"It belongs in a museum". But... why?

"It belongs in a museum." No one has the same authority as iconic movie star archaeologist Indiana Jones, the heritage super hero par préférence, when he confronts the evil villains who want to sell off historic artifacts for profit. The options seem crystal clear. Evil and wrong: to sell off, destroy or utilise for one's own profit the material artifacts from human history. Good and right: to put same artifacts in a museum, thereby guaranteeing them eternal life and availability to all mankind of good will. Happy ending. Or..?

In my thesis, I am studying various theories on heritage and heritagisation, i.e. the process which transforms something in a living, active sphere of use to a historical object attached to a certain narrative and expected to never change. As mentioned in previous posts, death and fragmentising are parts of the process to build a new identity as a museum object; an identity that might contradict or prevent an identity as a living object playing a role in the world outside of the museum. The act of putting something in a museum, or give it a new context and narrative in a heritage context, is an act of power which can be used - deliberately or just as a consequence - to profoundly change things, places and phenomena in terms of use, availability and possible interpretations. 

With this in mind, I get nerdy goosebumps when a public call goes out to put things in museums, and my first question is: Why? Not at all in order to question the museums or the qualified work they perform, but to understand the driving forces and the agendas behind the musealisation - because they are manifold.

After the attack on satire magazine Charlie Hebdo in Paris in January 2015, when twelve people were killed, one focus in the following debates was the role of religion in these events and in global terrorism in general. Social media exploded with opinions, while at the same time alarming news started to come from the war in Syria about strategic destruction of cultural heritage by the Islamic State. I did a random search on Twitter for the combination "religion" and "museum", just to listen in. The result was striking. Many voices called for religion to be put in a museum, but: for different reasons.

Heritage as a concept is in many aspects built on fear of loss and a sense of threat from outside, and therefore generates an urge to protect and save - a mission for which the museum is a seemingly optimal institution. Some voices on Twitter expressed a fear that religion was under threat and needed to be saved - but also a fear that ruining the material heritage would turn the religion itself into an artifact:

"My fear is that the Old Churches in Iraq are not destroyed but left to become ruins. Christianity left as a Museum religion, an artifact." (signature ‏@AYoshia)

Others - the majority of the posts that matched my search - called for religion to be musealised in order to be separated from the living daily life, and instead become no more than a part of history and producer of artistic and other artifacts.

"Religion—no matter its form—needs to go the way of the museum. Another tragic case in point by way of Paris, France." (signature @SilvertongueCK3)

I found this most interesting, since a fundamental hypothesis for my PhD project is the domesticating role of heritagisation and musealisation of religion, and here it was: spot on! During my years working on this project, I have - with the narrow yet sharpened attention of a possessed geek - seen examples of heritagised and re-used religion everywhere: in museums, in cosmetic stores, in the streets, in commercials, in packaging for food, in theme parks, even in churches. If I may, let me share some of these impressions with you, to give some examples of the various fates of religion when entering new contexts.

One way to musealise religious artifacts is to place them in a museum (because they are outmoded, fragile, damaged or very rare and spectacular), but allow them to keep their religious status and narratives. This display can be seen in cathedral museums or, as here, in the diocese museum in Venice:

A musealised Jesus in Museo Diocesano, Venice. Worn and almost no distinguishable face, placed in a museum, but within a religious context and narrative.

Relic hand, Museo Diocesano, Venice

Life size statue of Virgin Mary, once belonging to a church and used for processions. 

Now in Museo Diocesano, Venice

A similar, yet quite different, approach and display could be seen in the temporary exhibition "Himlen är här" ("Heaven is here") in Uppsala Cathedral, Sweden. The exhibition was composed to celebrate the Archdiocese's 850th birthday, and to display the cultural heritage created, used and in some cases musealised through history and denominational changes and fashions. Using the cathedral itself as room for display provides a spectacular setting, but also (as with the headless Jesus) an ambiguity: museum or religion? Cultural or cultual use - or both..?

Medieval crucifix with contemporary neon sign, on temporary display over the main altar in Uppsala Cathedral.

A striking theme in this exhibition - as in many recent exhibitions on religious artifacts and matters in Sweden - is the recurrent exposure of backsides and parts originally not meant to be seen. I see this as  a deconstruction of the sacred, which is also evident in innovative and artistic designs of the exhibitions where original context and function are subordinate to stories and interpretations presumably more fitting for today's visitors.

Medieval crucifix on display in the central nave: backside clearly visible. 

Medieval saint, seemingly in a discussion with other saints standing around him, but also trapped in musealisation: glass case, iron band, and with his back and ownership label clearly displayed. Disenchantment, or a way to new understandings of sacred matter?

All at once! Altarpieces with panels for different times of the year and different feasts are often, as here, displayed with all the panels side by side. This is an efficient way to show the artwork to the visitor, but from a content point of view the experience for a visitor - originally taking place in weak light, during a religious service, in a time where pictures were rare - is quite different from the intended one, now that all days of the year occur at the same time.

Hagia Sofia in Istanbul, which I have touched upon in a previous post, is yet another form of heritagised sacredness. Starting out as a byzantine church in 6th century, then turned into a mosque during the Ottoman rule, then converted into a museum in 1930's, and now subject to discussions of re-conversion to a mosque - something which has caused objections from Orthodox Christians claiming the building as originally theirs. Here, religion is - temporarily, at least - domesticated in the shape of a museum: a status which can, however, obviously be re-negotiated at any time.

Hagia Sofia museum, Istanbul

A recent visit to open air zoo Kolmårdens Djurpark in Sweden also brought some unexpected insights in the usefulness of religious images and artifacts. In the tiger park the theme was Buddhas in decay, seemingly to provide the frozen tigers and their northern viewers with an exotic framework among the Swedish pine trees. The decaying buddhas are an interesting topic in itself, as I have mentioned in a previous post, but I generally think that the decay as such gives an extra dimension of mysticism, heritage and even some kind of spirituality to many visitors.

A concrete Buddha head in fake decay among the tigers in a zoo in a Swedish forest. Kolmårdens Djurpark

Buddha figure and masks greeting the visitors who exit the funicular railway safari, Kolmårdens Djurpark.

Buddha head and constructed decay, Kolmårdens Djurpark

The Swedes' love for heritage and decay, in part perhaps explained by the luxury of living in peace and material wealth for a long period of time, is expressed also in the appreciation for ruined sacred matter. The worn and broken statues of saints, visible as art objects in museums in many parts of the world, are in Sweden equally used in churches for devotion - regardless of condition or lack of colors or limbs. Ruined churches are cherished as romantic, but even spiritual, places since the 18th century, and many couples who declare themselves to be non-religious still choose to get married, with or without a priest, in a church ruin. This brings up, again, the strong connection between heritage and religion - or, maybe, even heritage as religion, for a (post)secular time..?

St Catherine's church ruin, former Franciscan convent church. Visby, Gotland, Sweden.

While examining religion's (after)life as heritage, I can't resist to once again turn back to the Swedish Christmas gingerbreads (yes: gingerbread IS a big issue for Swedes. Just visit the IKEA store next to you from December 1st if you don't believe me!). The gingerbread men that mysteriously accompany St Lucy in the Lucia procession up here have no religious connection that I know of, but many of the cookie forms actually have either Christian or pagan origin. Here, the gingerbread version of St Stephen's horses (yes, I made them myself, along with space shuttles, dinosaurs, pagan sun symbols and giraffes. Life as a Swede.):

At the end of the recycling of religion food chain we find not only jewelry, t-shirts and toast stamps to make Virgin Mary miraculously appear on a toast (called: Holy Toast. What else?), but also Jesus as action hero, as band aids, and the magnetic set What Would Jesus Wear? (the latter in Uppsala Cathedral shop). Apart from expressing a sense of humor, whether shared by all or not, this also shows that the religious images have been fragmentised from their original context to such an extent that they have become aesthetic symbols - but charged and slightly forbidden to play with, and therefore useful for light provocations and humour.

Jesus' magnetic wardrobe, Uppsala Cathedral, Sweden.

Jesus heals - through bandaids. Uppsala Cathedral.

Loading all these images on my cerebral hard drive, I am left reflecting on many angles of my topic: Material sacredness, authenticity, and the Western understanding of material preservation (on which an interesting article was published in Financial Times recently); Musealisation of religion as blessing or hibernation; Is it easier to experience sacredness in decayed heritage than in sparkling new holy objects?

And, inevitably: what is the future for the Western European self-image and narratives, so essentially based on a Christian history? What role will be given to the religious heritage on display for a growing number of global tourists, and how will it serve and be relevant to a population becoming more and more religiously and culturally heterogenous? To me in my on-going PhD project, these are questions tightly linked to the future of museums in general and religion on display in particular. Preserving, saving or domesticating religion in museums, we still have to take into account that we are dealing with values of the past for some, but alive for others. A revised self-image, not least for Europe, is taking shape. Or, as Eddie Izzard brilliantly puts it:

The Me behind the mask, or The Otherness Gaze

Who would you like to be today? New identities for sale in Venice. 

Back to blogging after long absence; an absence containing two quite wonderful séjours in Venice and its archives, going back and forth to my frozen native grounds up North a couple of times, and a lot of mostly very enjoyable hanging out with books and laptop. Having just started my fourth semester as a PhD student, I think I am starting to get some clue of how this job and the amazing (and frustrating) environment of Academia works. One of the things that are most different from my previous job in public culture administration is that I now am not only allowed, but actually expected, to use my own observations, experiences and conclusions as a starting point and a tool in my work - the Me is, despite the obvious demands on objectivity and contextualization, crucial to my work. No wonder, then, that reflections on the identity as a stranger, una forestiera, here in Italy have been occupying my mind recently. Being constantly reminded of one's otherness, of how one in fact misunderstands, misjudges and messes things up not because of bad intent but due to the fact that there are always new unwritten rules to learn (and break), and when being almost on a daily basis associated with the most famous Swedish contributions to global culture: blondes, IKEA and ABBA (no offense, Björn Borg, but I think your hay days are over...), there is little risk of forgetting the foreign perspective. (And still, nota bene, I am completely in awe over the overwhelming generosity, good will and infinite patience flowing from Italian friends, colleagues and even complete strangers here. It makes the Otherness so much more beareable.)

The merciless Eye of the Beholder

Exploring premodern Swedish travelers in Italy and their perception of Catholicism and Catholic objects, rituals and customs, I have come to reflect a lot about what John Urry calls "the tourist gaze" in his book bearing the same title. It is the gaze, in this case the gaze of a stranger or a tourist passing by, that creates and defines the traveler's image of a place and its life and inhabitants - the gaze is the instrument shaping reality. This presumption also goes for the heritagisation process at the very heart of my project: heritage production is, as defined by Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett and others, the result of an active decision and agenda, and is (since most often not visible to the eye) performed and perceived by the eye and the gaze - and, eventually, by legal decisions and formalities, of course.

From a theological point of view this concept of "truth lies in the eye of the beholder" gets problematic; a relic bought as an ironic souvenir still contents sacredness, and a musealised Virgin Mary can still function as a valid object of devotion for the believer. But still: The gaze, the eye, the perception.

Seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, touching. Travelling, with all senses wide open...

I think most of us who have traveled to other places or cultures outside of our familiar habitat have experienced how the senses widen, and how even the smallest details are registered with curiosity and care. In the manuscript diaries of the Swedish premodern travelers, lengthy descriptions of price rates, distances, transport systems etc are common. Paying this much attention to practicalities, infrastructures, costs and practical how-to advice is nothing remarkable in this context, nor is it surprising that the notions of reactions and feelings are rare in the material: a travel journal was not primarily the place for sentiments and subjective remarks. However, I ask myself if this "tourist gaze" or Otherness perspective doesn't work a little like the very bad ear phones I bought on the street the other day - suddenly just a few of the instruments and very much treble, but no bass, came through in my favourite music. While sharpening some senses, while (perhaps involuntarily) seeing what we expected to see and confirming our prejudices, a wide range of sensual impressions, events and realities pass by unnoticed. As strangers, tourists, forestieri, we submit the places we visit to our "otherness gaze" as we ourselves are submitted to it by the residents of the visited place. An "othernessification" that, obviously and most importantly, goes both ways.

Venice in cold December dawn

Following the footprints of my 17th century travelers, a visit to St. Mark's or San Marco basilica in Venice is an obvious must. Here, where an abundance of highly prestigious relics are on display since centuries, it comes naturally to reflect upon the heritagisation of sacredness and its contexts. When studying the Swedish 17th century accounts of the basilica and its treasury, before re-visiting and seeing what these travelers saw (if this is ever possible), I was struck by the massive materiality in the descriptions: gold, jewels, colours, gems, holy bones - all of unmeasurable sacred or financial value, which is often noted specially. The value and the aesthetic aspects dominated the 17th century descriptions, and I (mis)took it for a lack of interest in or an intentional neglect of the sacred values depending on the Lutheran Tourist gaze. However, when faced with this rather non-sacred, musealising and highly materialized display in real life, and also learning that this material-aesthetic narrative was applied - at least - since the end of 16th century in Francesco Sansovino's guide to Venice and its monuments, Venetia, Citta nobilissima et Singolare (1581), I must take a new position. I must consider that the relics of Venice, and the display in St. Mark's basilica, have a history of musealisation and instrumentalisation that dates back to long before the Reformation - though being simultaneously used in sacred practice.

St. Mark's basilica in Venice

If musealising and heritagising, and thus creating fragments separated from their original context, can be performed in the eyes of the beholder, it can obviously also be done quite hands-on, as in the case of this icon:

Sacred matter deconstructed in the treasury of St. Mark's basilica

No matter whose gaze or what gaze, the sight of a mummified hand on display is probably more spectacular and exotic than immediately inviting to pious contemplations to today's visitors. But in 17th century, when relics had a more established position and function for Catholic viewers, and a more negative and, perhaps, political charge to Lutheran viewers - what was the gaze then, and what context was created?

The mummified and saintly hand relic of St. Mark, St. Mark's basilica

On my daily walk from my apartment in Trastevere to the Vatican or Istituto Svedese, I cruise through huge numbers of salesmen offering me umbrellas, rosaries, guided tours of the Vatican, photos of Pope Francis, and loads of items and souvenirs more or less loosely connected to the sacredness associated with the nearby sanctuary and the Eternal City as a whole. Everyone spots in an instant that I am a foreigner, and as such a potential customer. I wonder what goods and services were offered to my 17th century travelers, and what of this they actually brought home with them..? 

The mysteries of souvenir aesthetics: De Gustibus Non Est Disputandum

Dwelling on this Otherness, and the possibility of assuming another identity when in foreign land (though the 17th century young men were warned by their fathers not to dress too extravagantly and assume strange habits when abroad - this could prove dangerous when returning to Sweden and the Lutheran Orthodox standards), I have come to understand that the initial starting point for my PhD project was partly wrong, since it presumed only the Swedes looking at the Italians and their Catholicism. I have, very much thanks to generous help from Italian colleagues and friends, learned that one thing I must take into account in my work, except for the importance of The Gaze itself, is the reciprocity of this gaze: The foreigner is not only observing, s/he is also being observed, and is - wanting it or not - affecting the daily life in the visited community. Traveling gives an opportunity to, at least temporarily, becoming another - and becoming the Other - but it also subjects the visited community to Otherness. Foreignness goes both ways. 

Or, to summarise in Aretha Franklin's wise words in her 80's tune: Who's zoomin' Who?