A big part of my work these days is doing interpretive planning and content development for exhibits—in museums, zoos, historic sites, parks, and science centres. Working as part of a consultant design team, I begin by listening closely to what an organization wants to achieve, then help clarify what success might look like, and finally work towards it through writing, design, installation, and—when the process allows—evaluation. It’s fun, stimulating, collaborative work and, not gonna lie, I really love it.
Sometimes I get pretty attached to the work and it’s hard to sign off on it, wish everyone the best, tip my hat and ride off into the sunset. (Ok that last part is metaphorical.)
And here’s the thing: part of my difficulty in letting go of that exhibit is not knowing who is going to take care of my baby. Like literally having no idea.
Museums and other organizations that have exhibitions as part of their core business generally have someone assigned to the upkeep and oversight of an exhibit. It gets a bit iffy when the presenting organization does exhibits off the side of their collective desks (shoutout to parks, historic sites, research centres, government agencies).
Sometimes, as the lead planner and Guy Who Asks Difficult Questions (it’s just who I am) I ask point blank: who in your organization will be responsible for the continued upkeep of this exhibit?
And you know what? Sometimes the client genuinely can’t tell me. Nobody has that responsibility. They’ve got capital money but they have absolutely no extra cash in goods and services to actually take care of the thing. It’s not the client team’s fault; this is genuinely how large agencies fund their operations.
Now, quite often, they’ve got a maintenance person that they can strong-arm into fixing what breaks down.
But here’s the thing: I think I’m asking the wrong question. Instead of trying to figure out who will take care of basic upkeep, I need to ask, “Who in your organization will be responsible for the continued success of that exhibit?”
Because that’s a more important question. It implies not just fixing lights that go out and servers that go down. It implies observing visitors and how they interact with the work; it involves reading comment cards and taking them to heart; it involves taking note of when a particular stream of content or messaging is no longer relevant because the world has changed (or the local environment has.)
I can’t tell you how disheartening a neglected exhibit is. Not just one in which everything is sadly out of order; one in which clearly nobody has been keeping its soul nourished and alive.
I walk through these ghost-town exhibitions and I just see so much potential. So much life, relevance, passion—an exciting visitor experience that’s just waiting for someone to find the spark and keep it alive.
I suspect you’ve felt that way too.
So when an exhibit opens and the ribbon is cut, I think the most important question isn’t who will fix what breaks. It’s who will keep paying attention. Who will notice when the concept stops working, or when a story starts to feel tired, or when visitors are quietly telling you what they need next.
Exhibits don’t stay successful on their own. They stay successful because someone is watching, listening, and caring enough to act. If you can name that person—or that role—you’re already setting the exhibit up for a much longer, healthier life.
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