It occupies an 18-acre plot of land. It comprises over two dozen buildings, some barely visible anymore, in a mishmash of architectural styles. It houses various laboratories, a gigantic library, and rundown, labyrinthine, and poorly lit corridors strewn with skeletons and preserved animal specimens. Much of it has been neither updated nor renovated--nor perhaps even simply dusted--in decades. It's not the vast, ramshackle estate of a mad scientist in a horror film. It's the American Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side.
Those who point out declining public and federal interest in such institutions may blame a lack of upkeep funds. A postmodern apologist for the AMNH's current state may advance the theory that the museum as a whole, by allowing much of itself to decay in an almost organic manner, is intentionally becoming one of its own exhibits. However, the simplest and most compelling explanation is an old adage slightly modified: "If nobody cares that it's broke, don't fix it."
In spite of rampant dilapidation, the AMNH attracts a stampede of nearly 14,000 visitors a day, or approximately 5 million yearly. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the only New York museum to top the AMNH in number of visitors, leads by only a small margin of about 4.8%. Manhattan's Museum of Modern Art and Guggenheim are comparatively deserted, drawing in approximately 2.5 million and 1.1 million visitors per year, respectively, in spite of their being more interesting and culturally relevant (and less depressing).
As at other museums, permanent installations account for the bulk (by our estimation 85%) of the AMNH's public offerings. These are augmented by special exhibitions that change periodically. Currently, the museum boasts 45 exhibit halls and six special exhibitions (one is an IMAX movie, another a space documentary narrated by astronomer Whoopi Goldberg).
Of course, only the regular displays are included with general admission tickets (suggested price: $19). It costs extra to see any of the special exhibits, implying that the permanent displays are the raison d'être of the American Museum of Natural History. "If you see nothing else," the ticket pricing structure seems to implore, "at least see those."
Upon entering the museum through an imposing Neo-Classical façade located a flight of stairs above street level on Central Park West, you have begun an experience that will prove by turns exhausting, depressing, disappointing, and disorienting.
The main entrance hall--the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda--is a cavernous, sun-drenched room filled with the deafening buzz of hundreds of tourists, their multilingual shouts reverberating in the vast chamber. After navigating the throng, standing in line for several minutes, and shelling out money for a ticket, you pass into "Asian Mammals," whereupon you must pause for several seconds and adjust to the suddenly tomblike ambience. Once acclimated to the gloomy silence and crepuscular lighting, you are ready to commence a grim odyssey through hall after dilapidated hall, floor after rundown floor, of begrimed installations, crumbling dioramas, and criminally outdated graphic design.
In spite of the museum's impressive attendance numbers, many of the exhibition halls seem curiously bereft of browsers. When somebody is spotted, he is often plodding mechanically from one end of a gallery to the other, robotically going through the motions, never really examining any of the displays. As a result, the studious patron has the opportunity to be rewarded (or punished) with an undisturbed, close-up look at each exhibition room.
During your dreary pilgrimage through the museum, you will make certain observations about the galleries, such as that many are festooned with discarded pamphlets, food wrappers, remnants of industrial adhesive tape, and other assorted ephemera. You will notice unpleasant odors and sudden temperature shifts. You will see halfheartedly repaired floors, flaking paint, dust-coated windows, and illogically placed pieces of random furniture. Once you begin inspecting the installations, you will see desiccated landscapes, crudely constructed replicas of flora and fauna, discolored acrylic "ponds," lazy special effects, and hopelessly démodé typography, all of which are often displayed in dioramas. These dioramas are frequently fading, disintegrating, or incomplete. They are always lifeless and pedantic.
This is a museum that boasts many attendees (most of whom pay the full suggested admission), a sizable endowment (its financial records are available for the public, visible through a simple web search), and starring roles in Hollywood movies (e.g., Night at the Museum). It sounds glamorous and fabulous, but let's get down to brass tacks and take a look at what you, the museum patron, will really see during your visit.
^The AMNH often relies upon on diner-style typography.





























.jpeg)
.jpg)
