Behind the Scenes at the Museum

Welcome to the first of my dispatches from behind the scenes at the museum. A number of things I may write about could be about any museum, frankly. Having worked in several, I can tell you that some things are universal whether you work in a tiny place or a whacking great outdoor one. One of those universal truths is just how many biscuits volunteers can get through in a week.

This is the first week M and I have been in together since pre-Christmas, so there’s been a lot of catching up on family, pets and general levels of life satisfaction. All settled down and the only sound is that of fingers hitting laptop keys and the tuneless plunking of the leaking downpipe. Which may have driven us insane by the end of the day. 

Noah has arrived, looking like he’s trekked miles through a downpour (not far from the truth). He is amazingly keen to get his hands on some archiving work. Another, Josh, has put a huge sign on a Big Box of Negatives, earmarking it as ‘his’ to sort and catalogue. It's a surprisingly territorial move and we doff our caps in respect. Noah settles down with a different box of stuff.

 I am studiously ignoring the tin of Danish butter biscuits. Anyone remember those? My Nan used to buy them every Christmas, in a navy blue tin, and they were bloody lovely. I may need to move the tin out of my eyeline.

 The sound of singing is coming from upstairs: Noah is happy in his work. It does not quite drown out the sound of the plunking downpipe. Plunking Downpipe: name of my new folk band. Guitars made of fruit crates and wire, comb and a bit of paper, spoons, etc. There may be clog dancing.

M and I laugh, bitterly, about Grant Rejections We Have Known. Her worst was one that read “We received grant applications we liked more than yours.” To which there is no come back.

I rant about AI in response to a question from the Art Fund. Noah is still singing. M and I have a quick chat about Accreditation: doable, achievable, but a lot of paperwork. Resolution for this year is to kick-start the process.

 I argue with Eventbrite and curse the fact it is not designed to be used on laptops where the screens are smaller so half of the form is cut off. M is wrestling with Google which still insists we are based in another city and permanently closed. We are neither of those things. In retaliation for this application of common sense, Google suspend our account. Because, of course.

 I do not take a hammer to my laptop and manage to publish the event. M does not take a hammer to her laptop but we both think vicious thoughts about AI, Google and Eventbrite in between standing by the radiator to keep warm.

 Noah finishes singing and heads out once more into the wild and woolly weather that is gracing the town today, but not before eating so many of the Danish butter biscuits that M gently takes the tin away from him, and showing us pictures of Otto, the black lab he is walking for some spare cash. M and I make suitable ahhh noises.

 The Plunking Downpipe are in their final set of the day as we head into the afternoon slide to closing.

 I take the chance to stand near the radiator and look over a file of images and letters typed on very thin paper from our EBL archive. She was a photographer, originally from East Germany, who led a fascinating life in the UK, working as a commercial photographer for magazines, car companies, private clients etc. She also snapped one of the best images of Robert Plant I have ever seen. All cheekbones and luscious hair and thousand-yard stare. In this folder, there are these beautiful portraits of a young black man, William Carr, and letters typed by her in her role with the Campaign Against Police Violence in 1984, asking for people to join the picket. Go EBL!

 Christ, the rain is really hammering down now. It’s pretty much all we can hear. Fingers crossed the roads aren’t flooded when we leave, or I shall be camping here overnight. At least there will be biscuits. Or what few there are after the Decimation of Noah.  

My nose is cold and M hasn’t taken her hat off all day. This is not the coldest day I’ve ever spent in a museum, not by a long shot. That honour goes to the Grade I Listed 14^th Century building I once worked in where the shonky and decades-old storage heaters kaputted and weren’t scheduled for repair until the new year. My colleague and I had to bring hot waters in and wear fingerless gloves. We are not at that stage here but still, we are chilled around the edges today.

M goes to do her building and collection checks: temp, humidity, lack of leaks, etc. I draft an email that hovers somewhere between decisive and pleading to our social media person asking that the content I’m sending her be a proper post and not a 5 second story that no one will see after 24 hours. The push and weight of SM is a constant trial: we need to be visible, the algorithm likes to hide us, we need to post content, but the content requirements are constantly changing.

4pm swings round and we do the final closedown for the day: clean, switch stuff off, leave notes for tomorrow's team. Silence the emails, shuffle the papers, head out into the teeming rain.

Cups of tea consumed: 6. Times stood next to the radiator: 4. Cold noses: 2. Policies updated: 1