Today was a busy day for us at the museum. We had numerous school tour groups, many walk-ins, and a group of senior citizens. Toward the end of the afternoon, I was seething with the urge to scream out, “The next person who touches anything is going to lose their hand!”
In our museum, we have a few rooms in which the artifacts are not in cases. They are spread out around the room, discretely fenced off by explanatory signs. They’re polite little barriers, about waist high, and about two feet back from the object, or consist of the ubiquitous ropes and stands. At the beginning of the tour, we ask that there be no photograpy, or handling of the artifacts. Individual pieces have little signs which inform visitors that fingerprints damage artifacts. Most respect the barriers.
But not all. Today, I took a a group which included a thirty-ish man and his wife around on a tour. We approached a large item we have on display. It’s a giant freight wagon from the early 1800s. As I explained the details about it, to my utmost horror, the thirty-something man reached across the rope barrier, seized a wheel and * shook * the wagon.
Let me point out that the wagon is not only two hundred years old, but it is unstable and fragile. Let me also point out that this wagon weighs close to two tons.
The wagon swayed like a speared mammoth. Wood creaked alarmingly, and metal grated against metal. In my mind’s eye, I clearly saw the hulking mass crashing to the gound, squishing the whole group of us like bugs. I sputtered like Roger Rabbit, “P-P- *Please! * Don’t do that! It’s very fragile!”
“Huh,” he replied, watching the still-wobbling wagon. “I guess it is.”
Later, we came upon a desk. This particular desk is important in our state’s history, and has it’s own little dias, and is surrounded by the waist-high border of signs. Before I could stop him, he reached over, grabbed the edge of the desk, and gave it a shake.
Now, I was pretty flabbergasted at this. Why the hell would anyone want to shake a desk? “Sir!” I barked, “Please don’t touch anything!” He blinked at me, said he was sorry, and we moved on. I kept my eye on him for the rest of the tour, stepping in front of him once when he reached out toward an object, which was very effective. He didn’t try it again.
Next, I had a group of forty seniors. I ran myself ragged chasing after them. I stopped a woman as she pulled open the drawers on a dresser. “Oh, honey, I’m not going to break it!” she said dismissively when I asked her not to. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman pick up a vase, and dashed to intercede. Another fingered the keys of the piano, and then banged them when they didn’t produce a tone, saying loudly that we ought to get the piano fixed. Yet another decided that the satin ribbon across the seat of a chair must be for decorative purposes, and plunked herself down. “Excuse me, please!” I said loudly. “We ask that no one touch anything. Fingerprints leave oils behind on the items, and can damage the finish.” Skeptical looks met my gaze, but items were finally left unmolested.
My third group was that of thirty fourth-graders. What a pleasant relief it was! All heeded my directive of “hands in pockets,” with only one minor exception. It’s ironic that a group of little kids obediently refrained from touching, where a mass of adults could not.
As I drove home this evening, a dialogue ran in my head, adressed to one of the elderly ladies. “I know that you don’t think you’re going to hurt anything. But please, trust me, one of the people who specializes in these items’ care that you are harming the item. I will now have to clean it after you leave. Constant handling and cleaning is not good for these items. They are best left alone.”
As for the other folks who pawed everything, I’ve wanted to ask them if they would do the same in a friend’s house. Would you go into someone’s living room and start handling their knick-knacks? Would you persist if they asked you to leave it alone?
I know what passionate curiosity about these items is like. After all, I got a job here in order to be able to examine these items to my heart’s content. If you ask me, I will pick up any item you would like to see more closely. I wear special gloves so that I may do this. But my heart leaps into my throat when I see you with something priceless in your hands, examining it like a head of lettuce in a grocery store.
Folks, the ropes are there for * you. * The same rules apply to everyone. You are not an exception simply because you’re confident you know how to handle the items without breaking them. I am not bullshitting you about the fingerprint damage, either. I recently cleaned a Civil War sword which had been kept in a closet by the decendants of the original owner. They hadn’t looked at it in years. The fingerprints of the last person who handled it were * eaten into the finish. * If fingerprints can do that to * metal * what do you think they’ll do to wood? When you pinch and roll the fabric of a dress we have on a dummy, you are breaking the fibers, as well as leaving oils. When you rub your hands over the wallpaper, you are leaving dirt and oil streaks.
Have you ever seen a stone stoop which has a depression worn in the middle by generations of feet? Much in this manner, if everyone thinks they’re an exception to the rule, the artifacts will suffer “erosion.” You may not be able to see its immediate effects, but future generations will, and we plan on keeping these items for a long time.
To Mr. Shake-It, I can only express confusion, bewilderment and immense irritation. I’ve read that part of human development is when the eyes gain the ability to judge texture and size, and we no longer need to handle items or put them in our mouths to make those determinations. This stage is usually achieved in early childhood. I suppose that in Mr. Shake-It, this development was never fully achieved. He must need to tug and push at things in order to fully comprehend them. (I wonder, if upon meeting his wife, his first impulse was to shake her. I hope they never have a baby.)
What sensory data did he need which compelled him to grip the edge of a desk and shake it? I did vaguely understand when I saw him raise his foot to kick the tires of one of the antique cars on display. After all, this seems to be a deeply ingrained male behavior. (I remember as a child being amused by counting the men in a car lot who kicked the tires of the cars while my dad signed the paperwork.) I smoothly slid in front of him, never breaking stride in my interpretation. I saw his wife give me a little grin.
Tomorrow morning, I will have to finish the cleaning job I was too tired to complete this evening. Thank you so very much for all of the extra work you have given me. No, really, I honestly didn’t have enough to do with major renovations, new acquisitions, and the busiest tourist season. I will think of you fondly while rubbing your greasy marks from the artifacts.
