THE PUNISHING SCHEDULE of exhibitions undertaken by museums and institutions form a remorseless cycle for their curators and organisers. Over thirty years ago an Editorial on this page complained in aghast tones of the blatant publicity, the physical discomfort of crowded galleries and the over-generous helpings of art on offer in what have since become known as blockbusters.1 But what innocent, pre-culture industry days those were when sponsorship was relatively new, catalogues were smaller than doorsteps and such words as ‘Golden Age’,‘treasures’ and ‘masterpieces’ seemed almost freshly minted. We are in an age in which every museum yearns for a blockbuster, planned or not, partly to satisfy the business transaction needs of its sponsor. Of course such shows have their benefits, particularly those that draw on cultures that are unfamiliar to many visitors. There is the hope that people visiting them will filter through to the permanent collection (if there is one); there are all the marketing opportunities; there are tie-ups with tourism and the local economy and there is immense press publicity for museum and sponsor alike. Account must be taken, too, of the political dimension – of furthering alliances and feathering the nest of international trade. Nor should we forget the occasional scholarly benefits through seeing the works themselves, symposia and meetings between curators. But there are, too, great disadvantages. When curators are forced to fill an exhibition programme, driven on by finance, education and press departments – as well as by curatorial vanity – shows can appear hastily assembled, unnecessary or ill-timed. Luckily the public is perhaps less docile than it used to be and audiences are not simply passive receptors of what is put in front of them. They have an instinct for excellence and a nose for the unique object. Timing is also an important ingredient of the success of shows, whether great or small. For example, the Courbet retrospective recently in Paris and now in New York (reviewed in this issue on pp.358–60) has proved unexpectedly successful, perhaps through its emphasis on the artist as celebrity, the conscious maker of his own legend, something that chimes with the less attractive aspirations of some artists today. At the same time, Courbet is a scholarly show; this could not be said of From Russia, with its flamboyant clutch of masterpieces, recently at the Royal Academy. Scholarship does not make money. But the reasons for success or comparative failure are not always easy to fathom. Death and funerary arrangements are always a draw (hence the huge attendances last year in North America for Tutankhamun and the Golden Age of the Pharaohs and the British Museum’s First Emperor. China’s Terracotta Army). At a different level, why was Constable at the Tate Gallery in 1991 so ill-attended and the much smaller Pieter de Hooch exhibition in 1998 at Dulwich Picture Gallery such a surprising hit? Will there be a surge of visitors towards the end of the beautiful (but underpublicised) Batoni exhibition at the National Gallery, to improve its so far lacklustre attendance?
A surprising number of spectacular shows are still mounted in the face of increasing expense and difficulties. These latter include owners’ unwillingness to lend for lengthy periods, ever-vigilant conservators, looming restitution claims and the continuing threat of terrorism. But there is one sure-fire way of ending such shows – if needs be – and that is a resounding curatorial ‘No more!’. Nicholas Penny, newly installed at the National Gallery, has recently expressed a distaste for the blockbuster, favouring smaller, more focused shows and the revitalising of the public’s appetite for the permanent collection. A large amount of curatorial time can be wasted on the big spectacle which might well be spent more profitably elsewhere. The more undemanding in content and over-hyped such shows become, one has to ask what impact they will have in the long run, beyond immediate gratification. Eyes and minds may be opened but it is difficult to assess for how many and to what end. If, for example, the much-debated, poor state of public sculpture is a measure, then all the exhibitions and installations, from the Aztecs to Eliasson, have, in this sense, failed. On the other hand, the placing of contemporary art at the centre of many galleries’ programmes in the last thirty years or so has certainly led to a greater public acceptance and appreciation of the new. Thus, the mistakes of the past – the failure to purchase or to accept gifts of works now considered outstandingly desirable in a modern collection – are unlikely to be repeated and are costly to rectify. There, perhaps, is the subject for an unusually mortifying and spectacular blockbuster: Not for the Nation: a Golden Treasury of Missing Masterpieces.
An obvious disjunction used to exist between the big exhibition and the institution’s permanent collection. What a relief it was, and occasionally still can be, to visit the comparative calm of the galleries after having done one’s duty by the big show. But surprises now await the unwary. Elements of the temporary spectacle can now spill into the rest of the building – playstations, films, music, a litter of text, lights didactically projected onto objects in rooms constantly rehung. In a letter published in this issue (p.330), Mark O’Neill defends Glasgow’s Kelvingrove against our recent criticisms of its re-hang. He believes that what has been done there is all in the cause of inducing the largest number of people to experience works of art. This should be an aim of any museum. Where we disagree is in the inappropriate and, it seems to us, possibly risky display of paintings and in the, paradoxically, exclusive nature of the re-hang’s concept. Art should be accessible for everyone to visit and see but not used to salve the consciences of those who feel that it was for too long the province of an élite. Supposedly accessible labelling and simplistic narratives often prevent viewers from realising a work’s complexity, subtlety and importance, thus interfering with its full impact. The predominance of blockbuster shows has led to visitors’ unwarranted expectations of how a permanent collection might be displayed and the very purpose of a museum. The rift must be healed and this may well mean the blockbuster’s demise.

An obvious disjunction used to exist between the big exhibition and the institution’s permanent collection. What a relief it was, and occasionally still can be, to visit the comparative calm of the galleries after having done one’s duty by the big show. But surprises now await the unwary. Elements of the temporary spectacle can now spill into the rest of the building – playstations, films, music, a litter of text, lights didactically projected onto objects in rooms constantly rehung. In a letter published in this issue (p.330), Mark O’Neill defends Glasgow’s Kelvingrove against our recent criticisms of its re-hang. He believes that what has been done there is all in the cause of inducing the largest number of people to experience works of art. This should be an aim of any museum. Where we disagree is in the inappropriate and, it seems to us, possibly risky display of paintings and in the, paradoxically, exclusive nature of the re-hang’s concept. Art should be accessible for everyone to visit and see but not used to salve the consciences of those who feel that it was for too long the province of an élite. Supposedly accessible labelling and simplistic narratives often prevent viewers from realising a work’s complexity, subtlety and importance, thus interfering with its full impact. The predominance of blockbuster shows has led to visitors’ unwarranted expectations of how a permanent collection might be displayed and the very purpose of a museum. The rift must be healed and this may well mean the blockbuster’s demise.