The Art of Curation

It’s a lovely word, “curator.” Not everyone has worked with museums as I have, but I notice that the concept and use of the term has spread in the last few years to apply to almost any kind of presentation, any organization of diversity. 

“Curation” has always implied for me a studied and judicious ordering of elements into some recognizable group; some affinity of characteristics that organizes chaos into a shape. If it is done well, the affinity becomes commentary and points out a new thought or an important lesson, perhaps even creates an aha moment. It is an admirable and worthwhile undertaking.

It is time to curate my own life; to comb, sort, and recognize the worth of the eclectic mess that fills my drawers and closets, graces my walls, and clutters my hard disks. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker – I have done it all, and written about it as well. And as no good deed goes unpunished, I am currently averting my eyes from portfolios, binders, baskets, boxes, scrapbooks, photos, thumb drives, and all those shelves in the basement! Why oh why did I save it all?

And that indeed is the question. For what reason did I save this, and is that reason still viable? 

•I don’t have enough years left to do half the print projects I started and put away – do I have enough energy to do some of them? Are they still worth doing? 

•What will my kids want to have? Should it all be didacted it so as not to embarrass them? 

•My home videos, professional photos, print and computer resolution files on every media format – surely I could at least eliminate the doubles, triples, quadruples, and store everything on like devices. . .

•Is there value in framing the best of the portfolios full of art originals? Where would I put them as my walls are all full up already? Should I just order them chronologically? Does anyone give a rat’s ass?

•Big tins of inherited family photos that I have begun sorting, scanning, and matching to ancestor information could go dark here in the middle of such a curation storm. 

•What about the diaries? There is poetry in them thar pages if I want to mine it to use. Or maybe I should just burn them whole before they are left to the eyes of others. . .

•Six feet of shelf space for the products of a lifetime in publications. OMG. 

I don’t feel so studied and judicious any more; organizing principles elude me as I begin to topple, and for now, I think the best thing to do would be to go home and take a nap.