Get About It!

Before I head off to two conferences in a row (look for me at AASLH in Philadelphia, or ICOM in Kyoto) I wanted to share the blog post I wrote as a reflection on my time as a social media journalist at AAM.  "Get about it."  was an admonition from AAM keynoter Mitch Landrieu about the work of reconciliation in this country, and it served as a title for that post.

But it's also the title of this post.  This summer I've had two different experiences framed around race, that I wanted to share.  I live in the western Catskills of New York State, in a large, sparsely populated county that is 95% white, with a per capita income of just over $26,000. (for comparison purposes, New York State is 69.7% white, with a per capita income of $35,752).  It's the kind of place that it's easy for people to make assumptions about.  I haven't necessarily expected to find deep, reflective experiences around race here.  All this is to say, it's a complicated place, like everywhere, and wherever you are, there's work to be done.  Today, I want to share some great work I found in my own region this summer.

In June, I participated in Radical Conjuring, a workshop at Bushel Collective, a new arts space in Delhi, NY.  Poets Sasha Banks and Adriana Greene  invited us "to reimagine the past and give language and shape to a post–white supremacist future" through a series of different activities and interventions.  We were a very small group, but Sasha led us through conversations that went deep for me, with strangers.  Sasha and Adriana shaped a place for those hard conversations. We tried black-out poetry, working with historical documents.  I ended up with 19th century Canadian legislation about Chinese immigration which led me to a poem about mothers, women and loss.  You can see the result at the top of the post.  We completed sentences known to us all with new and imagined endings.

We worked to fill in words, imagined new maps of the places we live, and wrote messages to the future.  At the end of the two days, we were all invited to go, by ourselves, in a room and reflect (and record if we wanted) our reflections on a series of questions.  Here's a few:

• What do you hope is alive and well into the future?
• Who do you hope your work has liberated in the future?
• What do you think will have occurred in the present, to eradicate white supremacy in the future?
• Is there a history you want to make sure survives into the future?

These workshop were hard work in the best kind of way.  It forced me to think deeply, to experiment with new ways of doing things, to listen with intent.  And to be honest, it was a bit of a surprise to find such a workshop here.

Erin Christine Walsh, Katya Collazo and Gary-Kayi Fletcher in Possessing Harriet at the 

Franklin Stage Company. Photo by Russ Rowland

Last month,  we went to see a performance of Possessing Harriet at Franklin Stage Company, in the village next door to mine.  The play was originally commissioned by the Onondaga Historical Association in Syracuse and was  written by Kyle Bass. It tells the story of Harriet Powell, a young, mixed-race, enslaved woman who escapes from a hotel in Syracuse, finding temporary safe harbor in the home of abolitionist Gerrit Smith in Peterboro, NY.  Powell spends the evening before she leaves for safety in Canada, with Smith's young cousin, Elizabeth Cady.  I found the play, done in front of a full house, pretty unflinching in depicting the instances of racism that even committed abolitionists did unthinkingly. Through the telling of Powell's and Thomas Leonard's, a free black man's, stories,  Cady (eventually Cady Stanton)--and by extension, all of us in the audience--reflect on our own lives, our beliefs, and our activism (or lack thereof).   

In this performance, several things stuck with me.  First, a big shout-out to Onondaga Historical Association for commissioning the piece.  Second, I wondered what had attracted the audience to this particular event, and what they made of it.  In my work at Sites of Conscience, we think and talk a great deal about change.  Did this move anyone to action?  Should a work of art be responsible for doing so?  And how could it be encouraged further?  And lastly, it was a reminder of the power of stories, based on real history, to cause us to reflect on the world we currently live in.

I also wanted to note that the Franklin Stage Company's performances are always free, with donations collected at the end of every performance.  They combine that community service with an equal commitment to the artists they work with.  Every performance is fully professional--with all of the performers and technical staff being members of Actors Equity and other unions. There's a lesson there for museums of all sizes and types as the field continues to grapple with equitable pay.

But most of all, these two events gave me hope and are a reminder that we can do the work of change wherever we are.  You can say your community is this, or isn't this, or people won't be interested, or whatever.  But this summer, Sasha, Adriana, and the cast and crew of Possessing Harriet, just got about it, as Mitch Landrieu said.  They respected communities enough to believe there would be interest, pushed tough issues and critical reflections forward, and I believe, made a small difference in the world.  For that, I am deeply grateful.

Stuck on an Object

All of us who work in museums see lots of objects--so many sometimes, that they seem to run together. But sometimes there's an object whose physicality or story sticks with us, for reasons we can't seem to explain.  My new job is just a block or so from the Morgan Library and last week I made a quick lunchtime trip--my first visit.  There is a major exhibit on Emily Dickinson there, all of which I enjoyed, but I found myself drawn to this tiny, house-shaped poem. In her tiny, unique handwriting, there it was:

The way Hope builds his House
It is not with a sill –
Nor Rafter – has that Edifice
But only Pinnacle –

Abode in as supreme
This superficies
As if it were of Ledges smit
Or mortised with the Laws –

I've thought about this piece of paper many times since that visit. But I still find myself puzzling over why. Is it that a house and a reclusive poet just seem to go together?  Is it the sense of hand, of personality in the writing?  Is it the combination of shape and poem?  It might be all of the above.

It was a gentle reminder of the many, many ways that each visitor approaches an exhibit and how many different ways there are to find meaning in the object. A generous exhibit design allows each of us to find our way.

What's a memorable object you've seen recently?

Who Inspires You? Or Your Visitors?

We often think--or hope--that people are inspired when they visit our museums or historic sites. "We have great stories,"  we say, and hope that our visitors can make their way through the thickets of details and biography.  Interestingly enough, I've been working on two projects recently where I've actually been asking visitors about inspiration.  And because it's Father's Day tomorrow, it seems a particularly apt time to report back from my conversations.  Above, my own dad as a kid.  In my own childhood, he was always the one behind the camera, so rarely spotted on film!

At the Old Manse, a historic house in Concord, MA and a part of The Trustees, we asked people, before they visited the house, who inspired them. (a big shout-out to JHU museum studies student Caren Ponty, who's been volunteering on this project with me). This was a way of thinking about how to connect personal stories to the broader story of the house.  It was a bit of surprise that family came out way ahead. Here's what some people said about parents and grandparents:

• Folks and family—we respect ‘em---lots of influence
• Mother:  always positive, never complaining.  Shining example, always walked, saw color, religion
• My dad…despite dyslexia, taught himself to read, Ph.D in biochem,  told he would never work, did, and now 95
• Friends and families with motivating passions.  Their interests become my interests.
• My parents—role models, do a good job of Christian lifestyle
• Grandpa—always wanted to learn and wanted us to learn
• My mom, because she tried to make the world a better place—not many people let someone take things apart to see how they worked.

But a few other people (and one animal) also came in for some shout-outs:

•  People who make and do social activism, who write and do
• My dog—she’s always happy
• Communities and churches that help the less fortunate
• George Washington—smart, brave, changed the world
• William Shakespeare—loved the literature, resonates after so many years.  Still relevant
• Jane Austen—her ability to communicate understanding of human nature and Charles Dickens—for people and characters
• Resilient people, so hope for humanity

Our challenge now is to think about how we build on these responses--how we understand that the stories of family and inspiration are not limited to Emerson, Hawthorne, or those who witnessed the beginning battle of the American Revolution from the Old Manse's windows.  It's about how we share the stories of oft unsung families, such as those of Phyllis, Cesar, and Cate, the enslaved people who also lived in the house and who of course, had their own unrecorded family stories. How do we connect the stories of this house with the family stories of newcomers to this country?  Can we develop a shared well of inspiration?

In Savannah, I've been working with the Juliette Gordon Low Birthplace to consider the visitor experience there.  A large percentage of their visitors are Girl Scouts, and they come ready to be inspired by Daisy (as she was known), the founder of Girl Scouts.  We've been asking them to complete, on a "Dear Daisy..." postcard, the following: "We heard about how you made a difference by founding Girl Scouts.  Here's how I would like to make a difference."  And the responses are as varied as the girls themselves:

• keep animals and humans healthy
• make sure that I am kind
• let girls do what boys do
• help people accomplish their dreams
• create self-flying cars with mini-fridges
• become President
• keep your legacy for as long as I can

These Girl Scouts get that deep connection with Daisy.  And someday I have no doubt that I'll be getting from place to place in that self-flying car with a mini-fridge! I want all our historic sites to inspire that same deep well of inspiration. Our visitors--and our communities--want us to connect with them.  They want to be inspired by place, by story, by connections to their lives.  They're not particularly inspired by old-fashioned furniture, by dates; by complicated genealogies or by what you or your guides are inspired by.  The challenge for each of us seems to be to work together to let go of what we think visitors "need to know" and to embrace personal meaning-making.

One quick note about the how and the way of these conversations.  They continue to be one of the most rewarding parts of my work.  Take a few minutes out of your day and ask visitors (or non-visitors) some questions.  But make those questions meaningful, not just informational.  I ask those informational questions too, but the great conversations come when thoughtful questions are asked. Make those evaluations fun--the Girl Scouts thought the Dear Daisy postcard was an activity, rather than a chore. Final vital piece of information: anyone will answer a survey in exchange for a box of Girl Scout cookies.

What Would You Bring to a Museum?

My friend and colleague Fabiana Chiu posted this on her Facebook page last week and I was so intrigued by the idea I asked to share it more widely.

Museums are filled with meanings. Those meanings are offered by us, the people who go to and work in/with museums. What if instead of paying an entrance fee, we each brought an object of ours as payment in lieu? Something that we think is related to/reminds us of the exhibit we are there to see? A point of connection, a conversation starter, an offering to appease the soul. For instance, What would you bring to the Frida Kahlo show at the NY Botanical Garden? What would you bring to her if you were to meet her in person? I would bring her one of my plants.

And in a PS, she explained the image at the top of this post:

PS, the succulent pictured here was purchased and raised by me when I was in my teens. When I left Peru for good, my dear aunt Blanca adopted it. Here it is, 30 years later, alive and well, strong like us.

What exhibit or museum would you bring an offering to?  And what would you bring?

Who's Your Hero? Where's the Power?

This past week, in Kyiv, Ukraine, I had the opportunity to walk through two quite incredible exhibits at the National Art Museum of Ukraine, with deputy director Yuliya Vaganova.  I'll combine the two into this one post but both deserve deep attention on their own.

Heroes:  An Inventory is a project that began several years ago, supported by the Goethe Institute of Germany, with the curatorial staff at the museum working with German curator Michael Fehr.  The project began in the simplest of ways:  the staff took an inventory, in every department, of every piece of art that was classified as "hero."  More than 650 works had some identification as “hero”, “saint”, “martyr”, or “heroic deeds."  180 of those works were selected for the exhibition.   Although this project was begun before the Maidan protests began; the revolution, annexation of Crimea and the war in the East, have made heroes a topic of significant conversation again.  The exhibition's thoughtful text labels (hooray, in English as well!) encourage that conversation.  In part, the introductory label says,

For us, therefore, this exhibition is much more than a self-reflection; it is an experiment which results will have a significant impact on the reorganization of the permanent collection and also might push the community to reflection.

The exhibit begins with a gigantic, non-removable marble statue of Lenin, hidden behind a wall for the decades since independence.  Organized in a number of different categories, from heroes of labor to a room full of Stalin and Lenin (displayed as in a storehouse, in the top picture); to heroes of war; traditional Ukrainian heroes like Cossack Mamai; cultural heroes (the smallest group represented in the collection, Yuliya told me);  religious heroes or saints; of course, poet and writing Taras Shevchenko.   Each gallery included an interpretive text panel as well as an enlarged quote on the topic. The exhibition ends in a three-part way.  The first is the most recent portrait of a hero in the collection:  a Chernobyl liquidator.  Then, a room that's used for programs and conversations--diving deeper into both scholarly and emotional aspects of heroism, and finally, a small wall featuring individual stories of personal heroes (and not surprisingly, moms and dads are important.)

Yuliya shared several important points about the exhibition development process that I think hold lessons for us all.  First, that this was really a collaborative process, working across all the disciplines and collections of the museum, from ancient art to today.  Second, that the collaboration with Michael Fehr was, as she said, the first international project that was not a colonial one, but really a partnership.    Third, in comparison to the way most people visit museums in Ukraine, these were galleries of conversation.  Everyone was talking to their family or friends as they went through the exhibit.   And lastly, that the director of museum education said that it was the first exhibition that the museum had done that really didn't need an excursion with an expert to understand.  That visitors, all visitor, could make their own meaning from the creative, thoughtful text, object selection and installation.

The second exhibition, Spetsfond, curated by Yuliya Lytvynets is a fascinating look at our own profession, within the context of the Soviet Union.  To quote the museum,

In the National Art Museum of Ukraine (then the State Ukrainian Museum) Special secret storage was formed in 1937-1939. It contained works from Kharkiv, Odesa, Kyiv, Poltava and from special storages of Ukrainian art exhibition created by so called enemies of the people. They were formalists, nationalists, those who, according to party ideologists, "distorted reality" and threatened the existence of the "new society". Most of the names and artworks were forgotten for a long time in the history of Ukrainian art. Thus, the works of Oleksandra Ekster, Oleksandr Bohomazov, Davyd Burliuk, Viktor Palmov, Oleksa Hryshchenko, Onufrii Biziukov, Neonila Hrytsenko, Semen Yoffe, and lots of others were transferred to the Special storage of the NAMU.

This special storage was open only to the director and the KGB.  The works were removed from their frames and rolled away.  The exhibition includes not only the works (some of which are head-shakingly normal) but also the records.  Because after all, we are recordkeepers.   A collections book noted the works that were to be stored away; it sometimes noted the fate of their creators ("artist arrested").  Also in the exhibit are some of the paperwork about the "trials" of the artists and the "reasons" for the works censorship.   Interestingly, at one point, a passionate and courageous staff hit upon a solution of classifying the works with a prefix of 0, denoting that the works had no significant artistic merit--which then meant that nobody bothered to look at them to decide if they should be destroyed.  And so they survived.

During my time in Ukraine these last weeks, I had many conversations with my colleagues about the new de-communisation laws passed by the Parliament. The laws are so vague as to be unclear about the impact on museums but they do ban Nazi and Communist symbols and, as I understand, define new heroes for Ukraine's history. As I walked through both exhibits I was incredibly moved and heartened by a museum who, though literally on the frontline of the Revolution last year, continues to build new ways of thinking about the past. History museums could--and should--take a lesson from this art museum's work.

Fundamentally, I realized that these exhibits are both about power.  On the one hand, they both share the horrible power seized and exercised by the Soviet state; a legacy that continues to shape this entire region.  But on the other hand, I see other, more hopeful uses of power here as well:

• the power of collaboration
• the power of storytelling
• the power of visitors, making their own choices and having their own conversations
• the power of documentation
• the power of objects
• the power of museum staff
• and most importantly,  the power of museums to be centers of civic engagement.  

We only need to decide to take the power in our own hands.

What's Right with Exhibits? What I Learned in Latvia

One of my memorable moments at AAM this year was an informal meet-up with just a few of us to talk about what’s wrong with exhibits—particularly history exhibits. I’ve been trying to puzzle out why, so often, I feel overwhelmed by technology, information and even design-- and unmoved and underwhelmed by the experience, despite the presence of what should be compelling stories. Sometimes I feel like we’ve developed exhibit processes and practices in which we can’t get out of our own way to tell a good story.

In Riga, Latvia, I found an almost magical exhibit that made me remember why I love this work. It provided ideas and inspiration for me to strive for in my own practice. The Žaņa Lipkes Memoriāl
is a very small museum, located across the river in a neighborhood. You really have to seek it out—but I’m so glad I did, recommended by a second-hand Latvian museum colleague who sent a list of museums for me to visit.

Zana was “an eternal dissident.” He left school after third grade, but spoke several languages. He served in the first World War and then worked as a stevedore and other jobs on Riga's docks. He seemed to not like authority of any sort, and to have an independence of spirit—and of humanity—in almost every situation. His story is long and fascinating--you can read it fully here. But this very ordinary man—probably a man you wouldn’t look twice at on the street--did an extraordinary thing. During World War II, when the Nazis occupied Latvia, he saved the lives of more than 50 Jews by hiding them in a bunker built underneath his woodshed. This small museum commemorates this large act of humanity. I’ll do my best to describe this experience—because it is an experience almost more than an exhibition.

You cross the river, turn right, and go into a neighborhood of small wooden houses, wondering if you’re headed in the right direction. But there I was—a small sign told me I was at the right place. It was a sunny day, and my eyes adjusted to the dark, with streaks of light across the floor. You’re greeted and offered an audio guide. A very small first floor exhibit explains the neighborhood; but the real story is on the second floor. 

 

The room is dark. You hear music on your audio guide, and you’re first drawn to the large center—you look down, down, down, into a undergrounds space the size of the bunker, with video of Mrs. Lipkes telling their story.  You move around, and learn that the music you hear changes with the number of people in the room and the trajectory of each of us. Around the outside of the space, really feeling like a barn, are perhaps 10 cases, lit from within. Each explores one aspect of the story: Lipkes’ life; the physical structure, the lives of those he saved; and the ongoing relationship they maintained throughout his life. The cases are beautifully designed, and even the detail of easy-to-use magnifiers are provided. It’s a space that encourages quiet exploration; a sense that you too, are entering a secret place.

After exploring that room, I descended again, but not to the bunker, but to a space where you again look down into the bunker—but you also see a recreation of a sukkah, a reminder of the tents that sheltered the Israelites in ancient times, and a ghostly drawing of a beautiful landscape, perhaps the Promised Land, perhaps the landscape around Riga, but a faint landscape of memory.  For a fuller --and fascinating--explanation of the creative team's perspective, check out this article from e-architect.

I was lucky to ask a few questions that day of a new colleague, Anna Perchstein, who works at the museum, which helped extend my understanding beyond my symbolic experience.  But then, on that bright sunny day, I left the museum, shaped like an overturned boat, an ark-- and turned the corner to go out the gate. Right in front of me is a recreated woodpile--the place that kept covered such important secrets. A bench in front let me—and any other visitor—have one bit of final contemplation.

What made this museum work? It was the 2014 winner of the Kenneth Hudson award of the European Museum Forum honoring "the most unusual, daring and sometimes controversial achievement that challenges common perceptions of the role of museums in society."  I have to admit, that both my photos and my text here are inadequate--you'll just have to go see for yourself!

Here's what made it work for me:

• It tells one story—and only one story--well. We’ve all been guilty of jamming too many stories, facts and objects into a single exhibit.
• It thinks about the content and the design is a seamless way creating a whole experience.
• It allows for individual exploration and contemplation.
• It thinks creatively and out of the box about how to convey ideas and information. A dark room you explore on your own? Music that reacts to you, but doesn’t overwhelm? All of the elements work together.  I had done a quick read of Leslie Bedford's new book, The Art of Museum Exhibitions, this summer, but this museum will send me back to think about it again.
• It is about emotion but not in a manipulative way. It makes us think about this “eternal dissident” and wonder why he did what he did and what we would do in the same situation. 
• It makes us all human.

Where's Your 21st Century Community?

If you're a local or regional history museum,  what are you documenting about your local community today?  You might be collecting flyers,  or hand-made quilts, or signs from downtown stores.  But this summer, my husband, Drew Harty, has embarked on a project that's made me both think deeply about our communities today and wonder about their future.  And what, we as museums, might be doing about this.

Drew's spending three months looking at and photographing those places that we see almost every day, but we really almost never look at--those retail landscapes at the edge of your town--at the edge of really almost every town and city, large and small.   He's undertaken this project because he wonders,

What have we lost as towns across the country look increasingly the same? Are Retail Landscapes changing our standards for what is unique and beautiful in our communities? Are these places that are so familiar to all of us changing our expectations of what a community should be?

What could a history museum do to further this conversation?  I think we need to go deeper than just exhibits highlighting once thriving Main Streets.   Perhaps we could engage in conversations about beauty,  or projects that encourage a thoughtful exploration of placemaking.   Could an exhibit highlight the places all of the goods in our community come from?  How can we encourage young people to think beyond the shiny newness of strip malls and big boxes?  How can we force ourselves to go beyond a simple, class-related dismissal of these places ("oh, I never shop at Wal-Mart") to creating our museums as an alternative, as a place where everyone in our community feels as welcome as they do at Wal-Mart?

Drew's speculated at what viewers one hundred years from now will think about these images.  Will they be as quaint and outdated as those horse and buggy main streets?  Or will they be so, so, so familiar that shots of fields, farm and neighborhoods are the true exotics?

So, museum folks, what say you?  And, by the way, you have until midnight, this Wednesday, June 19,  to help Drew's project along the way by supporting him at the crowd funding site USA Projects and you can see regular updates on his Tumblr feed.

History at the Table: Let the Conversations Begin!

In April,  I'll be joining a dozen or so historians in a convening of the Public Historians and Local Food Movement Working Group at the National Council on Public History annual conference in Ottawa, Canada.  The working group is led by Michelle Moon and Cathy Stanton, who've encouraged us to begin the conversation through a series of entries on Cathy's blog.  Mine, inspired by the ablove photo that came through by Facebook feed one morning (thanks Katya Kuchar)  explores the connections between the personal and the political as we think about food--in Ukraine, in the United States, and in museums.  For the full post (and other great posts as well) please go here.

I'm really looking forward to the conversation about the ways in which public historians and museums might connect more deeply to an understanding of food--but it does require, as I titled the post, moving beyond the butter churn.   How does your museum connect to stories of food and place?

Where Nothing Happens: Could You Embrace It?

Could your museum promote itself with the slogan "Where nothing happens" ?  How about if you work at a historic house?  Last month I had the chance to visit an organization that proudly promotes itself that way--you can even buy the T-shirt.  It provided a compelling example of why--and perhaps how--we need to think deeply about our organizational missions and about whether the future matters more than the past.

It was a misty, rainy, day before Christmas driving down Highway 1 in Big Sur, California when we saw a big, hand-lettered sign saying,  "Henry Miller Memorial Library.  Free coffee and wifi."  Why not stop?  We parked, made our way up through the dripping trees,  were welcomed by a young woman browsing the Internet and a cat.   Inside the building,  the one-time home of Miller's close friend Emil White (at right, with Miller, above)  there were books (all kinds of books, not just Miller's work)  for sale,  busts of Miller, random letters,  typewriters, and photographs. 

It was a warm, cozy respite on a rainy day--but it made me want to find out more about this place that could have been a museum, or a historic house, but turned itself to something else, something more vital.  Miller himself wasn't interested in memorials, saying "Memorials defeated the purpose of a man’s life. Only by living your own life to the full can you honor the memory of someone.” 

The Library has an archival collection, well-preserved (and they have summer internships available) but the archives, the preservation, is only one tool in their arsenal of creating a memorial that's not really a memorial.

 

I was intrigued enough to buy the 2012 publication, Where Nothing Happens:  The Best of the Henry Miller Memorial Library where I learned a bit more about the place, including Henry Miller's life in Highly Digestible Bullet Form and his life in Highly Digestible Paragraph Form.  Different contributors talk vividly about the way that the library serves as the focus for the cultural life that's directly connected to the incredible Big Sur landscape continues to flourish.   As Christopher Lorenc writes, the library "doesn't traffic in cliches about some bygone cultural era.  It provides lifeblood for real, living, cutting-edge creative work right now."

Every historic house or museum is a memorial in some way or another,  founded and continued by the desire to commemorate something or someone.  But in far too many, we just look backward.  Not every historic house can attract the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Neil Young or Laurie Andersen to play benefit concerts.  But we can all look to the spirit of the place or people we commemorate for clues on how we might look forward ourselves.  Were those homeowners of an early time risk-takers in business or industry?  Why don't we encourage new innovations?   Were they writers or artists or social reformers?  Why not,  like the Matilda Joslyn Gage House in upstate New York,  take on today's tough conversations about reproductive rights?  Were those early house dwellers just ordinary, you say?  (really no one ever says that about their historic house inhabitants, even if they were).  Why not embrace telling the stories of all sorts of everyday people with all the courage, determination, failure and success that implies?

If we want our museums and historic sites to be the lifeblood of our communities,  we need to (paraphrasing Miller himself) live our organizational lives to the fullest.  Now there's a New Year's resolution.

A Bear Skull, a Witches Charm and Me: Connecting Story, Place and Objects in London

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As a part of my work for Context Travel, I’m currently in London with their staff and yesterday, we took a walk along the south side of the Thames;  and today at the British Museum I saw Shakespeare Staging the World, a special exhibition devoted to exploring how Shakespeare’s plays reflected the time when London was emerging as  a world city;  and the ways he shaped a sense of national identity (and, in no small measure, how his sense of the world continues to matter to us today).

It’s meaningful to be in a place and then see objects related to it—even ones that seem small.  Yesterday, our great, enthusiastic guide Carolyn stopped us at Bear Lane and talked about bear-baiting as a spectator sport, even quoting from Samuel Pepys diary entry.  Today in the exhibition I encountered a bear skull, with its teeth filed down, excavated from the site of the new Globe Theater, a handwritten poster for bear baiting, along with a quote from Shakespeare on the same topic.  The place, the object, the document and the literary source, all connected.

On the walk along the Thames, the river served as the ongoing central focus;  from Sir Francis Drake’s Golden Hind and the docks to the survival of St. Paul’s during World War II despite German bombers ability to follow the reflection of the river during bombing runs. And in the exhibit, Shakespeare's historical plays, Italian plays and more  made me remember what we had seen the day before and provided me with an even deeper context.

It’s the bringing it up today that made it meaningful to me, and I suspect it does to many other people as well.  The Shakespeare exhibition showcased a array of objects,  both glittering, gruesome and everyday, from a shield associated with the funeral of Henry V to a calf's heart stuck with pins used by witches,  from embroidered tapestries to paintings of queens.  But the exhibit felt not just historical but also modern. Video projections or screens feature actors from the Royal Shakespeare Company, simply dressed, performing works from Shakespeare.  I watched Paterson Joseph  perform Brutus' speech from Julius Caeser twice, literally compelled to pay attention by his voice and presence--a reminder that Shakespeare's language still matters.

The conclusion of the exhibit brings us to where we—we as visitors, and where we as Britons (not me,  but the audience) are today. The Tempest, the imagined new world of Shakespeare, reveals his interest in those questions of who we are in a changing world.  The exhibit encourages us to ponder, but doesn't answer (nor do I think needs to) why his work continues to have meaning for so many.

The final object is the exhibition is the Robbens Island Bible;  a copy of Shakespeare's works, it was owned by South African prisoner Sonny Venkatrathnam and explained to his guards as a Bible.  He shared it with other prisoners and asked them to sign their names next to passages that were particularly meaningful to them.  Here’s the verses Nelson Mandela found particular meaning in this passage from Julius Caeser:

Cowards die many times before their deaths / The valiant never taste of death but once. / Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, / It seems to me most strange that men should fear, / Seeing that death, a necessary end, / Will come when it will come.

In our conversations here we’ve been talking about making walks transformative and what that really means.  Can we change lives through exhibitions or walks?  Maybe or maybe not.  Can we change the way we might look at the world?  Most assuredly.

Where Do Your Exhibit Ideas Come From? Here's One Place

For a long time, I've talked with colleagues about the differences between exhibits that spring from ideas or concepts and those that come from objects.  Both have their strengths (and their weaknesses) and it's useful to consider where you're starting as you think about where you want to go.  But now I'm adding a third category--exhibits that spring from our audiences--not only the kind of crowd-sourcing content that involves voting (see Nina Simon's recent post on this) but those that spring from conversations with our communities.  These audience-driven exhibitions can involve an institution in thinking and re-thinking what we learn along the way, involving us in an iterative, creative process made richer by looking outside the simple frame of our collections.

The Chemung Valley History Museum wanted to develop a new exhibition.  We began the process by talking with several groups of local residents, including a high school history class.  There was uniform agreement  in all the groups that the sort of chronological presentation that characterizes most long-term local history exhibits was not interesting to most people (been there, done that, they said).   But,  said a student, "wouldn't it be cool if you could see how people our age lived?  what their lives were like?"  There have been some other great exhibits on teenagers (Chicago and New Jersey)  but we wanted to see what it might be like here.  We asked non-teenage groups about what they thought--and suddenly their faces lit up and they began discussing their own teenage years.  Teenagers it would be.

Often, this kind of idea languishes until a museum staff finds funding to pursue the next step.  But the team in Elmira decided all the resources needed were enthusiasm and a bit of time.  They held community conversations with several local groups of seniors and set a booth asking for information at the county fair.

This week, we sat down with that information to think about what we'd learned and what the next steps might be.  I'd read the summaries of the conversations and so decided to make objects and location as starting frames.  Armed with our hand post-it notes,  we listed all the objects mentioned in the conversations and began to sort them into thematic groups.  Almost immediately, we noticed something:  clothes were most often mentioned and we recalled a comment early on in the process from a community member, "don't make it just about poodle skirts."   Because, it's the top of mind.   But we wanted to think harder.  We then went back and listed objects that were implied in the conversations and added them (those are the circled ones) to our growing wall.  How many of these 20th objects are in the museum's collections?  Very few.  And we found unexpected objects:  under a theme of work,  lawnmowers, newspapers, diapers all were mentioned in discussions of first jobs. 

What themes did we see in our object post-its?  Independence,  gender, romance, big world issues.  What themes did we not see?  Cultural diversity,  the role of religion, class,  and neighborhoods.   We know those themes exist in this community, but we now know we need to work a bit harder on collecting that information.

We wondered if some of these issues might be found by thinking about places mentioned--so we posted those in a rough county map, above. That helped us see neighborhoods better, but also,  with these two notes below, note the way that the outside world had enormous effects on teenagers.

This iterative process--where we talk to each other and community members,  reflect, and go back out and talk again,  is not only an exhibit building process--it's a community building process.   (and for me, because this is the city where I grew up, a fascinating exercise in individual and collective memory). It's becoming clear that ownership of this exhibit will not be solely the museum's, but rather something that is created--and changed on an ongoing basis-- by the people whose stories we share.

What I Learned in Newfoundland #1: Stories Matter

I spent almost two full weeks in July traveling around Newfoundland,  facilitating workshops on the ways in which heritage organizations can engage older community residents in their work.  I had a tremendous time, traveling all over the province from Cape Spear to Gros Morne;  from St. Alban's to Cape Anguille and Twillingate (check out a map--I went all over!).  I met great people everywhere, saw incredible scenery,  ate some of  Newfoundland's distinctive cuisine and most of all, learned some terrific stories.   I know stories matter and I care deeply about how we use them in museums--but these workshops reminded me again of their importance.

I was looking for a way to open up a workshop that was different from the usual introductions and came up with the idea of asking participants to bring an object or image that represented an older generation.  And in each of my five workshops,  I learned bits of Newfoundland history from those objects--my very own version of the British Museum's history of the world in 100 objects.   From a bone pair of snow glasses to a miniature wheelbarrow carved by a grandfather;  from a set of sail mending needles to a coin from the company store in Corner Brook;  from a tea cozy to a photo of Nan in the garden;  from a milk pan to a hooked rug;  each object had a story--and each object would have been far, far less meaningful without the story.

I didn't ask each person to share their own object's stories, rather I asked pairs to take a minute each and learn as much as they could about the object, not telling them about any next step.  After those brief two minutes, I asked each one to share with the full group about what they had learned about the other person's object.  It was amazing how much you can learn in a minute;  and how important good listening is.  Imagine, local history museums, if you always took just one minute to learn about the meaning of each object a donor brought in.

Unfortunately, I don't have a photo of the, to me, most memorable object and story.  In St. Alban's, the workshop was at the Canadian Legion hall,  where there was a small museum dedicated to local residents who had served in the armed forces.  One of the participants had forgotten to bring an object, and she went in the museum and came back with a framed photograph of a veteran, probably in his '80s at the time of the photo.  It was her uncle, Alistair, I think, and she remembered the day he and all the other men came back from World War II.  "Oh, I can still see them sailing up to the dock,"  she said, "what a party there was that night...I was young, but it went on all night."    In that one minute,  I gained a little  understanding of the isolation and independence of Newfoundlanders,  the importance of family and community, and the ways in which a single memory can generate many more for others.   Thanks, Newfoundlanders, for sharing your stories with me.

Experiment in Progress!

What do you think?  About this? or this?  Do you agree?  Do you wonder about?  In developing exhibitions I'm continually challenging museums to get out there to talk to their communities (more to come on a couple projects I'm working on).  And this week in St. John's, Newfoundland,  I saw a great example of the process at the Rooms,  Newfoundland's provincial museum (and art gallery, and archives, all in one place, with a commanding spot atop a hill overlooking the harbor in this small city).

All museum professionals seem to agree that this big overview history exhibits of a place, whatever that place is, are really challenging to develop.   Some people want timelines;  others want lots of text, others want objects that really matter to them, or to see the place where they grew up.  Newfoundland and Labrador (all one province for those of you not from here) is a huge place with a great many stories, so the challenge is a big one.

At the Rooms,  there's a temporary exhibit called Working on History.  It's a bare bones design to share current interpretive thinking on the topic,  put forth already collected visitor feedback,  and along the way, explain a bit about what museums do when we do exhibits and interpret history.   There was something for virtually every kind of learner to respond to in a way they enjoyed.  So here's some of what I saw (and by the way,  thanks The Rooms for letting me take pictures here!)

First, the introductory label sets forth clear expectations in a really brief text.  Exhibit, opening, two key questions, we need your help and feedback. And the informality makes it clear it's not the usual set-in-stone experience. Done!

Six key stories already identified to explore further.  But the text asks for your "words, feelings and ideas,"  not just the open-ended, "what do you think?"   Here's some of the six stories and responses.

Don't like to write?  Here's another alternative:

The middle image is a great reminder to any of us who might be tempted to romanticize childhood stories;  the bottom image depicts St. John's houses, instantly recognizable to residents and visitors.
Don't like to write or draw, but like to have things organized?  How about a timeline?

But those key topics haven't disappeared.  Here's another way of looking at them (words, no images), based on what previous audience work revealed.

But what about those visitors who like the sound of things?  Not an audio installation,  but a chance to share your thoughts, via a paper quiz that you could submit,  testing your knowledge of distinctly Newfoundland words (for instance, one I learned this week, "scrunchions.")

Objects were installed around the outside of the room grouped by the big topic sections.  So visitors got a chance to share feedback there too.  I think the labels do a nice job of modeling possible response, so visitors aren't just facing a blank page.

The museum is experimenting with digital labels so there was a digital label to experiment with--I'll be really interested to see what visitors make of this and how it's eventually used in the exhibit.  It was funny how much less lively this seemed than the rest of the space.

In addition to all the feedback mechanisms,  there were also labels and sections where the museum explained a bit about the process.  A conservation lab was set up and a staff member (not a conservator the day I was there) was on hand to answer questions and a visitor had engaged him in a very lively discussion about fishing issues.  Additional labels talked about storytelling and about using artifacts.  I'd love to see a next steps in this where they talked about and asked visitor feedback on design as well as content.

A colleague and I had an interesting discussion about the limits of visitor feedback in this exhibition that raised more questions than it answered.  What happens to posts that are visitor-generated but fall outside of accepted historical narrative or are more complex politically than a governmental organization is willing to take on?  In crowd-sourcing,  does the crowd produce the most interesting ideas?  How can those outlying but sometimes important ideas be incorporated into the final exhibition?  And how can that final exhibition be lively in the same way as this temporary version?

Much to consider, and a number of ideas I'll be putting to work elsewhere.