More than Opening Hours: Museums and Public Service

When John Cotton Dana wrote The Gloom of the Museum in 1917, American museums were still in their infancy. The image he offered of the museums of the early twentieth century is both disappointing and frustratingly familiar. We’re trying to be too much like Europe, he declared, adding derisively that, like their counterparts across the Atlantic, American museums were too much like, “remote palaces and temples, filled with objects not closely associated with the life of the people who are asked to get pleasure and profit from them, and so arranged and administered to make them seem more remote.”

Dana would be disappointed to discover that much of the public today still levels the same charges against museums that he did almost one hundred years ago. In 2008, an independently-run social commentary website called The Pinky Show posted a video discussion about museums, cleverly titled, “We Love Museums… Do Museums Love Us Back?” Using a tongue-in-cheek cartoon, The Pinky Show criticizes museums today in a way that directly echos Dana, arguing that they are still elitist, mysterious, temple-like institutions.

So what can museums do to change their public image and truly take on a public service roll – to become, as Stephen Weil put it, “outward-looking institutions?” While Dana’s suggestions that museums institute regular opening hours, move to city centers, and depict everyday life provide good starting points, they are not enough. Museums today need to find new ways of reaching into their communities.

The Philip Foster Farm, a living history site located in a rural community outside of Portland, Oregon, is trying to do just that. Under the leadership of Elaine Butler, the Farm’s site manager, and Jamie Damon, the President of the Board, the PFF has worked to engage the community, especially by offering volunteer opportunities to young people. This year, they took their role in the community a step further. They partnered with an online charter school, and are now offering components of the curriculum to select students that include history, public service, customer relations, and trades.

Playing such a new role in a small community can be tricky, though. In my conversation with Elaine Butler, she noted that the PFF’s board and staff do worry about how working with other organizations might affect the site’s reputation. If a student misbehaves, how will that change the image of the Farm? If the charter school, or even the Board of Education, comes under fire, will the Farm get swept along in the negative press? Additionally, because the school-in-a-museum concept is so new, partner organizations have sometimes been skeptical. Elaine laughingly stressed that she has to attend partner meetings armed to the teeth with assurances that she doesn’t want to invade their “turf” or make more work for them.

Nevertheless, Elaine and the Philip Foster Farm are optimistic. Though they only have five students this year, they are hoping to grow to about thirty students for the next academic year. More importantly, Elaine is committed to the PFF’s public service role. Though the Philip Foster Farm is the only museum where she has worked, she intuitively knows that small museum can’t exist without community support. “The strength of the community,” she declared, “is the strength of the organization.”

If there’s a better mantra for the modern, outward-looking museum, I don’t know what it is.

(x-posted in an edited form at Museum Matters)

 

Bright Star: Proving Subtle Period Films Still Exist

There is really only one way to describe the recent film Bright Star: It is exactly like the poetry of one of its central characters, John Keates. This movie is painfully beautiful and heart-wrenchingly tragic, ceaselessly Romantic, lyrical and slow-moving. And on top of all that, like all the best poetry of the past and present, it presents a world of beauty and heartbreak to which all can relate on one level or another.

Bright Star tells the story of the tragic romance between poet John Keates and his sometimes-neighbor Fanny Brawne. When the movie opens, Brawne is a seamstress whose success seems to be growing. The bankrupt Keates is staying next door with his friend and fellow poet Charles Brown, struggling to eke out a living writing poetry with little success. Keates and Brawne at first seem to inhabit different worlds, Fanny’s one of the practical and down-to-earth, and Keates’ a much more immaterial world of poetry and words. But as they begin to spend time together, they realize that they connect on a deeper level, and a tentative romance blossoms. Soon they are madly in love. When they are apart, they write long, heartfelt letters, and when tragedy finally strikes and Keates dies, young and yet unknown by the literary world, Fanny’s life is torn asunder.

Now, one might think that after the 2005 Pride and Prejudice, we would have had quite enough of the period film about the spunky heroine who finds herself falling for the man she at first thought she hated. But the romance between Fanny and John is refreshingly un-gimmicky, their progression from mild dislike, to tentative flirtation, to heart-stopping romance surprisingly natural.

 

Thinking About Costumes

I know I’ve been talking a lot about living history lately, but I want to touch upon one more issue that living history museums and interpreters often find themselves discussing. That issue is costuming. Correct costuming is often the first step in creating a good, believable living history experience. But what is “correct”? Must costumes be exactly accurate, or can concessions be made? What is “accurate,” anyway?

Many longtime historical costumers and reenactors are sticklers for costume accuracy. On the surface, there is nothing particularly wrong with that. Strict costumers put a lot of effort into making sure that the clothing they are wearing is exactly accurate to the time period they are portraying in order to provide visitors with the truest picture of a time period. When they can, they look for patterns, plates, and pictures matching an exact year. They comb historical descriptions for useful tidbits of information. Some strict costumers even try to keep clothing a visitor cannot see – like socks or underwear – accurate as well. They sometimes claim that even the smallest inaccuracies can ruin the experience for visitors.

Though strict costumers undertake their projects with the best of intentions, for the sake of comfort, budgets, and practicality, museums might find themselves forced to stray from strict costuming – and I am here to say that that can be perfectly okay. Accuracy is important and institutions and individuals should be aware of the concessions they are making, but carefully chosen concessions can make the experience of outfitting interpreters much less stressful. Concessions do not have to ruin a visitor’s experience, either. For example, although much historical clothing was hand sewn, visitors are less likely to comment upon machine-sewn clothes than some perfectionists claim, and such costumes are infinitely cheaper. In addition, depending on the style of dress, stays and corsets are not always necessary, though interpreters should realize what articles of clothing they are missing in order to better educate visitors. On the other hand, inaccurate buttons and zippers can be difficult to hide and are often the kind of “mistakes” troublesome visitors are looking for.

The possible problems with strict costuming may have to do with more than practicality, though.

 

Museums and the Importance of Vocabulary

During the ALHFAM conference I attended on October 1st-3rd, a number of common themes arose out of the various (and varied) presentations I attended. Already I have spoken about the place of storytelling in living history that presenters stressed again and again. Today I want to speak about something a little different: the vocabulary that living history sites use to describe what they do and the impact that vocabulary has on programs. In particular, I want to talk about the difference between reenactors and interpreters.

To those not involved in museums and living history, the labels “interpreter” and “reenactor” may not mean much. Reenactor is the term with which the public is most familiar. These are people who, as a hobby, act out for themselves and their friends particular periods in history. Usually the period is wartime – civil war and revolutionary war reenactors are especially known for replaying famous battles. Reenactors research and re-create with careful detail their clothing, actions, and historical characters. In general, reenacting isn’t done for an audience. It is instead meant for the enjoyment and interest of the people participating. Though participants can be great fonts of knowledge, their goal is usually not to educate others as much as it is to educate themselves.

“Interpreter” is a word that people usually do not associate with museums. Usually when the public thinks of interpreters, they think of someone who translates something from one language to another. In a way, historical interpreters do the same thing. It is their job to take objects, or locations, or raw facts of history, and find a way to present them to the public in our “modern” language, literally and figuratively. In many museums and historic sites, “interpreter” is beginning to replace “docent,” especially when referring to staff members. In a living history setting, an interpreter might wear a costume or take on a historical role as reenactors do, but their primary goal is education.

At the ALHFAM Western Region conference, as at other museum and living history conferences I have attended, by far the more common word used was “interpreter.” One presenter complained that her own site insisted on saying “reenactor” on press releases, fliers, and other promotional material, and we all agreed that this was a misleading term. When the goal of presenting history – even if it’s costumed, even if it’s first-person – is to educate, interpreter is just a much more proper term. Only one presenter used “reenactor” to describe the educators at his site, and in his case, this was largely because the site’s volunteers were involved in re-enacting as well. Even in his case, though, I thought the use of the term “reenactor” was inaccurate and problematic.

So why is it so important for museums and historic sites to talk about interpreters instead of reenactors? First of all, the term is just more accurate. The definition fits within the purpose of the historic site much better than “re-enactor” does. There are also many reenactors who are not interpreters, and so it makes sense to create the division.

“Interpreter” also creates a sense of professionalism that neither “reenactor” nor “docent” does. Even if the public does not understand the word in the context of museums, it does give them confidence that museum staff “knows their stuff.” For better or for worse, reenactors are thought of as hobbyists and docents are usually assumed to be older, poorly-trained volunteers.

Finally, and most importantly, using the word “interpreter” says a lot about what a museum is trying to do. At their best, museums and the people who work there are supposed to interpret; they are supposed to translate and make clear a world very different from our own. “Reenactor” does not convey this understanding at all. With education central to its definition, “interpreter” gives us an appropriate picture of what museums and historic sites truly do.

 

Historical Interpretation as Storytelling

Last weekend I attended the ALHFAM Western Region’s conference in Oregon City, Oregon. ALHFAM, the Association of Living History, Farm, and Agricultural Museums is a fantastic, internationally-reaching organization that encompasses museums, public history sites, and individuals whose approach to presenting history employ not only artifacts and lectures, but who seek to bring history to life for guests through visceral, sensory means. The sites represented by the conference’s attendees included museums where costumed interpreters taught historic cooking or games, or where individuals took on historical characters who interacted with visitors, or who used museum theater pieces and monologues to bring historic individuals and ideas to life.

Employing this sort of “living history” at museums and historic sites is notoriously difficult. It requires talented educators and interpreters, carefully recreated clothes and settings, and an audience willing to play an interactive part in the learning process. When done well, it can be, in my mind, one of the most effective learning tools museums can employ. I’ve already spoken about the power house museums have in creating historical ambiance. Many museum professionals, most notably Nina Simon have begun to explore the power that interactive museum experiences can have on a visitor’s learning and enjoyment. The best of living history happens when sensory historical experience and interactive learning opportunities are combined.

In response to some of the things discussed at the conference, I want to spend a couple entries here “talking shop,” so to speak. Two issues were brought up multiple times over the course of the conference that are of particular interest to me. The first, which I will be discussing today, involves the format of living history interpretation. In particular, I want to discuss the importance of storytelling in museum education programs. The second issue involves the vocabulary used to describe interpreters in living history settings and its importance.

 

Thoughts on House Museums

I’m a sucker for a good house museum. There’s something about this particular kinds of museum, usually the preserved home of a famous individuals, that brings history alive in ways that other kinds of museums cannot. No matter how good the exhibit design in a traditional museum, objects are still housed in large (or not so large) modern buildings. Outdoor museums provide provide versatile interpretive spaces, but almost all must compete with the noisy modern world nearby. House museums – like the museum forts I discussed a couple weeks ago – allow visitors to step back in time and fully immerse themselves in the aesthetic of another era. Good house museums can provide the much-needed context for the history of a place or of a person. They provide a direct, visceral connection to the past and bring often larger-than-life historical figures down to earth, turning elites into understandable people who ate, slept, lived, and walked upon the very boards where the visitor now walks.

Like all museum types, house museums do have some inherent problems. They are often small and awkward, providing little space for crowds to maneuver and a nightmare for anyone requiring handicapped accessibility. Museums like the Paul Revere House and George Washington’s Mount Vernon are jam-packed year-around and difficult to appreciate through the crowds (though it should be noted that Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello outside Charlottesville, Virginia seems to have a pretty good timed ticket system set up that alleviates some of these problems). Upkeep on historic houses is expensive and locations are not always ideal.

As is often the case when dealing with elites, interpretation can also be difficult. Interpreting the lives of prominent individuals, whether national figures or merely local leaders, can be like picking one’s way through a minefield. In order for interpretation to be meaningful, it must be accurate and well-rounded, but not everyone wants to hear about a Victorian mayoral sex scandal, or a local leader’s unsavory political opinions or business practices, or George Washington’s slaves. Finding a sensitive and educational approach to handling uncomfortable historical issues related to the museum’s former residents is a vital step for any house museum.

 

A New Project

And now for something completely different.

I, along with a few fantastic friends of mine, have started a new project that I think my readers might enjoy. The Facts Were These is a blog that takes a look at film, tv, music, politics, and everyday life through the lens of our various academic expertise. Between the four of us, we have backgrounds in history, literature, linguistics, political science, and much more. It is likely to be quite a bit more popular culture-related than this this blog and (hopefully!) an entertaining read.

So go check out The Facts Were These!

 

The Bigger Picture: My Family Cedar Chest

I don’t usually talk about personal things in this blog, at least not directly. By nature it is meant to be an intellectual exploration of issues in museums and public history. But since I am going to be embarking on this exploration of my own family’s history (and hopefully providing some insight on the nature of family history in the process), I thought I should begin by given some background on who my family is and what I already know.

Let me tell you a little bit about the family cedar chest.

There’s no single object kept inside the cedar chest that has been systematically saved in order to hand down to the next generation, nothing magical or special about the things that have been kept in it. What the cedar chest contains is a collection of objects, items, useful and useless things that belonged to members of my family long in the past and that, for one reason or another, have been saved. I have (only half jokingly) told my mom that when my parents die, I don’t really care what they give my sister, just as long as I get the cedar chest.

 

The Bigger Picture: A Family History

I spent a few days last week visiting my hometown in Oxnard, California. It was a completely relaxing trip that did not include a single visit to a museum or historic site (not even to the local Ventura County Museum of History and Art, which has what seems to be a wonderful new location, but which was sadly closed when I went by to check it out). I spent time with my parents, saw old friends, and generally had a very good time.

But obviously I did have some sort of history-related experience, or I wouldn’t be writing about it here. On the way to the airport, my parents got into a common discussion: my grandparents’ generation is rapidly getting older and so many of them have remarkable stories to tell about their lives. Shouldn’t we find a way to get those stories recorded in some way before they are lost forever?

This isn’t the first time I’ve heard my parents have this conversation, and there are certainly not the first people to think about this problem. Genealogy research, family histories, and oral histories are increasingly sought after by the public. Archivists and professional historians might sometimes cringe at this deluge of amateurs seeking their ancestors fame and fortune, especially when those ancestors are more likely to be drunks, ne’re-do-wells, and criminals than they are to be millionaires and community leaders. But the impulse to discover one’s family history is, I suspect, a pure and praiseworthy one. People want to feel special in knowing that their ancestors were special, but what’s wrong with that? More than that, they want to know where they came from and how their blood might have played a part in the larger historical narrative that we know from museums and history books.

It is with this impulse in mind that I have decided to finally record those stories my parents are so afraid of losing and set down my own family’s history. The goal: Create a comprehensive family history for both my mom’s side of the family and my dad’s, including those stories from living relatives as well as recollections, collected, and compiled stories of the long dead. In doing so, I hope to connect my family’s narrative to the larger American narrative. A somewhat grandiose goal, maybe, but not an impossible one.

To the usual content on this blog I plan to add a record of my adventures. I’ll be calling it “The Bigger Picture: A Family History.” Come along with me while I tell the story of my family and (with any luck) learn a few things about history and about myself along the way.

 

Tactile History at Fort Clatsop

On our way to visit Fort Clatsop National Memorial, my traveling companion and I had the following conversation:

“Oh, it’s a reproduction,” she said, reading over one of the many fliers we had picked up in nearby Astoria. “That’s not as fun.”

“Well, Lewis and Clark weren’t there for very long. Besides, lots of historic sites have reproductions,” I pointed out, staring out at the road ahead as I drove.

“True. But what about Fort Vancouver?” We visited Fort Vancouver in Vancouver, Washington together earlier this year.

“That’s a reproduction, too. The army tore the original down decades ago.”

“Oh. Huh.”

Now, I don’t want to fault my friend. Her temporary disappointed was completely forgotten and Fort Clatsop was fantastic. But she inevitably brought up some interesting questions that regularly plague museum education and preservation professionals: what is the value of preserving an original site, versus building a (possible more accessible) reproduction? Can reproductions add to an education experience, or do they “cheat” the visitor in some way? What is the importance of a “real” or “original” historic building or object, anyway? I would hold that while original artifacts are interesting and can add credibility to a history museum or historic site, reproduced buildings and historical objects provide more versatile interactive opportunities, and thus the sort of educational experiences much more likely to stick with a visitor long after they have left.