Looking Back at the Louvre Lens

The Louvre Lens (a satellite of the Louvre Museum in the Northern French town of Lens) displays its main collection in one enormous 'grande galerie', more than 120m long.  The art is arranged in slices along a timeline, so that as you move through the space you moved through the history of art.  What with the white plinths, the strict geometry and the reflective walls, it's quite an effect …

But there's another effect, too.  As you walk through the gallery, almost all of the sculpture is facing you -

which means that if you happen, like Orpheus, to look back - you see a sea of naked bottoms.

Evidence of the law of unintended consequences or a deliberate decision?  I'm not sure which would please me more, but these photos still make me laugh.

How Do You Take Your Art?

How do take your art?  Alone or in a crowd?  Fast or slow?  Through a camera lens or in a camera-free zone?

The debate about how people should behave in art museums ramped up recently as the National Gallery in London became the latest in a slew of museums to allow photography in their galleries, leading to many, oh many, columns about how photos - selfies in particular - are Ruining The Museum Experience For The Rest Of Us (see here and here if you're interested in reading more) linking directly or indirectly to opinion pieces that suggest You're Looking at the Art All Wrong (here and here).

Oh.  Really?

In the interests of satisfying my curiosity I decided to carry out my own, entirely personal, non-scientific research on a visit to the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, one of the most visited art museums in the world.

I spent most of my time in two of the most popular areas of the museum: the Gallery of Honour (featuring big names like Vermeer, Rembrandt, Hals) and the 19th century galleries.  I didn't take any selfies, but I did spend a lot of time looking at art, photographing art and photographing other people looking at art.  

The brilliant Nina Simon points out that one of the main gripes against allowing photography in museums (makes it harder to see the art) has less to do with photography as such, and more to do with crowding.  So even if the museum banned photography of, say, the Night Watch, I'm pretty sure you'd still have to peer through a crowd of people to see the painting.  But while it's true that there's a perma-crowd in front of the work - actually, brilliantly, standing in a crowd (taking photos, talking, looking at their maps, jostling for a better view) helped me to get it.  I'm in a crowd, reflecting a crowd, reflecting a crowd ...

Here, people are gathered round Vermeer's Milkmaid.  I love this photo: it looks just like she's doing a demonstration in a department store.  Hey, check out this great milk pourer I have.  Yours for only €19.99.

Had I not had my camera, I think I would have been more focused on the painting on its own.  Because of my camera, I was very aware of the image created by all of these people gazing at The Milkmaid, nodding as they watch her pouring milk.  A new perspective.  I also liked seeing how respectful people were about waiting to take a photo of the painting, as though a little shy about taking liberties with such a celebrity.

I noticed that the act of taking a photograph seems to give people a sense of agency, an important sense of something to do.  I'm often struck by the flatness of the experience (visual and emotional) in art museums: flat paintings against flat walls with flat captions.  Sure, the idea is that the art should reach out to you in some way, but in practice it often leads to a kind of dead-eyed shuffle through the galleries.  (Just spend five minutes in the Louvre on a Sunday morning and you will see what I mean.)
A recent piece of research (seized upon with GLEE by numerous broadsheets) suggests that taking photographs of objects in museums worsens recall of those objects.  But the research also found that if there's a specific reason to take the photo (to zoom in on a detail, for example), people remembered it better.  So, with the right incentive (whether your own interest or someone else's suggestion) a camera can be a tool that helps you feel like an active participant in the museum experience, not just a shuffler.

My pro-photography stance was tested later on, beside the Van Gogh self portrait.  There was a bit of pushy-shovy as two guys tried to get into the best position for photos.  It made me feel uncomfortable to see Vincent's sad face peeking out through the crowd.

And here, everyone seems to be ignoring him.

But again, the interaction of the people, their cameras, my camera and the painting framed the experience in a new way.  If anything, I thought my appreciation of the painting was enhanced because of this moment when I was acutely of Vincent Van Gogh's loneliness in the middle of a crowd.

So, I think it's safe to conclude that the presence of people photographing in the Museum didn't ruin the experience for me, nor - I hope - did I ruin anyone else's experience (apart from the man who elbowed me as he tried to get into optimal position to photograph this painting).  The crowding wasn't ideal but was mostly limited to the iconic paintings - there were still plenty of opportunities in the museum to have an uninterrupted one-on-one with the art.

In fact, the visit was an important reminder that when artworks are in public spaces, the public - and their cameras - become part of the experience.  The obligation is on the museum makers (myself included) to develop galleries that respond better to the fact that visitors are not just participants in their own visit, but also become part of how other visitors experience the museum.

In other words, while you could say that The Rest of Us Are Ruining the Art Museum for the Rest of Us - you could also argue that the presence of other people contributes to the kind of unique, memorable experience you can only get from visiting a museum.

Ayasofya

Perhaps better than anywhere, Ayasofya represents the multiple histories of Istanbul. If you close your eyes, you hear a torrent of Greek around you: for members of the Greek Orthodox church, Hagia Sophia is still an important centre of pilgrimage.  Open your eyes and you're as likely to see a sura from the Qur'an as an inscription in Greek (not to mention Viking).  In 1935, under the leadership of Ataturk, the building - formerly a mosque, a Roman Catholic cathedral and seat of a Greek Orthodox patriarchy - became a museum.  

From the outside I found it a little ungainly.  There have been so many additions to the structure over the years (including the minarets added when the church became a mosque in the 15th century) that the famous dome - pinnacle  of Byzantine architecture - is somewhat obscured.  I did wonder at Sultan Mehmet II, conqueror of Constantinople, deciding to transform the church into a mosque.  I might have expected a conqueror to erase the crowning glory of the city and to build something he regarded as bigger and better - instead, Mehmet ordered that the building be repaired and minarets, minbar (pulpit) and mihrab (niche pointing towards Mecca) be added to convert it for prayer.  Was it a final spitting in the eye of those he had defeated?  I prefer to believe that Mehmet was a man of vision.  (Although I remain unconvinced about the positioning of the minarets.)  The blending of multiple purposes and styles is something I encounter often in my work.  Some of my favourite museums are those that have managed to take an existing building or collection and rethink them for a new audience: preserving elements of the old but imagining them in new ways.  Perhaps Mehmet was a prototypical museum designer!

On the inside, however, all of the elements combine to create a beautiful whole.  The key design motif in the interior is the play between darkness and light.  Perhaps the reason that the space works so well is because this motif is central both to Christian and to Islamic art and architecture.

The passage up to the gallery is mostly dark, with flashes of light.

You emerge into an illuminated space: golden paint, golden mosaics, golden inscriptions.

Some of the mosaics remained hidden from the 15th century to the 20th (Mehmet wasn't so visionary that he would keep Christian icons on view).

Looking down, you see the dark body of the building, lit by hundreds of lamps set into the circular frames typical of mosques.

Ayasofya is a reminder that nothing - not even a monumental building - stays the same.  We change and adapt and so do our holy places (and isn't there something fascinating about the journey from Christian sacred space to Muslim sacred space to museum - the modern world's oxymoronic version of a secular/sacred space?)  It's also a reminder that, with vision, these changes can - paradoxically - help to safeguard our holy places.

The Tiles of Topkapi

As I suspect is the case for many visitors to Istanbul, our first stop on the tourist trail was Topkapi Palace.  It didn't disappoint and you should certainly take the tour of the Harem (though I still don't know how to pronounce it.  Is it Hair-EEem or Harr-EEem or Hair-em or what?)  But especially what I loved were the hundreds and hundreds of exquisite tiles.  Alors, my tour of the tiles of Topkapi.

First, the main entrance (not the Sublime Porte, just a very nice one.)

What I particularly liked about the tiles was that they were beautiful by themselves,

and in combination.

The most beautiful we saw were inside the Harem (also, does anybody know what the difference is between a Harem and a Seraglio??) which also featured intricate patterns of pebbles set into the ground.

(Lady Traveller's Little Sister looks mournful as she contemplates the passage the concubines travelled through when they were summoned by the sultan.)

Much of the decoration depicts flowers and gardens, whether in the form of tiles,

or murals.

The room of the Valide Sultan (Sultan's mother - a position of great importance) was particularly lavish though you couldn't help but notice: for all the stunning ornamentation and the frescoes depicting various pastoral idylls, the windows were few and either very high up or barred.

In some ways it was a relief to leave the enclosed spaces of the Harem and admire the real as well as the painted gardens elsewhere in the palace.

One thing you can't help but marvel over is the attention to detail.  There is some form of ornamentation on almost every surface, even on the undersides of the rooves.  

And around the lintels of doors ...

… and on the Sultan's capacious trousers (seriously, these were XXL and looked super comfy).

Despite the decor and despite the fact that women in the Harem received a reasonable education for the time (many of the more lurid accounts of goings on in the Harem owe more to fevered European imaginations than truth) I wouldn't care to have been a permanent guest of the Sultan.  I wouldn't mind having some Topkapi tiles in my home, though - or perhaps one of these.

When Are Churches Not Like Museums?

A few weeks ago, there was an opinion piece in the New York Times about the rise of participation in art museums.  Titled 'High Culture Goes Hands-On' the piece complained that art museums were trying too hard to flog the 'hands-on' and needed to concentrate on being places that support passive experiences - no participation required.

You don't have to look hard to find people sighing that art galleries need to go back to being more restrained: places for passive contemplation, quiet voices (or as I once read in a wonderfully awful visitors guide to a museum, 'indoor voices').  You don't have to look hard to find references to art museums as secular churches; shrine-like.

Shortly after I read the NYT piece, I attended evening prayer at a cathedral in Dublin.  Like many historic churches, this one helps defray the costs of its upkeep by charging an admission fee for tourists.  Outside of the summer, tourist visits aren't allowed while services are taking place, but for whatever reason, during the summer (when there's no choral evensong and attendance is smaller) the two take place at the same time.

So there I was, prayerbook in hand, hoping for a contemplative experience - and around me, people took photos: of the beautiful architecture, the famous encaustic tiles, the statues and memorials and - me.  Being the reluctant subject of the photography made me think again of the New York Times piece.  Wouldn't it be better if people weren't so preoccupied with a hands-on experience?  Wasn't the urge to record everything part of this mania for activity?  Where were the hushed voices?  Dammit, where was my contemplative experience?

But the thing is - that's nonsense.  Anyone who suggests that art museums and galleries (it's usually these, not so much history or other museums) should be more shrine-like, more like churches, is missing the point.  Churches are all about participation: though prayer may be a quieter activity, it's not passive.  In the same way, my yoga teacher explains that meditation is active - it's just a kind of active passivity, or maybe a passive activity.  And also - churches, temples and other sacred spaces are often full of noise and motion.  Singing, for example, is one of the oldest, most instinctive group activities.

The truth is, contemplation and participation are not poles, either ends of a spectrum.  There's a continuum of participation and, I would argue, contemplation is just one place on that continuum.  My experience in the church, though a bit irritating, reminded me that rather than saying a place should promote one kind of engagement exclusively, we need to remember that people interact with things in different ways.  And that's okay.

To be practical, some kinds of participation don't obviously coexist that well with others.  The act of prayer is somewhat disturbed by people wandering around with flashing cameras or taking iPad videos of the service.  But it seems to me that the cathedral's usual practice makes sense: when services are happening, don't permit - what should I call it? - tourist activity.  But do - do, do, do - invite people (believers, non-believers, believers of another faith or creed) to come in and be part of the service: level and type of participation at own discretion.

When places of worship do this, I think they offer a valuable lesson to art galleries and museums.  Different kinds of participation are possible, valuable - even essential.  Some of them are difficult to programme at the same time, so set aside times when the space is devoted to specific activities.  But, when you do, make sure that you extend the invitation to all your visitors - not just the target audience.  They may or may not not love it, but at least it will help to remind them that the institution is about trying to meet the needs of many different audiences.

One final thing though - in fact, I'd say this qualifies as a hint: whatever about taking photos of a shrine, church, temple, mosque, synagogue or other place of worship, it is almost never appropriate to take pictures of people actually engaged in worship.

MuCEM

My trip to Marseille a couple of weeks ago was centred around a visit to the new MuCEM: Musee des Civilisations de l'Europe et de la Mediterranee.  Long name aside, this is a museum devoted to the Mediterranean: people, places, culture.

You can approach the museum from several directions and several levels, but I would recommend crossing one of the metal bridges that connect the MuCEM complex with the surrounding area.  What a fantastic way of priming visitors for the museum visit, evoking the idea of crossing cultures, crossing continents, crossing the sea ... as well as nodding to the working history of the port.

I landed at Fort St Jean, a historic fortress with lots of cool, dark spaces, many of them featuring interpretation about the site.  There is also a temporary exhibition space, a shop, a cafe and terraced seating.

Oh, and amazing views -

- not least of the new museum building, which, I may as well tell you now, I fell completely in love with.

Designed by Algerian/French architect Rudy Ricciotti, the building is a cube of glass and metal overlaid with a skin of cobwebby concrete.  I know that's an oxymoron but the structure manages to be both delicate and industrial.

The play of light in, through and around the concrete super-structure is beautiful and particularly apt, given the strong, pure light Marseille enjoys for much of the year.

And of course the light creates lovely dappled effects.

Most of these photos were taken from the rooftop terrace (you can enter from the roof or the ground), complete with chairs and sunloungers for enjoying the view.

You then follow a ramp down and around the building (think ziggurat) with glimpses into different spaces and offices - what would normally be behind the scenes is very much on view.

So far, so magnificent.  But on the ground floor the problems began.  Poor orientation led to many confused visitors wandering around looking for somewhere to start.  Though there is no prescribed route, most people seemed to choose to visit the two permanent galleries first (dedicated to the culture/s of the Mediterranean).  These, I'm afraid to say, I found disappointing.  Little reference to the stunning architecture, bland exhibition design and often quite generic content.

The exhibition was themed around four 'singularities' of the Mediterranean: 'the birth of agriculture and invention of gods', 'Jerusalem - thrice-blessed city', 'citizens and citizenship' and 'beyond the known world'.  For me the problem was that the narrative veered uncomfortably between wide generalisations and odd specifics - and that the objects very often didn't support the narrative.

There were a couple of honorable exceptions - for example a display about bread and breadmaking, which included these beautiful moulds from all over the Mediterranean:

I also liked these talking heads within the citizenship area - a mixture of ancient, modern and virtual portrait busts.

The final area - 'beyond the known world' - was, perhaps, my favourite as it seemed to be more truly focused on issues of Mediterranean culture and identity.  I also fully acknowledge that my disappointment was largely because what I was hoping to find (exhibitions engaging with what Mediterranean culture and identity were, are, might be; exploring links and connections between Mediterranean cultures) wasn't present.  That's not to say that others wouldn't be delighted with the content, though I still think the exhibition design is distinctly underwhelming.

But I did take a few encouraging things away.  First, the museum felt somewhat underripe - it had only opened a few weeks before I visited.  So it is very possible that the exhibitions will develop and mature - and that the collections will do likewise.  I note that the museum plans to change the permanent exhibition every 3-5 years, which may also account for the temporary feel.

I would still recommend a visit to the MuCEM.  Even if I might be tempted next time to skip the exhibition and get my dose of Mediterranean culture by enjoying an aperitif on the roof.