For

Tim Teeman

There is no doubt that after the immense success of The First Emperor: The Chinese Terracotta Army show of last year the British Museum has recognised the bankability of the blockbuster.

The website trailer for its forthcoming Hadrian: Empire and Conflict features a thudding drum soundtrack and the stirring, chocolaty narration of Patrick Stewart: “His first act as emperor was to pull the Roman Army out of Mesopotamia . . . He ruled an empire which stretched from Hadrian’s Wall to the Middle East . . . He openly loved a younger man . . . His rule changed history for ever. Come to the British Museum and find out why.”

The museum shouldn’t be ashamed of such a televisual trailer. Museums need to reach new audiences. Objectors say that populism leads to a diminishing of the intellectual core, as if only “difficult” shows have credence. The Terracotta Army show had the great central selling point of the iconic clay figures, but was also rigorous and involving; the same with the Tutankhamun spectacular at the O2. The V&A’s survey of Modernism was a fizzing cavalcade of art and design. The Imperial War Museum’s James Bond exhibition is much more than a trawl through film stills and rocket-propelled cigarette lighters. Tempt audiences in with razzmatazz, and then watch them linger over Etruscan pots.

Against

Rachel Campbell-Johnston

Art is supposed to be spiritually uplifting. But to stand for hours in some long, snaking queue through a blockbusting exhibition can be an utterly enervating experience. Our museums and art galleries were simply not constructed to cope with the numbers.

The answer may be found eventually in purpose-built theatres in which we sit watching a procession of artistic treasures trundling past on conveyor belts like Generation Game contestants watching Teasmades and cuddly toys.

But until that dreadful day we are caught in a quandary. Our cultural institutions depend on spectaculars to fill depleted coffers. The British Museum needed the Terracotta Army to help it out of severe debt. And who are we to complain when some of the world’s greatest treasures are being shared with us?

And yet a museum is supposed to be a space for contemplation, not throngs. And amid the crowds the profounder purpose of these wonderful places gets lost.

It’s up to you to do something. Yes, visit the spectacular that’s got everyone talking but, when you finally emerge, dishevelled and panting, don’t just flee. Go and discover some quieter and more personal treasure: anything — a salt cellar, a netsuke, an armlet, a Hindu god. And admire it for a few moments in contemplative peace.

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