|This is basically how I imagine the first thing you see will|
look. Via Unusual Life.
Today I want to talk about that. I'd like to paint you a picture of the place, by which I mean talk a lot and include many lovely pictures of things I didn't make but like to imagine I could one day vaguely approximate. And, of course, I want ask for your input. Because what fun is building something awesome if nobody comes? And joy, while intrinsically an excellent thing, is magnified and multiplied when it's felt, shared, and experienced by a whole community. So please, at the end of it all, tell me what you think I'm missing, the vital things YOU'd need to have a museum that left you truly feeling joyful in your bones.
|I mean, come on. Imagine a dozen buildings like this, all |
connected in a fantastical maze. With no snow. You'd go
there, right? Via Green Building Elements
I tested this theory when I made my thesis work, which was a crazy indoor installation like the inside of a magical forest in my living room, and everybody who walked into it - even people who don't usually care much about art, or the kind of pretty shiny stuff I like - came out with a kind of stagger like a drunk bumblebee leaving a particularly nectarous flower. Most people felt like kids again, all buzzed with glee and wonder. I know this because they told me. Also because I tried really hard to build it that way.
|Don't tell me you don't want to go in there. Via Unschooling|
|Like this art bus! I wants it, precious. Via Art Car Central|
|Yeah, you put yourself in that bubble, dude. Via Flickr|
|Luciano Chessa playing a musical saw at a Garden of|
Memory event. Via Oakland Magazine
|Here is a diaphanous paper fairytale castle.|
Two birds, one stone kinda thing. Via
Bitrebels, and trust me, you REALLY
want to see the other pictures on there.
They are AMAZEBALLS. The artist's
name is Wataru Itou and for some sad
reason he has no website.
And I do want to have exhibits that are not necessarily interactive so much as just bloody inspiring. Art that makes you want to go home and pick up the scissors and the glue gun and make something for yourself, your kids, your lover, your best friend. Diaphanous paper creations that look impossibly detailed made by a trucker from Ohio. A fairytale castle of a dollhouse, handmade by a lovely young woman who works an ordinary job when she's not laying minute tiles or building working chandeliers at 1:12 scale. Paintings that look like your dreams. A treehouse made of animal bones.Art, that is, that's been selected for its ability to make you feel like the world is full of small miracles and other people who also want to live lives full of magic. Will there be art workshops for kids and adults? There will. Will be be stupidly expensive? They won't. Do I want blacksmiths, writers, puppeteers? Of course. Can you hang out with them? That's the plan.
Because I love food and firmly believe that the act of sharing and enjoying a beautiful meal is one of the most glorious of human experiences, there will also be a garden and a kitchen. I'm not sure yet exactly how to make it work: can you just waltz into the vegetable patch and pick some peas? Honestly, I'd like that, but it might mean there were very quickly no more peas to pick. If I could really have it my way, there would be some kind of work-trade, where you can pay for a delicious meal or else help prepare it. And everybody eats together, at a communal table. I am trying to work out how to do this without making all the visitors want to kill each other, and one of my solutions is just to politely ban all children under six from the Museum, at which point they will be properly old enough to enjoy themselves and I won't want to murder their parents. My apologies, those of you with kids - I love you, and I'm sure your kids are awesome and all, and this may ruin our lovely blog friendship forever, but I really have a hard time enjoying myself around screaming children. Please help me with this one. I also want you, oh parents, to be able to enjoy yourselves, and if your kids are old enough to run around without destroying anything, then everybody will have fun. Honestly, if you think I'm way off base on this one, I do want to know. It does seem a bit draconian, even to me, especially given the whole damn point of the Museum - but (she says pleadingly) don't you think everyone would have a nicer time if you just waited til the childrens got a wee bit older? (Shoots self in foot, smiles winningly)
Finally, here is an idea I've been toying with that is not my own, but which was presented to me as if it was, and which I kind of love a lot. Let me explain. I was at a bar with the very cool Patrick Kavanagh, who runs the Aberystwyth-based writer's blog THE FACTORY, and his awesome girlfriend Calista,and we were talking about joy. Specifically, we were talking about the difference between joy and happiness, and how joy is inherently an in-the-moment experience, in which there is always bound up a certain sense and acceptance of loss, the knowledge that it will pass. It's a flash of an emotion, a sudden glory, not built to stick around. It comes an illuminates the world and then it goes away, but it's okay, because the moment of its being reassures you that existence is worthwhile. And I was talking about the Museum in the context of joy, and Patrick said - as if he was picking up on my idea - "Oh, so the exhibits are never the same! How cool!" (I'm paraphrasing; I was too staggered to note the exact words, just the brilliant idea.) And I kind of blinked, because I had not ever thought of this before, and he was saying it as if he had just logically understood that's what I meant from what I'd said about the experience of joy. "Right," I said, "exactly, every time you come, it's different, and you discover everything all over again."
|That castle up above? This is how it's installed. I could do |
that. It would be awesome. Except those walls would be
made of cob and therefore EVEN COOLER. Same source.