Leave Something Behind

As I walked past the little reflection corner on the fourth floor of the Museum of Art and Photography (MAP), I saw a woman sitting in front of a table, on a cushion on the floor, writing something with her forehead scrunched in concentration. At first, I thought she was someone who worked at the museum, and she was writing a report or something like that. I went closer and saw three rows of cards arranged in front of her.

They were cards for the museum’s visitors to write on. The cards had little questions for visitors to answer, and then there were hooks to hang them on. One question that stood out to me was ‘Where do you feel most connected to the world around you?’ When I saw that, I had to pause and think about what I would write.

At first, I thought I should write something grand and expected, like ‘on the mountains,’ or ‘at the beach.’ I lifted my pen, about to write that, but it felt like something that would be on a postcard. I thought about the places where I really felt at home and lost track of time. The quiet minutes in libraries, the corner of the bed where I have the most blankets and it’s always warm, and the little hill near my house that lets me look over the city. It struck me that the museum had asked me a question I hadn’t asked myself in a long time.

When I hung up my card, I got to see what other visitors had written. The cards there might have been from weeks ago, but they were still there for newcomers to see and add too. It felt like the cards were an exhibit in themselves, and I was contributing to it. Here, the museum became a place of interaction. The museum was always changing; it was never the same for two people.

The exhibit was made by the people who visited it. Not just with the cards, but part of visiting the museum was people-watching. It was interesting to see how other people reacted to the photographs and artwork. Some just walked by quickly. Others stopped in front of each frame for a long time, read the descriptions, and tried to form their own opinions of the exhibits.

It reminded me of The Met in New York, the largest museum I’ve been to. At the Met, there were little benches placed in front of the galleries so visitors could sit and take in the exhibits. Some had sketchbooks open on their knees and were copying the artwork line by line. Nobody seemed in a hurry, and it wasn’t something you could get through in a day.

This then reminded me of the Boston Children’s Museum, which was the other extreme. The obvious reason was because of the intended audience, but it’s also about the way people interacted with the exhibit. This museum wasn’t meant to be observed in silence. It was meant to be enjoyed, and it was okay to be loud and rambunctious. I remember kids running around, climbing things, trying on costumes, pushing buttons, and shouting to each other around the room. No one told them to be quiet. The exhibits only worked if you touched them.

Thinking about these three museums made me wonder how different they each are. The Met was quiet and solemn, meant for serious viewers. The Children’s Museum was its opposite, meant to be enjoyed loudly. The MAP seemed to be the bridge between them. There was space for quiet reflection and thought, and a place where visitors got to be part of the exhibit.

Walking out, I realized that each of these museums asks something different of its visitors. The Met asks for patience and silence, the Children’s Museum asks for noise and energy, and the MAP asks for a voice. I think that is why I remember the card more than any single photograph. The artwork on the walls was made before I arrived, but the cards on the hooks were made by people like me, and mine is still hanging there for the next visitor. A museum that lets you leave something behind makes you feel less like a spectator and more like a part of the place.