“Tut, tut, child!” said the Duchess.
“Everything’s got a moral, if only you can find it.”
(Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter 9)
(Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter 9)
Tucked away
on 30 acres of wooded wonderland in Lincoln, Massachusetts on the shore of
Flint Pond, the deCordova Sculpture Park & Museum boasts over 100,000
visitors each year, yet feels like a hidden gem, evoking the energy of a Lewis
Carroll story. In 2011 the institution announced its goal to become “a leading
sculpture park in this country,” by 2016 in a strategic plan
articulating its path forward. In the accompanying press release, the deCordova
highlighted five primary objectives: to focus more resources towards activity
in the park and the sculpture collection, it’s “greatest and unique asset;” to
incorporate more international pieces, acknowledging that art is “both global
and local;” to increase accessibility to contemporary art by “deepening its
educational offerings to give divergent points of entry for visitors, striving
to connect audiences with contemporary art in innovative ways;” to connect
community to the artists and their process by “opening up the curtain,” to
behind the scenes work; and, to insure fiscal health and long-term
sustainability.[i]
This vision
represents the deCordova’s enduring commitment to an educational mandate aggressively
pursued by its founding director, Frederick P. Walkey from the museum’s infancy
in the 1950s, yet also reflects the slow (and at times) rocky evolution of the
park and museum from a local entity supporting the needs of Lincoln residents,
to its current lofty goal of national (and international) acclaim. How is a
museum’s community defined? To whom are cultural heritage institutions
accountable? How do organizations’ administrative and curatorial decisions
impact discovery of information regarding their history, collections, and
policies; and to what extent should they be responsible for promoting broader
accessibility to the same?
“Cultural knowledge spaces are constructed with information
shaped and influenced by sociopolitical forces.”[ii]
Whether a large, federally funded museum, or a local historical society run
solely on volunteer time, cultural heritage institutions are creatures of their
surroundings, subject to relationships in both their internal and external
ecologies. In their analysis of natural history museums, Star and Griesemer
examine the “intersectional nature of the museum’s shared work,”[iii]
which acknowledges the network of various stakeholders and modes of
interactions at play. Among the theoretical foundations cited by the authors is
the work of Chicago school sociologist Everett C. Hughes, who writes of
institutional ecology:
“In some measure an
institution chooses its environment. This is one of the functions of the
institution as enterprise. Someone inside the institution acts as an
entrepreneur...one of the things the enterprising element must do is choose
within the possible limits the environment to which the institution will react,
that is, in many cases, the sources of its funds, the sources of its clientele
(whether they be clients who will buy shoes, education or medicine), and the
sources of its personnel of various grades and kinds. This is an ecology of
institutions in the original sense of that term.”[iv]
These same theories can be applied to an art museum like the
deCordova, whose institutional ecology comprises of not just curators, artists,
patrons, contractors, and volunteers, but also preschool teachers, budding
thermal analysis scientists, and the entire Town of Lincoln. An
understanding of its beginnings helps explain the deCordova’s footing amidst
this sociopolitical web, and perhaps why it struggles towards self-awareness in
an increasingly digital age. Regardless, it offers a fascinating case study for
examination of museums’ information management practices and their resulting
effects.
The deCordova is a destination. Its Strategic Plan included
an ambitious Master
Plan to update current landscaping in the park in efforts to increase
environmental sustainability, expand accessibility, and maximize the park’s usability
to families, including increased access during the winter months, as laid out
in the deCordova’s Request
for Proposal. As someone who has visited the park with a friend and her
stroller, I can attest that much of the sculpture grounds are inaccessible to
individuals with mobility issues or assisted transport, so such developments
are heartening. Yet in recent visits, little in this arena seems to have
changed.
The museum is obviously interested in growing its clientele
(as per Hughes), in both its commitment to educating audiences in contemporary
art, to heighten its stature as a world-class sculpture park, and to increase
revenue. In many ways the deCordova purports to be a pillar of the community,
transparent in its decisions, and forthcoming with information regarding its
collections and administration. The park and museum devoted a page on their
website to sharing their strategic planning
process with the community and highlighting their inclusive approach, which
engaged with “visitors,
friends, and constituents.” The deCordova goes to great lengths to describe
the process, its participants, and even shares video links to the “Strategic
Innovation Sessions” and “Strategic Planning Sessions,” which would provide
invaluable insight into the approach they take to information management, were
they actually available. Instead, this like many other examples of information
exchange expected or desired by users, the deCordova fails to execute,
especially in the online environment.
The deCordova’s website
is an efficient relic. It offers a clean design, and the initial perception of
usability, with minimal clicks required to learn of hours or pricing, browse
the gift shop, or scan the calendar for upcoming events. The Park and Museum’s
mission and history are quickly locatable, offering visitors a palpable version
of the institution’s genesis: the property, originally the deCordova and Dana
Museum and Park, was bequest to the Town of Lincoln in the estate of Julian de
Cordova, a wealthy businessman and traveler with a penchant for knick knacks
and oddities. The Town agreed to the gift in a deed executed 1930, which was
realized in 1945 upon de Cordova’s death. According the website’s version of
history, “independent appraisers determined that Julian's collections were not
of substantial interest or value, so the collection was sold and the proceeds
were used to create a museum of regional contemporary art,” which opened its
doors in 1950.
This version also credits the Trustees of the estate with
this innovative plan, despite the fact that the Trustees assigned in de
Cordova’s will, were mostly disinterested in the museum, and in fact, subject
to a lawsuit
brought by the Town of Lincoln forcing them to simultaneously fund the museum
and park and stay out of its administrative decisions. These facts are not
merely gossip, but illustrate the dynamics of control that play out in the
lifecycle of an institution, and the intersection of motives influencing a
museum’s collection strategy and information management.
The archives
of the deCordova and Dana Museum and Park provide some sharp insight into how
the institution views itself today, and how an institution’s ecology is shaped
by its entrepreneurs and surroundings (to borrow the language of Hughes). The
collection is housed in the historical holdings at the Lincoln Public Library,
available to view upon appointment. While the three boxes do not include any
contemporary materials, beyond a smattering of annual reports from between 1970
and 2000, the archival collection includes original documentation of the
deCordova’s formation, the lawsuit, and countless photos of the information
objects collected by Julian de Cordova and his wife, deemed lacking in curatorial
or monetary value.
The early administrative records recounting the original
gift indicate the Town of Lincoln felt overwhelmed by a property and its
contents that were in disrepair and requiring substantial (and perpetual)
capital investment if expected to meet de Cordova’s edict that a permanent
museum and park be created after his passing. In 1948 the courts ruled in the
Town’s favor, citing the doctrine of cy-près,
which affords beneficiaries of estate requests that would be impossible,
impracticable, or illegal to perform, legal recourse to via probate to adjust
the terms of the will. Thus, from its inception, the Town—a collective group of
interested municipal citizens, determined information surrounding the
deCordova’s identity and structure, rather than a contingent of art-focused
leaders.
The Town followed de Cordova’s instructions to hire a
director of artistic esteem, and Walkey, and MFA grad, pursued an aggressive
platform promoting modern, New England art, and staying committed to education
and outreach. Until he retired in the late 70s, the deCordova followed this
path, focusing on contemporary art, notably ahead of the curve in regional Pop
Art and Boston's post-war expressionist movement. The next decades saw the
collection and programming emphasis changing to meet the whims of its
directors—from focusing on New England, experimental art, to an $8 million expansion
of studio space for artists-in-residence, to its change in name and centrality
in 2009 to the deCordova Sculpture Park
and Museum in 2009 under guidance of director Dennis Kois.
Each of these shifts never strays far from the deCordova’s
landscape—and ultimately the Town of Lincoln—as its nexus. Indeed, archival
records reveal a rift at the end of Walkey’s tenure, in which Francis
S. Andrews, former director and president responded to Lincoln residents’
desire to restrict the park to only Lincoln’s own. Andrews appealed for a
broader vision for the Museum and Park, noting that, “by providing for the
concept of town “ownership” and control by a politically sponsored Board, the
deCordova gift provided the basis for sometimes narrow, localistic thinking.”
Nearly 40 years later, has the deCordova
eliminated this exclusionary energy? While the doors to the Park and Museum are
open to all technically, barriers imposed by cost, location, and lack of access
to its collections and information regarding the same, especially in the
digital realm, would indicate no, or not entirely. For an outsider, participating
in the deCordova’s ecosystem involves constant mediation of conflicting
information and inconsistent semiotics, where outward communication
inaccurately represents actual policy and action.
Let’s return to the website. The deCordova’s
online presence is much like its curatorial approach—it imparts information
onto its audience in a singular fashion. Www.decordova.org is primarily a venue
for administrative and narrative communication about the Park and Museum, its
partners, educational and event opportunities, history, and future vision.
While its mission is to foster “the
creation, exhibition, and exploration of contemporary art through our
exhibitions, learning opportunities, collection, and unique park setting. . . .
[and] engage all visitors with exhibitions and programs that connect our
audiences to contemporary art and culture,” the deCordova’s collections are
featured no more prominently than any other information object on the website.
Under the ‘Art’ tab are links to Current
Exhibitions, Upcoming Exhibitions, Past Exhibitions, Sculpture Park, Permanent
Collection, and Rappaport Prize. The
first two sections offer short blurbs about current and upcoming exhibitions
with some brief, prescriptive curatorial narrative and a few examples of works
feature, offered as low-resolution digital images with limited metadata
(artist, title, materials, date, on loan from, etc.) and a noticeable copyright
mark to discourage download and reuse. There are seldom links to artists’
webpages (let alone social media accounts), and the occasional link to an
exhibition book sold at the gift shop website, but mostly the information
provided is static text.
The Past
Exhibitions and Sculpture Park sections
are the only two to include any sort of query capabilities. With respect to the
former, users can search by keyword and filter by year, though it takes some
frustrating trial by error to determine that only exhibitions from 2006 forward
are available, despite the year drop-down box given options from 1950 to
current. There is a pdf available listing all exhibits from 1950-2011, though
no images or metadata beyond artist, title, and year are provided. Digital
images are a selected few from each exhibition. Latham writes, “The museum
system, in the end, plays a major role in providing potential information for
users but also in taking away many potential choices. This is a responsibility
that all museum workers need to understand, no matter what organizational role
they play.”[v]
This holds true for the individual (or team) designing and providing copy for
an institution’s website, the person supplying metadata for digital objects,
and the director determining which artists to feature in a season’s exhibition.
The sculpture section search interface is slightly
more robust, offering users the choice to search by creator last name (though
it doesn’t specify whose last name), material type, year created (again with
the same issue), with an archive of sculptures is organized by author last name
available to view, all with the same narrative style descriptive metadata. The Permanent Collection
Section page is quite limited, with items organized by artist last name and
bare-bones metadata for each included. The Collection itself is described in a
brief side bar, noting its major holdings of work by photographers Harold
Edgerton, Charles “Teenie” Harris, Aaron Siskind, Jules Aarons, Larry Fink,
Edward Steichen, and Bradford Washburn, large-scale sculptural works by Dorothy
Dehner, Antony Gormley, Dan Graham, Alexander Liberman, Nam June Paik, Jaume
Plensa, Rona Pondick, George Rickey, Ursula von Rydingsvard, William Tucker,
Gary Webb, and others, and “one of the largest and most comprehensive museum
collection of works by artists of the New England region since c. 1950, with
particular depth in Boston artists in general and members of the
mid-twentieth-century Boston Expressionist group (Jack Levine, Hyman Bloom,
Karl Zerbe, David Aronson, Arthur Polonsky, Barbara Swan, Bernard Chaet, and
others).” Again, none of these artists’ names are supported with links or
additional information.
Much like the website, the museum itself gives
the illusion of patron-control, but is entirely curated and does little to
invite interaction or a multitude of interpretations. Visitors are free to
explore the galleries in whatever order they like, but descriptive placards and
signage carry patrons along a prescribed path in terms of themes and analysis.
Children and families are supposedly encouraged—with adventure kits offered up
to create games as you explore around the grounds. Yet on several occasions I
witnessed an employee hawking over a parent with kids, repeatedly harping to
not let them touch anything, despite the delightful, playground-like appeal of
many works featured. Several designated areas were available for children to
“interact” with the art, but these amounted to a wall of string and pins, and
another of fuzzy fur—perhaps compelling in a sensory capacity, but hardly
manifesting into the realm of deep participatory creation.
I embarked on my own reconnoitering related to
this project. I noticed an iPad set up with a survey for visitors (though no
sign indicated that’s what it was) and decided to complete it. One screen
indicated the museum had a mobile app, which I searched for on my iPhone but
couldn’t locate. I asked an employee who radioed to a manager to see if the
Museum had a mobile app, and was told that they did not. Later I inquired at
the front desk if the deCordova had a library. I was informed that they did,
but that it was no longer open to the public as of several years past. The
reception by staff to this, and all of my inquiries, was incredibly polite and
seemingly helpful, asking for my name and contact info so they could have
someone more qualified to answer reach out to me.
Yet in another example of inconsistent
institutional information sharing, when I attempted to contact the registrar
and the marketing offices about the library, digital images, their content
management system, and any preservation plan, I received back only one terse
email stating they were likely too busy planning for a summer event and
wouldn’t be able to answer my questions (most of which required only one word
answers). I called another number and left a message to which I received no
response, and a second, polite email practically begging for just a few
responses that went unanswered.
My experience at the Lincoln Public Library
reviewing the deCordova archives was much more positive. I emailed the
archivist in an advance and was invited in any time, even when she was not
working. I had to complete a release form, though I appreciated that the
Library did not ask for information about my research request or affiliation,
which can alienated non-traditional archives users. The reference librarian
pulled the three boxes in the collection for me and I spent several hours
reading through old correspondence, legal proceedings, marketing materials, and
several large albums of de Cordova’s photos—a rich collection from his world
travel’s, early year’s at the Flint Pond Estate, and pages upon pages
documenting his much bemoaned art. This is a perspective closely controlled by
the Park and Museum. Unfortunately, the collection does not contain current
administrative records, thus much recent information about the deCordova and
its administrative activities remain difficult or impossible to access.
At the deCordova, like many cultural heritage
institutions, “a small range of individuals are making the choices about value,
preservation, and ultimately what they interpret as informative pieces.
This has an enduring effect on what information is preserved and what is not.”[vi]
The way a museum communicates to the public—about its collections, its
policies, and its plans is revealing. The deCordova presents a series
dichotomous messages of inclusion/exclusion, inviting engagement, yet stymieing
it. Like the missing video links, the Landscape Master Plan initially offers
users a timeline updating them on the Committee’s progress, but the updates
stop in 2013.
As I mentioned in my initial report, the
deCordova’s Strategic Plan mentions nothing of increased web presence, digital
engagement, or other online efforts to increasing their stature as a renowned
sculpture park. They do employ active social media accounts—Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest—but their
communications on digital media are similar to their overarching approach. They
share information about their exhibits and selected collections (and logistical
information), but restrict engagement with their users to the occasional
retweet of safe, promotional content. The deCordova will occasionally live
tweet a lecture or event, but don’t involve themselves in any conversation—only
as a transmitter of selected messages. The Pinterest page is a different
“boundary object,”[vii]
as it apparently used for marketing the deCordova’s private event space rental.
Had the marketing department answered my inquiries I would have obtained more
information about how they use this platform and the digital images of private
events at the Park and Museum. Ironically, this page appears to offer the most
complete digital library of any collection at the deCordova.
One could deduce that it is a strategic attention
to financial sustainability expressed between the lines in terms of what information
is digitally shared and what is not. The deCordova’s Corporate
Membership and unique Art Loan project are clearly presented, and worth
noting that the video about the latter project is not restricted. Additionally,
it would be interesting to dive deeper into the relationship of the deCordova
and the Lincoln Nursery School
onsite, which while non-profit, carries a sizeable tuition price tag. While
they do offer financial aid, it doesn’t seem that transportation is provided,
which would be an obvious barrier to many. I do not know enough about the
economics of day cares and preschools to make any assessments, though. This
again harkens to Latham, who writes, “This sort of situational and temporal
selection is precisely what museum professionals do when bringing an object
into the collection, or choosing to exhibit, loan or market any particular
pieces. The potential pool of information, then, has been reduced when it finally
reaches the user, affecting what range of experience they could have at a museum.”[viii]
What is the moral of this story? I do not doubt
the deCordova is committed to bringing contemporary art to its community, and educating
them in a unique, beautiful natural environment. I do, however, doubt the
desire of an institution to be a national or world leader when their management
of information instead expresses perception of a much more limited ecology. One
wonders if the same Town of Lincoln exclusionary tensions revealed in the
archives still have a sociopolitical undercurrent in deCordova decisions today.
[i]
(2011),
“DeCordova
Announces its 2011–2016 Strategic Plan,” Press
Release http://www.decordova.org/sites/default/files/D/deCordovaStrategicPlan.pdf
[ii]
Mason, I. (2007), “Cultural Information
Standards—Political Territory and Rich Rewards,” in Theorizing Digital Cultural Heritage: A Critical Discourse, 223
[iii]
Star, S. and Griesemer, J. (1989), “Institutional
Ecology, ‘Translations’ and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Professionals In
Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate Zoology, 1907-39,” Social Studies of Science,(19), 408
[iv]
Hughes, E. (1971),“Going Concerns: The Study of
American Institutions” The Sociological
Eye, 62, in Star & Griesemer
[v]
Latham, K. (2012),"Museum object as
document," Journal of Documentation, (68)1, 58
[vi]
Ibid, 52
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