Dark Side of the Museum

By Randy Attwood

A pinch of paranorma and a dash of time travel serves up a deliciously outrageous read about the inner workings of an art museum.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Attwood Consulting, LLC
• Release date: Nov 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386023913

Randy Attwood

I grew up on the grounds of a Kansas insane asylum where my father was a dentist. I attended the University of Kansas during the troubled 1960s getting a degree in art history. After stints writing and teaching in Italy and Japan I had a 16-year career in newspapers as reporter, editor and column writer winning major awards in all categories. I turned to health care public relations serving as director of University Relations at KU Medical Center. I finished my career as media relations officer of The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art. Now retired, I am marketing the fiction I've written over all those years. And creating more.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Edgar Makes a Discovery and Gets Fired.

I was on my way to report the extraordinary X-ray finding to the chief conservator when I encountered her in the hallway waddling like a penguin toward me in her daily dress of black pants, white blouse, black vest. Stella said, Ah, Edgar, we need to talk.

I could have told her about the discovery as we walked back to the windowless bowels of the art museum where 93 percent of the collection was stored, a vast majority of which would never been seen by any visitor. I wondered what we NEEDED to talk about. I haven't done anything wrong. I'm polite to the curators. I get on well with them, even Beatrice. Just saying her name is like pulling a pin from a grenade and looking at the thing in your hand. And I get along well with my fellow conservators, except for Nina, that little bitch in the painting department. I glanced sideways at my boss, but her face showed only the slight smile she always wore that kept you guessing. Is she pleased or deeply upset? Her hair, probably dyed black, hung straight to the top of her shoulders and always looked as if grease needed to be shampooed vigorously from its sticky strands.

I kept quiet, sitting in front of her desk as she settled into her own chair adjusting the multiple knobs it offered to ergonomically match her short, dough-girl frame.

We're going to have to let you go, Stella said, the slight smile showing no uneasiness with having to impart this piece of news. The cutbacks, you know. Layoffs affecting all departments even, I hear, one of the curators. Full month's notice. Irma in HR will give you the details on your severance package, how to file for unemployment, COBRA insurance and all that. With your credentials, I'm sure you'll find something else soon. You're young. How's the Gould coming along?

Fine, fine. X-rays almost all done. Well, thanks.

And I left asking myself: Why me? I'm the only furniture conservator they have. And having just turned thirty-five I didn't feel young. Dejection started to slump my shoulders, but remembering what waited for me back in the lab made my step more brisk. I retrieved the one X-ray that had so excited me, putting it in my briefcase before anyone else could see it.

At 5 o'clock I walked to security where I opened the briefcase for the guard to peer inside. The X-ray elicited no interest. Work being taken home. At my apartment in the old brownstone near the museum, I stuck the film under the light table to examine the anomaly again.

A year ago, the Museum had acquired a Nathaniel Gould chest-on-chest. The massive, though elegant, wooden thing now sat in the lab for examination, cleaning, and, if needed, restoration. The 91-inch tall piece—when the top part was put on the bottom part—now sat in its two separate sections. I had started my work by X-raying the piece so I might see any hidden cracks, inspect joints, and espy the presence of nails.

Its top featured three finials—knob-like extension spires that began as rectangles of wood sitting on which was a round piece that became a kind of upside down toy top. The X-ray of the right finial seemed to show a box-like object within its rectangular base. Some kind of metal was blocking the view so I had headed to tell the news to Stella.

Now, I'll find out for myself—and alone—what's inside that cube of wood.

CHAPTER TWO

Agenda: A More Interactive Museum

Ambrose P. Dexter—the Steven P. and Olga O. Franklin Curator of Asian Art—sat in his chair at the monthly curator's meeting with his lips kissing the index fingers of his two hands pressed together as in meditative prayer. He wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a ponytail that hung like a plumb bob counterweight to his long, narrow nose.

The Francis R. and Audrey U. Davidson Curator of American Art, Beatrice B. Breckenridge, rapped the sharpened end of her museum pencil against the page of her yellow legal page because she knew it irritated everyone. She started the rapping at exactly the moment when the meeting was scheduled to begin, but which each of them knew would not commence until the Director entered exactly six minutes late.

Cynthia P. Portermouth—the Franklin A. and Laura S. Exeter Curator of Contemporary Art—sat back in her chair, her legs crossed, arms folded, expressionless—which gave her a look of smug self-assuredness in her own aesthetic judgment and confident it was superior to any other sitting at the one-piece conference table molded from Plexiglas that she found disgusting. The essential quality a curator must possess is an absolute and unwavering faith in one's aesthetic judgment. Portermouth's faith was a step beyond absolute that entered the arena of psychotic.

Devin K. Witherspoon—the Peter H. and Olive N. Yeasterman Curator of European Art—fidgeted because he hated meetings where he might be asked to express an opinion. When he lied he stuttered.

Elias T. Elderberry—the Vincent A. and Linda I. Skaggs Curator of Ancient Art—sucked on an empty Oom Paul briar pipe because he was still furious about the ban, enforced twenty years ago, on smoking the thing inside the Museum. Even in my own office, he could still be heard to mutter at times. He, too, knew the pipe-sucking sound annoyed his colleagues.

The only curator who did not occupy a named endowed position was Francine T. Wallingford, who was in charge of the museum's collection of decorative arts. She fiddled with the collection of bracelets gracing her left arm from her wrist to her elbow, three of which had been cut out of tuna fish cans—Star-Kist, Genova and Bumblebee. Francine realized she could join the symphony and ran a black-lacquered nail of her right index finger across the array of bracelets starting with the rare Navajo silver one near her elbow and soon rapping the tuna cans, which proved to be the most obnoxious.

The pencil-tapping, pipe-sucking, tuna-can-clanging noise continued until the Director entered the room, walked to the end of the table placing both hands flat on the Plexiglas:

I've opened a Twitter account, he announced, smiling as though he had just found a treasure. His reading glasses were perched on his forehead like goggles of a pilot of an open-air cockpit plane, which, indeed, flying one painted the cherriest of reds was his hobby. Above the eyeglasses the white hair on his head became wispier each year. But the years had neither diminished his boyish good looks nor his suave charm.

How many of you know what Twitter is? Hands up.

Several hands went up.

Anyone have a Twitter account? Hands up.

No hands went up.

I thought not. Well, by next month's meeting all of you will have Twitter accounts and be using them. We must keep up with the times, even you, Elias. Marketing says we need to use social media to promote our brand, the Director said.

Brand? Social media? What are you talking about, Gregory, Elias took the briar out of his mouth to exclaim. Promote our brand? Promote the Museum as if it were some sort of laundry detergent?

The Director stood to his full six-foot three inches of height, lowered his chin to look at the assembled curators, and say:

I think we would all agree that we have an excellent group of curators. Top drawer. And if those curators would tweet to the public, it would give the public greater access to their expertise and valuable aesthetic opinions. Elias, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't even know what Facebook is, the Director replied.

One of those internet pieces of nonsense, Elias responded.

"Internet nonsense, as you call it, is how people get their information these days. There are 600 million users of Facebook. And growing. Marketing tells me we get more attendance through Facebook announcements than our mailed monthly printed program, Discover. And all of us are going to get more active on social media. Hsu Li," he turned around and nodded to his Chinese executive secretary, and she moved to pass out packets to each curator. The Director sat in his chair.

These will explain how to open a Twitter account, what you should call it, and some suggested Tweets that will give you an idea what you should be doing with it. I would have had you open a Facebook account, but twitter limits you to 140 characters a post so cures keyboard diarrhea.

Hsu Li, her long, straight, black hair swinging as she walked, completed passing out the packets marketing had prepared individually for each curator and left the room. The Director again thought how smashing she and he would look together in his Stearman biplane: he in the back pilot's seat with his long, white, silk scarf blowing behind him and she in the forward passenger's seat with her long, river of black hair flowing behind her, reaching, as he was almost sure it would do, to his face. What a photo that would make! Alas, she continued to decline the offer pleading fear of air sickness. He left his reverie to continue the meeting.

Now, I believe each of you is going to report on suggestions to make our collection more interactive for the public. Elias, you go first. Oh, and how's work on that sarcophagus coming along?

Splendid, Lisbeth in Conservation is doing a spectacular job and I have discovered the most amazing thing. One of the artist scribes who worked on the piece made a mistake! Stunning really. You see, the top of the sarcophagus has figures on one side representing the hours of the day and on the other side the hours of the night. Well, on the 7 o'clock figure the scribe placed only five dots instead of seven!

This information caused Beatrice Breckenridge to roll her eyes and mutter to herself. A 3,000-year-old typo.

And I did want to demonstrate my idea, Elias said and reached into his scarred, leather valise to pull out something that looked like a racquetball paddle. But there was the figure of a cat on top and several metal rods inserted horizontally across its face. He shook it and it rattled, making noises not dissimilar to those of Francine Stillwell's tuna fish can bracelets.

This is a sistrum and was used by the Egyptians when they said prayers to Isis. When our Egyptian tomb exhibition is installed we could make it interactive by using replications of this sistrum and put up a sign telling people how they could pray to Isis and shake their sistrum. It would be especially good for groups of school children to learn Egyptian ideas about language, prayer, magic, and religion—the power of words in the ancient world, Elias said and then spouted a chant in ancient Egyptian while shaking the sistrum, smiled, and looked eagerly to his colleagues for approval.

It didn't come. Curators did not praise, let alone encourage fellow curators. One actually just wished for silence. But Elias Elderberry, even after all these years, still had hopes that his ideas would be appreciated.

Instead of the silence of acceptance, Beatrice opened her moue-set mouth:

Having children say a prayer in a religion not their own would seem to me about the most dangerous thing that could be done. What would their teachers and parents say, especially the ones who adhere to the more rigid, religious-right beliefs? Beatrice said, the s in the final word leaving a smile on her lips, which she thought delicate when she saw them in a mirror.

The only time curators vocally agreed with each other was to join in criticism. Ambrose Dexter spoke: Probably lead to demonstrations, pickets. Why, just the other day I had a phone call from some preacher complaining about the number of Buddha statues we display. I pointed out to him that the Museum also featured paintings depicting Jesus Christ. 'Yes,' he responded, 'but Christianity is the one truth faith.'

The Director concluded the matter: Elias, I applaud your effort to try and think outside the box. But, no, we can't open ourselves to the charge that we are trying to convert good Christian children to the religion of the ancient Egyptians and the worship of Isis.

Elias took the sistrum, shook it one more time making it sound like an angry rattlesnake, and put it back into the weathered, brown briefcase.

Francine, your ideas for interactive use of the decorative arts collection? the Director asked.

Chairs, Gregory, chairs. I was going through our database the other day and was struck by the number of chairs we have from so many places in the world and so many epochs. We even have a plywood chair designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. And of course many paintings depict people sitting in chairs. So there's much material to drawn from right in our own collections so no loans would be required and thus expenses kept down. And here's the interactive idea I had. We cannot let viewers actually sit in the chairs, but we can made facsimiles of the chairs and they can sit in those to see what it feels like, Francine finished and waited for critical remarks. There was only silence.

Well, that's interesting. Do continue to explore chairs. Not a bad exhibition title is it? Just 'Chairs.' His eyes went to the ceiling so he could congratulate himself on his brilliance and new inspiration was his reward. Wait. Not 'Chairs,' but Be Seated.' Of course, perfect title. Place it first the agenda for the next exhibition brainstorming meeting. That's Monday, isn't it. Ambrose, how about you?"

Well, I'm interacting next week with an important visitor. The Chinese Consul from Chicago is in town for a business visit and has asked for a tour of the Museum. See some of our rare pieces. And he's on your schedule, Gregory, to stop by for tea, said the curator of oriental art.

Good, good. Excellent. And interacting with less illustrious visitors?

Calligraphy is central in so much of Asian art and so I've chosen one of our large scrolls which features no images just calligraphy. I thought we would display it behind glass, but glass in a specially made case where a patron could sit and dip a brush into ink and follow instructions as to how the individual characters are drawn and what they mean. I've found on the internet a most ingenious method of instruction. The screen first shows an outline of the ideograph and then the outline is filled in the manner in which the brush forms the ideograph. I'm sure our I.T. people could do the same thing, but show the actual ideographs on the scroll. The patron could see how the character is formed and then actually try to copy it by using the brush to put black ink over the glass-protected original. Then a picture of his or her effort could be printed for him or her to take home. The glass could be cleaned of the ink and the process started by another patron. Our education people could offer a class in Chinese calligraphy. I'm sure someone could be found to teach it. I thought the title 'Flying Brush, Dancing Ink' would work nicely.

That's nice, Ambrose. I do rather like that.

When the Director rather liked something, no one voiced criticism.

Thank you, Gregory, Ambrose acknowledged the Director's benediction.

Now, Cynthia. Your turn.

The curator of contemporary art, Cynthia Portermouth, was pleased to speak. She had come up with an interactive exhibition that would knock off their socks.

Gregory, I've come across a performance artist, Dallas Waco, who brings his real manual typewriter to the Museum and a small table and chair and roams to various locations and sets up shop to talk to people and write a poem for them based upon what he learns from his little chats, she said and smiled as though she had just spread a feast before their eyes.

Beatrice despised modern art and hated Cynthia, its main proponent in the Museum. The outrageous auction prices the stuff was attracting infuriated the Francis R. and Audrey U. Davidson Curator of American Art.

In measured, logical tones she said: Poetry can be art, of course, although I have never read anything by Mr. Waco, but the Museum is dedicated to the visual arts, not the literary ones. What visual art value would Mr. Waco's, and here she let the ending phrase drip from her mouth, performance entail?

The Franklin A. and Laura S. Exeter Curator of Contemporary Art was up to the challenge. Cynthia was basking in a kind of glow because one of a series of sculptures by Giaometti recently sold for $100 million at auction. Just a few years earlier she had convinced the acquisition committee to buy one of the pieces for $7 million. There was no doubt the committee now would agree to buy whatever she proposed. Her status had also soared with the elite galleries whose owners would treat her to the most fabulous lunches when she visited New York.

What is enhanced, she spoke in a slow voice as though explaining something to a child is the museum experience. It brings the element of the unexpected when a visitor, primed to see art, now has the opportunity to participate in the making of art, a personal poem. She smiled at Beatrice who did not return the gesture.

Well, send me some samples of the man's work, the Director concluded the matter. Devin, your turn.

Devin Witherspoon detested the idea of any person interacting which his European collection of paintings and statues. They couldn't be touched. They were to be seen. That was the interaction. So he had thought long and hard about what to offer.

Well, I believe I should devote more time to actually walking the European galleries. Visit with folks. Engage them in front of a painting, for example. Chat with them about the work. I would make it seem quite accidental, as though I was just happening to be passing through and stopped to ask them what they thought of what they were seeing and all that. I actually ra-ra-rather look forward to-to-to it.

He was relieved when no one spoke.

Good, Devin. That's a start. Certainly a start.

Beatrice?

Beatrice detested the idea of interacting more than did Devin.

I'm nearing completion of a most important project as you know. A book devoted to our entire collection of American art. This book will allow readers to interact with so much of our collection that we must keep in storage and rarely able to bring out to view. Our photo department is taking the most excellent photographs of all our works and at such high resolution that we can display them on our website so they can be enlarged and details clearly shown on a person's computer, she said but worried that the Director may find her suggestion lacking so fell back on flattery. I very much look forward to the whole tweeting business, Gregory, marvelous idea. You see, I could use tweets to direct attention to photos as they are displayed on our website.

Very nice, Beatrice. Very nice. And now I want to tell you my own idea for interacting with the public. It plays, Cynthia, upon your theme of performance art: a sort of continuing reality performance art, if you will. I want the public to be able to see how the Museum is run from my office. I want to install a one-way mirror in my office and have a corridor created on the other side from which people could watch me work, but I would not see them so I won't be distracted. When the Museum is open, this little corridor will be available for people to walk through and peer upon me.

The silence that greeted this proposal was not one of acceptance, but shock.

Elias voiced a concern: But aren't many of your conversations quite confidential?

The whole thing would be sound-proof so nothing could be heard. And for visitors who should remain unknown to the public a button could close shutters. What do you think, Devin?

Why I. I think it's it's a st-st-stunningly mah-mah-marvelous idea, he said, sweat popping out on his forehead.

Bravo, Cynthia said and clapped her hands with Francine and Beatrice joining in.

Thank you, ladies, the Director said, stood and bowed to them, spun on his heel and left the room. Meeting concluded.

*

The curators went back to their various offices to tell their assistants—each was allotted two—what happened in the meeting, so events immediately began to be warped into various points of view.

Cynthia to Assistant A: Send info about Gregory to that poet. Tell him to compose some poems about the Director. Make sure one of them mentions that stupid plane of his. Do you know Gregory has come up with the silliest idea for performance art? Amusing in a way, but really. When she finished relaying the Director's idea that museum-goers