Black Bart / White Apartment

Yesterday I had the following at the top of my to-do list:

-Remove shirt from cowboy

Yep, my life is pretty sexy.

One of the interactive exhibits in the new museum will be "Black Bart," an arcade game from the the 1962 Seattle World's Fair. Basically it is a life-size cowboy, dressed all in black, whom you challenge to a game of quick-draw. His pants are molded plaster or fiberglass (whatever the rest of his body is) but he wears a real shirt. The shirt is original to the fair but is torn and dirty. Since his gun arm is going to be constantly swinging back and forth at the new museum, the shirt is only going to wear out more. So for weeks, one of the things on my to-do list was to strip Black Bart of his original shirt and measure him for a prop one.

He had recently returned from the conservator in a crate, and so I needed to get the help of all the packers (not Green Bay, but the people packing objects for the museum move) to open the crate, stand him up, and maneuver him while I wrestled with his shirt. It was comically difficult. Once the job was done I had to cover him up with a sheet of packaging material because he looked so creepy and exposed. The conservator had worked on his face and had wrapped his head in white cloth to protect it. So basically we had a full-sized human, lying in a coffin-like crate, with tight black pants, pale exposed chest, and a bag over his head. He looked like some victim of a BDSM game gone terribly wrong.

In news unrelated to shirtless men, I got an apartment! Last week my friend Olivia and I got the keys to a great place on Capitol Hill. With the Holiday busyness neither of us has moved a scrap of furniture yet, but it will happen sometime this next week or in early January. It was all repainted and re-carpeted before we got it, so it feels like an exciting blank canvass.

It also has mirrors everywhere, so I am likely to become even more obsessed with getting dressed each morning.

We also have plans to turn our living room mirror into a giant, ridiculous version of a high-school girl's mirror, complete with images of boys we have crushes on and cutesy notes from friends. If you have anything to contribute please do. Images of actor Adam Scott or presidents from the 19th century will be particularly welcome for the gallery of crushes.

Vacuum vs. Choirgirl

I distinctly remember the moment in grad school when I became absolutely sure I didn't want to be a conservator. It was when I was vacuuming a textile in my conservation class and it took FOREVER because museum vacuuming has to be done with a small nozzle, one spot at a time. No dragging. You have to pick the nozzle up and put it down on each inch of the fabric. I thought I would go insane.

Little did I realize that even if I avoided becoming a conservator, I would still have to vacuum things. It is one of the best ways to clean fabric without wet cleaning (which introduces a whole lot of risks), so I've been doing a lot of vacuuming. Most of the projects have been small, but last Friday I had a big one.

We have this large, gorgeous kimono that is going on exhibit at the new museum. I found a bug carcass on it (luckily, no sign of active infestation) and so it was decided that the best thing to do was to give it a thorough vacuuming. Somehow I imagined it wouldn't be bad.

My iPod has been having trouble holding a charge, so I left it at home and figured I could use my computer to play pandora or something. It didn't take long to figure out that crappy internet speakers + sound of vacuum = no audible music. So I vacuumed in silence. I got through about one twelfth of the exterior and already felt like my brain was about to bleed. I started alternating between tiny sections of the kimono and long breaks in my office.

At lunch we had a special staff & volunteer holiday potluck. While we ate there was a slideshow of MOHAI people at events and at work. I was in one picture, and I was vacuuming something. It was like I could hear fate cackling, "Clara Berg! Welcome to your life!"

After lunch I returned to the conservation lab and tried to think of a way to keep my brain from going completely numb. I had only finished a small fraction of the project and had a lot to go. So I did the most reasonable thing I could think of: I started singing Christmas music to myself. It wasn't the kind of music you hear at the mall, but solid, old-timey carols that I learned in various choirs. Personet Hodie, The Wexford Carol, In Dulci Jubilo, Jesus Christ the Apple Tree, and the like. Music for Christmas nerds. I hoped that the vacuum would mostly drown me out but I noticed people giving me strange looks as they walked past. So I started waving and shouting "Yep! I'm singing to myself! How is it going with you?!" My defense against insanity looked a lot like the condition itself.

The amazing thing was that it totally worked. I stayed focused and happy, and the work seemed to just fly by. By the end of the day I was almost finished.

On Monday I completed the project, but decided to do everyone a favor and brought in my iPod and its charger. I resisted the temptation to sing along.

My own office!

One of the perks of my new job is that I get an office to myself. The staff at MOHAI has expanded over the years and there are a lot of people crammed into places intended for just one or two. In fact, I think that other than me the only people who have their own offices are the director, the deputy director, the head of advancement, and the head librarian (and her walls are glass so it barely counts). Anyone else at my level in another department can only dream of space to themselves.

Clearly though, part of the reason I have my own office is that no one else is eager to steal the space. It is a little cinder-block corner with poor lighting and a shared wall with the freight elevator. There are a bunch of pipes running along the ceiling and once my predecessor got rained on when one of them burst.

As fate would have it, I was exiled from this private paradise for the first two months on the job. On my first day my boss tried to get me set up on the computer in there and when she went to check the internet connection, the cable thingy just fell apart in her hand. What followed was a tech support comedy of errors and I basically just ended up working on a different computer in a different area. It happened to be the same desk and computer that I had worked at two years ago, so it felt like I had just returned to my old life. I actually didn’t mind it too much, but the two heads of my department lobbied hard to get me back in my office. It was very kind of them, but I sometimes wonder if my innate chattyness was making them weary of sharing a space with me.

Whatever the motive, I did finally get a new computer, and last Wednesday I moved into the office. Grim as that space is, I am pretty excited to have it. I’ve brought in my books and notebooks from grad school, and done my best to arrange the army of lamps that my predecessor left behind. The internet still doesn’t really work in there, but at least I can start putting up my pictures of John Doyle Bishop.