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Curation Exhibition Review Exhibition-making

120 Years of Brücke, 120 Berliners, 120 Art Works

This exhibition was a lovely example of how a multiplicity of voices in an exhibition enriches the experience of visitors. And it provides food for thought on how museums can use co-curation to avoid or emphasise certain topics.


The Museum’s answer is to invite 120 Berliners to choose their favourite work in the collection and to write a short text about why they’ve chosen it. The result is a wide range of thoughts, insights and opinions that no single curator could ever have produced. 

The chosen works are hung side-by-side, in no discernible order. Next to each work is a text with the name of the work, the name and occupation of the person who chose it, and their words. This is all we get to know about the 120 co-curators, who make an eclectic bunch. They are people from the museum’s local community, artists, art historians, creative practitioners, a surprising number of politicians and civil servants in cultural organisations, plus police specialising in art crime and members of two anti-fascist organisations. 

Many of the artists, art historians and architects give us the advantage of their expertise or professional curiosity. Some of these comments stand alone, offering insights into particular works. An architect has chosen Ernst Ludwig Kirchner’s Purple Trees … which is on the reverse of the canvas of another painting, Nude Woman Combing Her Hair. We’re told that Purple Trees was painted after this, so one wonders how Kirchner decided between the two paintings – or maybe it was someone else? Others remind us of aspects of art that are rarely mentioned in exhibitions. Berlin’s chief inspector of police for art crime has chosen a work by Max Pechstein that was subject of a forgery. It indicates how Pechstein’s work has been valued, albeit in a backhanded way, and tells us about art as commodity and status symbol.

Other co-curators give insights into techniques that stayed with me as I looked at other works. Artist and academic Friederike Feldmann starts her comment on Factory at Night with “[n]othing is going on in Fritz Bleyl’s pictures. And that’s why I like them so much.” She goes on to describe how Bleyl achieves that sense of nothing, and now I’m being guided to see how the picture was built up, how the brush strokes achieve their effect. I look at others of his paintings to see if I can see the same. Artist Andrea Büttner talks about the importance of preliminary sketches, how they are more “like thoughts, conversations, notes … not at all concerned with being a result”. She’s referring to her choice of Karl Schmidt-Rottluff’s Design for Coffee Pot Cover. This is one of several preliminary sketches in the exhibition and her words allow visitors to think about what those sketches represent, and how the final pieces might have developed.

Many of the co-curators have drawn on their personal experiences to choose their favourite work. Their observations, questions and reactions to the works provide visitors with a rich set of insights, whether or not we share those experiences. I was also struck by the number of purely affective responses. A ten year old school student chose Fritz Bleyl’s Lake with Sailboat because “it is such a calming image”. An artist responds to Max Kaus’s Reclining Woman with Cat with “What can I say? Security, serenity, happiness!” Poignantly, the managing director of Berliner Museums chose Ernst Ludwig Kircher’s Tightrope Walkers with Rope and Umbrellabecause it “radiates a lightness that I long for at the moment … In these tense times, I wish we could all experience many more moments like this.” I hadn’t made that connection, but it made me look at the drawing again. It is so rare to find this kind of interpretation in art museums, and reminds us that it is just as important and valid as any other. Often when institutional curators are developing exhibitions they talk about making the subject “relevant” to the audience. These personal responses show how nebulous that idea is, and how much it is a feature of the conventional approaches that centre historical or technical perspectives. And it is, of course, a call back to the Brücke artists’ original intent to move away from “academic art” towards a more expressive from.

The advantages and limitations of co-curation become most apparent with discussion of the Brücke artists themselves. For a landmark anniversary, an institutional curator might be tempted to produce an exhibition that is purely celebratory in tone. Here, we see some of the Brücke artists’ unpleasant sides. For example, the project manager for Berlin’s sites of remembrance selected Ernst Kirchner’s Head of a Black Man. His response discusses how Kirchner didn’t typecast his white subjects, but used racist tropes in his depictions of this subject. This immediately reminds us that the Brücke group may have been exciting and revolutionary, but they also held objectionable views.

Many of the co-curators mention the Nazi’s condemnation and confiscation of the Brücke group’s work as “degenerate art”. The Brücke group’s work has often been used a symbol fascist censorship, and many of their supporters were Jews who were persecuted by the Nazis, including Rosa Schapire whose portrait by Schmidt-Rottluff is in the exhibition. But there is a noticeable omission in the commentary. The Brücke artists’ attitudes to the Nazis and national socialism were highly ambiguous, and indeed Emile Nolde was an outright antisemite and member of the Nazi party. None of the co-curators mention this. 

The Brücke Museum is certainly aware of this part of the artists’ history, and it appears that they have not intervened to insist that co-curators mention it. That is absolutely correct: the museum cannot ask co-curators to select works and write about them and then insist on certain views being put forth. But it is a reminder of the complexities and unpredictability of co-curation. In this instance, the museum has hand-picked the co-curators and given them free rein. I found myself wondering whether the museum was hoping this subject would be raised by, say, the anti-fascist organisations or art historians, or whether its choice of co-curators was a sleight-of-hand that enabled it to avoid an awkward subject.

This absolutely does not take away from all the other richness of this exhibition. And of course, that that richness doesn’t stem from co-curation per se. Rather, it is the act of letting each co-curator’s voice be heard individually and in their own words, with no externally imposed narrative, that gives the depth and breadth. In doing that the Brücke Museum and its co-curators have created a rare and refreshing exhibition.

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Making Tate Modern

When Tate Modern opened its doors on 12 May 2000, visitors were greeted by two new Louise Bourgeois commissions: the three ten-metre high towers of I Do, I Undo, I Redo and Maman, a 12m high spider. Situated in the vast Turbine Hall, both the sculptures and the space signalled a new approach to modern art exhibitions. Across four suites of rooms on levels 3 and 5 of Tate Modern visitors could find an equally novel experience in the way the collections were presented. These suites did not present the typical modernist art history with works grouped by art movement in chronological order, such as one would find at the Museum of Modern Art, New York. Instead, each suite was themed and contained multiple forms of grouping, such as single artist rooms or juxtapositions of works by artists of different eras. And yet the displays did not look unfamiliar: artworks were presented at eye level, spaced wide apart in predominantly white-walled rooms with minimal décor and a wash of overhead lighting. In other words, they employed significant elements of the visual language of modernist art exhibitions. This mixture of old and new elements in the exhibitions did not go unnoticed by critics who variously described it as “a spectacular experience … in a context that is actually quite conventional and straightforward”,[1]“disorientating”,[2] and “iconoclastic and radical.”[3]

The artworks displayed at Tate Modern used to be part of the former Tate Gallery at Millbank in London, the site that now houses Tate Britain. The new museum was developed in response to a lack of space, poor visitor facilities and a need for financial plan at Tate Gallery, which was housed on the site of what is now Tate Britain.[4]In 1990 Tate Gallery’s director, Nicholas Serota, had commissioned a masterplan to consider the Gallery’s future. Delivered in July 1992, the report concluded that the size and nature of the Tate Gallery’s collection, and the size of its London site, meant that it should be should be split across two sites with a Tate Gallery of British Art on one site and a Tate Gallery of Modern Art on another.[5]This would necessitate dividing the Gallery’s collection, raising the question of what constituted ‘British’ and what was ‘modern’. Furthermore, a Tate Gallery of Modern Art would be entering a highly competitive field which included the Museum of Modern Art, New York (MoMA), and the Musée National d’Art Moderne at the Pompidou Centre, Paris (MNAM). Both of these were considered to have more extensive collections of modern art than Tate Gallery. In addition, exhibitions of modern art had increasingly been the subject of much critique and discussion by artists and in related academic fields. The future Tate Gallery of Modern Art had to negotiate its position in these intersecting areas. In this article I explore how Tate Gallery’s approach to these issues led to an innovative and pioneering concept for its inaugural exhibitions. I also explore how forgetting to rethink exhibition design made that concept so hard to read.

Trying to escape the white cube

The decision to create a Tate Gallery of Modern Art was made at a time of increasing criticism of the way museums presented modern art. The canonical, modernist, format of presentation, had been developed by MoMA’s first director, Alfred H Barr. It presented a master narrative of modern art history, with masterworks from each movement displayed in a chronological order through a linear sequence of rooms, suggesting a progression through time. The works were hung widely spaced and positioned just below eye level against neutral-coloured walls (often white) in rooms without architectural adornment, in what became known as the ‘white cube’ aesthetic. Installation photographs of MoMA’s 1939 exhibition Art in Our Time show this in practice.[6] This format became the canonical mode of display of modern art by the mid-twentieth century, and still dominated in the 1990s.

However, since the late 1960s this format had increasingly been critiqued. Artists such as Hans Haacke, Marcel Broodthaers and Daniel Buren challenged the role of museums in conferring status on artworks, and questioned their role in framing the meanings of art; such challenges also levelled charges of elitism at museums such as MoMA. Equally, the ‘white cube’ presentations were criticised, particularly by Brian O’Doherty who argued that it made the artist and the viewer subservient to the space.[7]Institutional critiques of art museums continued in the 1980s through the work of artists such as Louise Lawler and Andrea Fraser.[8] Similar critiques continued to emerge in academic discussions of art history: the influence of disciplines such as gender studies, psychoanalysis, sociology, postcolonial studies and queer studies created a ‘new art history’ which gave many and different readings of art and questioned the notion of a master narrative of art history.[9]

In spite of this, the modernist tradition dominated. When MoMA re-opened in 1984 after a four-year building programme to expand its site on West 53rd Street it continued to present the modernist master narrative, and its new displays ended at the 1970s. Furthermore, museums that challenged the modernist format often reverted or were criticised. The Pompidou Centre, which opened in 1977, had been conceived as a response to the charges of elitism and critiques of the white cube. Its mixture of cultural disciplines, including the MNAM collections, a library, meeting spaces and cinemas, was intended to be a way to democratise the museum. The Centre’s galleries were open plan, and although the collection was displayed chronologically visitors could “wander at random, opening up one’s own little historical parenthesis.”[10] Yet by 1985 the Pompidou had lost this open, flexible space and given way to series of rooms, as it was felt that the works of art had become incidental to the space. Similarly, Musée d’Orsay, which opened in 1986, had tried to circumvent a master narrative in a white cube by showing canonical works alongside those by lesser known artists, sculpture and decorative arts in a converted nineteenth century railway station. But critical reaction to its historical contextualisation of the artworks was sometimes hostile and often contradictory: simultaneously applauded as “a stupendous achievement” , condemned as “revisionist”, and brought expressions of disappointment at the lack of social history of art. [11]

Thus Tate Gallery was developing a new museum of modern art against a background where its main competitors still presented a modernist art history, and attempts to introduce new approaches had been met with very mixed reactions. Challenging the white cube would be a challenge. Tate Gallery had already experimented with creating a series of different readings of art history. Shortly after his arrival as director in September 1988, Serota had said he thought of museums “as offering a series of arguments, rather than simply a collection of pictures”[12] and initiated a redisplay of the Gallery titled Past, Present, Future which opened in 1990. Although this was a chronological hang, a series of annual rehangs, called New Displays, changed the artworks to create new juxtapositions of paintings in each room. These allowed different readings, which could be considered as presenting a series of arguments. The question for Tate Gallery was whether, or how, it could extend this approach to an entire museum of modern art.

What is modern?

The starting point for development was a series of four roundtable panel discussions. These canvassed opinions from a variety of positions across the art including Tate Gallery curators, artist-trustees, curators from other museums and galleries, academic art historians, people from other arts organisations and arts critics from the mainstream media. Panellists were asked to discuss “the meanings of modern, modern and British, the geography of the international, [and] ‘fine art’ and / or ‘visual culture’.”[13] They identified MoMA and MNAM as the main competitors to a future Tate Gallery of Modern Art, which led to discussions of the scope of the Tate Gallery’s collection in comparison to those institutions. Like them, the Gallery’s collection was weak in the areas of new media, and was dominated by art from Western countries by white artists. But Tate Gallery’s collection was also comparatively weak in key areas of ‘classic’ modern art; for example it lacked any pre-1940 North American art. If Tate Gallery could not compete with MoMA and MNAM on a like-for-like basis, it had to reconceptualise modern in a way that would allow it to compete on its own terms. 

However, although the new museum’s competitors were MoMA and MNAM, it quickly emerged that ‘modern’ needed to be defined in relation to other British institutions. The panels identified the key elements for defining ‘modern’ as period, media and methods of display. The first of these raised the question of when ‘modern’ begins, which led to discussions of Tate Gallery’s collection in relation to that of the National Gallery. Tate Gallery had originally been an annexe of the National Gallery, with a remit that included “modern foreign painting”.[14] ;The two institutions had formally split in 1955 but there had been ongoing tensions between them over the date at which ‘modern’ started; for example, when the National Gallery bought a 1914 Picasso (Fruit Dish, Bottle and Violin), Tate Gallery Trustees felt it was encroaching on the Gallery’s remit.[15]

A similar concern was raised about the division of the Tate Gallery into British and Modern: how would modern and contemporary British art be shared between the two institutions, if at all? The concept of a modern collection was also considered problematic in terms of media; for example, Tate Gallery had never collected photography and thus was missing a significant part of the history of modern art. However, in a separate discussion it was noted that the V&A collected “photography as photography” rather than as art, raising the question of whether the Tate Gallery’s lack of photography helped to distinguish it from other museums.

Modern or modernist?

The panels also considered whether ‘modern’ necessitated a modernist approach to art history. This discussion reflected the tensions experienced by the Pompidou and Musée d’Orsay. Jon Bird, an art historian at Middlesex University, raised the issue of presenting a non-modernist art history. He argued that although “marginal media, for example video art”, may be difficult to show, they should not be neglected: “we must tell other stories.”[16] This led to discussion of whether a modern art history should present a plurality of readings, and if old and new artworks could be exhibited alongside each other. However, some participants urged caution, suggesting that whilst a plurality of readings was fine, relativism should be avoided, that the new museum had a responsibility to be authoritative, not all things to all people. It was also suggested that a non-modernist approach would not fulfil visitors’ expectations. David Elliott, of the Museum of Modern Art, Oxford, argued that “people expect a certain canon and that is presumably what people will support or pay for”[17] and Virginia Button of the Tate Gallery suggested that “people may respond badly to a different style of hang.”[18]

The outcome of the roundtable discussions was to identify the boundaries that formed the Tate Gallery’s ‘modern’ against British institutions, and also highlight tensions between a modernist and non-modernist exhibition concept. Although sometimes contradictory and loosely defined, these discussions enabled the Tate Gallery to develop a way of conceptualising ‘modern’ for a Tate Gallery of Modern Art. 

Developing a concept and language for a Tate Gallery of Modern Art

In January 1994 Serota asked Sandy Nairne, Director of Programmes, to oversee the production of a document that would “describe the purpose, policy, programme and presentation” of the Tate Gallery of Modern Art.[19]  Although all departments of the Tate Gallery were to be consulted the lead would be taken by the curatorial staff. The resulting brief consolidated the roundtable discussions by producing a concept of ‘modern’ that met the parameters identified by the panels and proposed ways of avoiding some of the obstacles. In doing this the brief created a set of key words and phrases that framed all future discussions of the new museum.

The brief conceptualised ‘modern’ by implicitly acknowledging that creating firm distinctions between the National Gallery, the V&A and the new museum was problematic. Instead it suggested that ‘modern’ should start with Impressionism as “a starting point for an understanding of western art of the twentieth century”.[20]  It acknowledged that this would best be served by the collections of the National Gallery and the Tate Gallery of British Art, but proposed that this could be overcome by a series of loans between the museums. Not mentioned in the brief is that this starting point also helped the Gallery overcome one of the legacies of its split from the National Gallery, namely that the Tate must always display those paintings in its collection which had previously been owned by the National.[21]  These paintings include Monet’s Water Lilies, which could not be shown in a Tate Gallery of British Art and therefore had to be incorporated into the collection of the modern art museum. The brief also proposed a “regular exchange” of works with the Tate Gallery of British Art to resolve the question of where artworks that were both British and modern would be displayed. Similar loans arrangements with the V&A and other museums were also suggested to overcome weaknesses in areas such as photography, prints and sculpture.

This approach to defining ‘modern’ and developing a modern collection addressed the issues identified by the roundtables. Furthermore, it provided a way to address the question of how the new museum would position itself in relation to MoMA and MNAM. Simply, Tate Gallery had embraced a broad definition of modern that confronted not only weaknesses in its own collection but also those of MoMA and MNAM, thus creating a distinct identity. Importantly, loans could also be used to address the more difficult issue of how to create a non-modernist exhibition. Loans from other museums are usually time limited; however, the Tate Gallery’s recent experience of New Displays led to the suggestion of a series of semi-permanent exhibitions of the collection, which would change every three to four years. As with New Displays such a system would enable a series of different readings over a period of time, thus avoiding the presentation of a master narrative. However, the tensions between a modernist and non-modernist approach to the exhibition concept were still evident. Acknowledging that “the Collection (sic) must now present the history of twentieth century art as a series of histories”[22] the brief nonetheless proposed a “broadly chronological spine”[23] ;displayed across five suites of rooms,[24] ;with rotating displays as adjuncts to these “to highlight alternative stories”.[25] Thus whilst some works might rotate, taken as a whole the concept implied a linear progression akin to a modernist hang. Nonetheless, the brief, aided by the roundtables had produced ways of thinking about ‘modern’ and a Tate Gallery of Modern Art. Developed in response to the contexts of the project, these conceptualisations produced a language for exhibitions at the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, a language that emphasised terms such as histories, loans, rotating displays, chronology, western and non-western art, and no master narrative. It framed the future discussions of the exhibition concept and provided a means for judging whether ideas should be accepted or rejected.

The outline exhibition concept

In 1997 Iwona Blazwick, an independent curator and former head of exhibitions at the Institute of Contemporary Arts, London, and Frances Morris, a curator of modern art at the Tate Gallery, were appointed to the roles of Head of Exhibitions and Head of Displays respectively and were tasked with developing the concept for the inaugural exhibitions.[26]  Although Serota and other curators would eventually be consulted on their ideas, Blazwick and Morris had relative autonomy and the freedom to think freely. Morris describes their initial approach as “blue skies thinking … [We thought] here’s the collection, here’s the building, here’s the twentieth century, we’re entering the twenty-first century, what can we do?”[27]

They spent the first few months thinking of “every conceivable way”[28]  of presenting modern art. Karl Sabbagh describes Morris’s and Blazwick’s office as being “plastered with yellow Post-it notes, with names of artists, isms, political terms, twentieth-century events, social movements and other reference points”[29]  that could be used as the basis for a concept and for grouping exhibits. In March 1998 Morris and Blazwick presented eight possible concepts to Serota and Dawn Austwick, the project director for the Tate Gallery of Modern Art project.[30] They varied greatly; for example Defining Moments in Twentieth Century Art History proposed a single chronological survey of twentieth century art interspersed with “material relating to broader socio-political and cultural shifts e.g. (sic) Paris World Fair”;[31]  Geographies proposed a thematic survey based around world cities, and A Zeitgeist of Ideaspresented themes defined by strands of twentieth century philosophy that had an impact on art, such as ontology, epistemology, teleology and praxis.[32]  Finally Blazwick and Morris presented the theme titled Subjects of the Twentieth Century, which proposed to create four distinct but overlapping themes that would “[trace the] modern evolution of nineteenth century genres”[33]  but that would also link to a twentieth century subject.[34]  These themes were: from the nude to the body; from landscape to environment; from still life to real life; from history to society.[35]  Morris and Blazwick argued that this arrangement offered flexibility that would enable the Tate Gallery of Modern Art to recontextualise works through rotating displays. Morris explained:

[Y]ou could situate bodies of works in one particular suite of galleries for a year or two years, and then see them in another suite of galleries in a very different context, and therefore over a period of time one could readdress Abstract Expressionism, for example, in terms of its place within society…[36]

Morris was later rather dismissive of the earlier work by the roundtables and the 1994 brief, describing it as “a little bit of mapping out, no real thinking.”[37]  Nonetheless the conceptualisations of ‘modern’ and a Tate Gallery of Modern Art produced by that work underpinned the eight ideas and were used to judge their acceptability: they presented a new approach to modern art and they were able to present multiple histories rather than a single master narrative. Only the issue of the Tate Gallery’s collection of historic modern art caused a stumbling block: Geographies and Art & Society in the Twentieth Century were exposed to the weaknesses in the Tate Gallery’s collection that could not be overcome by loans or acquisitions. However, the other ideas could accommodate the Gallery’s collection and enable it to expand into new areas of collecting. 

The detailed concept

The concept chosen to form the basis of the inaugural exhibitions was titled Subjects of the Twentieth Century. There is no record of when, how or by whom the final decision was made.[38] In fact, there is very little further record of the development of the concept.[39] However, although Blazwick and Morris worked autonomously, Serota’s ideas would prove to have a strong influence on the details of the final concept.

In 1996 Serota gave the Walter Neurath Memorial Lecture at the National Gallery. Entitled Experience or Interpretation, Serota surveyed approaches to modern art exhibitions during the twentieth century, and raised the question of what would be appropriate for the twenty-first century.[40] He argued that in the 1980s the historical, interpretive hang was frequently replaced by monographic displays in which the works of a single artist were experienced in isolation, but that in his opinion neither of these approaches were appropriate. Instead he suggested an approach that created “different modes and levels of ‘interpretation’ by subtle juxtaposition of ‘experience’.” He advocated the approach of the Hallen für Neue Kunst, Schaffenhausen, Switzerland as an interesting model, in which artists’ works were presented as overlapping clusters implying “merging zones of influence” and leading to unexpected readings. Serota also mentioned Rudi Fuchs’ curation of documenta 7 (Kassel, 1982), in which Fuchs dispersed works by an artist around the exhibition so that works by the same artist were juxtaposed with those of several other artists in a single space. Both of these approaches offer ways of presenting alternative readings of artworks; thus Serota’s talk extended the concept of a non-modernist exhibition discussed in 1994 and provided additional detail to the language of histories and rotating displays. 

When Tate Modern opened in 2000 the four themes proposed by Morris and Blazwick had become Still Life / Object / Real Life, and Landscape / Matter / Environment in the level 3 east and west suites respectively, with Nude / Action / Body, and History / Memory / Society in the level 5 east and west suites respectively. There is little record of the detailed development of the exhibition concept or of the decisions taken during its translation from page to exhibition. For example, there is no record of how the theme of each room was decided; however, it is clear that the collection had agency. Morris describes this as occurring in two ways. The first was through the inclusion of the one hundred or so exhibits “that, for a variety of reasons, we thought the public expected and wanted to see.”[41] The second was due to the number of exhibits that Tate Modern was committed to displaying as a condition either of a loan or donation, such as Monet’s Water Lilies. This was clearly considered a restriction by the curators; Morris considered it to be “negotiating down”[42]  from the original idea: “it’s like having a party and you’ve got to have your irritating, difficult aunt there.”[43] Some rooms were determined in a more prosaic manner. The room titled Inner Worlds comprised Surrealist paintings and was included in this Landscape / Matter / Environment to represent dreamscapes. However, Morris explains that there is an alternative rationale for its inclusion: the room was allocated to be the venue for patrons’ dining, which meant that all works had to be glazed; the Surrealist paintings were the only group that fulfilled that criterion.[44]

The themes of the four suites were structured through a mixture of themed and monographic groupings of artworks. Each suite was organised into rooms that held either themed displays, such as Looking at Landscape, which contained works by Cézanne, Mondrian and Matisse amongst others, or monographic displays, for example rooms in Still Life / Object / Real Life dedicated to Susan Hiller and Duchamp. The concept followed Serota’s suggestion that a twenty-first century modern art exhibition should use different modes of interpretation through different forms of juxtaposition. It made direct reference to techniques used by curators and institutions that Serota discussed. Thus Fuchs’s approach of juxtaposing works by artists in different locations was evident in the manner in which works by Cezanne were to be placed: alongside works by Sol LeWitt, Carl André and Pablo Picasso (amongst others) in the first room of Still Life / Object / Real Life, and with works by Matisse, Mondrian and Pissarro in the first room of Landscape / Matter / Environment.[45]  Another level of interpretation proposed to use the spatial configuration of the suites to provide alternative readings of works by Bruce Nauman and Anthony Caro. These artists’ works were to be displayed in monographic rooms between Nude / Action / Body and History / Memory / Society (Nauman) and Still Life / Object / Real Life and Landscape / Matter / Environment (Caro) (image to follow). The intention here was that visitors entering these rooms would experience the works differently depending on which suite they arrived from, a concept similar to the zones used at the Hallen für Neue Kunst, Schaffenhausen, discussed by Serota. 

The concept for Tate Modern’s inaugural exhibitions thus utilised and was framed by the language developed in the early stages of the project, and later developed by reference to practice elsewhere. It demonstrates the relationship between the contexts of production – in this case the creation of a new museum of modern art in a competitive field subject to much critique – the production of language that conceptualises the project in response to those contexts, and the creation of an exhibition concept framed by that language. However, having developed this concept, Tate Modern’s curators had to translate it into a visual language. Converting an exhibition concept (predominantly a series of written documents) into a spatial and visual language is a form of intersemiotic translation. The principles of translation say that in order to render the intention of a source text a translator must be prepared to push the boundaries of language.[46] Furthermore, if a translator is bold enough to reflect not only on the language but also on the methods and conventions of translation, they can produce a text that renders all the nuances of the original.[47]  Tate Modern’s curators needed to achieve this in order to convey the intricate and novel concept of the inaugural exhibitions.

The display

Reflecting Serota’s belief that art museums should present arguments, the four themes of Tate Modern’s inaugural exhibitions were expositions: they presented points of commonality or difference in works that are often geographically and / or temporally dislocated. The thematic and monographic groupings gave the concept a structure that meant it could be read in any order. The interconnected nature of the rooms in each suite was suited to the structure of the themes – visitors could move freely through the space choosing their own path, and encountering works in multiple ways. However, developing a visual language to convey the details of that concept was more problematic. The exhibition concept intended to present a series of art histories in a manner very different from the conventional modernist approach; Tate Modern’s curators therefore needed to employ a visual language that conveyed this difference. 

Compare two examples of exhibitions that use a modernist visual language: an installation photograph of Art In Our Time at MoMA in 1939, and a room of works by Kurt Schwitters at Tate Gallery in 1985. The first image shows a top-lit room with no ornamentation, displaying sparsely arranged exhibits in a single line at eye-level line with no other elements in view. The second image has the same elements of visual language. The time span of the two images in these images illustrates the longevity of this visual language in exhibitions of modern art. Mieke Bal argues that repetition of a style creates cultural embededness, and so arguably the aesthetic created by Barr has become an index for ‘exhibition of modern art’.[48]  This is an important consideration because if the white cube indicates a modernist exhibition, it represents not just a visual style but also the single, chronological master-narrative. Tate Modern therefore needed to adapt its exhibition design in order to clearly indicate and convey a non-modernist text.

The juxtapositions of artworks set out in the exhibition concept went some way to achieving this. In The Naked and The Nude, the first room of the Nude / Action / Body suite, a visitor scanning the north wall from left to right would see works by Hockney, Martini, Helion, Gaudier-Brzeska, Corinth, Shad, Spencer and Picasso.[49]  Alternatively, viewing just the north west corner of this room a visitor would see three works spanning Picasso’s career: Nude in a Red Armchair (1932), Girl in a Chemise (1905) and Nude Woman with Necklace (1968) (from left to right). Such an arrangement certainly does not conform to a modernist visual language. However, many other elements did signal ‘modernist’: a sparse, eye level arrangement, lack of ornamental décor, neutral colour scheme and overhead lighting were features of forty eight of the fifty eight rooms in the inaugural exhibitions.[50]  This is significant when one considers how these elements might frame a reading of the exhibitions. When visitors first viewed a room from the doorway as they entered, they were not able to see the artworks in detail from a distance and couldn’t discern the unconventional juxtapositions. What they could see were all the elements of a modernist ‘white cube’ aesthetic. In film terms this provides an establishing shot; that is, one that creates anticipation of what is to come. This is problematic if it then frames viewers’ reading and anticipation of the exhibition as they walk into the room. 

Not all of the rooms maintained the white cube design. Eleven rooms diverged from a modernist aesthetic. Room 8 of Still Life / Real Life / Object was painted red, a colour often associated with rebellion and therefore supporting the room’s theme of The Subversive Object. The first room of the History / Memory / Society suite, Manifestos, introduced the exhibition through a display of paintings from Surrealists, Futurists, Bauhaus, and Suprematism. Artists associated with each of these movements produced a written manifesto, and reproductions of these were pasted on the walls of the room. In this context they were both exhibits and interpretative devices: historical documents that act as scene-setting devices in which twentieth-century history paintings were presented as having specific aims and ideas, being provocative, and using (or becoming) mass media. The other nine rooms all contained windows, either to the outside world (seven windows on level 3) or views into the turbine hall (two windows on level 5). These views broke with the modernist convention of isolating the art from the outside world. However, it raises the question of how the windows were to be viewed: they were presented in the same way as the art, that is, spaced at a distance from the artworks. The implication was that these views of the city should be considered works of art. While this is certainly a non-modernist element of visual language, it is less clear how it helped to convey the exhibition concept.

Visitors’ understanding of the exhibition concept was therefore dependent on a close reading of the artworks in each room and across rooms and suites. In order to read the intended juxtapositions viewers had to see past the modernist ‘establishing shot’ and look between artworks. However here again the exhibition design was a hindrance. The sparse hang in each room isolated the works from each other in exactly the way that O’Doherty criticised: viewers were still required to “[stagger] into place before every new work that requires his presence”.[51]  Whilst the concept required viewers to look between works, the display encouraged isolated readings.

Lessons on languages

Tate Modern’s inaugural exhibitions illustrate the complexities of translating an exhibition concept into a design, especially when trying to break from convention. The curators needed to create two languages: one for the exhibition concept and a visual language capable of conveying that concept via the medium of an exhibition. It took several years to develop the former through a series of consultations with internal and external contributors. However, it is notable that there are no documented discussions on the production of a visual language, which indicates that identifying the visual language of an exhibition may be difficult. For example, in Experience or Interpretation Serota discusses the presentation of modern art in a range of formats from MoMA’s classical modernist hang to the less conventional Museum für Moderne Kunst, Frankfurt. However, his discussion focuses only on the juxtaposition of works; he only fleetingly touches on other aspects of display. 

Perhaps one should not be surprised that the curators’ primary concerns were art history and the artworks themselves. However, this raises a question about the insularity of the process of production of these exhibitions. The only recorded instance of discussion of the presentation of works during the development of Tate Modern’s inaugural exhibitions was a survey of artists; they requested top lit, high-ceilinged spaces with “neutral rooms”.[52]  There is no record of discussion with people working outside the field who might be able to offer a different perspective on visual language, such as specialist exhibition designers. If a nuanced translation sometimes means rejecting conventional approaches to translation, the development of these exhibitions suggest that exhibition makers may need to look outside of their field to achieve this.

Tate Modern has established itself as an addition to MoMA and MNAM in the field of modern art museums by forging an identity as an organisation that presents an alternative way of thinking about modern art. Its unconventional approach to art history has created an impact on modern art exhibitions.[53]  True to its original concept it has rotated its exhibitions to give new readings of the collection, with the first revision in 2006. It has also embraced contemporary art, reflecting further development of its identity and the ambiguity of the term ‘modern’ that was present during the roundtable panels in 1993. However, its alternative presentation of art remains a conceptual one: it is still predominantly a white cube. Perhaps Tate Modern will one day afford itself the opportunity to re-examine the visual language of its exhibitions.


Footnotes

[1] Alex Potts comments in Nixon, M. et al. (2001) ‘Round Table: Tate Modern’ October  (98), p. 18. Back

[2] Burlington Magazine editorial (2000) ‘The Tates: Structures and Themes’ The Burlington Magazine 142 (1169), p. 480. Back

[3] Jones, J. (2000). ‘Putting Us in the Picture’ The Guardian, 3 February 2000, available online at: http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2000/feb/03/art.artsfeatures?INTCMP=SRCH (accessed 3 February 2011). Back

[4] In 1992 Tate Gallery owned 4,500 paintings and 1,250 sculptures but could show less than 20% of these at Millbank and only 3% at St Ives and Liverpool combined. In addition, the Millbank site was considered to serve visitors poorly, and had no space in which to host corporate events to attract sponsors. Francis, R. (1992). Masterplan Report: The Tate Needs More Space for Display, July 1992. Archive folder: TG 12/1/1/2, Tate Archive, London. Back

[5]This would not be the first time that the Tate Gallery had developed a new site: Tate Liverpool had opened in 1988 and Tate St Ives had begun development in 1986 and opened in 1993. But both Tate Liverpool and Tate St Ives were designed to present a series of temporary exhibitions drawing on the wider Tate collection and collaborations with other institutions. Back

[6]As Andrew McClellan and Carol Duncan discuss, Barr did not initiate this approach to the presentation of modern art, but he did develop it and standardise it. Duncan, C. (1995) Civilizing Rituals: Inside Public Art Museums.  London: Routledge.   pp. 103-104; McClellan, A (2008) The Art Museum from Boullée to Bilbao.  Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. pp. 124-134. See also further discussion in Grunenberg, C.  ‘The Modern Art Museum’ in E. Barker (ed.) Contemporary Cultures of Display. New Haven: Yale University Press, pp. 26-49; Staniszewski, M. A. (2001) The Power of Display: A History of Exhibition Installations at the Museum of Modern Art.  Boston: MIT Press. Back

[7] O’Doherty, B. (1999) Inside the White Cube: the ideology of the gallery space. Expanded edn. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Back

[8]Fraser, A. (2005) Museum Highlights. The Writings of Andrea Fraser.  Boston: MIT Press; Fraser, A. (2005) ‘From the Critique of Institutions to an Institution of Critique’ Artforum International 44 (1); Grunenberg ‘The Modern Art Museum’; Putnam Art and Artifact. Back

[9] The differences in academic discussions of art history and those presented in modern art museums were the subject of a conference in 1999. See Haxthausen (ed.) (2002) The Two Art Histories: The Museum and the University. Andrew McClellan also discusses this in The Art Museum from Boullée to Bilbao. Back

[10]Roud, R. (1977) ‘Richard Roud Reports from Paris on the Huge Extravagant New Palace of Culture’, The Guardian, 1 February 1977,  p. 8. Back

[11] All three quotations from Nochlin, L. et al. (1988) ‘The Musée d’Orsay: A Symposium’ Art in America  (January), p. 92. Back

[12] Quoted in Spalding, F. (1998) The Tate: A History.  London: Tate Gallery Publishing. p. 256. Back

[13] The only people to attend all four panels were Nicholas Serota and Richard Humphreys, Tate Gallery’s head of education and convenor of the panels. The Tate Gallery had three artist trustees – Richard Deacon, Michael Craig Martin and Christopher Le Brun. Three other artists were invited: Bill Woodrow, Tim Hyman and Susan Hiller. There was no representation from the specialist art press. Humphreys, R. (1993). Invitation to Roundtable Discussion from Richard Humphreys to Nicholas Serota, 25 June 1993. Archive folder: TG 12/1/2/1, Tate Archive, London; Kinley, C. (1994). Tate Gallery of Modern Art: First Draft – Working For Our Public / A New Museum For Modern Art, 16 March 1994 Archive folder: TG 12/1/2/2 Tate Archive, London pp. 12-14; Tate Gallery (1993) Roundtable Discussions, 1993. Archive folder: TG 12/1/2/1, Tate Archive, London. Back

[14] Modern foreign paintings entered into the Tate Gallery’s purview in 1916. See Spalding The Tate: A History.  p. 42. Back

[15] Spalding The Tate: A History.  p. 186. Back

[15] Tate Gallery Roundtable Discussion 2 July 1993, p. 4. Back

[15] Tate Gallery Roundtable Discussion 2 July 1993, p. 3. Back

[18]Tate Gallery Roundtable Discussion 2 July 1993, p. 10. Back

[19] Nairne was also to oversee a similar document for the Tate Gallery of British Art. Serota, N. (1994). Internal Memo from Nicholas Serota to Sandy Nairne: Discussion papers on TG BA/TGMA, 17 January 1994. Archive folder: TG 12/1/2/2, Tate Archive, London. Back

[20] Tate Gallery (1994). A New Museum for Modern Art Discussion Paper: Draft II, April 1994. Archive folder: TG 12/1/2/2, Tate Archive, London Back

[21] Frances Morris, former Head of Displays at Tate Moderninterviewed by Rachel Souhami on 11 November 2007, Tate Modern, London. Back

[22]Tate Gallery A New Museum for Modern Art Discussion Paper: Draft II, p. 8. Back

[23] Tate Gallery A New Museum for Modern Art Discussion Paper: Draft II, p. 8. Back

[24] Although Herzog and de Meuron, the architects who converted Bankside power station into Tate Modern, were not appointed until 1995 and the design was not finalised until the following year, the idea of suites of rooms had been a feature of internal discussions at the Tate Gallery, particularly between Serota and Nairne. Nairne, S. (2012). Personal Communication, 8 March 2012; Sabbagh, K (2000) Power Into Art. London: Allen Lane.  pp. 58-59. Back

[25] Tate Gallery A New Museum for Modern Art Discussion Paper: Draft II, p. 8. Back

[26] They were joined by Caro Howell, who was appointed to the education department. Although Howell, Blazwick and Morris were charged with developing the concept, it is notable that Howell’s name does not appear on archive documents and her presence is only briefly noted in Sabbagh’s account of the development of Tate Modern. Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami; Sabbagh Power Into Art.  p. 206. Back

[27] Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami. Back

[28] Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami. Back

[29] Sabbagh Power Into Art. p. 207. Back

[30] According to Sabbagh, these ideas had already been presented to other curators at the Tate Gallery; however, there is no clearly identifiable archive record of this. Tate Archive does contain one document that appears to be a collation of seven people’s thoughts on each of the eight themes. Two of the respondents are Tate Gallery curators (Catherine Kinley and Sean Rainbird) but I have not been able to identify the other participants. It is also not clear when the respondents’ opinion was solicited as the document is simply dated “spring 1998.” Similarly, although it is known that Austwick was present there is no record of her reaction to the presentation: there is no record of the discussion in the archive and Sabbagh records only the discussion between Morris, Blazwick and Serota. Sabbagh Power Into Art.  pp. 218-224; Tate Gallery (1998). Notes From Consultations – Spring 1998, Archive folder: 66a/05/1A, Tate Archive, London. Back

[31] Tate Gallery (1998). Ideas for the Opening of the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, Archive folder: 66a/05/1A, Tate Archive, London p. 12. Back

[32] Tate Gallery Ideas for the Opening of the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, pp. 13-15.Back

[33] Tate Gallery Ideas for the Opening of the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, p. 2.Back

[34] Sabbagh Power Into Art.  p. 222; Tate Gallery Ideas for the Opening of the Tate Gallery of Modern Art. Back

[35] Tate Gallery Ideas for the Opening of the Tate Gallery of Modern Art, p. 2. Back

[36] Quoted in Sabbagh Power Into Art.  p. 222. Back

[37] Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami. Back

[37] It certainly wasn’t made by Lars Nittve, who took up post as director of the Tate Gallery of Modern Art in autumn 1998. The concept was presented to Nittve when he arrived, with some trepidation on the part of Morris and Blazwick, who were worried that his lack of involvement in its development might affect his reception of the idea. Nittve admitted that he had “concerns … because there are certain risks associated with doing it in a different way.” However, it is clear that he eventually accepted the concept. Sabbagh Power Into Art.  p. 261. Back

[39] It is possible that this is because Morris, Blazwick and Serota felt there was a need for secrecy in order to protect the Tate Gallery’s approach from its competitors. Serota was concerned that other museums were also thinking about re-exhibiting their collections and “we don’t want to see [this idea presented] four months earlier at the Pompidou Centre.” (Quoted in Sabbagh Power Into Art.  pp. 223-224.) Morris recalls that for this reason consultations were with “people we could trust” namely artist-trustees, certain academics and other Tate Gallery staff, and it is possible that many of the meetings were informal and no record was taken. See, for example, Sabbagh’s account of a meeting to discuss the content of the Nude/Body theme. Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami; Sabbagh Power Into Art.  pp. 266-273. Back

[40] Serota, N (1996) Experience or Interpretation: The Dilemma of Museums of Modern Art. London: Thames & Hudson.

[41] Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami. Back

[42] Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami. Back

[43] Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami. Back

[44] Blazwick, I. and Wilson, S. (eds.) (2000) Tate Modern: The Handbook. London: Tate Gallery Publishing, p. 35; Morris interviewed by Rachel Souhami. Back

[45] Tate Gallery (2000). Landscape / Matter / Environment, Archive folder: TG 12/12/3/16, Tate Archive, London; Tate Gallery (2000). Still Life / Object / Real Life, Archive folder: TG 12/12/3/13, Tate Archive, London. Back

[46] Asad, T. (1986) ‘The Concept of Cultural Translation in British Social Anthropology’ in J. Clifford and C. Geertz (eds.) Writing Culture. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, pp. 141-164; Benjamin, W. (1999) ‘The Task of the Translator’ in H. Arendt (ed.) Illuminations. London: Pimlico, pp. 70-82. Back

[47] Appiah, K. A. (2004) ‘Thick Translation’ in L. Venuti (ed.) The Translation Studies Reader 2nd edn. London: Routledge, pp. 389-401; Hermans, T. (2003) ‘Cross-Cultural Translation Studies As Thick Translation’ Bulletin of SOAS 66 (3), pp. 380-389. Back

[48] Bal, M (1996) ‘The Discourse of the Museum’ in R. Greenberg, B. W. Ferguson, and S. Nairne (eds.) Thinking About Exhibitions. London: Routledge, pp. 201-218. Back

[49] This description is of Naked and The Nude at the time of Tate Modern’s opening. Tate Modern employs a policy of rotating some of the exhibits in its exhibitions so that the specific selections discussed in this article are a snapshot of what are in fact more dynamic entities. Back

[50] Tate Gallery (2000a). History / Memory / Society, Archive folder: TG 12/12/3/15, Tate Archive, London; Tate Gallery (2000b). Nude / Action / Body, Archive folder: TG 12/12/3/14, Tate Archive, London; Tate Gallery (2000c). Plans of Tate Modern Suites, January 2000. Archive folder: 66a/05/1A, Tate Archive, London; Tate Gallery Landscape / Matter / Environment; Tate Gallery Still Life / Object / Real Life. Back

[51] O’Doherty Inside the White Cube: The Ideology of the Gallery Space.  p. 39. Back

[52] Tate Gallery (1994). A New Museum for Modern Art Discussion Paper: Draft II, April 1994. Archive folder: TG 12/1/2/2, Tate Archive, London p. 12.Back

[53] In 2000, when MoMA once again closed its Manhattan site for building works, it opened a satellite site in Queens with a series of exhibitions called ModernStarts. These were non-chronological, multimedia installations that borrowed directly from Tate Modern’s approach. However, it was a short-lived experiment and by the time MoMA reopened on West 53rd Street in 2004 its modernist, chronological hang had returned. Back

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Book Review Journalism

The British Museum: Storehouse of Civilisations 

What is the purpose of a book about a museum? This question sprang to mind as I read James Hamilton’s The British Museum: Storehouse of Civilisations, because I was baffled by it. It could have been a great opportunity to add to existing histories and help readers think about the present day British Museum. Instead it presents a hackneyed and awkwardly written history that does its readers and the British Museum a huge disservice.

The British Museum publishes two books on its history: Marjorie Caygill’s The History of the British Museum, and David Wilson’s The British Museum: A History. Unsurprisingly, neither tackles the more difficult subjects relating to the Museum, such as the colonial origins of its collections or governance or sponsorship. Unfortunately, Hamilton’s account is equally sanitised. It is notable that the book is part of a series on “the history of civilisation”, a tone so in keeping with the British Museum’s self-image it might explain the lack of critique.

In fact, it’s hard to find anything new in Hamilton’s history. Like the other books, it takes a chronological approach, starting with Hans Sloane’s Will. Along the way the usual events and themes in the British Museum’s history are described: Montague House, not-so-public access, the King’s Library, the new building, the addition of departments, the dispersal of its collections, the British Library… Chronology is a difficult structure: it’s hard to know where to end, or to draw a conclusion about on-going events. Hamilton draws the main storyline to a close with the opening of the British Library. That’s surprising because the late twentieth century saw a period of turmoil in the Museum that related directly to its management and governance in the preceding centuries. Those events had a huge impact on the British Museum of today, so it seems strange not to mention them.

Drawing the history to an end in the early 1970s also means there’s no discussion of Neil MacGregor signing the Declaration of the Importance and Value of Universal Museums, which in effect doubled down on the British Museum’s previous refusals to repatriate stolen objects. It’s hard to discuss the British Museum without mentioning its colonial origins and present day responses to them, yet where Hamilton does mention this it is disingenuous, to put it mildly. Hans Sloane’s connection to slavery is described as income “from plantations his wife had inherited” (p16), rather than his active complicity as outlined in James Delbourgo’s biography. Similarly, in the nineteenth century artefacts “arrive” because museums are “institutions of suction, drawing stuff towards them” (p 52), rather than being active participants in collecting stolen objects. Hamilton acknowledges the dispute over the Parthenon marbles, but later appears to dismiss concern about them while simultaneously sighing about protests over oil company sponsorship.

The lack of original content is exacerbated by Hamilton’s uneven style, which veers from pretentious (e.g. Sloane’s “courageous embarkation on dangerous travel expressed itself multifariously” (p 16)), to sensationalist (Sloane’s Will contained a “killer demand” that made “hostages” of the trustees (p24)). The book is peppered with faux-academic tropes including footnotes *and* endnotes. There are appendices containing an odd selection of information, but very few primary sources. A lack of precision gives rise to some ambiguities, such as the date the Natural History Museum came into being.

The British Museum is a flawed institution, albeit one that has a significant role in the past and present of museums. A book that discusses its history, warts and all, and places it in context of contemporary discussions about museums could enable everyone to have a more informed discussion about its future. This book is not it.

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Collecting the World

There are few people who would deny that the British Museum’s history is steeped in colonialism. Apologists have chosen to gloss over this past by claiming the Museum now has a special status as a universal museum. James Delbourgo’s new biography of Hans Sloane, Collecting the World: The Life and Curiosity of Hans Sloane, should make them think again, and give pause for deep reflection to all museums with colonial connections. 

Delbourgo charts Sloane’s rise from an Ulster-born outsider to a wealthy, well-connected member of the London elite. En route Sloane became physician to the governor of Jamaica, an event that would transform his life. It not only conferred status to the nascent physician, it was here that Sloane collected the specimens that made up his Natural History of Jamaica and established him as a significant collector. The trip also led to his marriage to the widow of a plantation owner, giving him an income from sugar production that would help sustain his future collecting. As Delbourgo makes clear, Sloane’s collecting was only achieved through his complicity in slavery and colonialism.

It is hard to find any redeeming features in Sloane’s character when reading about his time in Jamaica. With a colonial, capitalist outlook, Sloane saw the Jamaican landscape as containing commodities to be owned, traded and used by white English owners. His treatment of slaves was abhorrent. He was brutal to them as patients and documented their public torture and execution without emotion or intervention. He considered “Indians and blacks” as specimens to be inspected and scrutinised. His writing amplified racist stereotypes, while his accounts of sugar production erased the slaves whose labour created it.

And yet it was the Jamaican landscape and natural history that established Sloane as a collector of repute, and it was slaves who did some of that collecting for him. Their contribution was, of course, written out of Natural History of Jamaica, alongside the artists and engravers whose meticulous drawings recorded specimens and illustrated the book. Sloane the arriviste was not acknowledging anyone else.

Delbourgo elegantly details the way in which Sloane’s collecting and scientific and medical practices combined to further all elements of his life. Sloane’s rising status in his practice provided him with huge wealth and a network of contacts throughout the expanding empire. And through this network he expanded his collections. Delbourgo places this story against a deftly woven backdrop of political and social contexts and histories of science and medicine to create a rich and compelling account.

There are parts of Collecting the World that will ring true for present-day curators, particularly the logistics of documenting and cataloguing the collections. The catalogues give pause for reflection on the ways knowledge is created through collecting material culture. Delbourgo points out that much of Sloane’s collection, now dispersed across several institutions, is unused and unexamined. The original descriptions, written through a colonial lens, are extant and we can no longer collect other contemporaneous accounts. It’s a reminder to be reflective about present-day practices and prejudices.

Delbourgo’s style is easy to read, though in his eagerness to pack the book with detail it is rather uneven. The chapters on processes of collecting are over-long and meandering. The weakest chapter is the last, on the development of the British Museum. Here Delbourgo falters and appears uncritical and unable to bring current thought and debate in museology to his account. A significant omission from the book is women. We hear almost nothing about Elizabeth, Sloane’s wife, apart from her money, and his daughters get a mere mention. A few female collectors get a couple of pages between them, but otherwise women are absent.

Nonetheless, Collecting the World is an important read. It shows why the glib responses to museums’ colonial origins are unacceptable, and it should make us reflect on the continued deification of Sloane and other colonial collectors. It is essential reading for all in museums, particularly directors and trustees.

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Exhibition-making Practice Research

In Case of Emergency, Break Convention

What makes a museum break from convention and look at its collection in a new way? 

When Tate Modern first opened its doors in May 2000 visitors were greeted with a novel approach to the presentation of modern art history: there was no chronology of works arranged by movement, instead the art was displayed in four suites of rooms with broad-ranging themes such as nude/action/body and history/memory/society. Critical reaction ranged from “disorientating” to “iconoclastic and radical” but one thing was certain: Tate Modern had broken with convention. 

Skip forward to 2006 and the opening of the Jameel Gallery of Islamic Art at the V&A, a complete overhaul and redevelopment of the Islamic Gallery which had first opened in 1950. It shows a collection of beautifully displayed objects. In this respect it is a modernised version of its predecessor. Yet the overhaul of the gallery had been initiated in response to 9/11. One might expect therefore, that some of cultural and historical context would be present, and yet it is not. 

Why then, was Tate Modern able to offer a fresh approach to its subject but the V&A wasn’t? In this paper I want to suggest that one of the overriding factors in this decision is a museum’s perception of its identity and its status, its current cultural & symbolic capital, if you like. Indeed, I suggest that a museum will only undertake a new approach to its exhibitions if it needs to reassert itself. This has implications for the production of knowledge in exhibitions. If we accept that, as Stephen Dubin puts it, “exhibitions solidify culture, science, history, identity and world views”, and if we want exhibitions reflection the societies in which museums are located, we need to understand what it is that will make a museum adopt a different approach.

I want begin by providing some context for this discussion, namely the political and socio-economic conditions in which museums have operated since the 1980s. These have arisen from the political and financial ideology of the Thatcher government, first elected in 1979, which applied the principles of the private sector marketplace to the public sector. This meant museums saw a reduction in their real-terms public funding, they had to justify receipt of that funding, and they were ‘encouraged’ to diversify their sources of income, for example through donations, sponsorship and commercial activities (and in some cases entrance fees) – things that now perhaps seem common place, but then were quite new. One effect of this was to place museums in competition with each other, for money and for visitors; so museums had – still have to – to operate in a marketplace whilst still maintaining an intellectual integrity.

Let’s go back to Tate Modern. I started by stating that Tate Modern produced a novel approach to the display of art history. This is true: up to this point the convention for modern art exhibitions was still primarily informed by the approach developed at MoMA in the mid-C20th. MoMA’s first director, Alfred Barr presented a master narrative of modern art history showing masterworks from each movement in a chronological order, to suggest a linear progression through time. Barr’s formula extended to the design of the exhibitions: works were hung widely spaced, positioned just below eye level against neutral coloured walls (often white) in rooms without architectural adornment, in what became known as the white cube aesthetic. This had subsequently been widely adopted, including by Tate Gallery itself.

However, what is not true is that Tate Modern’s concept was a new approach to art history. In fact, this conventional modernist presentation of art history introduced by Barr had been increasingly critiqued since the late 1960s. These critiques came from artists such as Hans Haacke, Marcel Broodthaers, who questioned museums’ role in framing meanings of art, and levelled charges of elitism. They also came from academics, for whom the development of disciplines such as gender studies, psychoanalysis, sociology and identity politics in the wake of the cultural turn of the late 60s and 70s created a ‘new art history’ which gave many and different readings of art and challenged the notion of a master narrative.

Any yet, many museums stuck with the Barrist model – two notable exceptions being the Pompidou and Musee d’Orsay, both of which met with very mixed, to put it politely, reactions from critics and academics.  And it’s not as though museums weren’t aware of this contradiction; in fact, in 1999, during Tate Modern’s development, there was a conference at the Clark Art Institute in the US called The Two Art Histories in which art historians from museums and the academy got together and asked “what’s going on here, why do we insist on saying completely different things about the same subject?” Or as Charles Haxthausen put it, why this mutual suspicion of each others’ practices?

As I alluded to earlier, Tate Gallery was one of those museums that had kept to Alfred Barr’s convention of display, so why did it feel it could break with that convention for the new Tate Modern? The answer lies in the international and national competition that it faced.

You’ll probably be aware that it was part of the former Tate Gallery at Millbank in London, which now houses Tate Britain. The division of Tate’s London home into two was made in 1992, and was a response to the political and economic pressures of the time: it had a lack of space to display collections, it had poor visitor facilities, and it needed space for hosting corporate events to attract sponsors. One way around this was to move out part of the collection on to a new site, but only if the new museums could maintain their status and ability to attract sponsors and visitors. 

Tate Gallery was a well-known, well-respected museum of art that held its own against other British national museums and on an international stage, so these new creations had to do the same. But a new museum of modern art would be entering a crowded international field, with MoMA and the French National Museum of Modern Art at the Pompidou being the main rivals. Like both these museums, Tate Gallery’s collection of modern art was weak in the areas of new media, non-white artists and non-Western art. But, crucially, the Gallery’s collection was also weaker than both MoMA and MNAM in classical modern art – for example, it had no pre-1940 North American works; so no Edward Hopper, no Georgia O’Keefe for example. A conventional chronological approach to displaying art would show these weaknesses; in other words Tate Gallery of Modern Art could not compete with its two main international rivals on their terms.

However, if the Tate Modern wanted to carve a niche for itself on the international stage by, say, starting to address the weaknesses of all three museums by, say, starting to collect photography, Tate Modern had national rivals. In the case of new media, it would have to identify itself against the V&A, which already had an extensive photographic collection. Then there was a longstanding tension with the National Gallery, which has Picasso’s Fruit Dish, Bottle and Violin, at Tate has Monet’s Water Lilies, so when does its collection end and Tate Modern’s begin? 

Tate Modern’s answer to this was to synthesise a new ‘modern’ and in so doing to present the new art history that has existed for 30 years but rarely been displayed. It rejected a master narrative and adopted a core principle of displaying multiple readings of art. Interestingly the details of its inaugural displays also weren’t really new: the themes, history / memory / society for example, were updated takes on nineteenth century genres of painting, and the principles of how works were arranged in rooms in order to create a multiplicity of readings drew heavily on contemporary art, particularly the Hallen fur Neue Kunst in Switzerland and documenta 7. By drawing on, and combining a variety of approaches established in other fields, Tate Modern created a new version of a modern art hang, one that allowed it to define its own niche, hide its weaknesses, and display its strengths. 

In other words, in order to create an identity that would inherit and even build on Tate Gallery’s international status, the new Tate Modern had to ditch convention and find a new approach to modern art. But the other way of looking at this is that a view of modern art that had been widely criticised and by practitioners and theorists alike over a period of 30 years had continued to be presented in most museums. 

We can get a feel for how that reluctance to change operates by looking at the V&A. 

After the terrorist attacks in the US in September 2001, the subsequent Western military action in Afghanistan, relationships between Muslim and non-Muslim communities, and representation of one by the other, had been much debated in the media and in parliament. It was in response to this context that Mohammed Abdul Latif Jameel, a Saudi businessman, offered the museum £5.4 million pounds for the redevelopment for the Islamic Gallery. For his part, he also wanted to further his family’s interest in “world cultures and promoting understanding between them and a commitment to increasing understanding of the Islamic world.” (Quoted in press release.) Jameel’s donation included funds for a touring exhibition and for research trips to the Middle East so that the exhibition team could experience first-hand the culture, art and architecture of that region. 

The team was all very new to exhibition making and to the V&A – the Middle East Section of the museum was new, with a newly arrived curator and project manager, and the designers, Softroom, had not previously produced a permanent museum display. The curatorial team cut their teeth on the touring exhibition, Palace & Mosque, which was developed in 2003 before the concept for the gallery at the South Kensington site. Its aim was “to show how Islamic art reflects the values and practices of the people who lived in the Middle East and illustrate the range of artistic interactions with other cultures that have helped to give Islamic art a universal relevance.” The exhibition concept highlighted that Islamic art – which is a contentious categorisation – is not temporally or geographically homogeneous, and emphasised inter-cultural exchange – so there was historical and cultural contextualisation.

However, the concept for the gallery in the V&A was very different. It privileged the display of the collection over all other aims of the exhibition. This becomes apparent in the way the exhibition is designed: the objects are presented as beautiful, but decontextualised works. Most of the interpretation is about the materials or manufacture of the objects. In fact, there are small contextualising elements, mostly in the form of five audio-visual exhibits, but they are positioned in a way that means they are easily over looked. 

But this is a bit strange. After all, it’s not as though creating an exhibition that provides cultural and historical context was beyond the means of the curatorial & design team, because they’d done just that for Palace & Mosque. Yet it became highly marginalised in the version of the exhibition for the V&A. Furthermore, the V&A had been criticised for taking an Orientalist, homogenising approach to its non-European collections. And yet it persisted, even given the geopolitical context. Why was that? 

It becomes more understandable when you realise that at this time the V&A was reasserting its identity as a museum of arts, crafts and design. Six months before Jameel’s donation the museum had launched Future Plan, a scheme that aimed to remodel the museum by renewing old galleries, creating new visitor facilities, clarifying way finding and creating a new visual identity, using the British Galleries, opened in November 2001, as a benchmark for display. The V&A had been thinking about such a scheme since the late 1980s, but after the launch of both Tate Modern and the Great Court at the British Museum in 2000, the timing of FuturePlan can be seen as crucial to the V&A keeping up with newly invigorated competition. The former Islamic Gallery had been on the FuturePlan list, albeit way down in the pecking order, 

So from the museum’s perspective the Jameel Gallery had to look like a V&A exhibition– if you go to the British Galleries, there’s very little about historical or cultural context there either. Furthermore, a new curatorial team and a new, hungry design company weren’t going to rock the boat by doing anything the museum didn’t like. 

Exhibitions are both cultural product and cultural producer: they are a product of institutional contexts and practices, and they produce an account of a subject viewed by visitors. These two examples show that in action. In both, decisions about the ideas and concepts presented in an exhibition are clearly shown as the products of a certain set of institutional contexts. Those are either creating, in the case of Tate Modern, or maintaining – the V&A – an institutional identity that maintains each museums’ status and therefore primarily financial support. 

This raises difficult issue for museums and exhibition makers. Dubin talked of exhibitions solidifying culture, and as Timothy Luke argues, they are also perceived as important educational institutions – they are places we go to to find out about things – and as such they possess a power to shape social & cultural understandings. But they can only do that if they themselves are open to hearing and presenting those social understandings, and if they are open to change. If museums value the preservation of their identity – their brand – above engaging with new modes of thought in such a way that it limits their worldview, then they risk losing their value as knowledgeable institutions.

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An insider’s guide to exhibition text

Hi, my name is Rachel Souhami and I wear multiple museum-related hats, one of which is that I’m an exhibition-maker, which is a curator-designer hybrid. This means I’ve written my fair share of exhibition text panels. They may look simple – a few words next to an object, a paragraph or two on the wall – but there’s more to it that meets the eye. So here is my guide to exhibition text.

The first thing to remember is that text panels are the last thing on any exhibition-maker’s mind. It takes two to five years to create an exhibition, starting with developing the concept and ideas you want to convey. Then you select the objects, think about how to display them and then you write the text. But that doesn’t mean the text isn’t important. It’s there to help direct visitors’ attention to those ideas.

Exhibitions are a bit like 3d Pictionary: the curators know what they want to say, but they have to do it using some objects. So here (below), for example, the curator wants to tell visitors about artistic exchange between the Middle East and Europe in the C19th using some coffee pots, some metalwork and a couple of caskets. It would be quite difficult if not for the text.

A display case with a blue background. A round platter is hanging on the back. In front of this, on a narrow shelf, are four coffee pots. In the foreground of the case are two small decorated caskets and some other decorative items in metal.
A display case on artistic exchange with Europe in the Jameel Gallery of Islamic Art, V&A

If there was no text we’d all have a different idea of what we’re looking at. That’s because what each of us thinks when we look at an object depends on our prior knowledge and experience – what do I think this object is, what do I know about it? – as well as contexts such our expectations of what is the exhibition about, and what we know or think about the subject. The same group of objects can mean something very different depending on where they are and who is looking at them.

Models of dinosaurs at the Natural History Museum, London (left) and the Creation Museum, Kentucky (right).

So curators use labels to indicate what exhibits are supposed to show. But here I’m going to sound a note of caution. Because if you are particularly enthusiastic you might get carried away. Like this (below) at the National Museum of Denmark, Copenhagen.

First text panel of the Danish Prehistory display at National Museum of Denmark, showing the section title “The long journey”

I don’t think the long journey of the title really refers to human migration from Africa in the Cro-Magnon era, which is what it says in the next panel. No, it refers to visitors’ trek along the bank of text panels that goes on for 26 rooms!

Visitors standing in front of a back-lit panel from the Danish Prehistory exhibition that spans the length of the room.
View of another section of the Danish Prehistory exhibition’s graphic panel disappearing into the distance.

That isn’t really an exhibition, it’s a book

And here is another reason not to get carried away. Visitors don’t like it when there’s no text, but they don’t actually like reading it either. We know this from visitor studies. Museums track visitors to see where they go and what they look at, which turns out not to be the text. Less than 30% of visitors read it.

A rule of thumb is about 70-80 words per panel. Which sounds easy, but you’ve got to get your language right. You need to convey your ideas, but remember that this is one interpretation. Others might think differently, especially if you’re talking about culture or history or a controversial subject. And sometimes we just don’t know what an object is, but want to include it because it’s interesting. That’s difficult.

Object label from the British Museum's Ice Age Art exhibition in 2013. The label's title is "Diving or flying water bird" and the text says "This sculpture may be a spiritual symbol connecting the upper, middle and lower worlds of the cosmos reached by a bird that flies in the sky, moves on land and dives through water. Alternatively it may be an image of a small meal and a bag of useful feathers."
Object label from the British Museum’s Ice Age Art exhibition, 2013.

Don’t show off or try to be clever. The image below is from a stand at the Royal Society’s summer exhibition (year unknown). If, like this author, you find yourself writing “this is a meaningless statement to all but a few experts not all of whom agree with it anyway” then maybe rethink. And if you have to say “extinct volant Mesozoic ornithodirans” make sure you explain what those are!

A section of a text panel. The paragraph is titled "What are pterosaurs?". The paragraph text says "They are extinct volant Mesozoic rornithodirans. This is a meaningless statement to all but a few experts, not all of whom agree with it anyway. What all do agree is that pterosaurs are extinct, were restricted to the Mesozoic era and could fly. However, not everyone agrees that pterosaurs are rornithodirans, partly because not everyone is sure what an ornithodirian is. So, do we really know what a pterosaur is?"

Finally, don’t forget to make sure your text will stay the course. If the exhibition is going to last 10-15 years, which a collection display may well do, you don’t want the content or language to go out of date.

It can be a long and frustrating process. I once had to explain genetic modification in 70 words, and it took me two days to write.

But sometimes all these elements – the objects, the text, the multiple readings – come together and resonate, conveying ideas far beyond the sum of their parts. Prior to 1992 Maryland Historical Society showed history from the perspective of white, rich slave owners. It displayed their serene and luxurious living conditions, such as cabinets of silverware. In 1992 artist Fred Wilson made a series of subtle interventions for his installation Mining the Museum that exposed the violence erased by the selected looking and curation. Wilson had discovered shackles in the collection, never previously displayed. He added the shackles to the cabinet of ornate silverware and wrote the label: Metalwork 1793-1880. Sometimes seventeen characters is all you need.

A display cabinet showing some highly ornate and decorated silverware. At the back three pitchers, at the front left five goblets and at the front right, a group of three small jugs. At the front in the middle, between the goblets and the jugs are a set of shackles. A label at the front of the display case reads "Metalwork 1793-1880".

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Keynote: Curator of the Future conference

This final session of the conference is about the next generation of curators. I want to think about what we, collectively, need to do to support them and other emerging museum professionals. My starting point is what emerging museum workers have said they want, both for themselves and for the future of museums in general.

Just over a year ago I convened the Future of Museums conference. It was for people within the first six years of an entry-level post, and we had 65 attendees from across the country. The title – Future of Museums – had a deliberate double meaning. The participants are the future of museums, which may sound like a cheesy song title, but in 20 years time they will be the museum directors, CEOs of funding bodies and policy makers. We asked them for their ideas, visions and aspirations for the future of museums in 20 years’ time. Not what they thought might happen, but what they want to happen. Over the course of a day there were provocations and discussions, followed by drafting chapters for a manifesto.

The Manifesto for the Future of Museums (pdf), written entirely by conference participants, was published last year. Topics covered are far ranging, including diversity, access and training, low pay, collections policy, the hierarchy and siloing of job roles in museums, and the ways in which museums should work together. These may sound familiar; what is unusual is that this document presents solutions to the problems that these early career professionals see, particularly around the workforce.

The Manifesto has had a very positive response: over 500 downloads, sent to boards of trustees, handed to heads of HR. It’s great to have such an impact, but of course the question to those present-day trustees, CEOs and HR teams is how are you going to make this happen? And here two of the more surprising reactions to the Manifesto might help: first, participants mentioning how the conference provided a space where they felt safe to air their thoughts; second, a handful of senior professionals saying that all these issues were around when they were starting out.

This latter point is interesting because it raises the question of why nothing has changed. If people who now have power and influence felt like this 20 years ago, why are we still discussing these issues?

I’d like to propose four ideas to enable change. They’re complex, so this is a brief outline.

First, I propose that we stop talking about a museums sector. It gives the impression of homogeneity, with everyone pulling together for the sake of museums. It gives a false sense of cogency, planning and leadership. In fact, we know this isn’t the case. We know there are numerous different types of museum (local authority, national, independent to name but some), different funding models and funding bodies. We know there are different representative organisations, such as NMDC and AIM.

And therefore we know that organisations in the museum ecosystem have different contexts of operation, organisational models, different agendas, aims and objectives. The sooner we acknowledge that everything connected with museums is messy and complicated rather than uniform, the sooner we will be able to address ways to support future curators and workforce development.

My second idea follows on from this. The idea of the museum sector implies a collective leadership. But I would argue there is either a piecemeal approach with different organisations doing their own thing, or an approach that amounts to organisations waiting for someone else to take a lead. It needn’t be like this. We’ve recently seen the outcome of bodies coming together for discussions on disposal. What I’d love to see is larger organsations, such as Museums Association, National Museum Directors Council, Arts Council England, Heritage Lottery Fund, Association of Independent Museums and universities create a series of workshops to examine workforce issues that we all know exist.

My third suggestion will make this more powerful. To support the curators of the future, we need to engage with and empower them! We’re very good at talking about engaging with communities, visitors, schools. So it seems sad and strange that we don’t do that with budding museum workers.

But my final remark is to those future curators. You need to be proactive. Don’t become the future leaders that say “oh, we said that 20 years ago.” When you gain power, use it to improve the lot of those coming up behind you.

In summary, it’s really good to have conferences like this where we hear people’s views. But all talk and not much action won’t help the curators of the future. My first title for this talk was “stop fanning about and do something”, and I hope that will happen.

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Rethinking museum training and careers

The stories of poor quality training, difficulty getting jobs and lack of support recounted in my previous post shouldn’t come as a surprise. Maurice Davies’s report on this subject, The Tomorrow People, was published in 2007 but very little seems to have changed between then and the publication of Iain Watson’s Working Wonders (pdf) report in early 2013.

Why should that be? One answer is that there is very little incentive to initiate change. Why would museums want to do away with cheap labour? Surely universities are happy that a high demand for jobs means there is a similar demand for their Masters courses? Another answer presents itself when you look at who is consulted on this matter: Watson’s report, for example, leans heavily on the opinions of senior professionals. Perhaps unsurprisingly its first recommendation is “strengthen leadership and management.” However, it is the case that there is no apparent over-arching leadership across all parts of the sector (museums, universities, funders etc): no one seems to want to champion this cause. One might expect the Museums Association to fill that role, but given that it commissioned both Davies’s and Waston’s reports but has done little with them, it is difficult to have faith in its ability to do so.

The only recent new initiative for training is The Teaching Museum set up by Norfolk Museum and Archaeology Service (NMAS). This takes eight people per year from any background, and gives them on-the-job training over a nine-month period whilst paying them a salary. It is a refreshing move, but it is not without its own problems: in particular, trainees are assigned to one department for the whole course, and it is NMAS staff that decide that placement. Plus there are limits outside of the control of NMAS: the scheme only has funding for five years, there is no guarantee of a job afterwards, the scheme can only take eight applicants, and it does not address the problems of career progression. What is really needed is a profession-wide, holistic approach to training and careers.

Fortunately Webb, Crossley, Dendy and Hussey have some clear ideas about what should change and how. What is striking about their ideas is that although I interviewed them separately, they gave very similar answers. 

Careers advice

All four are adamant that museums and universities need to work together to produce clear career guidance at undergraduate level. They suggest that universities should offer elective modules on undergraduate courses such as history-based degrees, anthropology and archaeology that will introduce students to museums and museum work. They recommend that museums should reconsider their approach to volunteering to ensure that it is mutually beneficial to the volunteer and the museum. They also suggest that funding bodies and museums should work closely together to create programme of free workshops for those thinking of embarking on a museum career. These could be skills based, or simply open days.

Most importantly, though, museums and universities need to be honest about what qualifications you actually need for certain roles in a museum. As Crossley says “education jobs tend to go to teachers” so there’s no point in doing an MA in museum studies if you really need a PGCE. But as Dendy points out, there is no co-ordinated approach to museum qualifications, and no single place (website etc) that has all the advice you need.

Finally Crossley, Dendy and Hussey point out that in their experience many people leave an undergraduate degree not knowing what opportunities are available to them, and so decide on a career in museums because they can’t think of anything else to do. Better all round careers guidance at universities would help with this, and perhaps would help reduce the number of people wanting to work in museums.

Training

The underlying principle of Webb, Crossely, Hussey and Dendy’s vision for museum training is that it must include theory and practice. Students must gain an understanding of all the different roles in a museum, specific skills such as how to use databases and write a grant application, they must have at least one substantial work placement, and they must gain an understanding of theoretical, reflexive approaches to museums to enable them to contextualise their work. Furthermore, places on these courses must be limited. 

It is easy to imagine academics throwing their hands up at this idea and wondering how on earth they’re meant to fit all that into a twelve-month programme. That is easy to answer as soon as one realises that a museum studies MA is a professional qualification. As Crossley points out, other professional MAs, such as those in social work, take place over two years full time (see here for example). Webb, Crossley, Dendy and Hussey suggest that universities and museums should work together to develop a similar scheme. The first year would comprise some theory, introductions to the different aspects of museum work and skills training, and a long placement. If students then decided a museum work wasn’t for them they could leave with a Diploma. Those continuing in the second year would specialise in one area of museum work, write a dissertation and do an additional work placement.

This is a remarkably simple solution and has some important features. First, it combines skills training, experience and theory. Second, it enables people with little understanding of museums’ behind-the-scenes jobs to see the variety of different roles they could undertake; as Crossley explains, “people often don’t know what is available.” In addition, a long work placement will give students the experience that museums demand in a meaningful way. That experience will also help students discover whether this is what they really want to do. Finally, the theoretical modules will enable students to become reflexive practitioners and understand museums as political sites; as Dendy says “I think you need a critical mindset [to work in a museum]. A critical outlook on the way the West collects.”

However, this scheme is not perfect. In particular, students will still need to pay fees and living expenses while doing it. Postgraduate course fees are an issue that the university sector recognises but hasn’t got far in addressing. But as this problem remains whether courses are reformed or not, it might be an idea for museums, universities, funding bodies and others to work together to find a way to offer financial support to students.

Career progression

It is difficult to know how to address the thorny issue of career progression, expect by suggesting that museums need to be far more transparent in their person specifications than appears to be the case at present. What is clear, however, is that Dendy, Crossley, Hussey and Webb all feel that mentoring is essential to help with this. The long work placement in the revised MA they suggest could offer students the chance to establish mentoring relationship with their supervisor. An alternative solution might be to establish a kind of ‘museum mentor matching’ service in which people who would like to be mentors are put in touch with people who want to be mentored.

Pay and conditions

Dendy, Webb, Crossley and Hussey could not offer any solutions to the perennial low pay except perhaps that museums should try harder. However, repeat short-term contracts, lack of on the job training and lack of clarity about the possibilities of progressing within an organisation could and should be addressed.

The way forward is through engagement

In spite of a list of grievances it is striking that Webb, Crossley, Hussey and Dendy are far from bitter. None of them was thinking of leaving the profession, but all were frustrated that their voices had not been heard before. This is a great loss to the sector, because senior professionals cannot possibly have an in-depth idea of what needs to change if they don’t ask. Furthermore, it is clear that early careers professionals have some interesting and imaginative ideas of how these problems could be resolved. Even more importantly, they are the senior professionals of the future and including them in the future direction of the sector must help to ensure a long-term outlook. If the sector really wants to change it must engage with them, and it must do it soon. And then there must be action.

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The low down on the life of early career museum workers

You’ve got to love museums to want to work in one: if you’re lucky, after years of study and volunteering you’ll get a low paid job on a short-term contract, and even getting one of those is a slog. But while senior professionals approach this problem by wringing their hands over training or declaring they have the solution, the voices of early careers professionals have rarely been heard. If you do ask, you’ll hear that entry routes are inadequate, there is a lack of cogent thought, structure and guidance throughout the sector, and that the solution is a wholesale change of approach to museum training and jobs. 

Marginal benefits from a Masters

Many people see a Masters degree in museum studies or equivalent as an entry into the museums sector. However, with fees ranging from £5,000 at UEA to £8,500 at UCL for a full-time one-year course starting 2013, once you factor in living costs an MA could set you back £25,000. Leaving aside for now the implications of this for access and workforce diversity, for those who can afford to do an MA, the question is: is it worth it? 

Laura Crossley finished her MA in Heritage Studies in 2011, and Kristin Hussey finished her MA in Art Gallery and Museum Studies in 2010. Crossley says her Masters taught her skills she wouldn’t have learned elsewhere, particularly how to write exhibition outlines and interpretation plans which now forms the basis of her freelance work. She and Hussey both agree that the reflexive content of their MAs – understanding museums’ cultural, social and historical contexts – was also important: “I’d argue that everybody working in museums should have that background,” says Hussey. For Crossley, that contextualization helps her think about future employment: “I now have a clear idea of what my stance is [on the purpose of museums], and would want to work in museums that share [it].”

However, neither feels that an MA either got them a job or prepared them for working in a museum. Crossley’s first heritage job was at Norwich HEART, and although doing her MA work placement there helped her get in the loop, it was her experience of EU-funded grants gained as a university administrator that actually won her the position. She later managed a small museum in Sheringham but “I didn’t feel prepared to do every job in the museum because I didn’t know how [the different departments] worked.” Her MA had not provided her with information on the structure and roles in a museum.

Hussey is scathing about the omissions from her course. With an ambition to be a curator, she cites a list of things it didn’t cover that would have aided her transfer into museum work: “I went into a museum not knowing what a loan agreement looked like, not knowing what a registrar does… a young professional needs to be able to say ‘I can use Modes, Calm, KE Emu, Adlib. Mimsy’, [you need to know] what are Spectrum standards, what is government indemnity…” Although Hussey’s course gave a two-hour introduction to KE Emu, it was only the opportunity to use Mimsy during her work placement that enabled her get a job.

While Crossley and Hussey point to pros and cons of an MA, Miki Webb’s experience implies that for some roles the cost isn’t justified. Webb started her MA in Public Archaeology two years ago on a part-time basis. In October 2012 she took an interruption from studies in order to work full time to save up for the next year. Webb is now on a one-year contract as a visitor services assistant at the National Martime Museum, and finds that many of her colleagues, on the same contract, have MAs and even PhDs. What, she asks, is the point in continuing with the MA if it’s going to get her the job she’s got now? Crossley agrees: she worked full-time at HEART and other heritage sites whilst doing her MA over a period of five years: “it’s difficult to get to a certain age and think ‘wow, I’ve spent lots and lots of money for a career that won’t pay me very well and that I might not get a job in.” She contemplated withdrawing from her course, given that she had a job, but felt that she needed the degree to get a job. 

Here is the museum world’s sleight of hand. A quick trawl through Leicester University’s Museum Job Desk at the time of writing (August 2013) shows only one job advert in the first fifty that explicitly requests an MA in museum studies; most asked for experience and subject-related degrees. However, this conceals the underlying cutthroat jobs market, in which entry level qualifications have inflated to crazy levels. Forget appearances, if you want to get ahead in museums you need all the experience and qualifications you can get. 

Gain skills but not cash

Volunteering is often cited as a way to show your enthusiasm, get experience and learn some skills. Terri Dendy is perhaps an extreme example of this. She doesn’t have an MA, but got her first paid museums job immediately after she graduated from university solely on the back of her voluntary work. She had been volunteering in museums from the age of seventeen and knew even then that she wanted to work in collections. However, the volunteering roles at her local museum were front-of-house and education based, and not aimed at people who were thinking about a museum career. Dendy, however, was pushy enough to wangle her way into voluntary roles behind the scenes cataloguing and accessioning works. At university she continued volunteering: “there was one point [where] I had four jobs: interning [at Orleans House Museum], volunteering [at the Horniman Museum], working at the National Maritime Museum in the shop and working as a supervisor at Waitrose.” 

But before Dendy is cited as illustration of how to get into museums with out an MA, let’s review what she did: it took her four years of unpaid work to gain the skills get a job; in addition she had to really push to get the experience she needed. In Dendy’s opinion, the volunteer programmes in major museums are over subscribed, but smaller museums may not have programmes that a useful to those wanting to start a museum career. In the local authority museum where she started volunteering the programme was geared to “mainly older women, retired, doing a little bit here and there, pottering around, nothing career based.” Crossley agrees: “I know people who have spent years and years volunteering, and because a lot of volunteering roles are just not very useful [to a career] they’ve just never progressed.”

It is worth noting here that some museums may distinguish between voluntary work (front of house, administration) and internships or work placements (more technical areas such as conservation and registry). Museums and applicants should note that the terms internship and work placement have no legal status, and that people undertaking them may be considered workers and entitled to the national minimum wage. The Museums Association has guidelines on internships, but even then suggests that three months unpaid work is acceptable.

Voluntary work isn’t the only way to gain skills; there are plenty of training courses available but these are expensive ­– unless, of course, you have a job and your employer will pay. There are some exceptions. Crossley speaks with enthusiasm about Share Museums East’s free courses, which it can fund because it was one of nine recipients of funding from Arts Council England’s museum development fund. It is not clear, however, whether the other eight recipients offer the same opportunities.

Given the price of these courses, in the highly competitive museum jobs market, poor quality volunteering roles and unpaid internships become highly problematic. How else to gain skills not acquired elsewhere and/or show your enthusiasm for museum work? Doing unpaid work has become accepted practice in the sector, and although one understands there is an all-round lack of funding, it would appear that the sector has adopted an iniquitous attitude towards its future workforce.

Workplace woes

Forget the difficulty of actually getting a paid job in a museum, once you have one life isn’t a bed of roses. “I am shocked at how bad [employment practices] are” says Hussey, who has now worked on four 6-month contracts. Dendy left her job at the Science Museum to be an art technician because “I kind of got fed up of playing that contract game of waiting until the end of the month and then being told that you might actually work the following month.” There are even anecdotes that allege some museums play fast and loose with continuous employment

Hussey and Webb have both experienced a kind of snobbism towards, and ignorance of, their roles in the museum. Walking back to the Royal Observatory after our talk, Webb eyed the masses of visitors waiting to get in and sighed, “the people in the office jobs think we [visitor services assistants] just stand around all day. If only they knew.” Hussey has found a that curators’ lack of understanding of her role can even be detrimental to the museum: “Today we found an object in the CTR, a transport room, because a curator had bought it for an exhibition, didn’t think to write any paper work for it, now can’t quite remember where it came from, so who owns this object? Then it becomes the registrar’s problem.”

It is worth noting that Hussey, Dendy and Webb are working for large museums where, if their experience is typical, ignorance of the museum’s structure, organization and roles is endemic. Hussey’s experience in a five-month temporary job confirmed this. It was a much smaller museum and she rapidly learned what other people were doing, and felt she was able to contribute more. Crossley concurs. Talking of her experience at Norwich HEART she says, “I was part of a very small team. I was always asked for my opinion at the team meetings so I really learned what everybody in that team did.” 

As if the in-post frustrations aren’t bad enough, career progression is nigh on impossible. Dendy wants to move back into a registry post but “if I was to change I’d have to go back to work in an entry level position, or just one above. My vast experience should put me higher, but [museums] seem only to employ internally when it comes to second and third level jobs.” The idea that much sought after jobs should only be available to ‘insiders’ may sound shocking, but a quick skim through some museum websites shows that at the time of writing the V&A, for example, is advertising for a “Curator of Paintings, internal applicants only”.

The job market also makes an impact by enabling museums to be picky about whom they employ. Hussey describes museums as “nothing if not judgmental about the background that you have”, explaining that friends of hers have taken short-term contracts in education or events “because that’s where the work is” only to find that this now seems to bar them from applying for registry, documentation or curatorial posts regardless of other experience. Hussey herself has experienced an apparent hierarchy of qualifications in which having a PhD trumps any kind of previous museum experience.

Structured on-the-job training also seems rare. In spite of having worked at the same institution for four years, the only way Hussey could gain the additional skills and experience she needs to progress was to take five months unpaid leave and do a temporary job at another museum. For Crossley, as a freelance, the cost of continuing professional development is prohibitive. She would love to do the Museums Association’s AMA but “you need to be massively rich” (it costs over £700 over three years at current prices).

The over-heated jobs market and unwillingness for museums to train their staff has resulted in Dendy experiencing the job-seekers’ Catch 22: not having enough experience of loan agreements, but not being able to acquire that skill without having the job. She points out that she can’t solve this problem by volunteering because she has to hold down a full-time job, and she can’t afford to go on a training course.

Surely though it must be possible to ask for guidance, even if a mentor can’t conjure up jobs and money? Hussey’s mentor is the person who supervised her work placement during her MA. The others have not been so lucky. “I would love a mentor. How [else] are you going to know what is the next step [in your career]?” asks Dendy. Crossley agrees, “I just think you need someone who knows the business and you need someone to bounce ideas off.” Crossley feels so passionately about mentoring that she mentors other people trying to get into museums jobs “but trying to find a mentor for me has been impossible.” Thus it seems that in a difficult, complex job market many people are left without help to navigate their way.

Museums’ fixation on rigid person specifications and their inability to support and nurture their staff has led Hussey to take a fairly extreme measure. In spite of an MA in museum studies and four years’ experience working with scientific collections, her undergraduate degree in politics, history and economics has been a block to gaining a curatorial post. She is now applying to do PhD in the history of medicine: “I want to be a museum curator more than anything in the world, and I’ve been fighting for that for quite a few years now, [but] I don’t think I’ll get where I want to go without a PhD.”

What is evident from these accounts that the lot of an early career museum professional can be pretty miserable: there is no career structure, no guidance, no training and no stability. I explore their ideas for changing this in my next post.

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Working Culture

Museum people should show off more

Where would you find a theatre director, a man with an extensive collection of VHS tapes and an Egyptologist all in the same room? The answer: Museums Showoff. These are just some of the people who have taken to the stage at an event that enables people from across the museums sector to share their ideas, projects and ambitions.

Every two months, we give 10 participants nine minutes each to tell an audience something interesting about museums in any style or format they like. With a bit of luck these nine-minute sets lead to conversations and new projects and plans. But this is not a stuffy networking event – there are no name tags and awkward introductions.

For a start, it takes place in a pub. There’s a cabaret feel to the evening, which is compèred by Steve Cross, head of public engagement at UCL. Half the acts sign up via our website on a first-come-first-served basis. The other half are invited to try to ensure that the 10 performers represent a wide variety of voices from the museum sector – and this gets to the heart of Museums Showoff.

There’s a huge diversity of roles and disciplines within the museum sector and yet little opportunity for people to come together. It’s unusual to see, say, an architectural historian share a stage with a digital media developer, a pathology curator and an events organiser in front of an equally mixed audience.

Yet as we’ve discovered, often people from seemingly disparate parts of the museums community have ideas in common and knowledge to share. What better way to encourage that exchange than in an informal, relaxed environment where the pressure of work is off, and if someone’s talk grabs your attention you can chat about it over a drink in the interval or after the gig?

Even if you don’t forge new alliances you’re bound to learn something new. That could be discovering a museum you hadn’t known about, hearing a different view on a subject or just simply finding out how someone else approaches, say, on-gallery interpretation. Importantly, showing off does not mean sales pitches. Nor has anyone used it for self-aggrandisement.

In fact, quite the opposite is true; it turns out that museums people are very good at poking fun at themselves, taking a droll look at visitors, talking about the pitfalls of their latest project, and offering frank and witty opinions on anything from the track record of arts ministers to what’s wrong with the Science Museum. They’re also amazingly creative – as well as entertaining talks we’ve had poetry about plastics conservation, songs about dinosaurs, banjo-playing art historians, and panto versions of Roald Dahl stories.

Museums Showoff has been running for just over a year. We’ve done six gigs in London and travelled to Brighton and Manchester, with a running total of 80 people performing to an average audience size of 80+ (you can only perform once in a 12 month period). Though I say it myself, this is an impressive tally given that we have no budget, all our marketing is done by word of mouth and social media, and everyone involved – organisers, venues and performers alike – takes part for no payment.

So how are we doing with our aim to engage all sectors of the museums community with each other? Those 80 people certainly do come from diverse sectors of the museums world, and it’s been great to follow exchanges on Twitter and see people follow up on conversations started at one of our gigs.

But it’s also true that there are gaps in our recruitment, and it’s interesting to see where they are: we’ve had very few people from art museums and galleries; we’ve not had any exhibition designers or architects; and it’s been difficult to get people from small, independent museums to take part.

I wonder whether to some extent this reflects the sparsity of connections between different parts of the sector that we want to change. When people have participated or come to gigs we’ve found that others in their networks soon sign up or come along. I hope that one or two people from those missing fields will soon sign up, then encourage their colleagues to do the same.

The next night is in north London on 14 May and features a museum director, a PhD student and a professional tweeter among others. Come along, be entertained, learn something, meet people – and even sign up for the next one.

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