Ideas Make Exhibits (and Design Helps)

I saw three exhibits in Budapest that serve as models for the belief that exhibits are about ideas, not just about objects.   Each one also combined great objects, compelling images and engaging design.  But the idea behind each exhibit is what made me want to see more--and will make me remember each long after my visit.

Let's start with excerpts from the opening labels:

Who can be regarded as a "true" citizen anyway?   What are the prime elements of civic mentality and morality?  How did the term "citizen"  which we regard either as an example to follow or an enemy to be destroyed in specific cases even today come into being?

This exhibition will guide you through the time period taking place between the end of the 18th century and the day of urban unification to show you the social history of citizenship.

From the exhibit at the Budapest History Museum

And now another from the Museum of Ethnography:

Why the Finns?
Because we are related and therefore we ought to know something about them?  ...because the Museum of Ethnography has never before organized a large-scale exhibition of its "unequalled" Finnish material?...because they are worth our attention?  because we have something to learn from them? ... Because we have as much to learn from them today as we did before?

The Museum of Ethnography's How We See the Finns attempts to communicate Finnish identity from a Hungarian perspective--to say something about the Finns as a people and about the diversity of their national culture.  Though it approaches its subject matter as an outsider it does so not with the curiosity of a distant foreigner but with the somewhat bashful interest one shows in the life of a good friend.

The final exhibit, also at the ethnographic museum, A Village in Hungary: People, Objects, Relations, was about the  pioneering fieldwork done in the 1950s-70s in a single Hungarian village during a time of great change. In the opening label, the curators begin:

The two decades following the Second World War saw the Hungarian peasantry facing a set of circumstances constituting the greatest turning point in its history.  The roots of a traditional peasant lifestyle, a product of centuries of development, were being eradicated with shocking speed, partly as a result of industrialization and--more potently--at the hand of the state.

In each of these opening labels (thankfully in English as well) the idea is clearly presented.  We know what we're going to see or learn,  we see a small flash of humor at times, we understand the connection to today's life, we understand a curatorial voice and perspective.  The opening text makes a strong case for the exhibit's value.

Each exhibit started with an idea that was driven by the objects and images--but then clever design connected us, as a visitors, to those complex ideas.   Here's some pictures of the designs (and a big shout-out to Hungarian museums for their generous photography policy--okay everywhere!)

In the exhibit on citizens, large picture frame graphics (top of post and above) that spread across the walls and floors made an exhibit that was primarily graphic have a lively sense of movement.

A simple hands-on dress up area that also included bean bag chairs and small tables--installed in what could have been an awkward space.

These boxes were in the public areas of the Museum of Ethnography before you entered the exhibit.  the outside vitrine had a traditional object.  When you entered the box,  the inside housed an modern Finnish equivalent--and the text, "It's not what you think."

Most of the casework was very simple, built of what looks like birch.  It all had very clean, modern lines, which worked both with modern materials and with the historic objects.

Massing of everyday objects (also cases of Fiskar scissors and Nokia phones) created visually interesting spaces.  That is a lot of rubber boots!

Traditional objects and their contemporary counterparts (produced both in traditional and new ways) were always juxtaposed, encouraging close comparisons.

In the village exhibit, this line-up of tools and the accompanying graphic show the distribution of tools within the village and their use within  and between families.  And the very large graphic below shows the different kinds of pottery used by families as a reflection both of taste and of economic circumstances.

Throughout the exhibit, large graphics (shown above) and quotes from both the ethnographers and the villagers themselves provided a sense of immediacy and intimacy about the village and those who lived there.

And to me, the one element that expressed so clearly, the end of a that time and of the destruction of traditional lifestyles is shown below.  Traditionally, the village men would go to a stable to hang out,  to talk-- a large photo and the stools they sat on are shown below.  But the accompanying label mentions that after a certain point these gatherings ended--anyone whose stable light was on,  who might be gathering in a group, was reported.  So they gathered no longer.

This little line-up of stools conveys so much--but only because the exhibit developers helped me make that connection, to understand this complicated story.   All three of these exhibits brought me to new understandings and will provide both content and design inspiration to me.

Everybody's Doing It: Museum Night in Budapest

Last Saturday I spent the almost longest day of the year at Budapest's Museum Night on a quick weekend visit to Hungary.  More than 84 Budapest museums participated and hundreds of thousands of locals and tourists headed out to enjoy an incredible range of activities for families, young people, old people and everyone in between.  It was great to see crowds of people at bus stops and on the metro,  reading their Museum Night guidebook and trying to figure out where to go--it felt like exactly the way museums should feel--a real part of the community.   A ticket which admits you to all the museums and provides free public transport cost 1300 forints--about $5.60.   The event began in Hungary in 2003 with only a few thousand visitors--and now attracts about 400,000 over the course of the evening.  Events also happened at other museums all over Hungary, in communities large and small.  I had last visited Budapest 18 years ago as it was emerging from decades of Communist rule, and this event gave me a chance to see how the city--and its museums--had changed.

Out of the 84,  I only made it to 6--but each one presented something different.  It wasn't that any particular activity I saw was so unique--it was the collective effort--and the sense of being a part of a something that everyone participated in a big city.  So here's what I did:

Hungarian National Gallery:  Activities for kids,  artwork by kids, and set-up for a later-night hairshow--based on hair found in the work of Futurist artist Depero, the subject of a major retrospective.   Hair show?  Why not?

Budapest History Museum:  Quick listen to a concert of Mexican music, and a browse through the galleries, including one very good exhibit about the meaning of citizen in the 18th century.  Blog post on that to come.

Art School whose name I don't remember:  Senior show, and music.

Art Studio torchlight tour:  There's a garden, as big as a city block, that contains both sculptures and studios for artists.  It's gated off, and only open to art students.  Taking a tour of something that's never open to the public was great--and the atmosphere was, well, atmospheric.

Franz Lizst Museum:  no surprise, a classical music concert, and a brief walk through period rooms.

The House of Terror:  Absolutely packed, this museum is in the former building used by Hungarian Fascists and later the Communist secret police.  It's a fascinating, complex place telling the story of both those eras. The crowds meant that we just shuffled through exhibit spaces, but it's something when a young man turns to the girl he's with and says, "let's stay for the 11:00 PM lecture."

Interestingly,  a quick Google search shows me Museum Nights all over Europe--from Amsterdam to Bucharest--but none in the United States.  Am I wrong?  Or what don't US museums embrace this successful model?

Why are Museums about Writing so Interesting?

I’ve written before about the Bulgakov Museum in Kyiv, one of my favorite museums in Ukraine Just recently, I’ve been in two other museums devoted to writing and writers that made me consider why it is that museums about words are so good at using ideas, not just words, to convey their story. 

First, the Franz Kafka Museum in Prague.  A new museum, located right on the river, it’s a highly theatrical presentation of Kafka’s life and work in Prague.  Like most people, I know of Kafka, but am not terribly familiar with his work.  The exhibits do a great job of integrating his life, his work, and the city of Prague.   The museum is mostly in shades of gray, black and white,  and uses several theatrical devices to connect the story.  A curled scrim shows a ghostly rotating view of Yiddish theater;  a section about a circular life includes materials installed in flat circular cases, lit from above.  The women in Kafka’s life are highlighted in individual cases that are transparent from front to back, giving a sense of his complicated personal life.   At one point, you enter a dark narrow space filled with the reflective glass fronts of file cabinets and dotted with ringing phones.  You pick up the phones and someone is speaking.  The sense of futility, of no way out, is palpable.   It’s a pretty great installation when you leave wanting to read Kafka, as I did (but haven’t yet).

The Kafka Museum in Prague appears to have substantial resources but this week I visited another exhibit in a much smaller museum, with much more limited resources:  the Literature Museum in Kharkiv, Ukraine.  The museum was founded after the end of the Soviet Union and it is a great testament to that fact that ideas don’t cost money.Their permanent exhibit explores Ukrainian writers in the 20th century.    The exhibit carries a strong conception of the narrative of those writers and the changes brought both the advent and decline of the Soviet Union, and that conceptual strength is assisted by the inventive efforts of design students.  

This could have been an opportunity to see an exhibit that was just a big line-up of books.  But instead,  enormous photographs and a timeline line the full exhibit.  Each room looks at a different time period,  and the extended text labels about the books shown are not installed directly with the book, but contained in folders for browsing.

The last three rooms were the most memorable to me.   Ukrainians (and I believe I have this right) have a phrase describing those who go into themselves,  going into a “blue world.”  In this “blue world,’   photographs with blanks for faces show the writers who were imprisoned or killed.   In the next room, the Soviet story is in full sway:  Soviet leaders hover over a giant tower of Soviet books.  Around the walls of the room,  the top shelves show those the works of writers who prospered during the Soviet Union;  a lower shelf, those who accommodated; and the very bottom shelf,  the works of those who resisted.   But there’s a double meaning:  not only does that bottom shelf represent the suppressed writers, but said the exhibit's co-curator,  “it’s a little sign of respect as we bow down to look at them.”

The final room is dedicated to the post-Soviet period.  Hand-designed wall-paper includes images of today’s Ukrainian writers;  a suggestion of a coffeehouse, with notepaper replacing napkins in their ever-present holder and a television with books inside, all provide a way to consider the new world that independence has brought.  The world of ideas, the world inside a writer’s mind, is made real in all these exhibitions.  We had a lively discussion, in a café, about whether this was because writer’s museums are about ideas and other museums are just about objects—what do you think?

"That is not for our people" I disagree!

That phrase, “That is not for our people”  is one I have heard more than once at workshops here and always find it incredibly frustrating. What is not for Ukrainians, say some?  A whole host of things they say—visitor-friendly museums, engaging exhibits, transparency in collections and museum operations. To me it represents the worst of the old-style Soviet thinking—a one size fits all mentality combined with a sense that someone in charge makes the decision about what is best for “our people.”

Yesterday, after the end of my workshop with Kharkiv museums, I saw the best illustration I could imagine about why people who say that are wrong. During the day, the participants had done a great job creating some  interactives prototypes which were laid out on big pieces of brown paper at the contemporary art space where we met. The 11 year-old daughter of one of the staff members is a regular visitor.  She came in  and was instantly drawn to the group's work.   She tried each one, and then, on her own initiative, became their guide to other visitors, including adults, who came into the gallery. She encouraged them to try each interactive, explaining how it worked and what it meant, rewarding everyone with a brilliant smile for their participation.

These elements that engage museum visitors—they are for Ukrainians. And, just as we left the workshop and walked through the park, I saw something else that some in power want to say is not for their people-- a group of students and others assembled in protest.   As I understood it, they had gathered to draw attention to the general failure of the police to do their jobs, to enforce the laws.

Young people, from that pig-tailed girl exploring new ideas in a gallery space to my museum colleague who dashed off yesterday to join friends protesting the wholesale cutting of trees for development and personal gain, continue to serve notice that the old ideas and ways of thinking are no longer for “our people."

Hopeful signs during a troubling time for Ukraine.

Returning #2: Crimean Tatars

Last week I had the opportunity to visit Crimea, a very different part of Ukraine (and in fact, it only became a part of Ukraine—then a Soviet Republic—in 1954). A peninsula on the Black Sea, Crimea’s strategic location has attracted seafarers, explorers and others for centuries—from Genoa to today’s Russia. So many people have come to Crimea, but one group’s story is about return as well. That group, Crimean Tatars, have had an experience that is so strongly about the combination of place and identity; about the ability to retain one’s culture under pressures most of us could hardly imagine; and about returning to a place once thought lost.

Beginning in the 13th century, Crimea became an important hub of Islamic civilization; today, such historic sites as the Khan’s Palace in Bakhchisaray (detail above) testify to their power and influence. Russian annexed the Crimean Khanate in 1783, beginning a wave of Tatar immigration to the Ottoman Empire. (that’s a very short history of a very long, complex story) On a single day in 1944, May 18, every single Crimean Tatar--hundreds of thousands-- were deported, by order of Joseph Stalin, who perceived them as a threat, to Uzbekistan and other far-removed Soviet provinces. More than half of those deported died along the way.

But perestroika and the end of the Soviet Union meant that deportation was not the end of the story of Crimean Tatars in Crimea. Today, more than 250,000 Crimean Tatars have returned to their homeland, leaving homes and livelihoods back in Uzbekistan. Some are returning to a homeland they never knew except from the stories of their parents and grandparents. Deportation Day, May 18, is commemorated every year with a rally in the main square in Simferopol and several projects are underway to document the Crimean Tatar experience and their rich traditional culture.  Here's one such project: No Other Home,  which has been exhibited at the Ukrainian Museum in New York City.

What will I remember about my introduction to Crimean Tatars in Crimea? First, in Bakhchisary, the workshop of a 85 year old master jeweler (top) who showed us his intricate filigree work while his young apprentices worked diligently, without lifting their heads, at this beautiful tradition, as the master spoke with us. Second was walking home at twilight in Ak-Mechet, a Tatar settlement outside of Simferopol where my friend a Peace Corps volunteer lives—as we walk, we pass the new mosque, lit up for services. Third, that great Crimean Tatar food. 

But fourth, and most memorable, is the conversation with my friend's neighbor across the street in Ak-Mechet, who, after hearing what I did for a living, asked if there was any way I could help recover Crimean Tatar cultural materials from museums and archives in Moscow. His request speaks volumes about the power of objects, of cultural materials, that contain the stories and memories of a vibrant culture.  Sitting in a friendly kitchen, drinking tea and eating sweets,  the museum world's sometimes theoretical discussions about repatriation became intensely personal for me.  I was very sorry to tell him that I only could wish I could be of help to his community.    The Crimean Tatars' story of return is far from over.

Returning

The past couple weeks I've learned about several different situations that involve return:  return to a homeland, return of collections, return or reclaiming of identity.  I'm currently in Crimea and will write more soon about the Crimean Tatars,  but wanted to share a bit about the Lobkowicz Collection in Prague, a quite amazing and complicated story about nationalism, pride, and return.   The Lobkowicz family were one of the richest and most powerful families in Bohemia, and by extension, in Central Europe for more than 300 hundred years.  They were art collectors (Brueghel and Canaletto, to name just two artists), and patrons of music (Beethoven and Hayden, to name just two composers).   Hereditary titles were abolished in 1918, with the founding of the Czech Republic,  so there were no more Prince Lobkowiczs.  However,  the last prince was active in the Czech national movement and served as an ambassador to Great Britain for the Czech government in exile during World War II.  The Nazis confiscated the family's vast collections and many castles, including the palace at Prague Castle.   After the war, the buildings and palaces were returned, but all too soon,  the family fled to American with nothing after the Communist take-over of Czechoslovakia in 1948.

But the 20th century wasn't quite done dealing the Lobkowicz family surprises.  The Velvet Revolution of 1989 included legislation to return assets taken more than 40 years before.  So, finally, the family, now fully settled in the United States, receives back more than a dozen castles and vast archival and object collections of immeasurable value. One reason for the return was (very interesting to me as I see Ukraine) rapid re-investment and revitalization of the country.   Those more than a dozen castles were too many to restore, so most were sold and the family has concentrated their efforts in the Palace at Prague Castle and at Nelahozeves,  a chateau in the country, both of which I had a chance to visit.  In addition, David Krol, Deputy Director of Visitor Services was good enough to spend time over coffee chatting with me about the projects underway.

The audio tour at the Palace is narrated by family members, including William, now living in Prague full time with his family and running what is not an NGO, but a private enterprise (but the objects were returned under an agreement with the Czech government that forbids their sale).   The audio tour, available in multiple languages, is free with your admission.   I loved hearing the family story--but absolutely the most touching part to me,  is the sole room of narration by  the family member (sorry, my notes fail me here) who remembers the palace depicted in the paintings as a child and talks about how he, now in his 80s,  never could have imagined that he would ever return, ever be able to walk those halls again.   In some ways, it's hard to imagine being the family who commissions Beethoven sonatas and purchases Canalettos,  but that one voice made the entire family seem human;  made it a story not only about Princely Collections, but a touching one about place, family, loss, and return.

Nelahozeves (above)  is different--the Palace at Prague Castle is installed as galleries;  but Nelahozeves is a series of period rooms.  I'm not a huge decorative arts fan, and we took the tour with a Czech speaking guide and an English handout,  but I loved visiting.   I'm unclear about the process used to recreate the period rooms, but they seemed lively in a way rooms often do not,  due both to the great collections, but also to a creative curatorial hand.  In Prague, you met the family through their art and patronage,  at Nelahozeves you met the family through their more domestic lives--their library, a true cabinet of curiousities,  a small family chapel, and a quite amazing gun room and hallway.

Needless to say,  all this work is an expensive undertaking.  There's a beautiful gift shop, a lively cafe, spaces are rented for events,  a daily concert outsourced to others, a small but growing membership program, a US based non-profit, and of course admissions to help support the project.  Interesting to me though, is the fact that this is a family enterprise.  In one way,  it makes me wonder about the future--what if the next generation of Lobkowiczs doesn't have the same commitment to the nation, and the collections?  But at the same time, a committed, passionate ownership, supplemented by a very small staff, gives the museums considerably more flexibility and agility than many museums, including those non-profit ones and particularly, the governmental ones that I see here in Ukraine.

This, and several other museums in Prague made me wonder about the future of the often hide-bound and stiflingly bureaucratic museums in post-Soviet nations.  Will those government museums become less and less important as they are unable to change, to respond to change, and reach out to audiences?  Will private museums (also springing up here)  become the places that visitors go to and funders support?  Does that lead to a downward spiral for museums that can't adapt and survive?   What kinds of legislation would help governmental museums compete with private museums?  In a society where corruption remains a significant issue, like Ukraine, would private museums be more or less liable to corruption?  What questions does it raise for you?

So although part of the Lobkowicz story is about the past;  the return of what once was, it is equally about the story about the future, of both the family and the Czech Republic.  It strikes me that looking forward, in a democratic society, might make the very aristocratic Max Lobkowicz (below via the museum's website),  the last prince and Czech patriot, very proud.

What a Difference A Decade (or Two) Makes

Last week, I went to Prague, a city I had last visited in 1992,  when it was still emerging from decades of Communist rule.  Now, I found a city greatly changed.  Our last visit was in December, so it was cold and gray--virtually no hotels (we rented a room in someone's apartment),  not much English anywhere,  but beautifully,  it seemed as if we heard classical music streaming forth from many windows as we walked along.

Prague today is a thoroughly European city and you can see evidence of the vast influx of European funds into the city--which combined with the efforts of the Czechs themselves, have created  a city that is friendly and easy for visitors.  And there are many, many, visitors.  I remember wandering Prague Castle almost alone, just the three of us.  And on Friday, in the pouring rain, hordes of tourists from around the world were on tour there.   

New museums have opened with private funds:  Lobkowicz Palace, the Kafka Museum, and the Kampe Museum--all new (more posts to come).  Exhibit panels and labels are done in Czech and English, at a minimum, but also often available in German, Russian, French, Japanese and Spanish, reflecting the city's lure to visitors from all over.  But of course, you walk two steps off the main tourist areas and you can immediately be on a beautiful, quiet street,  a place to think about Prague, not about souvenirs or pizza (or the great cheap beer!)

What does this mean for cultural tourism in Ukraine?  There are several important lessons, I believe.

Government involvement does matter.  For instance, the Lobkowicz Collection was returned to its owners through an agreement with Vaclev Havel's first government.  Clearly the government continues to invest in culture and tourism, and encourages others to invest.

If government-run museums do not become forward thinking and active,  private museums (whether NGOs or not) will spring up and make those government museums irrelevant to both visitors and the community.  The result will also be declining financial support, both governmental and from the private sector.

Making materials available in multiple languages is a key way to make visitors welcome--and perhaps on some level, the least expensive to create.  At one castle we visited,  the English speaking guide was not available,  but an English language handout was.  And at the tiny, tiny,  Antonin Dvorak Museum in a village,  they had a simply typed English language brochure and had added number keys to the exhibits and panels.  Otherwise, I would have never appreciated the pen that he wrote with!   I often feel badly when I tell people that materials should be in English, rather than other languages, but many, if not most, western European travelers speak English well--so it's not just for native English speakers.

Collaboration makes a difference.  Whether you're partnering with the city government to produce a river extravaganza or with another gallery or museum to mount a joint show,  these collaborative efforts draw more attention and make resources go further.

Outdoor contemporary art installations become attractions in themselves.  All over Prague, contemporary art makes you look, sometimes makes you laugh, but creates a lively, active sense of the city.  Such efforts, I assume, require extensive collaborations between artist, funder and the city.

Care for the beautiful place you live.  The center of Prague felt like a place people cared about.  Architecture is preserved, and the spaces are made for people (although there is a huge amount of graffiti that tempers this statement a bit)  Here in Kyiv, now, cars rule.  They park on the sidewalk;  you walk underground while they travel unimpeded.  In Prague, it felt like a walker's city.   I'll assume also that this has to do with less corruption in terms of land deals as well as other policies.

Just as I was telling Irina about my memory of music,  we walked by a conservatory, and sure enough, a young singer's voice sprang forth from an upper floor--a brief snatch of song, followed by an instructor's comments, and the singer began again.   For me, a memory of a long ago visit made real again.  Despite the many tourists,  Prague still remains a beautiful place particularly when, like last week,  all the chestnuts were in bloom.