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Curate this
If you know me, and some of you think you do, you know I am a “curator”. And if you know me, you know I like to rant on about stuff. So, I’m going to rant about people who “curate” things. The short definition is that a curator is a content specialist who is involved in the interpretation and care of cultural material. It’s the person who takes care of all the “museum quality” stuff in museums and in galleries. (I’ll rage on about “museum quality” another time.) Like a lot of my colleagues, I’ve even got the papers and certificates to prove I did all of the practical work, the book work, the research and the essays. And nope, just plain nope, you won’t catch me saying I’ve curated the Corning Ware in my pantry. I don’t curate my sock drawer. I don’t curate my coffee mugs or my gym tights. I don’t curate the music I listen to when I’m at the gym and I don’t curate the crap I tote around in the trunk of my car. I actually spent more than a few years—after the formality of the bookwork—learning the ins and outs of being a curator of cultural collections.
To me, a curator is an “overseer”, a “keeper”, a “caretaker” of cultural heritage. I spent a long time working for minimum wages, without benefits, in a seasonal setting while trying to find funding to continue the work I loved so much. Many of the sites I worked at were unheated in the colder months, not air-conditioned in the summer months and, depending upon the location, washroom facilities weren’t available. During the lay-off season, I volunteered at those same sites just because I could. I loved the work. It was my vocation. I loved the documentation, the cataloguing, the storage of artifacts, the care of the buildings that housed the artifacts, creating displays and, sometimes, “taking the museum show on the road”. Go figure.
That being said, and with tongue in cheek, I encourage folks to toss the words “curator” and “curated” around, like a pile of stale salad croutons. Sprinkle those words on everything. There’s nothing I love better than hearing someone say they curated the music for the party they’re going to attend. Don’t get me wrong, music is great and, for some people, so are parties. But, was there really any curatorial work done to download a pile of your favourite songs for the chip ’n’ dip fest at yer mate’s place? Additionally, it’s music to my beersoaked ears to hear someone say they’ve “curated” the wine or food for a dinner they’ve got planned. Come on. Seriously? You curated the pickle tray? You curated the bread basket. You curated the Cheez Whiz and placed it carefully by the bespoke box of Thunderbird Red. Go on, while you’re on a roll curating the H E double acid-free paper out of your life, tell me how you curated the Rice Krispie squares alongside the blue box of Dansk Butter Cookies on the kitchen counter. Then curated a steaming mug of Sanka with a heaping spoonful of coffee whitener. That just screams curatorial.
Here’s the deal. I have a lot of friends who, by years of experience or by training, are curators of cultural collections. When we get together, we talk about the challenges we must overcome as paid staff and as volunteers. We discuss solutions to problems at sites. We look for funding for displays, research projects, activities and for everyday operations. We sort, document, clean and care for artifacts. We host fundraisers. We attend courses to upgrade our skills—often paying for those courses out of our own pockets. We mobilize the community around its cultural inheritance. We work in galleries, archives, libraries and in museums.
Whew. Had to be said. Now I think I’ll go curate the hell out of my bespoke spice shelf.
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