The Ones that Eat the Shaving Cream, or, Museum Programs for the Masochistic

Allow me to welcome you to a very special place.

A place full of disorganization and discord.
A place where all your best laid plans are proved worthless.
A place where interpretive themes and links to the mandate are nothing but a fleeting memory.

Welcome to the wonderful world of preschool outreach.



Sure. They *look* cute...

 Let me start with a disclaimer: I love kids. Kids are awesome. I want some someday. However, the large groups of the younger variety (say, 2 1/2 to 5 years) in a museological context give me nothing but grief. I should perhaps specify that it's not their fault that I hate preschool outreach so much, but a combination of factors that I are simply amplified by their characteristics.

We're the only museum in the city that offers preschool outreach. I can't even think of any other museums that offer outreach programs in general, but I'm sure that some do for elementary schools. A quick search just confirmed my worst fears: can't seem to find any other museums that offer preschool outreach in the whole world. Some libraries, or Early Childhood Educator groups, but not museums. Interesting.

Our preschool outreach programs started as an offshoot of our on-site preschool-aged museum programs. These programs were so succesful (and unique!) that my predecessor decided to do some research into preschool outreach. It turned out that no one else offered it (surprise!) and that there was a demand for it since preschool aged children rarely went of field trips. As such, the on-site programs were adapted to be delivered at daycares and preschools.

There was a huge demand; the daycares and preschools were looking for a program like this! Unfortunately, my predecessor left before the trial phase was completed and a student was left to deliver the programs. It was a good idea in theory... not so much in practice.

I think the hardest part was (and still is) making the programs relevant outside of the museum. You know how I feel about programs having a close tie to the museum's mandate and themes, the problem is that these themes are often too difficult for preschoolers to grasp, especially without the context that the museum provides.

Imagine my surprise when some research revealed that children of that age don't even have a concept of time! So if I even try and talk about how the museum was where a man came a lived a long, long, long time ago, they'll just think, "Okay, yesterday." Their poor little brains just can't handle it as they don't really grasp the concept of the past until they're six. (Conveniently, that's when they're out of preschool...)

So I'm stuck talking about simple, simple things. My current roster includes a program about "Pioneers" (a glorified show and tell and dress-up game), a program about "Ladybugs" (really educational, I must say) and a program about "Colours" (which is the most popular because of its shaving cream marbled paper craft). The best tie-in to why the heck I'm there is, "A museum is where you learn things, today we're going to learn about...".

I suppose I should suck it up and just deal; if we're reaching out to kids and their teachers, that's good, right? But I'm not an ECE, so I can't help but feel guilty that I'm not providing an excellent product. All those teachers just watching and judging you with blank faces doesn't help either.

That's the worst part: you never know how it's going to go. The kids could be attentive, ask lots of questions, be friendly and excited, or they can be unruly, uninterested and, worst of all, sit there at watch you with blank expressions. It's a crap shoot.

As the student who delivered the outreach this summer so aptly put it:

"There are two kinds of preschool outreach;

the Montessori kids, and the ones that eat the shaving cream."

If preschool outreach has taught me anything, it's that I'm sending my kids to Montessori school.

Getting My Hands Dirty, or, Baby Steps to an Awesome Visitor Experience

Okay, so I may be the worst blogger of all time, well perhaps not of all time, but I certainly feel ashamed at my recent lack of posts. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy, really: You put it off, then you feel guilty for putting it off, and then it's just been too long so you don't want to get back into it. <sigh>

I'm sure a lot of it has to do with the fact that the museum is now closed, so I'm not thinking "interpretation" or "visitor experience" as much as I do in the summer, where inspiration is always around the corner. The irony is that our museum is currently undergoing a redevelopment plan (which is awesome!), which means that there is a group of people out there (those lucky, lucky consultants) that are thinking about how to make my museum better as we speak. It blows my mind, really. So jealous, but I suppose that someone's got to actually run the museum.

Yep, I was this person in school.
Surprised?

I spend so much time thinking about things to improve and new directions to take that I'm usually bursting at the seams with ideas. You can't really share all these at once, because you'd be branded a crazy person, and as much as I'm sure many appreciate my unabated (re: seemingly impossible) enthusiasm, I understand that I can be exhausting. So I keep my little ideas in my notebook and wait with bated breath for the moment when they ask.

My boss announced to us today that the consultants would be contacting each of us for feedback about the plan. He turned to me and said, "I spoke with them yesterday. I warned them you'd have lots to say about the visitor experience." Heh heh. Me? Lots to say? Of course not...

Anyway, while this lucky group of people get to dictate the future of the museum, I get to go on with my little Program Officer life.
2011 Annual Report: check!
2011 Survey Analysis: check!
2012 Program Plan: check!

All this desk work makes me die a little bit inside, so I decided to go out to the museum with our maintenance guy yesterday and do some, well, maintenance. Remember when I spoke about the "Broken Window" theory a few months ago? Well, I'd be a damn hypocrite if I didn't do my part fixing the little things at the museum.

We spent far too long fixing a sign that is almost as old as I am. To be honest if the development plan decides to get rid of them I'd be pretty pleased, but I had these spiffy new signs I had made this summer and they needed to be installed over the old ones. We ripped off the old corkboard (I'll go back later and install some new stuff), cleaned the 26-year-old plexiglass, and tightened the old screws...

Then while the maintenance guy trimmed hedges that certainly hadn't been trimmed since they were planted in the late 1980s, I managed to do a little bit of interpretation for the random visitors who passed by.

Do you know what 120 tulip bulbs looks like?
I do...

One of the main purposes of this visit, however, was the planting of some tulip bulbs in the upper section of the garden so that we'll have a nice showing when the museum reopens in the spring. The garden itself is the bane of my existance, but I want it to look awesome for visitors, as opposed to the pit of despair that it'll resemble if I leave it as-is for next year.

For future reference, please note that you actually need tons of tulip bulbs to make a remotely nice display, I soon realized. The 120 that I purchased where nowhere near enough to make an exciting showing in the whole upper garden, so I planted half and will have to return to plan the rest soon, before it gets too #$#@ cold.

As I was doing this, I couldn't help but hear my mother's voice in my head, saying, "You didn't get your Masters' so you could dig in the dirt!!!" Yes, Mom, but I'm afraid that I understand the bigger picture. I may not have the fun job of writing and researching the development plan, but at least I can play my own little role in the site's success.

Someone's got to get their hands dirty.

The Dilemma of Fun-Yet-Irrelevant Museum Programs, or, A skeptic at the seance

Last Friday I attended my first seance. It was at work; one of my programs, which would be somewhat surprising if you were at all aware of my programming style. See, I'm not really a museum programmer; that's just what I'm doing right now. My first love was collections, but then I quickly realized that I love talking too much to spend my life in storage. So I grew into museum supervisory roles at the junior management level, which inevitably seem to always involve a lot of programming and event planning.

Sure, they're having fun. But let's be honest:
Do they fit at my pioneer homestead museum?

My interests, however, focus more on general interpretation, the visitor experience and visitor engagement. One of the things I have the most difficulty with is developing programs that match the museum's interpretive themes and mandate. Well, it's not that I have issues with it, it's more that I see it as very important (re: essential) that your programs have a strong link to the museum itself. To the layman, that means that I can't just do a program because it sounds like fun; it needs to fit with the museum. So... for example: kids love dinosaurs, but I can't really do a dinosaur program at my historic house museum. Or a renaissance fair. Or have highland dancers. Or a "Pride and Prejudice" day.

Anyway, when I started my job I inevitably inherited some programs. From a an annoyingly popular "let's talk about colours" preschool program (the bane of my existance) to our halloween programs.

We have a seance (which I managed to sell as a "popular victorian passtime") to ghost hunting (I'm still struggling with this one). I mean, I'm so dedicated to authentic museum experiences that I can't help but sigh when visitors ask with a grin, "So, is this place haunted?" It's usually one of the first things people ask, if they're going to at all. It happens so much that I now have a stock answer. My concern is that I can't help but feel that if the word "got out" that we were haunted and that were why people visited us, it would inevitably take away from the respect and historical significance of the site. I just feel that my job as a "custodian of history and culture", as it were, means that I can't a) lie, or b) use sensationalization  to make our museum matter. It should matter as it is. If it doesn't that's an interpretive planning/visitor experience issue that no amount of programming can fix.

See!! Seances are historical! <Phew>

So, fast forward to last Friday. I mean, don't get me wrong; I was pretty excited/curious about how a seance would go. Since I do spend so much time by myself in the 200-year-old house that is my museum, I can't deny that I think about it being haunted, but I've never had anything unexplained happen. I've had my fair share of Ouija board sessions in my late teens and early twenties, but I've always been the resident skeptic.

I wanted to sit in on the seance out of curiosity, so I set up a chair on the side of the room, but the medium (a very nice no-nonsense lady) insisted that I sit at the table so that I would be in the protection circle. She walked around us with salt and made some chants, then asked us to do our own little circle around ourselves with the salt while we thought positive thoughts and asked for the people we wanted to talk to.

I don't have any deceased loved ones. So I couldn't help but wonder about if there were any spirits of the family or in the house. I didn't expect, however, to get any answers, or to even participate, really.

Yeah, it's Florence Nightingale.
Just go with it.

I was impressed, I must say. The psychic was pretty good and there were a few hits and misses, but the hits were spooky in their accuracy. People were enjoying themselves. Throughout, however, a few odd things happened while she was talking to other people. They usually felt like misses.

"Did anyone's house burn down? No? Hmm... I keep getting someone's house burned down."
"Sorry, there's just this powerful pioneer woman with a bonnet in the corner." The psychic laughs, "She keeps distracting me because she keeps talking about torn dresses. I can't figure out why."
Psychic laugs and interrupts again, "Sorry, she just keeps going on and on about torn dresses." The psychic gestures to the back of her shoulder.

Then, "Who's Helen?"
One of the women said, "My name's Helen."
"No, it's not you. It's the woman in the dress! That's her name!"
My heart sank. "Oh my God," I said, "I know who it is!"

There was a woman who lived in another pioneer house down the road whose name was Helen. She was a strong woman whose house burned down in a huge fire in the mid-1850s. Now for the strange part. The psychic agreed, "Yes, she's agreeing, but she's talking about the dresses again. She's mad about the torn dresses."

It was the fact that the psychic was gesturing to her shoulder that clued me in. All summer, the girls kept tearing their costumes in the shoulder because they weren't used to the tight victorian dresses. I sometimes put off sewing them up. Apparently "Helen" was angry with me for letting them walk around like that. "Oh... she's mad at you," the psychic said with a smile and a laugh. "She's also talking about how she gets mad when you get things wrong."

So... apparently Helen lives at my museum because hers burnt down. Her grave is actually pretty close and I visited it the other day, strange as that may seem. To be honest I'm still not sure if I believe, even though some stuff came out that the psychic couldn't possibly know. I like the idea that Helen's there, or not.

If I have to share my museum with a spirit, it might as well be one with the same visitor experience standards as me.

Audience Development for beginners, or, A museum is only as boring as I make it

The off-season is a strange time, to be sure. I can't decide if I'm busy, or have too much time to kill. I'm sure that the fact that I'm not running around town buying program supplies or driving to the other museum for admin has added minutes (if not hours) to each day, but there's still stuff to do. It's just different stuff.

Sure, I've got some programs to plan and deliver. (Which reminds me that I need to call the psychic again for the seance. You'd think she'd know I was trying to reach her...) Anyway, now is the wonderful time for thinking. Yes; thinking. It's difficult to sit down and ponder the day away in a world where people seem to think that if you're not perpetually stressed out, you're not working hard enough, but we've got to do it.

In my field that means research. Yes, the boring, pouring over old ledgers and diaries kind, but also the new, and often daunting, idea of planning. Planning for the new year, planning for your winter intern (done! yay!), planning for... well, everything. The most important of which is how the #$^&@ to get more people to visit our museums. It also happens to be the most difficult.

I don't think people realize how much of a museum professional's time is spent trying to get them to our stupid little museums in the first place. By the time you're at my door I'm so happy that you made it that we'll foist a tour on you ("Please take the tour, sir. We've been waiting for you all day!") or I'll talk to you for 20 minutes about the garden that I'm failing miserably at maintaining. I suppose that's why I'm so welcoming to visitors; I'm really and truly glad they made it, and, goddammit, we worked hard to get them here.

I'm on a committee of the local museums group that's trying to develop a membership program for all of us (9 in total!). The main goal is to get the word out about the different museums since we're all pretty small and have a tough time competing with the nationals. It's hard to get us to agree on some things, but we all agree that we need more visitors and that our target audiences are young families. Easy. Right?

We have more kids programs, special events, family campfires, crafts... all things for the families. The catch is; we all do it. All nine of us. It works. Families like what we do. It's a great idea.

Last week (what a coincidence), I was asked to answer some questions about my museum by our Audience Development Officer, who's working on our new Audience Development Plan for the three sister museums. Things like, "Describe the ideal visitor experience", "What brings visitors to your museum for the first time?" and "What drives a visitor to return to your museum?" are really quite hard-hitting. I mean, I should know the answer to all these questions, shouldn't I?

It took a while, and a lot of rambling, to get something out of me, but in the end it all ended up with an answer that can be summed up as, "For those that are aware that the museum exists, the experience is boring to most people, but they like our programs, although most don't like the fact that we're so far out of town, and we're focusing our efforts on families because we can cater to them the easiest."

Actually, I didn't realize that's what I was saying between the lines until just now and I feel a bit ill. But it's true.

We cater to families because that's the easiest. Well, and we feel that there's still room to grow in those markets.

I mean, there's nothing wrong with catering to families with our programming. Nothing at all. We have lots of visitor-families and they love us; that's great. But if we (myself and my sister museums) are catering to families, and the other six small similar museums in the city are catering to families... doesn't that mean that we're stealing each other's business?

More importantly, doesn't that make us boring?

I read something the other night in Seth Godin's Free Prize Inside that struck me. Godin also wrote The Purple Cow, and both are business marketing books that are fun to read and talk about how to make your business grow by not playing it safe and by finding a way for your product or business to "be remarkable" compared to the competition. Free Prize Inside talks specifically about the "soft innovation", the little extra that makes people buy your product or experience above everyone else's. Hence, "free prize inside".

The passage I read is the following one:
"Go find some people who hate what you've got and who hate what your competitors have but still have a problem they want solved. These are the folks who want the free prize."

In museums, we never even think of trying for the people who "hate what [we've] got". Which, let's be honest, is a lot of people. (My uncle was lecturing me on the sanitization of history by museums and historic sites at Thanksgiving, which led to a spirited debate with yours truly.) Perhaps our audience development should target these groups, or at least offer something that they're looking for. But then, that's the problem, isn't it? What are they looking for?

In the meantime, I'm going to keep on plugging away at my programming for families. But I'm not going to stop thinking about the free prize.

Do you think milk and cookies would entice more visitors?

You know, I'm actually serious.

How I Spent My Post-Summer Vacation, or, Visitor Experience Advice from ChickLit

So I finally got my vacation! Yay! Essentially, due to lack of funds, the plan was to do nothing. Nada. Just chill out and not work. Maybe go to the cottage. Said vacation was postponed, however, by poor time management on the part of yours truly (1 day to write my end-of-season report? Sure...) as well as the untimely disappearance of one of my cats the day before I planned to leave for the cottage (Curse you, Jamie!).

Anyway, I finally made it up to the cottage for some R & R. The plan being to read and pretty much just chill away from the temptations of cable TV and the internet. I could just soak up that sunset for hours; if only it lasted that long...

Lately I've been reading those self-help/business books like Malcolm Gladwell's Blink, but a friend had sent me a special book for our 10-year friendiversary (ha!). She had apparently been browsing a local bookstore when the cover caught her eye.

When she read the back of Harriet Evans' A Hopeless Romantic, it was a no-brainer: "...With her life in tatters around her, Laura agrees to go on vacation with her parents. After a few days of visiting craft shops and touring the stately homes of England, Laura is ready to tear her hair out. And then, while visiting grand Chartley Hall, she crosses paths with Nick, the sexy, rugged estate manager..."

Rugged, sexy estate managers?! I'm in! I'd be lying if I claimed that I'd never had my share of the heritage professional's version of the Mr. Darcy fantasy. You know, where the young, handsome proprietor of the house you work at falls madly in love with you and your endless dedication to his family's history and you end up owning said house so you don't have to pretend to own it anymore because you would?

No? No one else? Alrighty then... moving on.

Anyway, I'm not usually a big fan of chicklit heroines. I find them whiny and selfish and always end up wanting to punch them in the face. This "Laura" wasn't too bad. But in classic chicklit fashion, she didn't think she was worthy of Nick, said sexy estate manager. <sigh> I'd like to inform her that rugged, sexy estate managers are rare and, frankly, if I knew of any, I'd be keeping him to myself, thankyouverymuch.

When I finally got over my hangups with the heroine (my friend had told me that it was worth it), I was pretty excited to read about Laura's experience at the historic homes she was visiting. As a heritage professional, I can't help but be a bit defensive at her apprehension to even visiting them, but I understand. Audience development certainly doesn't even bother to include chicklit heroines or their ilk (say, 20-somethings?). I was however, interested in a few snippets of her experience at said estate manager's fictional historic house. I even dog-eared the pages so I could share them with you.

The first is when Laura and her parents tour said house, a guided tour. I've taken a few painful guided tours in my life and now train people on how not to give them. The fictional (yet realistic) tour guide in the book is an older lady with "tight curls of an iron and tin hue" who says things like, "Do follow me. Thank you. No flash photography. Thank you." In the picture gallery, Laura asks;

"But- well, what's the point of keeping [some of the paintings] in storage? [...]"

"It's not as simple as that, dear," [the guide] said firmly. "And it's up to the trustees of the house. It's not really about putting every one out so the general public can enjoy it, is it?"

"Why?" said Laura, [...] suddenly so impatient with this sad middle-England, middle-aged debate, setting, scene - everything. [...] This wasn't a faily tale, it was extortion! "You've charged us fifteen pounds each to get in, yet most of the rooms are roped off, the car park's miles from the house, everyone here is about eighty [...], no one seems particularly pleased to see us here, we're treated like cattle ... I just wonder why you bother."

<sigh>  All so true. Heck, sometimes I wonder why I bother. But to be honest, I'm sure that memories of similar, crappy tour guide experiences is why most visitors visibly cringe when you offer them a tour.

Laura even brings up the "broken window" theory. Well, not per say, but she tells Nick,

"Get the sign repainted."

"The what? What sign?"

"When you arrive, on the drive," said Laura. "The sign looks awful. It's the entrance to the house, and it's cracked and peeling, and it just looks like the place is falling apart. [...] Sorry, but I don't think that's what [the owner] would want people's first impression of the house to be. Especially when they're paying fifteen quid for the privilege."

There was a little fist pump on the front porch when I read that. Awesome. And I think that everyone knows it's true that first impressions are everything. Makes me all the happier that I'm getting new signage at my museum next year. :)

Later, Nick (hunky estate manager) brings up the topic of making people feel welcome when he talks about his visitors:

"All of them [come here] wanting a slice of heritage. They come, they have their cream teas, they see the tapestry and the Hogarths and the staircase, and they wander round and hopefully buy a tea towel, and then they go home."

"It's bizarre," said Laura.

"No," said Nick. His voice determined. "It's not. It's great that they want to come, and it's our job to make sure they have a good time. I feel... we need to make it somewhere people feel genuinely welcomed."

This passage struck me in particular because it's something that I feel very strongly about: making visitors feel welcomed and at home. I treat every visitor to the museum like a guest in my own home, and I think that's the way to help them get the most out of their experience. I'm pleased that I'm not the only person who takes this to heart, even if the other is only fictional.

Heck, maybe I'm a real-life sexy, rugged estate manager. <smirk>

Team- and sandwich-building, or, Zucchinis make the best rolling pins

Today was certainly a strange day. Despite the fact that we currently have lots to do (end of season reports and our 2012 program plans are due next week), my colleague and I spent the entire day in the tearoom kitchen of our museum preparing sandwiches.

You see, it's our sister museum's 35th anniversary this year (woot!) and tonight is their celebration. Staff and volunteers from over the years as well as special guests and even the mayor will be there; it's quite a big deal. Of course, food needed to be provided and our boss said, "Hey, we can do it." Little did he know that the part-timers who usually help out with that sort of thing would all be busy. Go figure.

So in the time-honoured museum tradition of doing whatever needs to be done ourselves, my colleague and I were tasked with making 600 finger sandwiches. Fancy finger sandwiches, mind you, nothing easy. We're talking ham and pear, pate and goats cheese, cucumber with mint and turkey and apple. All very labour intensive, we soon learned.

Oh, and they needed 150 scones, too.

And my boss needed to leave at 4:30 to get them to the museum on time. Nice.

It wasn't so bad. We were pretty slow, but had a few made when my colleague sliced open her finger and flailed around our recently-sanitized kitchen.

"Stop flailing!!! The sandwiches!!" I cried, obviously seriously concerned for her personal safety.

I handed her a paper towel to clamp over her bleeding finger. We ran through the museum looking for band aids (of course, they're never there when you need them), passing our boss and one of the other managers who were giving two grant-approval ladies a tour of the museum. I'm sure we looked very professional.

Eventually we hid in the basement bathroom and bandaged her up before returning to see the damage to the kitchen.

There was blood spatter everywhere. On the walls, the floor, her workstation... Thankfully my area was clean, but the sandwiches she was working on had to all be thrown out. And she happened to be right next to all our bread. Great.

So she sanitized the kitchen (again) and I ran out to get more bread. Meanwhile, our boss was finished with the grant people and came in to help with baking scones. Thank god.

"Do we have a rolling pin?" he asked.

"I think so, but I don't know where it is."

My colleague laughed and said, "You could use this." and handed him an obnoxiously large zucchini from the museum garden that had been kicking around for a few days.



It looked just like this one, actually.
But I swear it was the size of my calf!

 He used it. It was awesome.

This set the tone for the rest of the afternoon. Despite the fact that we all had lots to do, we worked together to get all the food done for our sister museum. It was... nice, I have to say.

I'm sure that it's the case with many workplaces that despite the fact that you all work together, you rarely actually just chat. Usually we're all busy on big projects that require our full attention, or are simply at remote sites (like me) or alone in the upstairs office (like my boss); it's rare nowadays to work together on something that allows you to chat casually. I think in many cases you also feel that you need to appear busy at all times, which is unfair, really.

Today was nice in many respects: we helped out our sister museum, we weren't sitting at a computer all day, and most of all, I got to spend some quality time with my colleagues. Team building is something that often gets pushed to the side in favour of more "productive" items, but I personally think we need to spend more time on it.

600 sandwiches later, I feel like we're more of a team than ever before.

Youth and Heritage, or, Why am I always the youngest person in the room?

So I just got back from a focus group/open house discussing the future of Arts, Culture and Heritage in Ottawa. They've been working on their plan for nearly a year now and it's pretty complete and touches on so many different aspects, from First Nations inclusion, to artists' housing, to infrastructure, to encouraging youth in the arts.

It's always that last one that surprises me; "youth in the arts". The mere fact that it needs to be singled out indicates that there's an issue, but I still can't seem to wrap my head around it.

I remember being in High School, where everyone was involved either in arts or music (I played a terrible trumpet, for the record), but it's true that most people move out of arts and artistic endeavours as they get older. You don't need an art credit to graduate High School, at least not at my school, but you needed at least 4 science credits and one social sciences.

Now that I'm older I find that a bit suspect. I mean, it's clearly discriminatory against the arts and social sciences, but I suppose that, for many kids, if you didn't need that math credit you would've never taken it. We all need math, I don't care what people say. I spent this weekend trying to convert a heritage recipe, and let me tell you: whatever old classmate that said fractions were a waste of my time was full of it.

So this brings me back to the fact that youth need to be encouraged in the arts. I can't help but ask "why?" Younger people are, by nature, creative. Is it that their parents and communities steer them away from art because it leads to an uncertain future? Are we all just stifling creativity for the sake of a stable income? I don't have an answer for that. I suppose that by "encouraged" they mean more that they need to be supported so that they don't leave the arts, so that it's something they pursue. That, I can get behind.

It still strikes me how everyone in the room was so much older than me. The youngest person couldn't have been younger than their mid-forties. Where were the youth that wanted support for arts and culture? Do they want support? It goes back to that classic issue of youth apathy, which concerns me.

Teens and youth are always viewed as the "ungettable get" in our field. At my museum, we don't even bother targeting them because we're still trying to build up our main demographic: families. I know that teen programs have been successful in the past, but is all the effort worth it? I want to be idealistic and say that one life changed is a success, but is that really a valuable way to spend our time in this day and age? Again, I don't know.

Regardless, I'll be the only person under 30 representing the heritage sector (despite the fact that we were right down the road from the college "Applied Museum Studies" program). I'll put in my two cents and enjoy some coffee with the older gentlement at my table. At least I can prove that some of us care.

Up a creek without a paddle, or, Interpretation Officers are people, too

I work at a pretty unique museum. It's unique in various ways, from the fact that the operational and organizational structure is unlike anything I've ever experienced or heard of, to the realization I had this summer that most of our visitors aren't coming for the museum, and most of those don't even realize we're there.

One of the defining characteristics is the fact that we're located in a very rural setting, in what has been a public park for far longer than a traditional "historic site". We're also right near a river, which leads to its own challenges, namely the boaters that take shelter in our harbour and insist on playing Shakira at insane decibels while I'm trying to lead a Campfire and Storytelling evening. <sigh>

This year, we had one of those exciting and rare instances where the higher-ups found some extra money for us that we had to spend pronto. We had had guided canoe paddles in the past; let's get a canoe! Awesome!

I'm not going to bore you with the details of the canoe purchase, which was an adventure of its own. Let's just say that I was relieved and happy to finally put the 16' monstrosity in the old stable in preparation for our first paddle in July. It went off without a hitch. One of my staff went with me and we led the one canoe with three paddlers along the shore and told them stories of the development of the area over history, from the ice age to modern times. They had a great time, I had a great time, fun was had by all; so much so that I've already added 4 more paddles to my program plan for 2012.

Fast forward to Sunday. It's cloudy. Slightly windy, but a pretty nice day considering it's mid-September in Canada. We have a good number of registrations; a total of 4 other canoes! I go over my notes and get the house ready, and when my helper (we have a bunch of part-time people on call to help with programming) arrives we put the canoe out and wait.

It goes pretty well until I try to leave the house. "Where did my notes go?! %*#$!" I can't find them but it's too late; I've got to run down to the water and meet our paddlers. We put the canoe in the water and paddle out a bit to let everyone have a chance to get out. "You've canoed before, right?" I ask my helper.
"Sure, a bit. But not in a while."

"Okay, I'll go in back." I say with some authority, "I think the strongest paddler goes in back so they can steer."

See, here's my first mistake. Last time we had no trouble at all. I was in the front because the staff member who was helping me just happened to have spent the last five summers as a councellor at wilderness sleepaway camps. She's led canoe trips and portages. I should have seen it coming.

We couldn't keep up.

No matter what we tried, (and we certainly tried everything we could think of) we couldn't keep up with the people we were supposed to be leading. And I'm not talking about a small lead. No. They were something like 20 to 25, maybe even 30, metres ahead of us.

It was so bad that they had to wait for us. I mean, how am I supposed to lead an interpretive paddle if I'm in the back!?

I was so embarrassed. And angry with myself. People payed for this experience and here we were, their "leaders", not even able to keep up with them. <facepalm>

So the visitors let us catch up and I led a bit. Told a few stories. Thank god I remembered all the information, despite the fact that I forgot my notes. Then it was already time to go back to the house for hot apple cider. We came back and everyone was happy. The paddlers gave us some advice and proceeded to give us awesome reviews on the surveys. They even asked when the next programs were and shook my hand and were so enthused they asked if they could volunteer for me next year.

I was surprised; but I shouldn't have been. I, and I'm sure a lot of you, too, try so hard to be perfect. To present a perfect facade to the public and to colleagues, but that's not realistic. Just like the people whose lives we interpret, we are multi-faceted, complex, and, above all, real people. We can't be good at everything.

Hey, people ram other people's canoes all the time.

Doing something with nothing, or, Museums in the 21st Century

So I'm kind of in a funk. Sitting in the basement of my sister museum in my off season office is certainly one of the most anti-climactic experiences one can have. I mean, who wants to stare at a cubicle wall for 8 hrs a day. Frankly it's the basement part that kills me, with the tiny window... poor air circulation. It flooded last spring, too; one of the risks of the historic house museum, I suppose.

I think I finally understand cubicle humour.
(from thecubiclesurvivalguide.blogspot.com)

For me, the real tragedy isn't the loss of my glorious window with views of the river and appalachian mountain range. <sigh> It's the fact that I now have no excuse to wander. Yes. I'm a wanderer, or perhaps am simply undiagnosed with adult ADD, whichever.
I have the habit, during the museum season, of working at my desk for a certain amount of time (say, 1 hr), then going downstairs to talk to the staff, get some fresh air, speak with visitors, etc. for a few minutes before I return to my desk refreshed. It works for me. Stuff gets done and I don't have a nervous breakdown.

Now, there's no reason to do any of that. I have no reason to leave my cubicle other than to prepare my lunch, make coffee, get water and go pee. And frankly, there are only so many times you can do those before people start to wonder if there's something wrong with you. I could just do what I did at my museum, and go stand in the front door and admire the view for a few moments, but I'm pretty sure my colleagues would have me institutionalized if they saw me staring whistfully at the parking lot.

In the end all of these solutions appear to end with a workplace intervention of some kind, which isn't ideal for anyone. Least of all me.

Regardless, I have to adapt. And adapting is something that museums (and museum professionals) do very well. We have to.

No money? No problem; volunteers and grants, baby. Not to mention the joys of third-grade-science-fair-grade exhibits. (Let's not lie: We've all seen them. Most of us have made one at some point in our career.)

No staff? No problem; more volunteers and, well, let's look closely at the "other related tasks" portion of your job description. Yep. If it happens at the museum, it's related. I think we all have stories. I've done everything from pest control, to janitorial, to electrical... Not to mention my most recent task (assigned last week) to organise someone else's event in two weeks. Awesome. But yeah, I can do it.

No museum? Hasn't stopped the people at the Portrait Gallery of Canada. They find the most creative ways to display their collection and to reach people, all without having an actual building. To be fair, they are part of the National Archives, and probably have more money than 10 of my museums, but they're still doing something with nothing. They've been displaying reproductions of their portraits in public areas in Ottawa for about 5 years now, to much success.

A young yours truly pointing out the portraits hung on the Rideau Canal during Winterlude in 2006.
" Okay, we found 'em. Now can I have my Beavertail?"

Is that a threat?
Nope, just reality.

The topic for the 2011 Canadian Museums Association Conference was " Evolve or DIE!" I have to admit that I can't read that title without a chuckle. I mean, it's true. How many sad, sad museums are there that are stuck in the past and what it used to mean to be a museum? All this "we are awesome monoliths of knowledge" and "we know what you should know; here it is". It's crazy. Things change and so should museums. Just because museums are places that preserve the past doesn't mean that they need to preserve their own past. We're all struggling in our own ways, but if you want to remain relevant to today's visitor, you have to cater to them. The times, they are a changin'.

In the meantime, if I whine on and on about my museum closing and my office cubicle, perhaps I should be following my own advice. I don't work in my current situation, so I'd better make the necessary changes and evolve, myself. Or at least find a better excuse for my wanderlust.

I'm ready for my closeup!

I got a call a few days ago from someone interested in filming part of their movie at our museum. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't excited. I mean, who wouldn't be excited? I don't know how many historical movies I've watched for the houses and costumes, it's only natural that it would be great to have this take place at my own museum. I think everyone can relate; I mean, who hasn't had a tiny thrill when you see a place that you recognize in a movie?

Personally, as a huge movie buff, I often passively seek out film sites. I've never planned a trip specifically to visit one, but I'm pretty eager to go if I know one's around.

When visiting a friend who lived in England a few years ago, she took us to Mompesson House in Salisbury. We were all suitably impressed that scenes from Sense and Sensibility had been filmed there. A few years earlier, while on my first trip to England with my mother, we had been scandalously close to Lyme Park, the holy grail of "Hollywood's Jane Austen's England". In case you haven't already guessed, that's Mr. Darcy's house, my friends. I remember some American women from our bus tour were grilling the staff at our hotel about the feasibility of going despite the fact that it was closed, rainy, and actually about 40 minutes away. The next day on the bus was filled with Pride and Prejudice gossip and giddiness (much to many husbands' dismay), and led me to run out and rent myself a copy of Colin Firth's piece de resistance upon my arrival back in Canada. It's been a well-used addition to my DVD library ever since.

Now, I clearly remember a moment at the beginning of my MA course in Heritage Management (that I took in England last year, in case I haven't mentioned), when the program director began talking about the "Jane Austen Crowd" in terms of visitors to historic sites in the UK. They were mainly American and were solely there to live out the dream and "meet their own Mr. Darcy." Some of my fellow students bristled at this declaration, speaking out at the absurdity of it all: "Why should be cater to them? England is so much more than that!" Others argued that that couldn't possibly be the case, that it can't be that Jane Austen is the reason most North Americans come to England. I remember shyly raising my hand from the back of the room and confirming their worst fears. It was somewhat difficult for me to explain that to most North Americans, Jane Austen is England, and that's all they know. Of course we should be catering to them; otherwise they'll stop coming.

I have to admit that, as a heritage professional, it's hard to reconcile the interpretation and presentation of a period home, with all its family history and messaging framework, with a visitor demographic that's solely based on having seen a fictional movie.

That's why I decided to go. To Mr. Darcy's house. Oops! I mean, Lyme Park. See!



Lyme Park on a tragically rainy day



The courtyard inside Lyme Park.



A friend of mine came to visit me in England right after I finished my dissertation and we had a whirlwind tour of London, Stonehenge, Avebury, Wales, and many other locations. I remember when she asked, "Ah... can we go to Mr. Darcy's house?" Of course!

Throughout the trip I kept trying to keep my professional "cool" (if museum professionals can be ever called cool, that is) and call it Lyme Park whenever I mentioned it. Much to the exasperation of my friend, who just kept asking when we were going to visit Mr. Darcy, most likely to egg me on.

I have to say that the overall experience surprised me. While the site is undoubtedly a huge draw for the Jane Austen crowd, the management does not cater specifically to them. It's only mentioned briefly in the brochure and on the website, and not at all in any interpretation panels. I could hear staff directing people to the pond and the recognisable facade, but that was about it.  Nothing stood out as "Jane Austen" to me. I couldn't decide if I was impressed or disappointed. I mean, bravo for sticking to your interpretive guns and not pandering, but, my heritage manager brain just kept thinking, "They're missing a trick here!"

My friend's picture of Mr. Darcy's pond. You know, where Colin Firth gets all wet and then runs into Elizabeth Bennet?! I think there were about five of us taking this picture at the same time.



Me posing with a Mr. Darcy bookmark.
Don't ask about the sheep, it's a long story...

 
So just when I thought there was going to be no overt mention of Pride and Prejudice.... we find the "Pride and Prejudice Shop". Good lord! I was embarrased to be in there. All the films, all the books, postcards, bookmarks, magnets, pencils, quills, photo books, artwork; you name it, they had it. It was crazy. It was awesome. My friend picked up a bookmark and a magnet. I kept looking around in awe a the perfect way they had managed to "give the people what they want" while overall maintaining the site's historical integrity. I give a slow clap to the management at Lyme Park.

Having the possibility of a film being shot at my museum has raised some pretty exciting possibilities for us. I mean, it'll never be a Pride and Prejudice, but who knows, it might draw some attention to the site, and all attention is welcome. It also makes me remember two of my personal museum 10 commandments, that you should "give people what they want" and that you should "never take yourself (or your museum) too seriously". I try to do that every day. And I have my Mr. Darcy magnet in my office to remind me. 



My boss: Is that Colin Firth on your filing cabinet?
Me: Maybe...

End of season blues

Now I know how teachers feel. Or farmers, or fishermen, or... well, I can't think of any other seasonal jobs, really. I think for many of us in the heritage field, especially those that work in seasonal museums, can't help but feel that strange bittersweet tang of the end-of-season. It's a combination of relief, sadness, satisfaction, loneliness and fear of the unknown that I don't think exist in many other jobs.

First of all, it's odd enough to work in the tourism industry (and let's not kid ourselves, museums are tourism), where the busiest time is the summer months and you are the busiest when most of your friends and even other colleagues are taking weeks off to enjoy the cottage or drive cross-country. I don't think I've had more than a few days off in the summer since I was about 16 and had my first part-time job. You get used to it, although it's sometimes hard to explain to friends that you need to take your vacation in the Fall or Spring and, well it can't interfere with Christmas programs, or Halloween, or March Break, and don't forget Easter, and that week of summer student job interviews and training... It is strange to have to work when most people are off.

Today was exactly one week before the last open day of the season at my museum. I delivered the last program. The staff are writing their end of season reports and I was working on my program plan for the 2012 season when a wave of melancholy swept over me.

I could hear the girls (yes, I call them "the girls"; I can't help it) laughing down in the museum lobby and it struck my suddenly that I won't be hearing that come next week. They'll move on to other jobs, or back to school, this summer a blip on the radar of their lives. For me, on the other hand, every operating season is significant; successful programs, great visitor numbers, happy visitors, a great team of staff. I get to move back to the basement of one of my sister museums, which is nice, don't get me wrong! It has a real kitchen, a photocopier that works, reliable internet, a fax machine, is close to shops and food, not to mention the fact that it's full of my colleagues and, therefore, company.

I know someone who's writing her doctoral thesis on how heritage professionals become their museums, feel overly connected to them. Today one of my colleagues from a sister museum asked if I'd found my "forever home" at my museum. The fact that I call it my museum should be indication enough. When I sighed and said, "I can't help it! Why does this always happen?" She laughed and agreed that you'd have to drag her dead body from her museum.

The point is that if we personify and "become" our museums, I suppose that it's only natural to feel a bit abandoned at the end of the season. Staff leave, the visitors leave and you're left alone in a dusty old house with drafts and snakes in the basement. When the maintenance guys come and board up the downstairs windows it's like the nail in the coffin. Then I get to pack my office stuff in a box and move back into my off-season office in another museum's basement, surrounded by pictures of the past summer, my staff and museum.

I'll still make as many trips out to my museum as possible, though. I don't care that there's no ceiling light in my office, that the internet is unreliable at best, that I need to wear mittens because of the drafts, that there's no coffee machine, or that there are no other people.

I miss my museum already. And I like to think that it misses me.

Let's get to the art of the matter

So I took my family (parents, brother and his girlfriend were visiting) to the "Caravaggio and his followers in Rome" exhibit at the National Gallery last Saturday.


Caravaggio's "John the Baptist"

 I must admit that I'm not the biggest art fan in the universe. I'd almost go so far as to say that I just plain old don't like art galleries. But I do make a point to visit them and try to get something out of them. I find that effective interpretation is even more important in galleries, although ironically it's usually really basic. Most gallery labels simply provide you with the artist's name, location, dates and the title of the piece.
That's fine, I suppose, if you're an art specialist or student. But let's be honest, those people are few and far between.


I have a friend who wrote her masters dissertation on the use of modern art at historic sites and houses. (It's quite the movement, really. Check out the National Trust's Trust New Art for an example.) She's an artist and wanted to see if art could draw new visitors or bring old visitors back. In fact, I went to a bunch of those sites with her to serve as both chauffeur and impartial judge. I can't tell you how many times I asked, "But what does it mean?" when looking at some artsy branches bunched in a corner of a room, or overheard other visitors asking similar questions.

I saw this wrapped tree last year at Croft Castle. I'm still not sure I "get it".

Unsurprisingly, her dissertation found that art at historic houses could bring in more visitor numbers, but that effective interpretation made the difference between a total flop and a great success. Surprise, surprise.

I have the personal motto that "there's no such thing as a stupid question or an obvious answer". Generally speaking, I think it's our responsability as museums to do our utmost to engage our visitors and making them feel stupid just alienates them. I'm not saying that I think that galleries and museums do this on purpose, but that sometimes in an effort to provide people with endless information and details we forget that most of our visitors just want to enjoy our institutions on a surface level and can be turned off by endless text or obscure references.

Getting back to the Caravaggio exhibit, I was struck by the balance of interpretation and simple viewing that the curators had struck. I was able to learn a little bit about the paintings and was encouraged to look deeper based on the info on the tiny labels. Kudos.
I was terrified that my brother (a 25 year old who had never before visited an art gallery) wouldn't enjoy himself and would later tease me for my decidedly geeky choice of activity. And that was a strong possibility after the science museum disaster a few weeks ago...
I couldn't have been happier when he found me near the end of the exhibit and started to excitedly inform me what he had learned from previous interpretive labels and proceeded to interpret the art I was looking at. "These labels are awesome," he said, "It makes you think more about the paintings. They're not just pictures; there's more to them. I didn't realize art was like that."
Much to our chagrin, he spent the rest of the day sitting in a corner reading the Caravaggio biography and interrupting our conversations with "interesting" tidbits about the man and his art.

Score one for effective interpretation.

And for providing fodder for annoying little brothers. Who knew?

Easiest job ever? Sure...

So, perhaps it was a terrible, terrible idea to start a blog in the days leading up to my biggest event of the year. I kept feeling the guilt that I should be writing something, but those feelings were always surpassed by sleep, food, or general vegetation in front of the TV. On the rare day that I got in before 7, all I still wanted to do was get out of my uniform (yes, uniform), put on my jammies and sit in front of the TV with my junk food of choice.
Pre-event is also a bad time to try and eat well.
Now that it's over I don't know what to do with myself; which is certainly an odd feeling to be sure. I've spent the last month trying to be as productive as possible (I can't remember the last time I actually took a lunch break), but now I can't seem to be productive. Bah. Hopefully it will only take me a week to recover.
What struck me the most during this whole ordeal is the amount of times people commented on how lucky I was to have an awesome, fun job. Now, don't get me wrong: I love my job. Wouldn't want to be doing anything else. But the fact that people imply that my job is easy gets to me; especially when I'm working my butt off.
It always happens the same way. First, I have a stressed moment and decide to leave my office for some fresh air. I come into the museum lobby and gaze outside at the gorgeous scenery or, as was especially the case these past weeks, go weed the garden.
Then, visitors come by and comment on something. I say hi like a good interpreter. Then they exclaim how gorgeous the area/site is and how lucky I am. Usually something along the lines or implying, "What did you do to land this job?" Implying that a)it must be an easy/cushy job and b)that I must not have a lot to do.
I usually answer with some smiling platitude like, "Well, it's a lot of work, but at least it's in a nice place." I just can't bear to leave them with the impression that it's an easy job. I can't.
I think a lot of the problem is that we're (and I'm speaking of heritage professionals in general) just too good with the visitor experience now. We try so hard to make visitors think that things just fall into place; that castles never erode, that programs write themselves and that effective interpretation is as easy as following a script.
We all know that it's not.
I wrote my Masters dissertation on engaging the public by showing them what it is we do. Both because people are interested and because I think that the museum field is far, far too secretive. I don't know why that is exactly. It's one of the old-school legacies that we still cling to and, personally, I'd like to see that change.
No one ever assumes that a psychologist has it easy because all they do is talk to people all day; why is my job any different?

If it's broke... fix it!

I've recently discovered Malcolm Gladwell. I did my time working at a bookstore while I was an undergrad and I vaguely remember seeing his first book pass by me at some point. But let's be honest: what 21 year-old gives a sh*t about business/self-help/leadership books. I was probably more concerned about finding a way to convice my Renaissance poetry professor that I could bullsh*t my way through an English assignment. (Thank you OED!)

Anyway, I was on my way camping and at Walmart to pick up a trashy vacation book when I was captured by Outliers: The story of Success. I couldn't put it down! It was about how seemingly random things can align to put people on the path to success. That is, that people aren't successful without a series of coincidences and opportunities that allow them to become successful. I loved it. Lots of logic and stats to explain something sociological.
Last week, I picked up one of his other books, The Tipping Point. Reading it this weekend, I was struck at how much of it was useful to me.

One of my favourites was the "Broken Window" theory that Gladwell explains in a chapter on how New York subway crime was significantly reduced by doing a few simple things. Little things.
The "Broken Window" theory states that if people see a broken window, they actually see so much more. They see a place/building that no one cares about, an unsupervised or policed area, they think, "Hey, someone else got away with something, what would it hurt if I did it as well?".
It's a lot about group mentality and how we perceive things.
I think that everyone in the heritage sector understands that we're all struggling financially. There's just not as much money as there used to be and things fall to the wayside. I think we've all got little things (and sometimes big things) that have broken and we just haven't had the time nor money to fix. But we need to think about how these things affect the general visitor experience.

I recently visited a national museum with my brother and his girlfriend (not museum people, for a start) and was shocked at the number of interactives that were not working or broken. I don't know what was worse: trying to get it to work and feeling stupid when it didn't, or all the "Sorry, out of order" signs.
I kept thinking, "Wow, don't they realize how bad this looks? Don't they care?" My brother and his girlfriend, on the other hand, just kept walking past, trying the defective interactives and shouting "Hey! This one works!" when one was successful. Overall, they had a poor experience and I was even embarassed for taking them there in the first place.

Now, I'm sure they care. I know that I for one would cringe in shame if "find the working interactive" was a popular at my museum. But we've all got those kinds of things, scratched signs, out of date websites and brochures, that door that you keep latched with a string... Historic sites are the worst for that, probably because of all the approvals that it takes to get anything done, but still we need to pay more attention to these things.
I often overhear visitors at my museum saying things like, "It's too bad they don't have any money." or "Wow, they've really let this place go." Not to mention that the general attitude of some visitors is reflective of the state of the site in general. What does it matter if I litter if the site is in such disrepair anyway? I'll just let my toddler run around and scream bloody murder; guessing from all the broken toys and games, that's what I'm supposed to do. The overall message is: you don't care, why should I?
I'm not saying that we should all hold hands and pray for money to fix all our problems, but that we need to be more aware that perhaps visitor perceptions of our sites and museums, and their resulting attitudes, are a direct reflection of the state of the museums themselves.

In the meantime, I'm going to grab a screwdriver and fix that sign that's been hanging off its hinges for the past few weeks.

So... a blog, eh?

I don't know how many times I've started, or tried to start, a blog in the past few years. I've mused with the idea of a travel blog, a history blog, a movie blog, a museum blog, a food blog... I'm chatty, I like to talk, but I also happen to have the attention span of a gnat, which leads me to abandon many projects before they even begin to reach their potential.
I've found in recent months that my passion truly is heritage and finding ways to deliver this to the world at large. I find myself rambling on and on to my non-museum friends (much to their dismay) and felt that I needed an outlet of some kind - why not a blog? I'm a big fan of other blogs, whether they be humour or museum blogs, and I, like so many others, figured, "Hey, why not me?"
Ideally, people will respond to my musings and ramblings with advice and their two cents; we'll see. At least I'll be putting it out there for people.
What do you need to know about me? I work in a museum, specifically a historic house museum located in a park, which lends to its own issues that will undoubtedly come up a some point. I love history, books, movies, travel and food, all of which will undoubtedly creep up at random points.