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...