From Jessica May, Deputy Director
Last week I spent most of my time in a window-walled conference room, thinking not about the infinite complexities of the history of art, but instead about the infinite complexities of caring for human beings in a time of peril. At midweek, we presented a plan to staff to cease travel and step up our cleaning regimens. We were still trying to figure out so many questions, including how we could fulfill the goals of artists Carrie Moyer and Sheila Pepe, who wanted their exhibition to bring people together. My colleague Jaime DeSimone called Sheila on Thursday to talk about suspending the gatherings of people who come together around her work, Common Sense. Sheila made us all laugh in giving us her blessing, responding that the work is “named Common Sense for a reason.” Tabernacles for Trying Times, indeed.
By the end of the week, our laughter had turned (mostly) to tears, as we privately wept while putting on a brave face with one another as we faced a more radical step than we had previously imagined: to close the museum to the public for 30 days. Our closure began at 5 p.m. on Friday, March 13, and at 5:02 p.m. I rushed down to the Selma Wolf Black Great Hall to observe a phenomenon I privately call “the quieting,” the ritual respectfulness of the Gallery Officer by the front doors saying goodbye to the last visitor. I’d missed it. Friday nights are normally bustling, but that night was hushed and still.
Jessica with artist David Driskell.
The world is upside down. Museums are places of refuge and solace, as are libraries and theaters, community centers and churches. I can’t help but be caught between the resolution that our closure is a basic civic responsibility, and this mounting sadness about what it means to close a museum. That sadness is merely a shadow of the immense grief that so many people around the world face as they consider the health and mortality of their loved ones and themselves. Through all of this grief, through these many closures, our notion of public space—and even the very notion of “the public”—will be transformed by this crisis, of that I am certain.
And yet.
This morning I woke up as the sun rose and the day was glorious—the sun itself serving as a reminder that we are going to get another chance to do things right (whatever that means). I started my day with the idea to purchase a bunch of Pilates classes in the fall, in the hopes that I can help my instructor get through this hard time and also maintain my link with her while we go through a period of not seeing one another. That commitment means a lot to me.
My staff and I are going to spend time this coming week learning about how to better use technology to connect with one another so that we can stay focused, and stay connected, during this closure. That’s going to require us to learn new skills, and the time (physically) apart is going to push us to think creatively about how to stay connected. This will serve us well: one of the things that is so important and special about our institution—what I’m most proud of, actually—is that our work is truly collaborative. We don’t “do” solitary genius at the PMA. We push each other, we work together. Now we have to find other ways to do that, and so we are going to learn a lot over these next weeks. If we are conscientious, this experience will deepen our connections to one another.
Jessica with artists Angel Abreu and the late Tim Rollins.
Another silver lining is that this is going to be a time of going deep and thinking differently. The lessons and presence of art are about as close to the experience of the eternal and unchanging as we can get in our world. But I keep thinking about Sheila laughingly reminding us that “It’s called Common Sense for a reason.” Circumstances change, and how we think about art, how we think about its effect on our lives, all that changes. What if during this period of quiet, we all read a few more novels and take a bit more time to talk about them, to be affected by them. What if such insights give PMA curators new avenues for thinking about how art, literature, and music might connect? What if the experience of talking on the phone daily rather than meetings-as-usual gives us the opportunity to share a few more out-of-the box ideas with one another? What if that becomes an exhibition in a year’s time? What if this opportunity gives our educators deeper insights into how to connect with and support our colleagues in the public schools? In other words—and I know I’m trying to make lemonade here—what if the transformation of our idea of “public,” is a wonderful, thoughtful, and generous transformation?
So, this is what I know right now: my colleagues and I are going to spend the coming weeks embracing each day that the sun comes up, holding fast to the ones we love if we are lucky, but probably not getting out much. We are going to “go deep” in our work, as the social scientists say, our days marked not by the rush to meetings and events, but instead a mix of quiet, focused time to consider the big questions of our institution, of art, of our connection to our precious community. At the same time, we are going to seek one another out for conversation and collaboration. We welcome conversation with you, our audience, and we would love to know what you are wondering about, what you are reading, and what art sustains you during what Sheila and Carrie presciently called “these trying times.” Through these focused activities, we are going to hold up the values of our museum and extend them far into the future.