From Elizabeth Jones, Deputy Director

I set up my home office today. It’s in a spare room, on the first floor with good light, and a small bookshelf. I put a lamp on my great-grandfather’s old desk, shimmied a dining room chair underneath it, set aside some pens, and put a few important papers in a stack neatly to the right of me. From my desk, I look out at my front yard and spring has started to show itself.

On the bookshelf, I put a picture of me and my husband at a PMA event. We look good. Happy to be with everyone else in the Selma Wolf Black Great Hall, sharing an exhibition opening with friends from throughout the PMA community. My staff ID is proudly placed by the picture, coiled up on top of the latest issue of PMA Magazine, and waiting for me to loop it around my neck and step into the galleries when the museum opens again.

I’m at home, but not feeling AT home. I want to be in my office, with my talented colleagues popping in and out to talk through a brilliant new idea, show me a problem they solved, or share with me a difficult situation. I want to be looking out at the historical buildings that grace our campus and brainstorm over maps and plans for the future. I want to be surrounded by the creative energy of my mentors and colleagues, and back in the museum where I can serve the public and our members, sharing the incredible healing power of art.

Lizzy having fun sharing the PMA with U.S. Representative Chellie Pingree and National Endowment for the Humanities Chairman, Jon Parrish Peede, last fall.

As someone who has dedicated their professional life to museum work, it’s antithetical to close our doors. It’s not normal, and it goes against all of what makes our jobs meaningful. Yet, nothing in our world is normal right now. Everything we have taken for granted is questioned. Lately, in my daydreams, I have been personifying the art in the PMA galleries. I think about all the conversations the art might be having with our doors closed, and with no one to bear witness to them. I imagine that the works of art are all anxiously yet patiently waiting for when we open to the doors to the public once again.

Does the art feel meaningless without people looking at it? Does it feel safe, far away from poking fingers? Does it wonder why we left it all alone?

So, I’m here, writing this in my home office. And as the world grinds to a halt, the staff at the museum are starting to speed up, thinking creatively, planning, scheming, and dreaming to continue to bring the transformative power of art to audiences near and far. We will plan for the future and create experiences of togetherness that you’ll remember, forever. For now, we will bring art to you, reminding us all that art is what makes us human and reflects life; light, color, tension, love, tenderness, sadness, and brilliance.

And when we do open our doors, the art will be there, waiting for you, and so will we.