The Good, the Bad, the So-So: A Few Smithsonian Museums

This past week I spent an afternoon visiting three Smithsonian museums in Washington, ones that are less-visited than the big crowd pleasers like the Air and Space and Natural History museums.  In each museum I found both exhibit elements to like and also some exhibit elements that were puzzling to me.  A quick review:

The National Museum of African Art had the best opening text to a label (above).   It read " Paul Tishman was often asked why he decided to collect African Art.  He replied, "How does one fall in love?"  It instantly made me want to see what he had fallen in love with and this bright citrus green made all the objects look terrific.   Simple (and inexpensive) introductory label--just a printed banner--but very large in scale.

The exhibit, Grass Roots:  African Origins of an American Art was a very large exhibition that explored the connections between basketmaking in the American South and its African origins.  Beautifully designed and chock-full of objects and images, it had a great opening design and an intriguing layout.  The bad news is that although you could photography from an overlooking balcony (below), photos were not allowed in the exhibition itself--a puzzling--and annoying inconsistency.

I particularly liked the way that the exhibit used not only the baskets themselves, but prints, photographs, and other documentary materials to explore not just the baskets, but the makers, the culture and  the landscape around them.  There were a number of video installations, but I dearly would have loved to handle and smell sweetgrass.  The most tactile of subjects was always walled off behind plexiglass.

And finally at this museum, a wonderful sign for the coatroom--an absolutely engaging introduction to the museum!

At the Freer and Sackler galleries, I was happy to re-visit Whistler's Peacock Room.  It's an amazing respite from hot and steamy Washington and a complete immersion in an artistic vision.  But I found the exhibits there a bit inconsistent.  First, the so-so.  A small exhibit on blue and white porcelain featured a very long, text-heavy label as the opening.   Although the topic was interesting and the works beautifully exhibited, this panel made me give the exhibit only a cursory look.   This says, "book on the wall" to me.

But then an exhibit, Taking Shape,  on ceramics in Southeast Asia had a much more engaging approach.  Using large photos, maps, and video installations combined with objects, I was, as a casual visitor, much more interested in learning about the work--and the creators.  Like the basketmaking exhibit, this one placed the objects in context.

I particularly liked that the label for the video began with questions and then let you know what you would learn by watching (and tell you that you only needed 3 minutes and 23 seconds to learn something!)

And in this exhibit, like in every installation here, objects were beautifully displayed and lit.  The lighting and casework provided the visitor with the chance to be drawn in and closely explore works.

Immediately above, an exhibit of bronzes from Cambodia.  You can read more about this exhibit in the NY Times review.  In all of these exhibits, it wasn't the cost of the installation that made it good, bad or so-so,  it was the thought and care that went into it.  Not surprisingly, the exhibits I liked the best were the ones where the thought and care was directed outward to the visitor rather than inward.

Finally, two lovely surprises.  The first was in the gardens outside the Smithsonian Castle, where enlargements of hand-tinted glass slides were installed.   It both put you in the place and transported you somewhere else.  The second, at the Hirshhorn, the surprise of someone wearing the perfect dress to visit this particular gallery space. 

How Do You Design Real Participation? A Catskills Tale

In much of my museum work, we're always talking about designing experiences that encourage real participation from our audiences and often museums are particularly interested in reaching young people.  Last weekend I went to an event, most definitely not a museum event, that I thought exemplified the qualities that could make museums into places people want to come to. 

I attended Cockstock 2, a music festival entirely generated by a small group of young people here in my beautiful part of the Catskills.   It's the brainchild of musician Alex Gohorel (center above) and his friends, held on a gently sloping field with the hills as backdrop.  This year as last, on a beautiful day.  (oh, and if you're interested, Cockstock 1 had a badminton theme;  Cockstock 2 was all about roosters).

So what did Alex, his family and friends do that museums might emulate as they consider designing participatory experiences?  A great deal.

Invite anyone to plan and participate

The event's Facebook page described it as a "celebration of art, information, and good company" and if you had something to share, you were invited to do so.  Some artists brought their work and did a small installation in the barn where anyone could come in, look at the work and talk (and many people did).  Another young woman working as a summer intern in a Farm to School program brought materials and set up a table-top display about her work.  Nothing was juried,  there weren't rules about where you could set up, and of course, there was no fee to participate--because it was a small new event the important flexibility was possible. 

Create many opportunities to pitch in and help

In this case, volunteering meant everything from performing to baking to silk-screening T-shirts and building a stage (and of course, that post-event clean-up).   There were more volunteers in the set-up than the year before.  

Make sure those opportunities are meaningful

Both of Alex's parents bring significant creative skills to the project.  Anne worked with a group to create silk-screened T-shirts for the event and John used his building skills to work with a group on building the stage.   Perhaps none of these young volunteers will ever become professional screen printers or builders but they learned about a process and about doing a job well.  And, I think, enjoyed doing it.  

Price it right

The festival was free if you just came for the music;  $5 if you wanted to eat, and $10 if you wanted to eat and get a T-shirt.  Payment was voluntary and I believe most people paid, even the musicians!   I contrast this with another local festival where the admission fee is $12 for adults including food.   It was great to have the choices about what level to pay at.  And of course if you wanted to extend the experience,  you could buy a CD.

Don't Regiment Everything

Want to play badminton--sure!   Want to bring your decorated hula hoops to share?  sure!  Want to paddle in the little pond?  sure!  Want to play music but didn't tell them in advance?  sure!   Want to dance--sure!  And you could do all of those whenever you wanted.   In the planning--not a single committee meeting.  Sometimes I'd pay money to not go to a meeting.

Make Room for Creators and Appreciators

There were loads of creators at the event--musicians and others.  There was space and time for all of them to share their work.  But there was also time and space for those of us who aren't artists to enjoy and appreciate the work.  The audience ranged in age from 4 to 70 plus--it really was for everyone.

Let Go!

Although Anne, John and Alex and many others committed significant time and energy to make the event a success,  they also understood that they couldn't control everything, that the event would make its own way,  And it did.  Imagine how lovely it was to have a band member from New York City look out at the view while playing and say, "We never thought we'd play by hillside.  It's beautiful here!"   I think there were some great unintended consequences and some new connections.

And the best part?  Never once did I hear someone say, "Well, we've always done it this way."

Thanks to Anne and Claire Gohorel and Drew Harty for some of the photos and to Nina Simon who I'm inspired by whenever I think about creating participatory experiences.

Vision, Mission, Shmisson!

I spent a day last week facilitating a conversation with staff at a museum beginning the work of revising the mission and vision statements.  To prep for the day, I randomly wandered the web in search of museum mission and vision statements and came away unsure of what we think we're doing when we write new guiding statements.

Yes,  we're exploring, we're engaging, we work in communities.  We reach out, we work with others, we want to educate and promote.  Rarely anymore do we only document, collect and preserve.   Should it be one sentence only?  Does it need several supporting paragraphs?  Is it really a true vision to say you want to be the best [insert type of museum or locality here] there is?

But the discussion with both staff and design/branding experts was an intriguing one.  We raised perhaps more questions than we answered.  Among them:

• Who is the mission really for?  To be used internally or written so that front desk staff can articulate it to visitors?
• Why is it that sometimes artifacts seemed to sneak away from the mission statement?
• Who are we for?  What does the word "family" mean?  Does that mean some people stay away?  
• Are there other ways to say "general audiences" rather than everyone?
• It's great to be aspirational, as in a vision statement, but does an organization really need two statements?  Could it not be condensed into a single statement of purpose?
• How does that vision/mission really connect to branding and design?
• Can a museum commit to pushing all of its activities through the sieve of vision and mission?  What happens if you don't?
• Can you please all of the people all of the time?  (pretty much no, I'd say)

If you have just revised your museum's vision and mission, I'd love to hear about it, particularly about the process and the final wording.   The work of deeply and collectively thinking about the work that museums do is critical--so those discussions about vision and mission need to happen--but I wonder whether there's a different way to capture those discussions for our stakeholders.   And of course, as I read somewhere in my random web travels last week (apologies for the lack of attribution),  a mission without a strategy is only a wish.

Why a bowling photo at the top of the post?  Because I found what has now become my favorite vision statement online.   It's for something called Bowling, Inc.  and it is:

More people, bowling more often, having more fun.

Perfect.

Back to Ukraine

One of the great things about working as an independent museum professional is that you never know what an encounter will lead to.   Although I've returned home from Ukraine to dive back into projects in the US, my time there is not over as I'll be returning for several projects.

I've been asked to put together a team to conduct an assessment and work on planning with Pyrohiv, the National Museum of Folk Architecture, the largest outdoor museum in Ukraine, just outside Kyiv.  With the support for the Foundation for the Development of Ukraine we'll be working with the staff during a visit this fall to  assess all areas of the museum's operation so that the potential of this incredible site can be fully realized.

Pyrohiv was the first museum I visited in Ukraine, on an incredibly cold snowy (Orthodox) Christmas Day just days after I arrived in early 2009.   On a rolling green hills outside a rapidly developing city,  the museum contains folk architecture from all over Ukraine.   It attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors a year, but faces issues of adequate funding, visitor services, staffing, new modes of interpretation, collections care and building preservation.  I'm looking forward to working both with the dedicated museum staff and the staff at the foundation to explore ways that this museum can best share its work and knowledge with both Ukrainian and international visitors.

I'm also working with the State Museum of Toys in Kyiv and a US partner on plans for a traveling exhibition of Soviet-era toys here in the United States.  Their collection presents a fascinating picture, virtually unknown to Americans,  of childhood in Soviet times.  From both ideological and design perspectives, the toys allow us to understand a time and place.    

Both these projects (and several others in the planning phase) came into being because of the opportunity to return to Ukraine on a enewal of my Fulbright grant.   The opportunity to think more deeply, to talk further with colleagues and meet new colleagues,  to visit more museums, and to make more connections, has been immeasurably helpful.   I'm a long ways from fully understanding Ukraine and Ukrainian museums, but each experience adds a bit more texture and color to my picture of this place.

Photos, top to bottom:  historic building at Pyrohiv,  Christmas service inside one of the historic wooden churches at Pyrohiv, a "space car"  toy from the State Museum of Toys, and a historic photo (courtesy of the State Museum of Toys) showing the much-coveted pedal cars in use.

A Even Cloudier Look: Thefts from L'viv Museum

After my post earlier today about corruption in Ukraine and its relationship to museums, followed up by a thoughtful comment,   I came across a L'viv Post article about the theft of manuscripts and books from a Ukrainian museum (linked from the always informative Ukrainian Museum Portal.)  Milena Chorna was generous enough to translate the full article for me which raises as many questions as it answers.  (if you're interested in the full English text, please contact me directly).

What happened?  40 rare objects are missing from the collections storage of the  National Museum in Lviv including 15th century manuscripts, described as priceless.   But here's where it begins to get complicated.  At least some of these losses were identified in 2005 and the museum's director said, "The museum storage of the manuscript department are quite extensive, one of the blocks at Dragomanov street is under remodeling, so we were hoping the manuscripts were just misplaced and would be found in some time. But we did inform the law-enforcement authorities right away.” In 2005 5 books were identified as missing;  now more than 40 are although no list is being made public as the investigation is continuing.   Museum employees deny that the theft could have been from the inside, but they admit that no one else had access to the collections and there have been no signs of forced entry.

The museum's director described the procedure for access to the collections, 

“There could have been no trespassing into the storage area.   The quarters at Dragomanov str., were the department of manuscripts and cunabulas stations itself, is under permanent State security. An outsider can enter the place in order to provide research of a specific book only by a special access granted and signed by the Director of the museum. Such papers are given to no more than 10 people during a year. But the researchers still do not have access to the storage area, by no means. Visitors work at a specially equipped room, where the books are being brought by the staff. Such an access is given to the museum researchers as well, but only in the presence of the custodian. The books are not allowed to be taken away from the museum quarters. I still got no answer from the chief custodian on how such a theft could have occurred.” 

The newspaper reports that there have been rumors about thefts from collections at several L'viv museums, including this one, and other rumors have seen  some of the manuscripts  been offered for sale.  But there's no definitive answer. 

So many questions here and so few answers. 

• Why was there a delay of 5 years for a full investigation?
• If there is State Security in the collections, what was their role?
• Why is information about the stolen items not being made public?
• What staff had responsibility for care of collections?
• What about those rumors?  Where were things seen for sale?  Why do the rumors about the collections exist?  Is there any truth or just rumors?
• Are there other security concerns at the museum?  What would be needed to address them?
• Is this a reliable news report?

There have been other documented museum thefts in Ukraine--within the past several months a Caravaggio (or reputed Caravaggio) stolen from an Odessa museum was recovered in Germany.  However, Ukraine has no official body to deal with art thefts.   

Compare this occurrence to a recent spate of thefts from small museums and historical societies in western New York State.  When a theft was discovered at one museum a email went out on a regional museum list-serv to alert others;  eventually an arrest was made and the state police circulated photos of recovered objects to museum colleagues in the region. It didn't take 5 years, the information was made public and shared; and the police and the museums worked together.

For museum colleagues all over the world, the Museum Security Network is a great on-line resource to both find and share information about "cultural property protection, preservation, conservation, and security."   Although museum security is not a main focus of my work, I wanted to bring attention to this particular issue in the hopes of encouraging transparency and openness.


Photo:  from brtsergio on Flickr

Through a Clouded Glass

Although back in the Catskills, I continue to think about my experiences with Ukrainian museums.  I never wrote much about corruption while I was there, but  corruption is a constant fog in the country.  Transparency International's Corruption Perception Index ranked 146th  out of 180 countries in 2008,  (And as an aside,  New Zealand ranks #1 and the United States #19).

Corruption is a fact of everyday life in Ukraine and it exists on every level of government and business from the police who stop speeders and take traffic in cash to bribes to enter universities up to incredible amounts of money for government officials.   Museums are not exempt.  Museums are governmental entities and their staff salaries are very low--one factor which leads some to take advantage of a museum's resources.  What does that mean?   I rarely heard a definitive story about museum corruption, but rather I heard many sideways allusions.  Was a bribe being taken so that a businessman could build on museum territory?  Perhaps.  Were collections loaned to individuals and copies returned?  Perhaps.  Did income from renting space for changing exhibits go directly into a director's pocket?  Perhaps.  

I found it surprising that I was rarely shown collections storage area on my museum visits.   In the U.S., it's often one of the first things that a museum colleague shares--either to show off or commiserate.  There's no question that one factor is that generally collections storage is very poor in Ukraine,  in substandard spaces in substandard buildings, due to lack of adequate funding over a long period of time.   But then one colleague made a startling observation when I mentioned it.  "Maybe they don't want to show you because nothing is there,"  she said, implying that the collections had been sold off and only the paperwork remained.

At the end of my workshops I tried to ensure that there was some time to answer questions about any aspect of American museums.  Some of those questions referred obliquely to corruption.  "If a painting is stolen by a museum worker are they prosecuted?"  (For one such American example, see here.) was one such question.  It was heartbreaking to sense that museum workers who came into their jobs with some sense of idealism now see people above them as cynical exploiters of the situation.  It puts a nation's cultural heritage at risk.  When a manager skims off money for building repairs, it means the historic building and the collections suffer.  When collections are sold under the table for individual profit, it means that part of the nation's heritage is lost to the public forever.

I can't pretend to know how this will change in Ukrainian society.  It will take a long time,  and it will not be done by outsiders.  Like other parts of civil society, dealing with corruption must be, as one colleague said, "built here, by Ukrainians."    But I'll end this post with one small but encouraging example.  The National Art Museum of Ukraine installed a project earlier this year by a group of independent artists that included the insertion small windows into providing views from galleries into spaces used for storage.  It provided a surprising view behind the scenes for visitors and as I understand it, will remain, providing a clear view.

What Do You Like Best?

In Ukraine, I found asking the question, "What's your favorite...?"  or "What do you like best?" often generated a surprised look, a shake of the head, and a shy answer.   And upon reflection, it struck me as a major difference between the way Americans think about museums (and about life in general) and the way Ukrainians do.  In the Soviet system,  individual thought was never encouraged.  You did not have favorites, you were taught to believe that the "approved" writer or artist or building or object was the only one to like;  that experts had determined it was the best.   Americans are considerably more comfortable with holding--and voicing--their own opinions about almost everything.

As my time in Ukraine continued, I asked these questions more and more.   One reason is because I was genuinely curious about what people liked but I was also curious about people's reactions.  I liked their initial look of surprise, and then the careful consideration some gave to their answers.   It felt a small honor to have someone share an opinion with me.

And it also deepened my experience in museums.  In Opishne, I visited  a newly opened memorial museum--it had been the home of a local man who went on to become an artist, scientist, and collector of pottery from this community of potters.  The house was interesting and I enjoyed the visit--but as we reached the last room, I asked the guide if she had a favorite piece of pottery in the house.   She looked surprised, but led us back through two rooms and pointed to a jug on top of a cabinet--something I had absolutely missed before.   "This is my favorite,"  she said,  "It was made by my grandfather."

All of a sudden this museum--and this town--was not just a memorial-- it became a living place, a place where the traditions of pottery, despite the collectivization of the Soviets,  continued to hold a place of importance and honor to the people who live there.

Top to bottom:  Pottery at the new memorial museum;  guide showing me her favorite piece, and at another memorial museum in Opishne, a small tribute to a woman potter.