Pipe Cleaners and Priorities: An English Major’s Experience in an Art Museum

I hadn’t ever stepped foot inside the Springville Museum of Art before the first day of my internship there. I hadn’t prepped at all before walking through the doors, hadn’t thought about what I would be doing, and hadn’t visited the museum website. I hadn’t even thought about how my internship in the museum’s education office would make sense on a graduate school application—and for English programs no less.

Finding no one waiting to greet me, I wandered around the museum until finally stumbling upon the education office. In short order, I was assigned my summer project by my supervisor: making craft projects for kids. She showed me the empty studio in the basement where I’d be spending my time and left me to take inventory.

It was there, looking down at the pipe cleaners I was counting that I thought, “What am I doing here?” My friends were travelling abroad, my boyfriend was studying at Cambridge, my family was 28 hours away in Texas, and here I was, all alone, fifteen minutes from BYU, counting pipe cleaners.

After taking inventory and getting a sense of the resources at my disposal, including a non-existent budget, I started trying to brainstorm. How would I come up with eight craft projects that would engage families who visited the museum, every Thursday? Other than a list of projects that my supervisor didn’t want repeated, I had no direction, and no idea where to start. The pipe cleaners seemed to mock me.

I racked my brain and scoured the Internet for the perfect craft, but everything seemed kitschy and boring. I took to wandering the museum, looking for inspiration. Maybe a sculpture would tell me about an innovative and exciting craft that cost nothing.

I eventually stumbled upon a stunning work of embroidery hanging in one of the museum’s many galleries. Loops and tangled string formed a blue swirl that was as tall as me. It was intricate and breathtaking; revelation struck. I knew I wanted to use this work of art as inspiration for my first craft. But where to begin?

I remembered my supervisor’s requested need to be fulfilled by my project: I needed to create a craft that would both teach about art and hold the attention of kids from one to ninety-two. The information was in front of me—the work of art, the biography of the artist, the medium of the work. I just needed to make sense of it. Returning to the studio, I found embroidery hoops and heaps of string, and began.

When I pitched my project idea to my supervisor, she was not thrilled. She was nervous about all the needles, the difficulty of the project, and that embroidery is usually something only grandmas do. However, I was determined to make the project work. I assured her that I would properly manage the craft project and prepare for anything that may go wrong.

To address her safety concerns, I gathered information about safe embroidery techniques, sifting through the needles to choose the biggest and bluntest ones. I set up the craft stations so that only parents could receive sharp needles. To address her concerns of difficulty, I painted embroidery stencils on pieces of fabric so the project wouldn’t be so hard for little children (or artistically challenged adults). And for the smallest crafters, I cut out construction paper in the same designs as the stencils, punching holes in the paper so that they could “embroider” with yarn safely and easily.

Making sense of the information and project materials I had been given, I had everything covered—or so I thought.

I was told to expect 60 people, but when the day arrived, 200 people showed up. While I had expected all the kids would want to embroider, I hadn’t expected so many kids. I had a new problem that I hadn’t covered: I didn’t have enough materials by half.

Alone in the studio, I struggled to simultaneously take attendance with a handheld clicker, teach embroidery, and make as many more stencils as I could. It was absolute madness. A two-year-old had opened the studio cabinets and was playing with the wooden figure mannequins…click. A four-year-old wanted to use the scissors himself…click. A family of five couldn’t find where to sit…click click click click click.

Suddenly, I had new information to work with, new information to make sense of in front of me. I felt overwhelmed but began to look for effective questions to answer. Who can I call upon? What are my resources? What are my priorities?

I quickly texted my supervisor, asking for help. She promptly came downstairs to show me where extra chairs were. When she saw the pandemonium, she quickly called every staff member working at the museum to come help. I was so relieved when I saw all my coworkers enter the studio. I set them all to work making stencils, and though they drew a few monstrous butterflies, at the end of the day every kid who wanted to embroider got to embroider. Embroidery wasn’t only for grandmas, after all.

At the end of the event, one of the mothers asked me what my major was. When I told her, “English,” she replied, “What are you doing here?” In that moment, I still didn’t know. All I knew was that I was teaching kids to embroider, a few of them loved it, and many wished to take string home. New information constantly presented itself. But I felt more confident—I could handle new information; I could make sense of the changing situation in front of me. The pipe cleaners looked less menacing. I gave string to the kids, sent them home, and thought about the day. What did I do there? What was I doing here?

I thought of my personal information. I was Madi, an English major. How could I make sense of that information in my current situation? What did it mean to be an English major planning projects with pipe cleaners and string in the basement of an art museum? What could it mean in future projects? How did what I learned in the crazy chaos of the embroidery moment give me new information to work with?

I realized that my English major was all about making sense of information. In my schooling, I had been trained to read texts, analyze the information within, come up with unique and effective solutions to the questions that the text presented. Information didn’t just come in spreadsheets and data points. It came with every page I turned while at school and—I realized with a start—it came with every resource discovered in the basement of the art museum. The pipe cleaners, the string, the artwork, the information on the gallery walls—all were pieces of information I could use to achieve my purpose as an intern here. I was positioned well.

What am I doing here? I’m using my skills as an English major in new and engaging professional contexts. I’m making sense of information, both new and old. I’m managing a project, and contributing to effective teams. I’m teaching four-year-olds about abstract art and Maynard Dixon.

I’m succeeding because I’m working at it, here in my basement at the museum I’ve come to know. I reach for the pipe cleaners and start to plan. What will I do here next?