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‘Westerners know more than us’: Conflict and negotiation in museum display of Tibetan art

Shelley Mannion, University of Lugano, Switzerland

http://www.unisi.ch

Abstract

The increasing cultural diversity of European societies is forcing ethnographic museums to

reconsider how they construct the identities of the peoples represented in their collections.

This study explores the relationship between Western representations of Tibetan culture and

second-generation Tibetans in Switzerland, which has the world’s third largest Tibetan exile

community. On one hand, we examine the visual and spatial languages used to depict Tibetan

history in an exhibition about the 14 Dalai Lamas. This reveals how Tibetans see themselves

as outsiders with respect to their own cultural symbols. On the other hand, we look at

narratives that Tibetan and Western visitors construct to resist the “dominant code” (Hall

1980). Visitors’ strategies demonstrate the importance of personal identity in determining

reception, the delicate role of museums as sites of cultural transmission for native

communities, and the powerful influence of interpretive media in the encoding of knowledge.

Conflict and negotiation take place in the context of Westerners’ growing interest in

Buddhism, and a deep ideological clash between Western materialism and Buddhist non-

materialism. This discussion has implications for many European countries where the world

views of ethnic minorities collide with Western values.

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Introduction

For many Tibetans, life in exile has become a permanent condition. Of the 60,000-100,0001

refugees who fled Chinese occupation in the 1950s, few have returned home. Instead, they

have started new lives in their adopted homelands which include India, the United States, and

Switzerland. Thousands more Tibetans have come to the West in recent years seeking

political asylum, employment, family, education, or a better quality of life. Although the

Tibetan diaspora is still relatively small compared to other ethnic groups, it is growing

steadily. Currently, there are an estimated 140,000 Tibetans living in exile. The Tibetan

population in Switzerland, which numbers over 3000, has doubled since the Tibetan

government-in-exile conducted its first demographic survey in 1998 (Pescia 2004). Continued

Chinese political rule prevents Tibetan refugees from returning home. In the meantime, as the

second generation of children raised in exile approaches adulthood, Tibetan communities in

Europe face the challenges of maintaining their cultural traditions and transmitting them to

the next generation.

The past decade has seen a dramatic increase in the number of Europeans studying and

practicing Buddhism. Precise statistics are difficult to obtain, but the European Buddhist

Union (2007) estimates there are between 1 and 4 million Buddhists in Europe. France has the

largest number of Buddhists of any European nation with estimates ranging from 350,000 in

2000 to 760,000 in 2007. In August 2006, the largest Tibetan Buddhist temple in Western

Europe (http://www.lerabling.org) opened its doors near the southern French city of

Montpellier. In Switzerland, 21,000 people identified themselves as Buddhists in the 2000

census (Bovay 2004), although this number has likely grown in recent years. The Swiss

Buddhist Union lists nearly 100 Buddhist groups, most of them located in the major cities of

Zurich, Geneva, and Bern. One half of these follow the Tibetan Buddhist tradition.

Since the 1960s, Western interests have gradually shifted away from Theravada and Zen

Buddhism toward the Tibetan Vajrayana tradition. Tens of thousands of Westerners now

practice this form, among them scholar Robert Thurman and celebrity actor Richard Gere. A

prominent American university professor notes the significant rise in college students enrolled

in Tibetan Buddhist courses. He observes that it has “displaced Zen as the referent of the term

‘Buddhism’ in the [Western] popular imagination” (Lopez cited in Brereton 2000). These

developments can be attributed to the activities of numerous Tibetan Buddhist masters who

1 Estimates of the number of refugees who left during the first major wave vary. For sources see Sander (1984: 137, 147).

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have established meditation centers in Europe and North America. The most obvious example

is the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. Awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1989 for his efforts to

peacefully resolve the conflict with China, the Dalai Lama has become a widely recognized

and respected public figure.

The spread of the Tibetan diaspora and the increasing number of Western Buddhists presents

a challenge to museums which collect Tibetan art. The systematic destruction of Tibetan

material culture by the Chinese has left Tibetans with few resources for use in cultural

transmission. Western museums, having acquired some of the surviving cultural treasures,

now find themselves in a unique position. Tibetans see Western institutions as potential

partners in their efforts to preserve and pass on cultural knowledge. The following comment

by Samdhong Rinpoche, prime minister elect of the Tibetan government-in-exile, strikingly

illustrates these expectations:

Sometimes I joke with the younger generation of Tibetans when they express their concern about the survival of the Tibetan lineage and spiritual tradition, I tell them: “Don’t worry, Western people will take care of it, and you can go and learn from them, because whatever is important from the West will be received by Eastern people with pride and a sense of gratitude.” This is a joke and at the same time it is a fact (Samdhong Rinpoche 2006).

Such sentiments are expressed even by those still living in Tibet. Leigh Miller Sangster

(2007) relates that Tibetan artists in Lhasa hope to make pilgrimages to museums with

collections of sacred art. The ability of Western institutions to successfully fulfill these

expectations depends on the willingness of museum workers to enter into a new kind of

relationship with the Tibetan community—one which goes beyond the traditional tasks of

archiving and Western didactic display.

James Clifford (1997) explores this relationship in “Museums as Contact Zones.” A contact

zone is a meeting space of groups previously separated by geographical and historical

barriers. The term was invented by Mary Louise Pratt who applies it to colonial encounters

where relations are established under “conditions of coercion, radical inequality, and

intractable conflict” (cited in Clifford 1997: 192). “Contact” in this case is meant to

emphasize the full complexity of the interactions that occur in these spaces, which, despite

taking place within “radically asymmetrical relations of power,” possess dynamic qualities of

exchange and improvisation that can benefit both parties involved. To exemplify his use of

the term, Clifford describes an encounter between a group of Tlingit elders and museum

professionals at the Portland Art Museum. The meetings began as a simple consultation, but

gradually evolved into a complex “contact” in which fundamental conflicts about the

perception of the museum’s collection were exposed. While curators viewed the objects as art

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in a Western sense, Tlingit elders saw them as “records, history, and law inseparable from

myths and stories” (Clifford 1997: 191). These and many other conflicts arise in the display

of Tibetan art in Western museums.

The 14 Dalai Lamas in Zurich

From August 2005 to April 2006, the Ethnographic Museum of the University of Zurich

mounted a temporary exhibition about the institution of the Dalai Lamas. “Dalai Lama” is the

official title given to the spiritual and temporal leader of the Tibetan people who is considered

to be an emanation of the deity of compassion Avalokitesvara. The “14 Dalai Lamas”

exhibition included sacred objects and artworks spanning several centuries of Tibetan history

in the context of an historical-political narrative. It examined each of the Dalai Lamas in

chronological order, concluding with a large gallery dedicated to the current Fourteenth Dalai

Lama. Sculptures, thangka paintings, painted scrolls, and manuscripts were shown, as well as

the Dalai Lama’s Nobel Peace Prize medal. The current Dalai Lama was consulted prior to

the organization of the exhibition, approved the idea, and inaugurated it in August, 2005.

In April 2006, the exhibition was the focus of an ethnographic visitor study which examined

some of conflicts that occur in the museum display of Tibetan art. Tota’s User/Visitor model

(1999) guided the study, which analyzed both the museum’s perspective and visitor reception.

The museum’s perspective was assessed through interviews with the curator who conceived,

planned, and executed the exhibition. Visitor reception was examined through interviews and

observation. A total of thirty-six (36) visitors were asked to relate their experience of the

exhibition and its messages. Interviews of 15-30 minutes were conducted individually, or in

pairs if the visitor was accompanied by a companion. These conversations were recorded and

transcribed following standard ethnographic practice described by Silverman (2005).

Comments from two Tibetans interviewees led to follow-up research which combined social

tagging (see Trant 2006) with ethnographic fieldwork and a quantitative survey.

Visitors from the museum perspective

The curator’s main aim in creating the exhibition was to advance scholarship about Tibetan

political history. As with previous exhibitions he has designed, he wanted to examine an area

neglected by the academic community. He says: “Whenever I make an exhibition, I like to

make one on a subject which was not published a lot about already.” This scholarly focus

posits a museum visitor very similar to the curator himself. The ideal visitor shares the

curator’s interests and intellectual orientation and values the prospect of expanding

scholarship into new areas. He or she also possesses the necessary background knowledge to

recognize and appreciate how the exhibition contributes to ongoing academic discourse. The

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curator hopes that visitors to the exhibition would “learn the same things” he learned in

preparing it. Implicit in this desire was also the assumption that visitors started from the same

point of departure. It should be obvious that this conception of visitors also does not

acknowledge the needs and priorities of Tibetans.

Visual and spatial languages

Having identified the lack of comprehensive scholarship about the Dalai Lamas, the museum

set out to construct an exhibition to fill this gap. It had three main didactic aims: 1) to impart

an understanding of the origins of the system of the Dalai Lamas; 2) to convey knowledge of

the unique characteristics of the different Dalai Lamas; 3) to promote a less stereotyped view

of the institution by pointing out some of its problematic aspects (e.g., its role in civil wars,

regional power struggles, etc.). In addition to these three aspects, visitors should also become

acquainted with the charisma of the Dalai Lamas and absorb something of the “atmosphere of

the institution.”

Figure 1: Visitor at the 14 Dalai Lamas exhibition

These goals were translated into “visual and spatial languages” (Tota 2004: 205; see also

Fabian 2002: 105-141). In procuring artworks, care was taken to obtain at least one

representation of each of the fourteen Dalai Lamas. These were arranged chronologically

beginning with the origins of the lineage in the compassion deity of Avalokitesvara. A gallery

dedicated to the Fourteenth Dalai Lama concluded the exhibition. This chronological

organization stressed continuity. An extensive historical narrative describing the activities of

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each Dalai Lama was created for the audio guide. Its commentary described figures and

events in critical terms, emphasizing political rather than spiritual aspects.2 A printed

catalogue with basic details of the artworks was also prepared. The largest gallery spaces

were allotted to three charismatic and politically important figures: the Fifth, Thirteenth and

Fourteenth Dalai Lamas. “Atmosphere” was invoked visually through the highly symmetric

arrangement of artworks, which reflected institutional hierarchy; and through the monastery-

yellow color of the walls.3 The monastery analogy was taken further by the absence of wall

texts—artworks were numbered only—and low lighting, which inspired a hushed and

reverential atmosphere.

Visitor reception: Itineraries of identity

In describing visitors’ responses to the exhibition, I would like to rework Sharon

MacDonald’s term “cultural itineraries.” In her study of visitors at London’s Science Museum

(1995), she uses “itineraries” as a list of cultural activities from which people choose. These

itineraries demonstrated how visiting “slot[s] into wider sociocultural patterns.” Visitors to

the 14 Dalai Lamas exhibition also followed itineraries—not of cultural activities in

MacDonald’s sense, but of identity. These itineraries functioned in three important ways: 1)

they guided visitors’ behavior within the exhibition; 2) they influenced how interpretive

messages were received; and 3) they demonstrated how the visit “slotted into” broader

patterns of identity construction that took place outside the museum. Simply expressed, these

itineraries determined the stories visitors told about the exhibition and what stories the

exhibition told about them. MacDonald, too, recognizes this second aspect:

Itineraries are not just a means whereby visitors articulate their visit to the museum, however, They are also a means by which the visit to the museum articulates them—in other words, by which the visit expresses and projects something about their own identities (1995: 19).

There were five “itineraries of identity” at the 14 Dalai Lamas exhibition: general interest,

emotionally connected, Buddhist, intellectual, and Tibetan. Each attempted to interpret the

exhibition and its messages according to its own set of unarticulated rules. Stuart Hall’s

approach to viewer reception in television (1980) is helpful in understanding these attempts.

He describes the communicative process in television news as one in which messages are

encoded by broadcasters (or the museum in this case) and decoded by viewers. The most

basic level of decoding is simple understanding, which implies that the viewer/visitor has

essentially grasped what the museum is saying. A surprising number of visitors to the 14

2 The guide described the Fifth Dalai Lama, who was a respected spiritual practitioner in addition to being a powerful statesman, as a “master at manipulating public opinion.” 3 Yellow and red are the two most common wall colors in Tibetan monasteries and temples.

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Dalai Lamas exhibition did not clear this initial hurdle. Once a message has been understood

(or “consumed” in Hall’s terms), a negotiation ensues in which the viewer/visitor decides if

he or she agrees with its contents. Hall proposes three possible outcomes of this negotiation:

dominant-hegemonic reading involves full agreement with the encoded message; negotiated

reading partial and often contradictory agreement; and oppositional reading active

disagreement.

Table 1 applies Hall’s triad of potential readings to the five visitor itineraries. It also indicates

groups which practiced “non-consumption,” demonstrating the degree to which messages

were simply ignored by visitors. There were two reasons for this lack of consumption: the

highly personal nature of visitor itineraries, which took priority over everything else; and the

“closed” presentation style of the museum’s interpretive materials, which discouraged

engagement and interaction. The first point can be clearly seen in the responses of Buddhists,

who found the museum’s narrative of little relevance to their spiritually-oriented agenda. The

table lists the main areas of conflict which provoked negotiated readings. Some groups, such

as the emotionally connected and Tibetan visitors, encountered considerable opposition to

their itineraries whereas others, such as the intellectual experts, found little to hinder them.

Table 1: Five visitor itineraries

Itinerary Type of reading(s) Main areas of conflict

General interest Non-consumption Negotiated

• No categories within which to understand messages • Lack of museum/media savvy • One-sided presentation: “Not about the people” • Visit as means of generating cultural capital

Emotionally connected

Non-consumption Negotiated

• Objects as sites of reminiscence for travel experience• Political commentary perceived as attack on spiritual • Single-sense museum environment • One-sided presentation: “Not about the people”

Buddhists Non-consumption • Objects as sacred • Historical narrative not relevant to spiritual agenda

Intellectual Dominant-hegemonic

• Some disregard for museum’s messages in favor of own educational agenda

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Tibetan Negotiated • Silent environment hindered social interaction and exchange

• No categories within which to understand messages • Objects as reminders of lack of cultural knowledge • Some oppositional response to depiction of Tibetan

worldview

General interest visitors were curious about Tibetan culture or the Dalai Lama, but had not

yet traveled to Tibet. Their attendance was inspired by friends, newspaper articles, or

documentaries. These visitors possessed very little background knowledge and needed

introductory information, which they did not receive. This prevented many of them from

consuming messages in the first place. Those with sufficient understanding to engage with the

exhibition’s content, found its highly intellectual focus one-sided, leading to a negotiated

reading. Use of the museum visit to articulate personal identity was inconsistent in this group,

because their connection with Tibetan culture was not firmly established. Identity was most

clearly expressed by the frequent museum-goers in this group, who saw the visit as a way of

generating cultural capital and reinforcing their social roles as culturati. For them, the

museum’s didactic narrative was largely irrelevant.

Unlike those with general interest, emotionally connected people had already formed strong

personal links with Tibet or the Himalayan region through travel. Many had attended

Buddhist teachings by the Dalai Lama in Zurich, Dharamsala, and elsewhere. Their visits

were almost exclusively about reliving their travel experience and expressing their imagined

citizenship in the cultures they encountered while touring. Cultural economist Michele

Trimarchi has observed that tourists frequently form emotional bonds with the places they

visit and these connections become a permanent feature of identity once they return home

(personal communication, November 2005). Due to the strength of their personal association,

the museum’s historical-political narrative was of little interest to these visitors. Instead,

artworks became sites of reminiscence for their own travel memories (Urry 2002).4 The

remarks of a retired Swiss French woman who attended the exhibition with her husband

vividly illustrate this itinerary:

Interviewer (I): Why did you attend this exhibition? Visitor (V): Because we were in Tibet. […] I think we traveled about several months. From

4 For more on this topic see Urry’s discussion (2002: 101-102) of a study conducted at Albert Dock in Liverpool which found that many people actively use heritage spaces as a stage for the performance of reminiscence.

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Nepal to Lhasa, Drepung and Sera and the plateau, Chiangtse, Shigatse and then we went down again to Nepal through the Himalayas. I: What was your experience of the exhibit? What did you like the best or what did you like the least? V: Yes, I have remembered a lot of things that we have seen in Tibet. …I think it is quite difficult for us to have interpretations of every thangka and everything. It is very complex. It is just nice to see it and to see again what we have seen already.

Visitors who performed reminiscence in this way tended not to consume the exhibition’s

messages. Those who did encountered significant conflicts between their strongly positive

views of Tibetan culture and the critical commentary. This was perceived by some as an

attack on deeply held spiritual values. Having first seen sacred objects in their original

settings in monasteries and temples, emotionally connected visitors also experienced a sense

of disappointment upon seeing them behind glass in the sterile Western museum environment.

Non-Tibetan Buddhists came seeking spiritual inspiration. Their visit represented an

extension of their religious practice and an affirmation of their Buddhist identity. Even more

than emotionally connected visitors, Buddhists engaged little with objects, but rather with

their own understandings of Buddhist teachings that the objects inspired. For this reason, they

did not consume the historical narrative, which had no resonance with their agenda. Some had

difficulty identifying aspects of the exhibition they particularly liked or disliked. Merely

being asked to make such a distinction was interpreted as a misguided attempt to assign value

to the sacred: “How can I say [what I liked best]? It is sacred. Everything is sacred. I cannot

say there are good things and bad things. You have only different visions of different aspects

of human—of sacred things.”

Intellectual experts were similar to the curator in their interests and values and therefore

represented the museum’s “ideal visitors.” They were not only self-sufficient and self-

directed, but keenly aware of their status as experts: “For me, I thought, I know it, so I can

understand it, but people who [do]…not [have] pre-knowledge, it is hard for them I think.”

This group made use of interpretive media in ways that other visitors did not. While general

interest and emotionally connected visitors felt overwhelmed by the amount of information on

the audio guide, for example, intellectual experts used it competently and without frustration.

This demonstrates the high degree of museum/media savvy they possessed. Consumption of

the historical narrative was a given among this group. Most accepted its messages without

question (dominant-hegemonic reading), because its intellectual orientation was so similar to

their own.

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Driven primarily by their cultural identities, Tibetans’ itineraries differed significantly from

those of other groups. Families used the exhibition as a site for cultural transmission. A Swiss

Tibetan man in his mid-twenties described how his mother “showed” the exhibition to him

and his older brother. Accompanying them through the galleries, she paused frequently to

offer her own commentary on the objects mentioned in the audio guide:

I am Tibetan and my mother told me about this exhibition and she wanted that we come together. The whole exhibition is well-explained through the [audio]phone and she has sometimes…some extra information which is important for her that I understand…I was born in Switzerland as a Tibetan, so you are biologically you are Tibetan, but you are not that close to the culture because of the environment. So that it’s shared is important for her, that the cultural—some part of it still remains.

Such behavior is not entirely unique to Tibetan families. Falk and Dierking (1992) observe

that one main social interaction in museums involves “parents shar[ing] stories and

‘explain[ing]’ the exhibits to children” (144). While this interaction itself may not be unique,

it takes on special significance for Tibetans because museums possess physical objects not

available elsewhere, since so little of their material heritage survived destruction. This makes

museums attractive locations for parents to educate their children and museums’ collections

vital and important resources in cultural transmission. Although staff of the Zurich museum

were surprised to learn that Tibetan families used the museum this way (observing that

previous exhibitions were not well-attended by Tibetans), a recent survey (Mannion 2007)

found such family visiting among Tibetans is commonplace. Fourteen (14) of twenty-three

(23) respondents usually visited museums with their families compared to only one (1)

respondent who visited alone.

The Tibetan son also alludes to the challenges of preserving culture in the diaspora:

“…biologically you are Tibetan, but you are not that close to the culture because of the

environment.” Switzerland, despite its topographic similarity to mountainous Tibet, is

culturally diverse. Swiss society is at the extreme monochronic end of Edward Hall’s scale of

time and spatial organization, whereas Tibetan and most Asian cultures, with their emphasis

on sociability, are decidedly polychronic (Hall 1976: 17-24). Sander’s (1984) study of young

Tibetans in Switzerland found significant disparity in the “social profiles” of Swiss and

Tibetans. Nearly all Tibetans (90%) were perceived as highly cheerful and sociable whereas

less than 30% of Swiss were characterized in these terms. These differences are clearly visible

in styles of cultural appreciation. Tibetan cultural events are characterized by sensory

overload, rather than sensory deprivation. By contrast, Western modes of display, “split up

the senses and parcel them out one at a time to the appropriate art form: One sense, one art

form” (Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1998: 57-58). One major challenge facing Tibetans living in the

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West is the lack of genuinely supportive environments where they can practice cultural

transmission. The 14 Dalai Lamas exhibition was no exception in this respect, as its culture of

silence impeded all socially-oriented itineraries, including those of Tibetans.

The Tibetan mother used the audio guide as an aid in her activities. When questioned about

this, the son revealed that the “extra information” she imparted was actually a repetition of

commentary on the audio guide. She apparently recycled bits of the narrative she found

interesting and recounted them as the family stood in front of a particular artwork. Her

behavior raises important ethical questions about how museums support cultural transmission.

Instead of telling her own stories, as did the Tlingit elders in Clifford’s example, the mother

retold the curator’s narrative as her own. The museum functioned not as a conduit or

facilitator, but as a creator of cultural knowledge. This is problematic for a number of reasons.

As previously established, the main thrust of the exhibition was to advance Western

scholarship. Targeted at an Anglo-European audience who appreciated this aim, it did not

take into account what Tibetans would have liked to know about the topic or what they

needed in order to understand it. The son, for example, wondered how the process of

incarnation actually functioned: “He’s dead, the other is born again. …How does it work, the

system?”5 Further, the “closed” structure of the narrative discouraged the Tibetan mother

from inserting her own stories. The family members themselves were oblivious to these

weaknesses, finding the exhibition “well-explained” by the audio guide. Their experience,

however, highlights the challenges involved in presenting culture to multicultural audiences.

Another Tibetan response to the exhibition was overtly oppositional. A young Swiss Tibetan

woman born in India questioned specific aspects of the display, in particular, the birth dates of

the Dalai Lamas appearing on partitions separating the galleries. They showed each Dalai

Lama being born exactly one year after his predecessor. The dates were difficult for her to

believe, she explained, because even her own father does not know his exact birth date. (This

is not uncommon among older Tibetans.) Since the lives of the Dalai Lamas were extremely

well documented by Tibetan historians, there is reasonably good evidence for the birth dates

listed in the exhibition. But whether her criticism is strictly correct or not is beside the point.

This comment shows how she actively negotiated, and in some cases resisted, the exhibition’s

messages through her cultural identity. She also questioned the pronunciation of Tibetan

proper names on the audio guide (they were spoken by a German voice) and the written

transliteration of Tibetan terms. This young woman interpreted the exhibition as a distinctly

5 Numerous Tibetan sources address these questions in ways consistent with cultural and spiritual beliefs of the native community. The Fourteenth Dalai Lama (1998), for example, recounts the story of his own recognition in his autobiography.

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Western statement about her culture which was potentially problematic. Although critical of

some aspects of the display, she did not “extend questioning” (MacDonald 1995: 22) to the

narrative in the audio guide:

I found it quite like a tale. So it was just like a story they were talking about and—I don’t know if there is a real message that we should know or get from it.

Her use of the term “message” refers to bias or the subjective voice of the curator. This

remark illustrates how linear narrative can conceal such biases that may be more obvious in

the visual and spatial languages of the exhibition. It also demonstrates why Tibetan visitors

had negotiated, rather than decisively oppositional readings. Both the son and his family and

the young woman accepted the content of the audio guide at face value. There appear to be

three reasons they did not question its authority: first, because it employed the “unassailable

voice” (Walsh 1997), which intimidates and disempowers listeners; second, its credibility was

bolstered by “asymmetrical power relations” that exist in the contact zone; and finally,

because of Tibetans’ own respectful attitudes toward Western museums and their role as

“rescuers” of Tibetan cultural property.

Conflicts and negotiations

The issues raised above illustrate how different visitors had varying degrees of success in

carrying out their itineraries. There were four categories in which conflicts arose: attitudes,

interpretive messages, media, and the museum environment.

Attitudes

For Tibetans, the exhibition was simultaneously a vehicle for increasing knowledge of their

own culture and a painful reminder of their lack of expertise. Viewing sacred art was an

uncomfortable experience for some Tibetan visitors. Understandably, the presentation of

one’s own culture by members of another cultural group evokes complex feelings. There is an

inherent unnaturalness about seeing one’s culture through the lens of another. Tibetans in

exile are especially sensitive to these issues because many feel ashamed of their lack of

cultural knowledge. A Tibetan woman who worked as a security guard at the exhibition

remarked: “We are Tibetan, but we don’t know anything.” Despite her familiarity with the

museum, she found it difficult to engage with Tibetan art, because she is continually

confronted by unfamiliar images she feels she should be able to identify. A recent immigrant

from Tibet living in Lausanne expressed a similar sentiment: “It’s a pity we [Tibetans] don’t

know anything.”

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One reason for this self-criticism is the perceived decline of cultural traditions under Chinese

rule. It is a widespread belief that Tibetan culture can no longer be preserved in Tibet and,

sadly, this fear is not without basis (see Calkowski 1995). Many Tibetans have responded to

this painful circumstance by becoming passionate, even obsessive, about preservation.

Tibetan language and romantic relationships with non-Tibetans are two areas where this

preoccupation plays out between parents and their Swiss-born children. There is strong family

pressure to learn Tibetan and to marry within the community. History and art, too, are

subjects in which parents feel their children should be educated if Tibetan culture is to

survive. Unfortunately, due to lack of resources and suitable support for cultural transmission,

few Tibetans are as knowledgeable about their culture as Westerners often assume.

Although it was not intentional, the effect of the museum’s intellectual focus for the design of

the exhibition exacerbated Tibetans’ feelings of inadequacy. There was insufficient

introductory information and basic concepts were not explained, because the interpretive

materials were created for experts. These elements also presented problems for general

interest visitors, but for the Tibetans they were particularly problematic, since they

communicated the message that Westerners knew more than they did about their own culture.

Instead of creating a welcoming environment in which Tibetans could apply and expand their

existing cultural knowledge, the exhibition shut them out. By foregrounding a Western

scholarly narrative spoken by the “reassuringly measured voice of unassailable institutional

authority” (Walsh 1997)6, the museum reinforced Tibetans’ self-deprecating views as well as

the “asymmetrical power relations” inherent in the contact zone. As the young man visiting

with his mother said:

I’m Tibetan and you grow up with this everything is familiar, but you don’t have a lot of background information. If you see a sculpture, …it’s nice to see, I know it, it’s that name, but what did he do? When did he live? …There are many Swiss people, they know more than we.

Two additional attitudes cut across most itineraries. The first was the desire to be “model

visitors” by following supposed rules and conventions implicit in the museum environment.

Nearly everyone tried to work their way systematically from beginning to end, regardless of

whether such a path promoted their itinerary. The second attitude was the tendency to blame

themselves for the failings of the exhibition. One navigational issue was that the numerical

labels on artworks jumped around randomly. Not surprisingly, several people had trouble

following them. Instead of recognizing that this might have been improved, they attributed

their difficulty to their own stupidity. Visitors were also quick to rationalize why they had 6 In his insightful discussion of the museum voice, Walsh (1997) points out that it “tends to make people feel ignorant and thus alienates them from the entire experience of the museum” (2).

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trouble engaging with the challenging intellectual narrative, citing their own exhaustion or

expectations.

Interpretive messages

One major conflict concerned the curator’s conception of visitors as knowledgeable insiders

like himself. There was a significant mismatch between the itineraries of the general interest

and Tibetan visitors and the exhibition’s recommended itinerary. As a result, they

experienced a high degree of frustration in attempting to achieve their goals. Unmet

expectations were also a major issue for this group, as most assumed that the exhibition

would indeed include general information about Tibetan culture that would allow them to

gain familiarity. Contrary to the stereotype of Tibetans as cultural experts, many require the

same types of “scaffolding” as general interest visitors to understand the exhibition. One

young Tibetan man remarked: “It was nice to see all the pictures, but if you are not dealing

with the subject deeply, it’s a little bit difficult to understand. [Even for] me as a Tibetan it

was not easy to understand.” Falk and Dierking cite cognitive science studies which show that

novices often lack “capacity to perceive” (1992: 107).

The political emphasis of the audio narrative raised considerable conflicts for the emotionally

connected group. This emphasis followed from the curator’s attempt to demystify the

institution of the Dalai Lamas by exposing its faults. These efforts met with opposition from a

British couple, who had traveled to Nepal and felt protective of the Dalai Lama and of

Buddhist culture. The wife was disappointed that the one-sided characterization of the

institution seemed to imply it was no different from Western secular politics. This further

exemplifies the divide that separated visitors from the curator, since many people did not

possess the necessary background knowledge and expertise to place criticism in its proper

context. As a result, the commentary was perceived as an attack on the spiritual values of

Tibetans. This highlights the potential dangers of employing critical approaches in exhibitions

of Tibetan art, because such commentary can easily stray into Western-style empiricism. A

middle-aged Swiss woman who lived in Dharamsala for many years followed the guided tour.

The guide’s efforts to connect with his Western audience by describing the oracle’s clothing

as “strange and weird,” and the garments of protector deities as “ridiculous,” offended her.

Although not a Buddhist, she considered his language highly disrespectful. The experience

violated her “deep sense of [the] religious.”

One revealing sentiment repeated by several visitors was that the exhibition had nothing to do

with Tibetan culture and Tibetan people. This is strange, considering that the Dalai Lama is a

populist figure. There appeared to be two main reasons for this: the highly intellectual tone of

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the audio commentary, and its political focus. The emphasis on politics silenced the voices of

ordinary people, because the main actors in the stories were almost always men from upper

class society. The absence of stories from different walks of Tibetan life led many visitors to

conclude that the exhibition was one-sided or “elite.” Emotionally connected visitors felt it

portrayed Tibetan spiritual culture in a critical light and conflicted with the sympathetic views

they formed during their travels. General interest visitors came with the expectation that the

exhibition would include a discussion of the Tibetan people. While they acknowledged that

its narrow focus on the lineage of the Dalai Lamas was positive, they thought this made it

virtually inaccessible to them as “novices.” In one instructive exchange, a husband and wife

debated the issue of whether the exhibition could include voices of ordinary Tibetans:

Husband: …An exhibition which tries to capture everything loses his focus, so if somebody is interested to see these Dalai Lamas more in the social context of Tibet, well, there are plenty of books. Wife: Yeah, but…they could have described…how the Tibetans feel about this. … Then we would have gotten…a special picture of how this society is living now: They are torn between countries, they are not really in Tibet, they are under the hands of Chinese, they are in India, refugees…So some… Tibetans speaking about the religion, the Dalai Lama, and their way of living now in different worlds.

While the husband—a highly-educated Tibet expert—may have been satisfied with the

exhibition, other interviews suggest that his wife’s idea of including interviews of Tibetans

would have made the exhibition more accessible for a large number of visitors without

previous background. This includes people with a general interest in Tibet, those who are

reconnecting with their emotional travel experience, and even the Tibetan community.

Glimpses into everyday lives of ordinary people help visitors bridge the gap between the

artworks and the culture which produced them. It also makes the exhibition more inviting for

families and children who relate to these less intellectual aspects of culture.

Media

The audio guide containing the central narrative of the exhibition accounted for most of the

conflicts with media. The guide, which was free with paid (10 Swiss Franc) entrance to the

exhibition, was enthusiastically promoted by the guards stationed at the entrance to the

gallery. The vast majority of visitors made use of it. The structure of the audio commentary

contained strong biases for the style of solitary viewing preferred by the curator; a style in

which, “one forgets everything around, one doesn’t hear others, one doesn’t get other

impressions, one really is concentrated on the object.” These biases manifested in extremely

long commentaries and a cumulative narrative that encouraged, and frequently enforced,

sequential listening. It contained difficult Tibetan names which confused and frustrated many

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general interest and emotionally connected visitors. Tibetan historian Michael Aris (1989)

mentions complex names as one of the major obstacles in communicating Tibetan culture to

Westerners. Not a single interviewee remembered or used these names, even after hearing

them repeatedly in the audio commentary.

The audio guide dramatically restricted interaction between visiting companions. This created

obstacles for Tibetan visitors whose itineraries were primarily social. The Tibetan family who

used the exhibition for cultural transmission frequently split up because members could not

easily synchronize in their listening. The Tibetan mother commented only when she

coincidentally arrived in front of the same work as her son. A Swiss woman in her thirties

accompanied by her mother found that potential conversations were prevented by the guide:

“I think we didn’t talk enough because of the recorder you can’t. That prevents actually

talking and exchanging.” The silent, monastery-like atmosphere reinforced solitary viewing.

Ironically, however, the audio guide did not promote visual appreciation of the artworks,

since its commentary rarely addressed specific visual elements. Many people wandered

aimlessly and inattentively “browsed” nearby objects while listening to long audio

commentaries. By contrast, the printed catalogue, which did not contain the historical

narrative, but art historical data about artworks, encouraged visual engagement.

Figure 2: Visitors in interactive photographic alcove

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An interactive photo alcove located just off the rear gallery was the last stop in the exhibition.

It contained a large projection screen and an interactive kiosk from which visitors could

control the display of archival photos. This medium not only resisted the role defined for it by

the curator, but also functioned as an alternative to the hegemonic audio narrative. Even

visitors frustrated by other media successfully appropriated, personalized, and wove the

photographs into their own itineraries. In Raw Histories (2001), Elizabeth Edwards discusses

the special qualities of ethnographic photographs. They are “irrepressible” in that, unlike

film, they are out of narrative sequence. This makes them resistant to didactic agendas and

enables viewers to insert their own narratives into them. Visitors particularly enjoyed

speculating about what was going on in the photographs. A pair of emotionally connected

visitors disappointed by the audio commentary, talked at length about images of the

Thirteenth Dalai Lama, jokingly wondering about his eyebrows, his attire, and so on.

In addition to their “irrepressibility,” Edwards also describes how photographs “suggest the

experience of the past.” The ability to show past experience is particularly important in

exhibitions of Tibetan art. Because of its tragic political history, many aspects of Tibet’s

traditional culture have been irrevocably lost. Photographs take on a potent meaning in this

context. Barthes (1980) has argued that photographs make feelings of loss more acute, and

these archival images seemed to evoke stronger emotional reactions from visitors than the

artworks themselves:

British tourist: Because I quite like…seeing images. They are really quite fascinating, especially the one…where they are traveling…from one place to another and there is obviously the Dalai Lama in this little sort of rickshaw. …And it’s that you’ve kind of captured something which is gone. American visitor: We did look [at the photographs] and read half of [the captions] and there you get more of a feeling for how…people lived. Even though it’s also still mainly about the authorities and the Dalai Lama, because they are photographs, whereas these [thangkas] are abstracted, ritualistic illustrations.

The American visitor’s comment demonstrates that the photographic alcove was one of the

few places in the exhibition where visitors successfully made a connection with the Tibetan

people—a connection many general interest and emotionally connected visitors longed for.

Museum environment

The museum environment was characterized by silent, solitary viewing with the audio guide.

The quiet, reverential atmosphere was constructed by the monastery-inspired scenography;

low lighting; the frequent sounding of security alarms, which underscored the importance of

“correct” behavior; and widespread use of the audio guide which discouraged conversations.

Silence promoted the itineraries of some visitors and inhibited others. Buddhists, intellectuals,

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and a few emotionally connected visitors appreciated the tranquility. On the contrary, general

interest visitors and Tibetans, whose itineraries were often social, were discouraged by it. A

Swiss German man explains his reluctance to speak: “I mean everybody is quiet here. I don’t

dare to talk too much.” His Tibetan companion agreed that the exhibition “was an individual

thing,” and it was unusual to see groups or even pairs of visitors together in the galleries.

Families with young children were not present at all, as the environment clearly

communicated that it was space for serious adults. One interviewee related how she scolded a

small group whose conversation disrupted her listening to the audio guide. Silence was

therefore enforced both by design, and through social interactions between visitors

themselves.

The lack of sensory stimulation in the galleries was a problem for emotionally connected

visitors and obstructed their ability to perform reminiscence. Those who had traveled to Tibet

were particularly sensitive to the differences between the silent, sterile museum and the

sensory rich environments of actual monasteries and temples. Some remarked that objects in

the museum seemed “lifeless” in contrast to their authentic settings. This exposes a

fundamental conflict in the display of Tibetan art in Western contexts. For Tibetan Buddhists,

representations of deities and spiritual masters are not considered “material” in the Western

sense, but living entities. These animate images have the power to bring about liberation or

enlightenment when proper conditions are present.7 One teacher likens exhibition of Tibetan

bronzes to “forcing a holy saint to remain in a busy worldly place” (Reedy 1992: 46),

revealing the complex ethical questions that arise when such statues are “forced” to perform

in an historical narrative designed for Western scholars. Similar contradictions are present in

any museum exhibition of any cultural tradition which resists dualistic Western classification

into the categories of “art” and “culture.”

The primary social interaction in this mostly silent environment was between visitors and

museum security guards, who also functioned as information officers. Upon entering the

gallery, visitors usually stopped at a small stand. A single security guard manned this post and

dispensed the free audio guides, printed catalogues and other materials. This interaction

significantly influenced visitors’ itineraries. Guards were always friendly, but sometimes

inadvertently pressured visitors into taking the audio guide by implying that the exhibition

required it. This assertion, whether overt or subtle, immediately brought out “model visitor”

behavior. Many people felt obligated to take the guide, even if unsure how it would improve

7 This process is referred to as “liberation upon seeing.” For further discussion of this phenomenon see Sogyal Rinpoche (1994), Miller Sangster (2007), and Mannion (2007: 19-22).

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their experience. Further, guards did not always explain the various alternatives to visitors, so

those who could have benefited from the printed catalogue were unaware that one was

available.

Implications: Activity of contact zones

The results of this study have potentially important implications for ethnographic museums

hoping to play a meaningful role in increasingly multicultural societies and for organizations

concerned with multicultural communication. The five distinct itineraries described suggest

that visiting ethnographic museums is closely connected with identity construction.

Ethnographic museums in particular should acknowledge the increasing diversity of their

public, which often includes members of diaspora communities. Like the Tibetans in this

study, such visitors have considerably different agendas from Western curators. These are

often social and driven by the community priorities around cultural transmission and

preservation of knowledge. As Clifford (1997) points out, engaging these groups requires a

redefinition of the social role of the museum and its collection:

When museums are seen as contact zones, their organizing structure as a collection becomes an ongoing historical, political, moral relationship—a power-charged set of exchanges, of push and pull (192).

While the Tlingit elders entered confidently into this “push and pull” relationship with the

Portland Museum, Tibetans are likely to have difficulty asserting themselves in these matters.

Ames (1987) notes that “minorities and dominated populations within larger states frequently

have to struggle to win the right to that control [to represent themselves]” (14). This history of

struggle against dominant Anglo-European cultures has made groups such as the Tlingit

keenly aware of the need to actively defend their right to speak. In Canadian society at least,

there is widespread recognition of First Nations peoples as the indigenous and, therefore,

rightful residents of the land. Tibetans, however, are not the original occupants, but the

“guests” of Western countries. They are refugees from their homeland. In this sensitive

position, in which they enjoy the hospitality and support of their host cultures, they are

extremely reluctant to demand consideration—even when such demands are warranted. In

addition, there is little awareness on the part of most Tibetans that they could or should have a

role in the presentation of their culture in the West.

The prevailing attitude among many Tibetans is that Western museums cannot be faulted or

questioned in their presentation of Tibetan art and culture. One man in his early twenties said

seeing Tibetan art in a Western gallery is “a proud moment,” because it proves that Tibetan

culture is taken seriously. Neither the Tibetan son nor his mother questioned the audio

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commentary at the 14 Dalai Lamas exhibition. And even the young Tibetan woman, who

questioned other aspects of the display, saw it as a neutral and truthful narrative. These

examples highlight Tibetans’ reluctance to engage with Western museums and curators on

controversial issues of heritage presentation. In light of this, museums must formulate their

own call to the sense of responsibility, stewardship, and accountability that Clifford (1997:

193) describes as the activity of “contact zones.”

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Further information

This paper was originally presented at Conflict, Citizenship and Civil Society, the 8th

Conference of the European Sociological Association (http://www.valt.helsinki.fi/esa) in

Glasgow, Scotland on September 4, 2007. For more about this research including an ongoing

project which is exploring the perceptions of Tibetans through social tagging of Tibetan

artworks, please contact Shelley Mannion (shelley.mannion@gmail.com) or visit

http://tate.shelleym.net.