This article was published in Museum News November/December 2005.

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Remembrances by: Maureen Robinson, Lonnie Bunch, Joy Davis, Richard West, Jr., Elaine Heumann Gurian, Gail Anderson, Bonnie Pitman

Of all the people who have taught us about how and why museums matter—to ourselves, the people who work in them, to our visitors, and to society—no one did so more eloquently, more brilliantly, and with greater insight than Stephen E. Weil. The museum field lost a treasured friend and colleague when he died on Aug. 9 at the age of 77.

Born in New York in 1928, Weil graduated from Brown University in 1949 and the Columbia University School of Law in 1956. Soon his love of art and museums joined, but never surpassed, his interest in the law and he became an administrator at the Whitney Museum of American Art in 1967. Seven years later he moved to Washington, D.C., where he served as deputy director of the Smithsonian’s Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden until his retirement in 1995. For the past 10 years, he had been scholar emeritus at the Smithsonian’s Center for Education and Museum Studies. But his influence reached much further than the confines of the Mall in Washington.

Over the years Weil worked with AAM on a variety of ethical and legal issues, from deaccessioning to Nazi loot; helped create the annual Legal Problems of Museum Administration conferences; and advised the Museum Loan Network. He was always traveling to another meeting or seminar, serving as a presidential appointee on the Cultural Property Advisory Committee of the Department of State (1995-2000) and on the board of the International Committee on Management for the International Council of Museums. He taught, wrote, and thought constantly and insightfully about museums, art, and the law, noting in particular how the field had changed since World War II “from being about something to being for somebody.” His books—including A Cabinet of Curiosities, Rethinking the Museum and Other Meditations, Beauty and the Beasts: On Museums, Art, the Law, and the Market, and Making Museums Matter—urged museums to embrace their potential for making a difference in people’s lives.

“A museum may have a championship-caliber staff, a splendid building, superb collections, great management, great programs, great everything,” he wrote two years ago in Museum News. “But if it makes no difference to anybody, if it has no impact, if no good outcomes follow from what it does, then all it can be is a great, so what?: a gorgeous and resplendent wheel spinning prettily in the air.”

Author; theorist; recipient of the field's highest honor, the AAM Award for Distinguished Service to Museums; first inductee on the AAM Centennial Honor Roll—his titles and awards were impressive. But they don’t tell the whole story—that Steve Weil was a dear and trusted friend and mentor to so many in the museum world, who kept many of us laughing with his “joke of the day.” On Sept. 16, family, friends, and former students packed the auditorium at the Hirshhorn to honor the man and his memory. Museum News asked a few of his former colleagues to remember him here as well.

Maureen K. Robinson

Museum consultant and author of Nonprofit Boards that Work: The End of One-Size-Fits-All Governance

Steve Weil enjoyed a good argument. I do not just mean that he enjoyed a well-crafted position, closely reasoned and carefully stated, although he did. I mean that he enjoyed a good argument—the conviction, the energy, the ability to respond quickly and with humor and intelligence. In a culture increasingly captive to dysfunctional politeness and the neutral voice, Steve was opinionated and was delighted to find others with the same unfashionable habit. The loss of this smart, passionate, funny man makes me want to pick a fight with someone even when I know I am overmatched.

When we first met, I was a young AAM staffer and he was on the AAM board; my husband was the registrar at the Hirshhorn Museum where Steve was deputy director. He was fun to know and fun to watch. Steve taught me one of the most important lessons about being at a conference—find a spot in the traffic pattern that allows you to see everyone you want to catch up with. He judged one AAM annual meeting in particular as perfect because it had only one entrance to the meeting site. At the time, I knew too few people to make good use of this advice, but as time passed I knew that if I found Steve in the same place two days running, I had found the meeting’s sweet spot. He made catching up an art.

For 30 years Steve Weil and I intersected, crossed paths, lost touch, and reconnected in a way that very much characterizes relationships in Washington, D.C. The orbits can be long and elliptical but eventually they will transect. This is both a plus and minus. While you may never quite shake people who make you crazy, you usually can count on crossing paths with those you smile to see. This fateful aspect of Washington life breeds among its longtime denizens a certain graciousness and resigned good nature.

Early in AAM’s advocacy program, I wrote a whitepaper setting out the case for federal support of America’s museums. It talked about the role of museums as stewards of the national patrimony, as educational institutions, as generators of economic well being in communities—pretty much the whole enchilada. It was meant to be an irrefutable argument for government as a partner with the private sector in contributing to the economic security of museums. Imagine my surprise, my horror, my indignation at hearing the whitepaper lifted directly into the testimony of a presidential appointee arguing for “zeroing out” the Institute for Museum Services. As I reached the point in the story where only dogs were likely to be able to hear me, Steve had two reactions. The first was to observe that people without shame were not likely to have scruples. The second was what made Steve such a deeply satisfying person to know. He laughed. What I had was a great Washington story, a keeper, a story you could take to the bank.

As I was marshalling my thoughts for this piece—trying to gather the words that could convey how much I admired Steve and what a loss it is and will be to have him gone—I went to Amazon.com to read through the reader comments on his books. Almost every one identifies him as the leading thinker about museums and notes his wit. Steve loved museums. He never questioned their value, but he pushed himself and others to define that value, to make it real rather than rhetorical. He took the “whole enchilada” and the easy arguments for value and pushed himself and others for sturdier, more meaningful measures. He sought the moral heart of the field and made it possible for others to find it. And he brought to this task rigor, affection, and wit.

More important, and more valuable to his colleagues and to the field, he wrote out his thoughts and put them where others could read them, think about them and argue with them and him. It takes discipline to write as well and as thoughtfully as he did. And it takes courage. As the years went on, it was clear that Steve was among the few people in the field willing to undertake the hard work of writing. While I will greatly miss finding Steve and through him, a meeting’s sweet spot, I will miss much more picking up Museum News and finding his voice among the pages.

Lonnie G. Bunch

Director, National Museum of African American History & Culture

On a cool, fall night nearly 10 years ago, I was leaving the National Museum of American History to make my way home, when I recognized a slightly bent, obviously preoccupied individual who seemed to be muttering to himself. I called out to that man, Steve Weil, several times before he stopped and looked up. At first he seemed displeased that I’d interrupted his conversation with himself but then he flashed that wonderful smile that was both warm and mischievous and said, “Ahhhhh. . . . Lonnie, I was just thinking about you.”

Steve immediately launched into a serious and spirited conversation about the state of the museum profession. We talked about the lessons that American museums could learn from their international counterparts, and we discussed the joys and challenges of working at the Smithsonian. Steve was just getting warmed up as it started to rain. As the rain increased so did Steve’s passion. I remember his arms flailing for emphasis, which sprayed the rain all over my glasses. Finally, I stopped him to say that we should continue the conversation later because of the rain. Again, he seemed disappointed and a bit concerned that I would let a mere downpour stand in the way of intellectual discourse. But then he smiled and said, “Okay, we can always cause more trouble later.”

As I watched Steve walk away, I thought of the line that was attributed to Abraham Lincoln as he first met Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin: “So this is the little lady who caused the Civil War.” So this is the little man whose passionate pursuit of excellence, whose intellectual curiosity, whose verbal nimbleness and eloquence, and whose willingness to speak what others only thought, changed the museum profession.

I will forever miss the opportunity to spend time with Steve so that we can “cause more trouble later.” We have been made better by Steve’s ability to articulate the possibilities as well as the problems that museums’ face. We have been made better by Steve’s ability to make us think by making us laugh. And we have been made better by a man who was courageous enough to care, to give, to challenge, and to love.

Joy Davis

Director, Cultural Resource Management Program, University of Victoria

When I first met Steve in the mid-1990s I was already very familiar with his writing—astute, eloquent, and accessible, his articles, books, and case studies serve as important touchstones for people who shared his passion for museums, not just in the classroom but across the field. Martian perspectives, toothpick museums, cloning, and Rip Van Winkle create witty and whimsical entry points to thoughtful, innovative, at times highly critical reflections that will continue to shape our understanding of the complex challenges that museum workers encounter in their efforts to make a positive difference in peoples’ lives.

Beyond being an insightful thinker with a gift for writing, Steve was a caring and talented teacher who inspired both intense thought and new perspectives among participants in his courses and workshops. He pushed us to think through the roles of museums to their logical conclusions, to frame our teaching in accessible and relevant ways, and to consider topics that shifted the edges of the discipline and raised uncomfortable issues. We still find ourselves asking “what would Steve think?” as we come across situations that demand careful thought or make us laugh.

I remember a session at Dunsmuir Lodge a year ago in which he presented a case study that could be reasonably argued from a range of perspectives. He sat like a Cheshire cat listening as participants struggled with ways to clarify and articulate their positions, conscious that they were speaking in the presence of a profound and decisive thinker who would “know” the appropriate approach. When we finally challenged him to take a stance, he smiled and commented that he was comfortable in being perplexed. For him, much of the pleasure and challenge of complex issues was in the delineation of conflicting strands of interests and values, in the exploration of the implications of varied approaches, and in the recognition that there are few easy answers. And for us, his irreverent and witty way of expressing difficult concepts was a welcome reminder that disciplined thinking needn't be couched in somber language.

“Transformative,” “inspiring,” “enriching,” “exhilarating,” and “provocative” appear throughout evaluations of his sessions as workshop participants reflect on how his wealth of experience served as a catalyst for deeper understanding of current and potential roles for museums. And the tributes “charming,” “what a sweetheart,” and “Steve is a gem” also speak to the ways in which his sense of fun, his true interest in the people of the museum world, his integrity, and his kind nature contributed to the enduring affection that we all have for this remarkable man. We will miss him and, like many people across the museum world, we will continue to look to his writings and to our memories of his friendship and his clear and articulate vision as inspiration in our ongoing efforts to “make museums matter.”

W. Richard West, Jr.

Founding Director, National Museum of the American Indian

Steve Weil was one of the very first people I met at the Smithsonian Institution after arriving in the summer of 1990 as a thoroughly novitiate director of the National Museum of the American Indian. We were introduced at my first meeting of Smithsonian museum directors and office heads—a gathering I found particularly intimidating at the time. Steve stands out on my museum landscape for that reason alone, I suppose, because I knew him at the very beginning.

Even then I knew that this man was special for all kinds of reasons that I was only beginning to appreciate. Several of his gifts were apparent on first impression, even to relative strangers, as I was to him at the time. In a room full of bright people that day, he nonetheless was the brightest light there. His smile was at the ready, and his eyes had a persistent twinkle as he playfully and in good humor sparred from time to time with his colleagues around the table. We were even treated to his “joke of the day,” which I distinctly recall as being truly funny and witty. He held strong views, yes, but always seemed thoughtful, receptive to the viewpoints of others, and never pedantic.

For me nothing ever changed with respect to Steve in the decade and a half between that day of my directorial incipiency and now, as I reflect today in sorrow on the passing of one whose light was still so bright. Over the years I have become, by direct contact and experience, thoroughly familiar with his ground-breaking museum thinking and scholarship—Making Museums Matter, A Cabinet of Curiosities, and Beauty and the Beasts to name only a few of the headliners. I know of no one who has had a more systematic and comprehensive impact on my own intellectual development in this field than he, as I worked to evolve from novitiate status to something more at an institution of rather different museological step.

In the end, my memories of Steve are marked even more by an intangible of our encounters and friendship than by the admittedly substantial tangibles of his vast contributions to our museum community. I sensed the quality so strongly at that very first meeting of the Smithsonian museum directors a decade and a half ago, and I remember it with such poignancy now. I struggle sometimes to find the word that conveys my sentiment precisely, but I believe the one that comes closest is “grace.” Steve had a personal and intellectual grace that I treasured. Notwithstanding his legendary mental firepower, he was open, indeed, generous at all times in discussing with me even matters about which he already had very strong views.

I will miss this friend and colleague for the immense substance that he brought to the work we all love so much. But I will miss even more—yes, a lot more—the great generosity of personality and spirit that was wrapped around all of it.

Elaine Heumann Gurian

Museum consultant and author of the forthcoming Civilizing the Museum

Let me share with you an indelible memory of Steve Weil that finally makes sense to me. Some years ago, I was elected to the AAM Council by petition of the Educators Committee. I was then an inexperienced hothead in my mid-30s. Every time I arrived at the biannual AAM council meetings, I sat on the left-side of the horseshoe in the company of Michael Spock, Michael Botwinik, Malcolm Arth, Bonnie Pitman, and Steve. Some of us were making noise and causing trouble.

Steve’s self-imposed role was to craft motions at every impasse that might have a chance of passage while moving our position forward. At the time, I knew nothing about procedure and was not a friend of compromise. So I was amazed as he wrote, crossed out, and rewrote what would turn out to be the elegant and perfect motion sure to pass. I watched him do it again and again, marveling at his ability to find a solution that was acceptable to all without compromising the essential issue at hand.

Once at the end of a two-day meeting of the council, when everyone was ready for a drink, Michael Spock offered a totally unexpected motion: AAM should take a position against nuclear proliferation because museums were the keepers of the world’s treasures. The groan around the table was audible as folks began to think about what this might mean for the profession, their disbelieving board members, and the awaiting drinks. Two hours later, with the room deadlocked, Steve crafted another of his Solomon-like motions, tabling this important idea for a year and instructing everyone to go back to their boards and discuss the issue of museums and nuclear proliferation. The vote was tied. After reflecting for a silent moment, then AAM President Tom Leavitt cast the deciding vote for the motion, and the council meeting was adjourned.

The motion was to be brought before all the annual-meeting delegates at the general session the next day. Steve and I spent that evening explaining to other delegates why compromise was important and gathering as many votes as possible, while the opposition did the same. As far as I knew Steve was not out of my sight until we parted late in the evening. The next day at the general session we sat together watching the pre-choreographed agenda unfold. I was on tenterhooks.

Then as the issue was raised, unexpectedly to the microphone came two of the most persuasive moral voices in the history of the profession, Malcolm Arth and John Kinard. They said (in paraphrase): If you don’t know what you think about nuclear bombs today no amount of discussion will help. They asked all present to vote against the motion to table the issue for a year. I was shocked; I thought the general museum body would fail to see nonproliferation as a matter relevant to museums and our hard-won procedural compromise would be for nothing. Steve sat silently next to me.

The vote came, and what do you know? The assemblage voted overwhelmingly that AAM should take an outspoken position against nuclear armament. I turned to Steve and said, “Did you know this would happen?” And his smile that so recalled the Cheshire cat sprang forth.

Steve had had all tracks working at the same time. He was an elegant compromiser, a hugely sophisticated politician, a kind and gracious man and, now I understand more clearly, a radical.

What are we going to do without him? We will have to take better care of each other in his name. We will have to pick out the promising youth and introduce them to others. We will have to take on teaching gigs. We will all have to write more. We will have to learn to move the profession ahead by keeping our radical souls pure and by making our compromises elegant. Are we ready? I hope so, because we cannot start our relationship with Steve over again, much as we might wish.

Gail Anderson

Museum consultant and editor of Reinventing the Museum: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives on the Paradigm Shift

Steve was a legend, our very own celebrity, philosopher, and ever vigilant conscience for the museum community. He spoke and wrote with unparalleled eloquence, often stating what others hesitated to say aloud. Whether he was responding to an issue under discussion or one not yet uncovered, Steve told it the way he saw it. He changed our awareness and tightened our focus, always with a thought-provoking comment or nudge that could shift the thinking of the entire field.

No one else in the museum community gave more public presentations and wrote more articles than Steve did. It is staggering to comprehend just how prolific he was, how consistently insightful and clear in every word, thought, and recommendation. He seemed to have an unspoken mission to ensure that the museum community avoided complacency and did truly meaningful work. How fortunate that we had someone of his stature, demeanor, and intelligence to help us question unexamined habits and long-held assumptions. His imprint was evident at international, national, regional, and state conferences, graduate seminars, and among his flock of loyal protégés.

Steve always brought a smile to our faces. I loved seeing him at conferences—his familiar smile, signature bow tie, and the glint in his eye—always ready to engage in yet another thoughtful discussion. He loved passing along thought-provoking nuggets like “remember life is not a dress rehearsal—this is it!” or sharing his latest joke (he was always armed with more than one). In his office at the Hirshhorn was the evidence of his great mind—a wall covered with cartoons from The New Yorker, witty jokes, and other memorabilia, and stacks of books that he obviously had read and studied. Miraculously, he wrote most of his articles by hand and rarely made corrections or edits. How could that be? Well, because it was Steve.

But Steve is no longer here to nudge us to take action, or make us smile, or put his arm around us in comfort. It is up to us to meet the unspoken challenge he has left behind—to continue to support each other, question the familiar, and open our eyes to the new. He has left us a wonderful legacy—the essays and books that will be read and reread for years to come and the example he set as a sensitive, caring, and humble human being who urged us to adopt broader, more meaningful perspectives about museums and about life itself. Elaine Heumann Gurian asks, “What are we going to do without him?” I am not quite sure, but I do know we owe it to Steve and to ourselves to carry forward the compassion for museums and life that he held so dear.

Bonnie Pitman

Deputy Director, Dallas Museum of Art

When I first saw Steve Weil at the 1970 AAM annual meeting in New York, he was wearing his signature bow tie and jacket and was in constant motion, gesturing as he spoke. A few years later, at another AAM meeting, he introduced himself to me. I was young, and only an educator, but Steve always sought out and welcomed new people into his life, and we soon we began working together.

Over decades of collaboration, Steve always challenged my assumptions and demanded results. Our first joint enterprise was the drafting of a new constitution and bylaws for AAM that would recognize and involve the newly formed Standing Professional Committees. Along with a cadre of distinguished professionals, I made the case that AAM should officially recognize the ideas and voices of all museum employees—educators, registrars, and curators, included. In turn, Steve skillfully crafted the language that brought that motion to fruition and gave us the right to nominate individuals to the AAM Council. This change in the bylaws afforded us the opportunity to elect to the council a number of leading museum educators—including Elaine Gurian, Patty Williams, and Dan Monroe—who would over the years help develop the association’s programs.

Over the course of his career, Steve changed from a spokesperson for an object-centered understanding of museums to an advocate for audience engagement. It was not an easy transition. As a lover of art, he always relished those quiet moments in front of a Rothko, when the Hirshhorn was empty and he could be alone with the art.

Steve’s evolving values were memorably tested when the Museums for a New Century report was produced in 1984. As we sat on panels, discussing the notion that the museum’s responsibility to the public was second only to its responsibility for its collections, Steve and I often disagreed. The role of the museum was changing, as was the public’s perception of our institutions. Throughout, Steve and I listened to one another and eventually came to a mutual understanding. Steve’s ability to evaluate and embrace new ideas was one of his many intellectual gifts.

During the three years and 42 drafts needed to create the policy document Excellence and Equity (1992), I regularly consulted Steve for advice. He was one of a few dear friends who encouraged me to keep moving the agenda forward, though at times a consensus seemed almost impossible to achieve.

He was one of the field’s great champions and innovators. A prolific and eloquent speaker and writer, he chronicled the key issues of the times, assembling a corpus that will remain essential for generations to come. He was a mentor and dear friend to many of us. Through his boundless generosity, unfailing humanity, and sparkling wit, Steve enriched countless lives.