Angels in the Barley

“Well, there’s no sign that says not to make snow angels in the barley.”  I was in the Guiness Brewery, one of Dublin’s kitschier tourist sites, looking at a huge vat of dried barley, when I heard a woman (American) say this jokingly to her boyfriend.  Earlier that morning I had walked by an open cathedral and into the courtyard, where I sat down on a concrete slab only to read on the opposite wall that I was sitting on a nineteenth century crypt. 

Where in America would you be able to sit on anything that’s it noteworthy to say you sat on? America’s a place where there’d definitely be a sign to make it clear that it is prohibited to get within three feet of the crypt, or to make snow angels in the barley. 

I didn’t realize how much these totally reasonable, if self-explanatory, regulatory elements of exhibits in the U.S. were impacting my experience in museums until I began to notice their absence in Dublin. The “do not touch” signs, the burgundy velvet ropes that hang in arcs, the lines of tape that show you how close you shouldn’t get, they’re all dilutions that impact your ability to interface with the object of attention without intervention.  It’s the equivalent of texting with what you’re seeing instead of having an in-person conversation.

My girlfriend told me that in French, there’s a word for the feeling when you get when you are standing at the edge of the sea and you feel an improbable yet intense calling to start walking until you disappear beneath the waves.  Isn’t this feeling, this very real possibility, what makes the ocean so majestic? And don’t you feel it less when you’re looking at the ocean through the protective bars of a fence? And the knowledge that, when sitting on a 300 year old crypt, you could theoretically tag it with your girlfriend’s initials, or even bend over and lick it, that’s part of the experience of authentically interfacing with it; your inherent sense of respect stops you.

Of course, I’ve always thought of these precautions (the “do not touch” signs, the roping off) as necessary – an anonymous curator or historian or someone somewhere whose job it is to protect humanity from itself.  But if it was so inevitable for humans to violate anything sacred, wouldn’t there be evidence of such? Wouldn’t there be snow angels in the barley?

It’s possible that Europeans raise their kids to be more inherently respectful human beings, but I’ll reject that explanation simply because it’s not very hopeful. My other theory comes from (surprise) the classroom, a place where people tend to rise to the standards that you set for them.  Imply to students that you see them as adults, treat them like their frontal lobe is fully developed, and you’re often pleasantly surprised.   

The trust that is extended to the public here in Ireland, the offering of an unadulterated connection with artifacts of the past, does not go unappreciated.  Perhaps the respect received is passed on.   Barley is untouched, and crypts are only sat upon on by accident.