was worth doing in such tough and discouraging times. I encouraged my colleagues here to undertake such endeavors nonetheless. For two reasons--first, it's always good to have support and contacts during difficult times, and second, that more than ever, this is the time for ideas to come to the fore. New ways of doing things, even on a small scale, can make a big difference.

Next week, I present my first workshops here in Kyiv--with the help of Ihor Poshvailo of the Honchar Museum, we've framed a two day workshop around the idea of making change with only a little change in your pocket. I've found that my work with small museums in the US is very helpful in both understanding the sometimes slow pace of change here and the ways in which financial resources (or the lack thereof) can hinder an organization's development. But, I'm always hopeful that it doesn't serve as an excuse for new thinking, conversation and professional development.

Cold winds, Vienna, Austria, 2007
Trent Stroh, via Flickr

Silence as an Interpretive Strategy

Are there times when just silence is the best interpretive strategy? Last year when I facilitated an AAM Conference Idea Lounge session called, "Why are Historic House Tours so Boring?" one participant reminded us that sometimes silence is the best thing--just providing visitors with a chance to appreciate the space and the art. I was reminded of that comment yesterday when I went, just as a tourist, to St. Sophia's Cathedral here in Kyiv.



St. Sophia is on UNESCO's World Heritage List, the first such site listed in Ukraine. It was built in the 11th century, though its exterior dates from a later period. It has a complex and complicated history, and it operates now as a museum, not as a working place of worship.



But yesterday was a cold January day, with only a weak bit of sun--enough to get me outdoors to see some of Kyiv's sights. It proved a great time to see St. Sophia. The sanctuary of the Cathedral itself is incredibly beautiful, with both mosaics and paintings in these deep, rich, incredible colors. The labeling was minimal, but thankfully in English, Russian and German, and there were very few people there. It was an opportunity to just be in this space, with centuries of history, and surrounded by such beauty--well, for once, I didn't really need any interpretation, I just immersed myself in it.

And outside it felt the same--enclosed from the outside world on the grounds, you could just wander, with the small number of other visitors, and look closely at details--the lock on a green door, the gold on a dome, a copper downspout. It felt like everything extraneous was pared away, leaving you to appreciate the place itself.

Too Intelligent to be Fooled

A brief foray back into the US museum world. In the past week or so, incredible attention in the media and in the blogosphere has focused on Brandeis University's proposal to close the Rose Art Museum and sell the entire collection.

My friend Claire, a freshman at Brandeis, sent me an essay written by Julia Sferlazzo, a senior student arts major at Brandeis and posted on the student blog, Innermost Parts. I won't repeat the full essay, but as I read it, I was struck by the parallels with some of my work here in Ukraine.

Julia writes,

Our school is in a dire economic situation right now, but the loss of the Rose is one that will damage our history, legacy, and standing in the public view forever. While it is certain that changes need to be made and programs may be cut, we must urge the Administration and the Board of Trustees to have confidence that the students can be trusted to take part in these hard decisions. They should know that this institution has made us too intelligent to be fooled by press releases and evasive answers. We have each been taught to inquire and debate. We have learned never to accept an answer without proof. Our voice on this issue and our unity in demanding transparency is a testament to the very motto of this university, "truth even unto its innermost parts." I ask the administration to honor that motto, to give us the hard answers to some very hard questions, and to trust that our time at Brandeis has educated us to understand. If the administration makes the situation clear, we will not feel as if they are doing something to us, but as if we are all working together to solve an incredibly difficult situation. We must each attempt to understand another perspective and examine what is best both now and for the future.

The sense of questioning and transparency is still less than one generation old in Ukraine. But in my work here, I can see, as at Brandeis, that young people committed to such thoughtful inquiry are genies that cannot be put back in the bottle--that such change, if nurtured, will become permanent.

Window at St. Sophia's, Kyiv