I’ve been working again on the education program about Victorian
children in WWII. It’s almost done, and putting it together has been the most
pleasurable project I’ve undertaken for a long time. I can sort of see I’ve made
that novice error of cramming in all of the cool ideas as if there will never
be another opportunity to use them, but it’s OK, because what I’m making is more
like a script for performance than a finished text, and it’s a perfectly legit
strategy to script in more material than can be used in any one iteration. All the
verbal doubleness in Elizabethan drama does that – it’s there for readers, for
actors, to fill out their sense of what’s envisaged, and then it’s up to the
performers to shave away the superfluous language and gestures and embed that
richness in what remains. (Not that I’m, like, seriously comparing my program
design to The Merchant of Venice or
anything - it’s more along the lines of The
Alchemist.)
Part of what’s been good about this project has been the
opportunity afforded, by the resource gathering and the blocking out, to
understand a little bit more about what this place is where I work. I’ve
thought about this a lot. The place is genuinely special. While it houses a
great collection of very telling objects, it’s not simply a museum – or any
other kind of enclosure for representations of the past – it’s also an artefact
of and in itself, soaked in memory and emotion, and layer upon layer of it,
often passionately contested - and something in the combination draws very
unusual responses out of people who are affected by the place. (Not everyone
is, that must be said.) I think the unusualness of the response has to do with
the way the building presents visitors with the evidence of many others before
them having been here and expressed their own feelings through ritual and
reflection. The visitor who sees this can add to this accretion or not, it
doesn’t seem to matter. Other people’s emotions are cathartic too. I’ve been to
many challenging and confronting places but not many that challenge you while
also showing you a way that you can use your emotions. In psychoanalytic terms
it’s a holding space, it contains. The architects chose well when they named
the main chamber the Sanctuary.
I haven’t worked in a museum before, of course, so I don’t
really know anything about curatorial or collection management practices, but I
think the way some of the physical objects are managed does reflect this
productive slippage. Here’s a detail of a regimental
colour which is displayed in an airtight museum case, with evidence of
conservation work having been carried out on its beautifully worn and impossibly
fragile fabric:
(Sorry it's upside down)
But the great majority of the colours kept here are not
treated in this way. They’re hung from bronze rods in an underground stone
chamber, and their fragility, their existence in gravity and time, is
acknowledged in the way they are being allowed to decay and disintegrate. In
this picture you can see how air and light is deteriorating and discolouring
the cloth and braid, and how one of those banners has come apart at the seams.
What matters here is the way the colour embodies whatever is left of the memory
of the unimaginable collective trauma and catastrophe experienced by the Coburg
and Brunswick volunteers who belonged to this battalion.
Today I spent some time reading these two tiny diaries, the
first two in a series of sixty, lent to me by a volunteer who is the son of the
woman who wrote them, and who features in the narrative as a teething infant.
(I accepted the loan with deep misgivings, but they’ve gone into a locked
drawer til next week.)
I can’t tell you very much about the detail of the
narrative without perhaps being careless with this family’s privacy, but the
fact of the diaries themselves reveals quite a lot about how people come to
attach themselves to this place and what deep, deep associations they bring
with them. For my purposes these diaries, with their notes about visitors, recipes,
trips to the shops, the growth of the baby, alongside notes about the death of
Mr Curtin and the surrender of Japan, reminded me that the home front
experience of wartime in Australia has been an everyday kind of experience –
riven with anxiety and strain, but normal. I tried to get that into my program
design. An interesting challenge.
That last line.
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