I enjoy house museums, idiosyncratic as they are. Famous or not, people can disguise their defects when in public, but hiding them at home demands watchfulness and discipline. Living, lounging, and sleeping among artifice is the curse of kings and queens, who work 24/7. It’s not that house museums expose warts and all. A good house museum is where the veil on privacy and inscrutability is pulled back. Inside can be accretions over centuries, in the case of an old family house, or the work of one or two egos, preferably with good taste. And whether we realize it or not, our possessions define a big part of who we are.
The best look and feel as if the owners might have just left to do errands, with, of course, beds made, dishes washed, and spittoons emptied. So a house museum has to keep its authenticity as a home while playing its good-citizen role as a museum. As pickled in aspic as it might be, museum-quality lighting and interpretation are useful. And as a house museum, it needs to be static enough to keep faith with those who called it home but vivacious enough to draw repeat visitors.






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