Standing on the third rung of a precarious step-ladder in the North Gallery, my fingers are currently stained with a persistent, oily dust that only accumulates in 104-year-old museum ventilation systems. It is July, and the heat index outside is a humid 94 degrees, yet here I am, Casey M.K., a museum education coordinator, meticulously untangling a 44-foot strand of Christmas lights. Why? Because I need to know that something in this building can be made straight. I need to feel the tactile progression of a knot giving way to a line. It’s my small, private rebellion against the twisted architecture of our internal communications.
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Downstairs, in the climate-controlled auditorium, the Director is finishing his quarterly address. He’s reaching the crescendo, the part where he leans into the microphone with a practiced, paternal softness and says, “And remember, my door is always open.” He says it with the conviction of a man offering a glass of water in a desert, completely unaware that he has built a moat, a portcullis, and a series of psychological tripwires between that door and the 24 staff members who actually keep the lights on.
– Observation from the Rungs
I’ve spent 14 months watching people walk past that door. They don’t go in. They don’t even look at it. We treat the Director’s open
