from the DIRECTOR
Usually when I write this column for the newsletter, I have knowledge of what is planned for the two months or so ahead of its distribution.
This time, I am at a loss. I’m in the dark about our future as I write during a full, staggering, discombobulating pandemic, so anxious that I can’t predict our fall season at the museum. We have exhibitions planned, we have protocols for visitation in place, and we have a supportive group of friends, patrons and university administrators. Of that I am sure, but I find us, at least temporarily, in an age of uncertainty, trepidation and fear, but equally of challenge and even optimism that the end will come. Public life beginning in February 2020 changed us all. As I have said before, for many of us — for all of us at the museum — we did not “pivot.” We “swerved” into a new reality, not a new normal, since it all seems so abnormal: the masks, the sequestration, the physical distancing (how I missed hugs) and the pervading, dehumanizing sense of alienation. During the same period, the marginalized and the powerless said “enough,” and we witnessed or joined a social revolution with roots in centuries of dehumanization and racism. We are different people now — all of us altered, reshaped by the brutal murder of George Floyd. The general public heard, many of them for the first time, the language we already were speaking in museums, with a vocabulary drawn from theory but now more readily apparent as practice: decolonization, the “other,” “defund” and terms of political “art” that some see as cant and others as doctrine. But more than jargon, these words rapidly become slogans, weaponized against centuries of injustice, oppression and inequities. Thus, our nation endured a collision of social revolt and a public health nightmare. For the museum and its staff, we also, whether participant or onlooker, realized that what we really saw and felt was an un- stoppable, incontrovertible, transition to truths too long hidden or ignored. Those days of anxiety for me personally became a source of strength after watching staff members not only adjust but also thrive. They rapidly learned new technologies, and we shall forever more have footholds in the virtual as well as the analog world. Our educators developed entirely new programs that drew audiences we have never had before. They also carried art to school children (and their parents), to the elderly and to anyone who wanted an hour of yoga or mindfulness or the solace of art. Only a few weeks after we closed in March, we had a robust virtual presence. All of us learned to live in a new universe, a place that I call the land of Zoom. We attended meetings where attendees wore their pajamas, some held dogs or babies, others “failed to mute” and we learned too much about their domestic lives. And I found a new epitaph for my tombstone: “Internet Service Temporarily Suspended.”
Several months later, we continue to adjust our exhibition schedule, to brainstorm new means of programming, to cleanse our temple of the many vestiges of a colonial past — a process begun by our founder and first director and continued by suc- cessors like the visionary Bill Paul and their staffs. This muse- um has from its beginnings collected and shown the art of Black people, of women, of gay people and of brown people, but our interpretations of their works too often referred to a canon that is constantly disputed and has certainly had an abundant share of spokesmen — white men with a Eurocentric focus. We have a way to go in our own transition to a post–COVID-19 world. As I just illustrated, we are a little too complacent in our reliance on traditional tenets of art history and criticism and of museum practice. Our strategic plan calls for emphasis on diversity (D), equity (E), inclusion (I) and accessibility (A) — and even if we are concerned that DEIA has become an overworked, clichéd acronym, we can and will translate it into action. The museum truly belongs to everyone and we shall learn how to listen, how to share our knowledge and how to marry the visual arts with the humanities. This museum has from its beginnings collected and shown the art of Black people, of women, of gay people and of brown people, but our interpretations of their works too often referred to a canon that is constantly disputed and has certainly had an abundant share of spokesmen — white men with a Eurocentric focus. I have always believed that real change is easier at grassroots museums that have tiny staffs and very limited resources. So many of them do outstanding work because they must be ex- perimental, imaginative, creative and original; they are usually closer to their primary communities as well. So, I am proud to quote my colleague Dana Marie Lemmer, at the Wiregrass Mu- seum in Dothan, Alabama, when she remarks, “I am reminded that times of change are opportunities for growth. And we have a unique opportunity to channel our own imaginations as we ask you to do each time you visit us, to rethink the role of mu- seums, and to support positive social change.” When you read this column, I hope you will imagine your- self alongside me in the galleries at the museum, weeping at the beauty of Rubens’ “Crucifixion,” transfixed by Carl Holty’s studies of color or moved by the gentle nostalgia of Radcliffe Bailey’s homage to family, to community, to humanity.
WilliamU. Eiland Director
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