Present pasts or absent pasts?

Recently, I went to visit the Glorious Georges exhibition at Kensington Palace (KP), thanks to the London Interpretation Network. Historic Royal Palaces (HRP) have been doing some groundbreaking work over the past few years at KP, not least in their temporary installation The Enchanted Palace, which, like it or loathe it (I rather liked it), pushed the boundaries of interpretation practice - and this, in itself, must surely be a good thing. The last time I visited KP was over the Christmas period, when I enjoyed the Game of Crowns installation. So, what to make of my visit this time?

I suppose I have sometimes thought that interpretation in a historic house setting might be easier than in a museum. After all, you are surrounded by something authentic, a building fabric, that can help to place people in a particular time, without the need for too many words. Museums must find other ways to create atmosphere, most often through design, or rely on text, which often explains rather than evokes. Yet after today's visit, I can see the challenges of both, what they share and perhaps where they differ. Both seek to make the past present, and can only do so through fragments, whether remnants of material culture arranged behind glass or a historic building whose contents have not been constant and whose fabric has no doubt been altered over the years. Choosing which part of the past to foreground must be difficult in sites that have seen centuries of change; in a museum, at least the construct of a permanent gallery or a temporary exhibition provides instant clarity with regards to audience expectations (you hope). Whilst placing objects in glass cases draws attention to the fact that they are but the remaining small part of a rich and complex past, it does focus the mind.

Good interpretation does not distract but enriches. I loved much of what there was in the Glorious Georges. The mannequins dressed in white, music and projection in the Cupola Room brought dancing shadows into the space, suggesting lives once lived, tantalisingly near and yet far. The furniture on which the interpretation was placed was cleverly designed  in the form of firescreens, blending into the Palace but telling the story of George II and Queen Caroline in well-proportioned chunks. And the final installation in the King's Gallery was perfectly pitched; leaving the smaller space of Queen Caroline's Closet could have meant that the lengthy Gallery would feel large and impersonal. But, on the contrary, the lone mannequin dressed in mourning black, combined with a soundscape of funeral music, made this feel the most intimate room of all, despite its size, the King's grief almost palpable. I was less convinced by the smell map, which I felt removed me a little from the experience, taking me away from experiencing the environment I was in - but this might've been as much to do with my own inability to tell some of the scents apart!

In our field, many of us are striving to bring the people of the past to life in the minds of our visitors. Of course we cannot ever truly do so, but can hope to create a moment in which the past becomes present, whether through smells, soundscapes or objects, rather than emphasising its absence. For me, the Glorious Georges largely succeeded in taking me imaginatively to the Georgian Kensington Palace, connecting me with the lives of those who lived there centuries ago. Next, I'll have to visit Hampton Court to learn more of the story...

Finding your voice

One of the reasons I have been resistant to social media is my fundamental inability to separate my life into different compartments. I wear many different hats: a work hat, which centres upon museums, and thinking about them through my doctoral thesis; a play hat, which most often involves singing; and a Mummy hat, which occupies every other waking moment and then some. And I'm conscious that if I tweet extensively about a conference, I'm likely to gain some followers who will then be incredibly bored by updates about my next choir concert and who probably couldn't care less that we took a family trip to the zoo this weekend. I'm far too lazy (or, as I'd characterise it, busy) to set up separate Twitter accounts for each part of my persona. So, then, when thinking about making some first steps into the blogosphere, I encountered a conundrum: who to be? Which one to privilege, if any?

But perhaps I have been underestimating the potential for these different parts of my life to inform each other. For, after all, they all go up to make - well, me. And thinking about it, there are mutual influences. One of the most challenging things for me with regard to singing is to trust in my voice: to allow my breath to flow without constricting it and to let the sound be my sound, confident in the capacity of the air in my body to support this. In my PhD thesis, finding my voice has also been one of the most significant and difficult things that my supervisor has asked me to do. I am fully used to arguing for either side with regard to the academic literature - but, in the case of my doctoral research, what do I really want to say? And do I have the confidence to say it?

Ultimately, then, it all boils down to confidence and support. If I support my singing voice and relax, I will be able to sing with confidence and my voice, amongst many in my choir, will make its own sound. If I support my arguments and stay true to what I want to say I might get through the process of researching and writing a PhD. It's likely that, in this blog, I will mostly write about my professional life within the museum world, as that's where I am most confident and where I feel that my thoughts might make a contribution to debate, however small. But other parts of my life may well creep in, now and again. And whichever element I focus on, through all of this, I will have found what my own unique contribution - to a choir, to the museum world or to academia - is. And that's my voice.