By Ron Chew

This article was published in Museum News March/April 2004.

Five years ago, I spoke out publicly against the owners of an upscale restaurant in downtown Seattle, where my museum is located. The restaurant owners had hung a large racist poster just inside the front entrance. The sketch, a stereotypic caricature of a Chinese man with exaggerated slanted eyes, coolie attire, and “exotic” features, was the poster child for Obachine, an Asian fusion restaurant established by Wolfgang Puck and his wife Barbara Lazaroff.

I was deeply offended that the owners had used an “Oriental” version of “Sambo” to advertise their business. I wanted the poster taken down. I told their manager. I called their corporate headquarters. When they refused to take the poster down, I told a local newspaper. And when Lazaroff came to town, I told her, too.

I wasn’t alone. Others had complained before, including several members of my staff. And after the newspaper articles began to appear and T.V. cameras began to cover the “controversy,”   many others began to complain publicly. Members of the Asian-Pacific American community demonstrated loudly in front of Obachine, and many others simply boycotted the restaurant. Finally, two years after the protests, the restaurant shut down, citing lack of business.

Some told me it was hypocritical for the director of a museum to tread on the right of a private business to promote itself. Museums, they argued, should not support censorship of any kind, no matter how offensive the image. Others thought that a stereotypic image from the past was “not that big a deal.” In fact, several individuals told me they thought the “little man” on the poster was rather “cute.” On a scarier note, I also received several racist hate calls at the museum and at home.

The Obachine controversy has come and gone, but for me, larger questions remain. During this surprisingly ferocious controversy—which included many television stories, scores of angry letters to the editor in newspapers, and accusations back and forth on “hot” radio talk shows—most of my museum colleagues remained eerily silent. I didn’t expect them all to agree with my viewpoint, but I thought they would at least ask me about the issue and tell me what they thought. I assumed we’d have a few serious conversations. Their silence puzzled me then and, reflecting back on that time, it baffles me today.

I began to wonder why so few museum professionals speak out on issues that affect our lives. We’re not always right, but we often have strong opinions, informed by our daily work in an industry that’s very much about the distilling, packaging, and judging of information and ideas. With our knowledge, we have the ability to awaken conscience, deepen understanding, and enrich the public dialogue. So why are so many of us silent? Are we afraid that we’ll besmirch the reputation of the museum as a neutral arbiter of culture? Do we fear that conservative donors will be offended and withdraw their support? Are we simply uncertain about the proper bounds of nonprofit activity, choosing to err on the side of caution? Finally, will museums have to take a stand on community issues as we actively cultivate relationships that bring us closer to the heart of the community?

Museum consultant Tom Borrup also has pondered these questions, having stepped on a few toes when he’s taken politically sensitive stands. In 2000, as executive director of Intermedia Arts, a multidisciplinary arts center in Minneapolis, he invited graffiti artists to spray paint murals on the building’s 320-foot-high exterior walls, sparking criticisms from police, public officials, and real estate speculators. As a result, he lost a mayoral appointment to the City Arts Commission. “The mayor was forced to withdraw my appointment,” Borrup says, “for fear of being cast as soft on graffiti taggers as an election year approached.

“As a former journalist, I disdain the myth of objectivity,” he continues. “Museums need to deal with the fact that they are taking a political stand every day with what they present and how they present it. I think they need to lose the disguise. Because I took a stand that gave equal weight to the artistic expression of all people and cultures I was considered ‘biased.’ On the other hand, institutions that clearly favor the artistic expression of the white, Euro-centric cultures are considered ‘neutral.’”

Carlos Tortolero, executive director of the Mexican Fine Arts Center Museum (MFACM) in Chicago, passionately shares Borrup’s viewpoint. His institution, one of the most successful ethnic-specific museums in the country, is unapologetic about its political activism. “Who isn’t political?” he asks. “Everybody has an agenda. We’re not as pure as white snow. Who is? Our institution is based on advocating for the community and demanding respect for our cultural heritage. That’s all there is to it. Our agenda is a noble cause because we’re fighting for cultural equity. The mainstream institutions aren’t going to do this for us.”

In addition, museums often have to fight to get their fair share of public money, says Juana Guzman, MFACM’s associate director. “You cannot disconnect yourself from the political process because then you’re not going to get your dollars,” she says. “Where it gets hairy is the deals you have to make with politicians and whether you are able to maintain the integrity of your mission.”

There are times when it is appropriate for the Washington State Historical Society in Tacoma to take a public stand on a contested issue, says Executive Director David Nicandri. Recently, the historical society, whose mission includes support for historic preservation, spoke out against the demolition of a historic mill in the downtown core of the city. “There are some issues that come to you because people are looking for your opinion as an authoritative voice,” he says. “Even on this, though, we weren’t in the forefront of opposition, leading the charge.”

Perhaps, he adds, that’s because the Washington State Historical Society is a state agency: “If this were a pure nonprofit, I could readily imagine where one could be a little bit more emboldened.”

But others argue that getting involved in political and social advocacy can be a double-edged sword, especially if the institution chooses the wrong battles or overreacts to every tempest in the community. A battle can sometimes inadvertently alienate key stakeholders and divert staff time and energy from the institution’s activities. Not everyone inside the institution may hold the same viewpoint, especially in larger museums with broader missions and politically diverse constituents.

And what if the executive director or president of the board of trustees takes a highly visible position in support of a political candidate? If the candidate succeeds, that support could yield political dividends for the institution. But if the candidate loses, what then? Still, doesn’t our democracy entitle everyone—whether he works at a museum or not—the right to speak out as an individual? For example, at the Henry Art Gallery in Seattle, staff are free to support political candidates on their own time, says Director Richard Andrews: “If I, as an individual, donated money to support a candidate and he wants to use my name, that’s fine. If he wants to use my title, he can’t.”

David Nicandri sees the “utility” of building personal relationships with political officials. A former three-term member of the Tumwater City Council, he used his knowledge of the political process to advocate successfully for state support to build a new museum back in 1996. However, he notes that he steers clear of endorsing political candidates in a partisan race. “I have never endorsed anyone for political office, and certainly the institution has never taken sides on political candidates,” he says. “I have personally written checks to candidates in non-partisan races, such as for city council. But I don’t lend my name for endorsement purposes. The institution is on unstable ground when it has to curry favor from a particular candidate.”

“I would see no problem getting personally involved with a candidate I support,” says Karl Hutterer, executive director of the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History. “I think I’m like anybody else—entitled to express a political opinion. Of course, if you have a conservative board, or conservative board members,  then you may have to answer to them if they don’t agree with your viewpoint. On the other hand, I do not think it would be appropriate for the institution to endorse a candidate.”

Hutterer says his biggest political challenge isn’t in the electoral arena, but rather in steering his Southern California-based institution safely past the shoals of an “incredible dichotomy between developers and environmentalists.” About 10 or 15 years ago, before Hutterer arrived in Santa Barbara, the museum took a strong pro-environmental stance. “Some major donors withdrew their support from the museum,” he says. “When I came to the museum, [they] sought me out and said, ‘I still hate the museum for the time when it went ‘radical.’

“I have stressed that the museum needs to be a peace-making ground, a place where people can express themselves without fear,” Hutterer continues. “The challenge is to find common middle ground between a lot of different parties, from developers and oil companies to ranchers to grape growers. We need to present a forum and provide services to the community that provide well-based environmental data and interpretive services.”

But must museums always strive for neutrality? When is it appropriate—because of the clear connection of an issue to the institution’s core values or because of the strong urging of constituents—to move beyond simply serving as a non-partisan public forum? When is it right to take a personal stand? Some museums find it awfully hard to remain aloof when key stakeholders,  impassioned supporters who have a history with the institution, are aroused and want to see action.

Juanita Moore, director of the American Jazz Museum in Kansas City, recounts an incident during her previous tenure as the head of the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis. “A woman from a prominent civil rights family called up to say that we should get involved helping remove an old Confederate monument,” she says. “I didn’t see this as part of the museum’s mission. Besides, it was a statue of a man on a horse that most people simply ignored, and we didn’t feel like we should be bringing more attention to it.”

Like Hutterer, Moore says that sometimes the most appropriate role for a museum is simply to provide a forum for the exchange of differing viewpoints on a particular topic. “The best work I ever did at the Civil Rights Museum was to bring people to debates,” she says.

Olivia Georgia, director of the Bronx Museum of the Arts, recalls the difficulty of creating an art exhibition on a hot topic at the Snug Harbor Cultural Center, where she previously worked as director of visual arts. The display focused on the Fresh Kills landfill, a huge garbage dump on New York’s Staten Island. Local residents and environmentalists were calling for its immediate closure; others, including Georgia herself, believed there were significant merits to keeping the landfill open, pointing to the enormous costs and excess pollution caused by shipping the waste to other sites farther away.

“I believed it didn’t make economic or environmental sense to close it,” Georgia says, “but we would have been slaughtered if we took sides. Many different viewpoints had to be considered. I truly believe that a museum has to be very careful. I could never say ‘You’re absolutely wrong’ to those who advocated closure; some were my friends. But a museum is uniquely equipped to ask questions and to [serve as] a forum.”

However, neighborhood-based and ethnic-specific museums often find it impossible to remain on the sidelines. Says Juanita Moore of the American Jazz Museum: “Remember that we came into existence because of community needs. All of a sudden you’re expected to get involved in economic development, special needs in education, homeless issues, things like this. We struggle with where the boundaries are. Not only does the community say, ‘I expect you to do all these things,’ they also say, ‘I expect you to handle these things with ease because you are in the community.’ Well, it would be nice to leap tall buildings with a single bound, but it would be nice to [be able to] cut the ‘S’ off your chest sometimes, too.

“The good part of that is that people feel the relevance of your institution,” she says. “People believe and assume you can solve all kinds of problems. But it doesn’t in any way lessen the challenge. Who doesn’t want to leap tall buildings in a single bound? Who wouldn’t want to be that to their community? You just hope the staff and board can step up to the plate and figure out ways you can be helpful.”

Claudine K. Brown, director of arts and culture at the Nathan Cummings Foundation, says community-based arts organizations sometimes have a hard time saying no: “When you are successful, many people make requests of you. Many will have nothing to do with your mission. People think it’s not a big stretch to add some task to what you do. “You need to look at your mission and your resources, especially your human ones. You only have so much wall space, only so much exhibition space. You need to preserve your people. It’s okay to say no.”

On a practical level, though, remaining detached from partisan politics, and making day-to-day decisions without taking a political stance is hard to do without retreating from the real events happening around us. Can museums afford to return to this kind of isolation? Is this kind of retreat even possible?

Joanne Jones-Rizzi, director, community programs and partnerships at the Boston Children’s Museum, says she came to work shortly after the Sept. 11, 2001, tragedy and found a huge American flag draped over the façade of the six-story museum building. “For some people, the flag provided a feeling of comfort,” she says. “I had a very different response. Who made the decision to put it up? It’s not like we’re a federal or government building. I didn’t know who to ask, and I didn’t feel comfortable asking. I perceived that people would take my asking as being unpatriotic. My own personal response was to put up a red, white, and blue peace sign on my door.

“When it comes to symbols, too,” Jones-Rizzi says, “I don’t particularly like the military connotation of terms . . . such as ‘front-line staff,’ or when people talk about ‘deploying staff.’ Remember, too, we’re a children’s museum. Why are we using these words?”

Here, again, politics—and a political viewpoint, intended or not—worms its way inside the museum walls through the spoken word, causing discomfort to those who wonder about the discord between personal values and the meaning of terms. But are we, as some conservative commentators have alleged, becoming overly sensitive, too politically correct? Or have we been insensitive for too long, ignoring the political viewpoints of those who don’t adhere to a mainstream voice?

Quite by coincidence, as I was preparing this article, Leonard Garfield, executive director of the Museum of History and Industry in Seattle, called me and asked whether I would be willing to join him and others in organizing a fund-raising event for a Seattle City Council incumbent running for re-election. I declined, principally because the incumbent’s opponent was a long-time friend of mine from the neighborhood. To the surprise of many, including myself, my friend won, riding to victory on the wings of a strong anti-incumbent mood.

Did Garfield have any qualms about diving directly into a partisan political contest, given his work as a director of a museum? “No American sublimates their political rights because of the job that they do,” he says. “Electoral politics permeates every element of who we are.”

On the other hand, Garfield believes that his museum shouldn’t side with one viewpoint when it addresses a particular topic in an exhibition. “We should provide the forum so that the viewer has an opportunity to enter the dialogue,” he says. “There are advocates for different points of view. We’re the curators of the advocacy. We’re not the advocates.”

Are there times when a history museum like his might responsibly shed its neutrality? “I don’t know the answer to that question,” Garfield says, candidly. “When does the museum in its role as a community institution express its political voice? If I were the head of an ethnic-specific museum, I could see that engaging in the moment would be important. But we’re almost prohibited by the nature of history to draw conclusions. We need to step back.”

In a similar vein, Richard Andrews notes that he was a conscientious objector during the Vietnam War. “But it’s not me advocating a position on behalf of the institution,” he says. “It’s me as an individual. If a curator came to me and said, ‘I want to do an exhibit that romanticizes the nature of war and it’s just a wonderful thing, I would listen to it and be as non-biased as I could be. If on balance, it seems like an exhibition that was appropriate to do, we would go ahead and do it. I am not the Henry Gallery. I am not the institution.”

Michael Hammond, executive director of the Agua Caliente Cultural Museum in Palm Springs, has a slightly different take. His institution, which portrays the history and culture of the Agua Caliente band of Cahuilla Indians, takes a stand on issues such as sovereignty. “I can’t say our museum is value neutral,” he says. “The real question is whether we do it overtly or subtly. There’s a fine line between raising consciousness and pissing people off.”

Maybe that’s the bottom line for museums. How do we use our authority—our power as educators, experts, conveners, and proponents—to enhance the level of discussion and bring about a greater level of awareness, whatever our strategies may be? In the end, it’s about making the political system respond to our voices and our concerns as individuals and community members.

According to Marjorie Schwarzer, chair of the Department of Museum Studies at John F. Kennedy University in Berkeley, Calif., nearly all early American museums were founded as agents of moral reform and in the name of creating a more civil society. Schwarzer is currently researching and writing a book on the past 100 years of the American museum. Since the 1900s, she says, many museum directors have used their pulpits to advocate for their personal and political beliefs.

However, this advocacy didn’t always look pretty. She notes that Henry Fairfield Osborn, head of the American Museum of Natural History from 1906 to 1933, was a great believer in eugenics and an admirer of the Nazis. “Under his museum title,” she says, “he professed the ‘inferiority of Jews, Negroes, and Orientals’ and hosted a meeting of international eugenicists.”

On the other hand many early museum directors took a strong stand in favor of civil rights, including Laura Bragg, director of the Charleston Museum in South Carolina in the 1910s and ’20s. Bragg “used her position to advocate for African Americans in a deeply segregated town,” Schwarzer says.

What happens if a museum fails to take a stand on a crucial community issue? Hesitancy to speak out has consequences, too. And what about staff members who are not directors? Should they be given permission to air their views to the press? What is the line between professional and personal ethics, between mission and morals? Will museums, in this new era of audience advocacy, take positions knowing they might offend some members or visitors?

There are, of course, no easy answers to any of these questions. Still, one thing is certain. Museums have never been—nor will they ever be—neutral citadels, completely drained of viewpoint and value judgments. That is as it should be. As Martin Luther King, Jr., once said, “The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands in times of challenge and controversy.”  

Ron Chew is executive director, Wing Luke Asian Museum, Seattle.