Senses Come to Life
by Melanie Schnidrig
The Redpath Museum is a space that embodies a tension between curatorial preservation and sensory engagement. As soon as I enter the museum, I notice that tangible sensory engagements are available, from smells, and sounds, to haptic interactions outside of the vitrines. I find myself wanting to use all of my senses, especially touch, to examine the objects enclosed safely away from visitors in their glass cases. As I move through the levels of the museum lit by the sunlight streaming through the large windows, I observe objects as variable as mineral samples on the second floor to ancient artifacts dating back thousands of years in the Ethnology Galley on the third level. I am reminded that wanting a tangible experience with an object during a museum visit is hardly unusual. Indeed, non-visual sensory engagements, particularly tactile ones, are embedded in the history of museums. Constance Classen and David Howes consider this sensory history in their study of the senses in museums including the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford and the British Museum preceding the mid-nineteenth century, which Classen and Howes stress, invited touch-based interactions as an essential aspect of the museum experience and a counterpart to sight. Classen and Howes explain that such interactions were believed to enable the visitor to connect to the culture and people from which the objects were sourced (Classen and Howes 2006, 201-202).
As I walk among the vitrines full of artifacts on the third floor of the Redpath the tactile history of the museum Classen and Howes identify is palpable as the objects tempt me to engage with them beyond my gaze. However, I feel this draw less in the sense of attempting to attune myself to the lives of the previous owners/culture but rather to experience the sensory dimensions inherent to the objects. A sense of tactility is apparent in the textures and weight of the artifacts and they also appeal to my senses of hearing, smell, or taste as I imagine using them. While the Redpath’s collection of artifacts is vast, certain objects especially appeal to my senses, namely those that are portable or designed or come into close proximity to the body. For instance, at the far end of the room, I am pulled towards a Siane (Papua New Guinea) men’s garment made from a broad piece of woven cloth in shades of tan and bordered with black geometric designs. Two tufts of feathers can be found on each side of the garment and at the top I find what appears to be a neckband. The weave of the garment is visible, suggesting a haptic quality to the smooth natural fibres. I assume that an earthy scent would waft up to me if I could open the vitrine due to the materiality of the object.
In the small Egypt Time Capsule vitrine, I find a variety of small tactile objects carved from stone or made from pottery. The carved lines of a small turquoise scarab catch my eye beside its slightly larger grey counterpart. Its smooth edges are worn down to a soft lustre and it is perfectly formed to fit onto a necklace or carry in a pocket. Alongside these, I find a 12th Dynasty necklace carved from orange stones, and I imagine its cool weight and the smoothness of its polished beads. My eyes trace the ceramic form of a curved ointment pot with a lightly carved surface and I suspect that it may still hold remnants of a medicinal odour. Finally, the dull patina of a thumb ring speaks to the age and wear of the artifact. Its bronze-like metal disc is laced with turquoise stones and is carved in an ornate textured design.
I pass the vitrine and make my way further along the displays, and I notice that the embossed tactile surface of the Egyptian thumb ring echoes the Redpath’s collection of Athenian coins. These small haptic objects are not uniformly shaped but are dented and worn as they display the profiles upon them. Moving through the rest of the vitrines I also find the suggestion of the sense of touch and taste in a display that contains a 4th-century Syrian platter and a set of Roman bronze and silver spoons. These culinary items call to mind the act of eating and the feeling of a utensil in the hands and the mouth. Finally, my sense of hearing is piqued by a display of African musical instruments. In this vitrine, I find several different instruments including a friction drum, a harp-lute, and a bow harp that stand in a quiet row. The carved wooden forms and stretched animal skins that form these instruments show a variety of textures which suggest the different sounds that could be produced by these instruments. In this section, the fracturing of the object from its original intention is the most apparent to me. The instruments’ sounds remain frozen within them and I can only guess what their music would sound like if a hand is passed over them.
The sensory interactions with the Redpath’s artifacts that I have described so far only exist in my imagination. However, as I make my way around the museum, I notice that many palpable sensory interactions occur outside of its display cases. I encounter this alternative sensory climate as I first enter the museum. I immediately engage my sense of touch and proprioception as I pull open the heavy wooden door and step into the warm interior of the museum. I am greeted by a faint musty smell that reminds me of the aged pages of books in a library. As I make my way up the stairs to each level of the museum, I grip the smooth wooden banister and feel its cool carved wood under my fingers. As I step closer to the banister my shoes click on the wooden floor, which contrasts with my muffled footsteps as I shift my steps to the carpeted centre of the staircase. My sense of hearing is further engaged by the hardwood floor on the top level of the museum that echoes with my steps and those of the people around me. As I observe the artifacts, I become absorbed in listening to small snippets of conversation as visitors discuss the items on display. My eagerness to closely engage with the artifacts is shared by many other visitors to the museum. I first notice this when walking up the staircase, which houses a variety of taxidermy animals and a large cross-section of a tree accompanied by signs stating: “do not touch.” I am not surprised that such textured pieces would be tempting for anyone with an inquisitive hand. Once I finish visiting the ethnology vitrines, I sit on a chair in the corner of the room and pause for a few minutes to observe the interactions between visitors and the exhibition. A fascination with non-visual interactions is certainly prevalent. First, I hear a father and daughter debating how the wearable objects in the Papua New Guinea display closest to me were originally worn. A few more minutes pass and I observe that visitors cannot help but attempt to satisfy their haptic inclinations as they run their hands along the vitrines, bend closer to examine each of the objects until they almost press their noses against the glass, or lean casually against the wooden frames as they point to a particular artifact that captured their interest.
The sensory worlds of the artifacts I imagined as I passed the vitrines come to life when I go behind the scenes with the museum’s curator for a guided interaction with selected items from the Redpath’s collection. Though concerns about preservation continue to mediate my interaction with the selection of objects, I am finally able to examine them with my senses. I am invited to lift, touch, and tilt the artifacts arranged on a table. The artifacts are a carved headrest, a mask, an arm- and headband, a medicine box, a set of woven bags, and a drum. Here, finally, I can brush a hand or fingertip over the surfaces, feeling their texture despite the thin membrane of the latex gloves I wear. My sense of smell is also engaged by the materials used to make some of the objects and I listen to sounds when interacting with others.
I begin my sensory adventure as I sit at one of the chairs around the large table. It is covered with a thin sheet of crinkly brown paper that rustles as I reach across to touch the large headrest. It is carved from black wood and it originates from the Eastern Highlands area of Papua New Guinea. Its flattened top is functional, smooth, and tapered. It resembles a large leaf to support the neck while the rest of its form is finely carved into the design of a crocodile. The wooden grain and the grooves left by the carving tool on its surface invite tactile interactions, but my fingers focus on the intricate carving that is found on its rim, legs, and snout. With a fingertip, I explore the square design on its rim which is highlighted with light orange paint. Its legs are shaped like those of a rocking horse and I gently push down on an edge to set it into a subtle rock that knocks softly against the table. On the side of the legs, my hands precede my eyes in finding a carved humanoid face on each leg that is highlighted by spots of white and orange paint. The elongated mouth of the crocodile forms the focal point of the piece. It is full of teeth and it is the most haptically interesting aspect of the headrest, although the gloves stop me from feeling any sharpness in the tiny points. The snout and protruding eyes of the animal are unexpectedly inviting to the hands as I run my finger down the groove between its eyes to its pointed nose. As I lift the object slightly above the table, I realize that my eyes calculated the weight and size of the object to be heavier than it is.
Next, I switch my seat to find the woven Papua New Guinean Yam Mask. It is so large it obstructs most of my view as I move it in front of me. Its bulbous form is twice the size of a person’s head and its curves sprout eyes, circled ribs, a frilled fin and mantle which makes it resemble a type of fish. The mask’s exterior is caked with a thick layer of multicoloured mud-like paint in earthy shades of black, terracotta and white. I pass my finger over its ribbed fins and protruding eyes and feel the thickness of the paint as it coats the small crevasses of the weave. Other areas are smoother and reveal the straw-like material of the mask where the paint had fallen away. I pick it up in both hands and am surprised by its relatively heavy weight which belies its woven design and hollow form. The intricacy and wearability of the mask’s design and its woven pattern are echoed in the next artifacts, a Papua New Guinean armband and headband. The light delicate form of the armband is woven in a criss-cross pattern. The slippery grasses used to make it are soft and shiny on the exterior of the band and rough and matte on the inside. Its tightly woven form and its decorative pattern of tan and deep brown grasses resemble a snakeskin, and it crunches slightly as I press it gently in my hands. The armband’s resemblance to an animal's skin reflects the shelled covering of the headband. The headband’s wide band is dominated by a square at the front, that is divided into four triangles painted in alternating colours of tan and black. The focal points that appeal to my haptic sense, however, are the small shell beads that are arranged in narrow rows to cover the rest of the headband. I grasp the headband with both hands and slowly run my thumbs over the layered scale-like shells. They feel smooth to the touch and my thumbs bounce over each bead and find the small holes where a fibrous thread ties each bead to the headband.
The most eye-catching item on the table is a small Sri Lankan medicine box designed to hold herbs or plants. Its cool surface is made of white ivory and its cylindrical design fits into the palm of my hand. The tightly fitted lid opens to reveal its powdery wooden interior, giving away its purpose as more than a decorative box. The value of the medicinal contents of the object is evident in the ivory material and the painstaking care taken to paint the raised mandala and lined designs on its top and sides in thin black and brown strokes. While the design of the object is much more elevated than a generic medicine bottle found in the pharmacy, its size and shape call to mind a familiar pot of face cream. This familiarity is emphasized when I pick up the box, place it on my palm and curl my figures around it.
Two of the most interesting sensorial dimensions I encounter with the objects available on the table are found in the set of woven bags and the drum. At the centre of the table, I sit next to a plank of wood which supports four woven bags originating from Papua New Guinea. One is of a loose weave, soft to the touch with lines of alternating neutral colours. Another bag is more stiff, small, pale, and tightly woven. The largest is soft grey with a loose diamond pattern and thick weighty strap. Finally, an eye-catching geometric weave in bright colours of orange, yellow, green and purple is laid on top of the others. I trace the textures of the weaves with my hands enjoying the differences between the rough tightly woven ones and the sensation of my fingers catching on the open weaves of the others. What I notice most is a subtle earthy smell like I imagined smelling when observing the Papua New Guinean men’s garment. I enjoy these pleasant grassy scents as I drop my head level with the table to closely observe and touch the textured fibres of the bags.
This abundance of textures is also apparent in the final object I examine on the table. It is a long thin, hourglass-shaped Papua New Guinean drum made primarily from wood. Its smooth carved surface is juxtaposed with the carved grooves within its interior. It is crowned with a piece of dried snakeskin. I cannot tap the skin to hear the sound of the instrument as this would damage the delicate skin but, when I examine it closely, I can use my haptic sense along with my eyes to sense its texture and feel its dryness. Though removed from the sense of hearing in terms of playing the instrument by tapping the top of the drum I am pleased to find that it still retains an aural element. I encounter this sensory dimension in the row of white clam shells along one of its sides, which is attached to the drum with thick pieces of twine. Picking up the drum and giving it a small shake releases the rattling sounds of the shells as they slowly hit one another. This at least gives me a sense of what the instrument would sound like while it is being played, a sensory dimension missing from my interaction with the Redpath’s display of African instruments.
The non-visual senses I encountered during the tour were invaluable in interacting with and examining the objects as they enhanced the visual forms of the artifact. This speaks to the value of using the non-visual senses when encountering artifacts as indicated by Classen and Howes (2006). More specifically, being able to touch the artifacts enabled me to feel their weight and texture. The smell and sound sensations I encountered allowed me to get a sense of the materials used to make the objects. In utilizing a variety of senses to examine the objects I was able to encounter the sensory potential of the objects which lie dormant behind the vitrines of the museum. The tour brought my experience of the Redpath Museum’s collection to a satisfying ending as the sensations I could only imagine during my initial observations became tangible.
Bibliography
Classen, Constance and David Howes. “The Museum as Sensescape: Western Sensibilities and Indigenous Artifacts.” In Sensible Objects: Colonialism, Museums and Material Culture, edited by Elizabeth Edwards, Chris Gosden and Ruth Phillips, 199-222. London: Routledge, 2006.