Essay 06 — Three Feet Off the Ground

On a recent trip to New England, I dragged my husband to one of my favorite places on the planet from childhood: 

the Boston Museum of Science.

I was born in Boston, and lived my early years in the area. He and I had never been to the city together, and he’s never been to Boston at all. 

On any trip, one of our favorite activities is simply wandering through the city together, racking up tens of thousands of steps daily.  

Because the weather outside was terrible, we spent the greater part of the afternoon wandering through the museum, from exhibit to exhibit. The whole time, I was pointing out things he should come see, and telling him to “look at it from this angle.” 

Later on, during our trek home, as we were recounting our adventures, he mentioned to me that I seemed to really love reliving my childhood.

Initially, I was really taken aback by this. Borderline offended.

But then I remembered that he’d never intentionally do or say anything to hurt me. So I checked myself before wrecking myself, and realized, of course that’s the lens he sees it through.

I’d think the same if I were him.

Only, the experience I was having was entirely different.

I was experiencing it for the first time as a designer.

So many things made me stop and ask myself how much time someone spent on this.

I felt this the most while at the Egyptian pyramid exhibit.

As we approached, I remembered it from childhood. I remembered loving this one a lot.

It’s an oversized diorama, maybe about fouir feet wide by two feet deep, and three feet tall. It was installed at a comfortable viewing level with the bottom edge about three feet off the ground.

The big pyramids growing out of the ground. The tiny human figures scattered on the floor of the scene, performing different tasks to get this pyramid built.  Little micro-moments stationed throughout. A vendor selling something over here, figures moving blocks closer to the pyramid over there.

Viewing it this time felt different. But why? 

Because I was looking at it from above. I was looking at it as an adult might. I was getting the “parents’” perspective. 

And it’s not as good.

The diorama looked a bit more sparse than I remembered. I could see the personal space bubble around each person. I could see the top of the unfinished pyramid. I could get an aerial view of the scene at large.

A placard below poses a question. It asks the youngsters to find something specific in the diorama. From my vantage point I’m able to spot it fairly easily. Still a bit difficult, but not terribly.

Finally, curiosity gets the better of me and I kneel down on the level of a child. Suddenly, everything shifts. 

It becomes so deep. So lively. 

I no longer see the top of the pyramid. I don’t see the space between the people. What I see instead is a sprawling epicenter filled with hundreds upon hundreds of people, putting in work. 

The perspective shift offered a much more interesting narrative. At this level, the placard’s answer becomes much more difficult.  Had I not already found where it was, I might have spent ten minutes trying to find it. 

I imagined a tired parent sitting on the nearby bench as their kid follows the dioramas around the room, stopping at each one, looking, answering the questions, taking their time to search each one. 

Even the questions are well designed here, I thought.

They’re informational but the information isn’t necessarily in the question, it’s in the search. And then you flip the placard over once you found what they asked you to, in order to learn more about what you found. 

They’ve designed it to be an incredible way to spend ten minutes…

over, and over again.

The museum features a massive spiral staircase that leads you either up to the second level, or down to the bottom level. And an immense vertical plant installation flanks the nearby left wall.

The museum’s designers did such a good job that one exhibit had me fighting every urge in my body to get down and crawl around on my hands and knees. 

As you descend down the stairs, you come upon one of my favorite exhibits. They’ve made a clever use of space by housing it under the spiral staircase on the bottom level. 

From the exterior of this display, you can see a plexiglass viewing window at knee height. Inside is the view of a rat’s nest in the city’s infrastructure. Walk around the display a bit further, and you’ll see a large tank showing the kinds of fish and turtles found in the Charles River environment. And between all of that, you’ll find two mousehole-style entrances. Only they’re not for mice, they’re for children, of course. 

This exhibit begs you to get on your hands and knees, and crawl inside to learn more.

What’s in there? An exhibit detailing what it’s like inside the city’s infrastructure.

This exhibit pulls me in for so many reasons, most of them revolving around tactility, intrigue, and whimsy. This exhibit is informative and fun, and asks the kids to lean in, literally. I knelt down at the entrance and peeked in, but it took everything in me not to crawl inside. 

The local wildlife exhibit features life-size dioramas of taxidermied animals from around the region.  

I was most impressed by all the attention to detail. The early spring marshland was filled with real local grasses. I could see dead logs and tons of critters coexisting in the scene. The background was intricately painted and continued up in a half-dome to meet the display wall, so you didn't ever see a right angle. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was real mud in there too. 

Throughout the entire visit, I kept crouching down, getting on my knees, and leaning down. Looking at things from a different perspective. 

Legitimately, the museum just looked better from there. 

Why? Because it was designed to be. Every exhibit improved. Not slightly, but significantly. 

It became so obvious. All these exhibits were designed from three feet off the ground.

Speaking as an occasional cynic, and an always critic, the world has a way of beating us into the shape it wants. Instead of discovering, we now find ourselves evaluating against prior experiences, against our own preconceived notions, and against any other matter of thought or memory. 

I began to realize that the thing that drew me in the most this time was the design. 

Someone designed these exhibits from a viewpoint they no longer typically occupy.

While that’s an extraordinary thing, it’s also just simply the job. 

And maybe the reason this aspect spoke to me is that it’s exactly the type of thing I’m always trying to find and to build into each home. I’m always looking for those moments.

Every home should contain wonder, which is not to be confused with spectacle. 

It’s a moment that reveals itself only if you pay close enough attention. A second layer. Something discovered. 

So it’s not that the museum had me feeling nostalgic, though at points, I absolutely was feeling that. 

It’s that it made me grateful and impressed. 

Grateful and impressed that somewhere there was once a group of designers who cared enough to get on the ground. 

To see the world through someone else’s eyes.

To imagine what it would be like to be small and seeing this for the first time.

To be curious.

All of this is exactly why you can often find me performing a plank in a client’s home to check out a funky air register that’s hiding in an awfully inconvenient spot. 

Turns out,  the best designers are willing to get on the ground.