Is it possible that there is a lingering vestige of exclusivity at the heart of our museums? Surely not. After all, transforming museums into super-accessible, open-door Establishments is the Holy Grail for directors today.
Hands-on, fun exhibits mean the kiddies don't feel left out; adult-only spaces such as the Dana Centre at the Science Museum give an X-rated frisson for the grown-ups and 'Hey-guys-let's-all-hang-out- down-the-museum' advertising campaigns and ciabatta and cappuccino in the cafe add the cool factor.
Scrapping admission charges at national museums was also a resounding success in terms of getting punters through the doors. In the first year, total attendance figures increased by an average of nearly 70 per cent.
So on the face of it, with their sophisticated, interactive multimedia displays, smart bars and well-stocked shops, museums might almost be attempting to rival Bluewater or the multiplex in terms of mass appeal. But it seems there are limits to their inclusivity. Ice-cream sellers and the lottery game remain beyond the pale.
Vendors who have sold cornets for decades outside the Royal Scottish Academy (recently revamped to the tune of £30m) are now being told to melt away. The official line is that the ice-cream and hamburger pit stops are a hazard to pedestrians and spoil the view of the listed buildings on Edinburgh's Mound.
But the traders detect a distinct whiff of snobbery. 'It's a small minority who are offended by the kiosks. Most people support us,' says Tom McManus, whose family have run an ice-cream and soft-drinks van on the Mound for 80 years. Another vendor pointed out that many gallery staff are enthusiastic snackers; as were the teams who worked on the renovation project itself.
Surely the National Galleries of Scotland is missing a golden opportunity here to extend its appeal? Instead of attempting to brush away vendors, they could gather them into the fold as ambassadors for the museum.
A facsimile of a popular work in each outlet, a bit of informative patter alongside the burger-flipping, and the fast-food fans of Edinburgh would no doubt be flocking straight into the galleries (after finishing their snacks and washing their hands, of course).
Meanwhile, Camelot is keen to see more obvious links with the lottery game in many museums and galleries. After all, lottery funding has given millions of pounds to some of our greatest cultural organisations over the past decade. As a ticket-buying member of the public, I am right behind Camelot.
If one is happy to soak up lottery cash, it seems only fair to acknowledge loud and clear that, however high-brow the recipient, the money came from one of the most populist sources in the country. (If the lottery were to send me just a single million, I would be more than happy to thank them as ostentatiously as they could wish.)
Those of us who fork out our weekly quid like to have an idea of where it goes. As well as propping up the health service and education system, even us proles wot buy lottery tickets might like to think that culture's getting a look-in too.
Hester Lacey
Hands-on, fun exhibits mean the kiddies don't feel left out; adult-only spaces such as the Dana Centre at the Science Museum give an X-rated frisson for the grown-ups and 'Hey-guys-let's-all-hang-out- down-the-museum' advertising campaigns and ciabatta and cappuccino in the cafe add the cool factor.
Scrapping admission charges at national museums was also a resounding success in terms of getting punters through the doors. In the first year, total attendance figures increased by an average of nearly 70 per cent.
So on the face of it, with their sophisticated, interactive multimedia displays, smart bars and well-stocked shops, museums might almost be attempting to rival Bluewater or the multiplex in terms of mass appeal. But it seems there are limits to their inclusivity. Ice-cream sellers and the lottery game remain beyond the pale.
Vendors who have sold cornets for decades outside the Royal Scottish Academy (recently revamped to the tune of £30m) are now being told to melt away. The official line is that the ice-cream and hamburger pit stops are a hazard to pedestrians and spoil the view of the listed buildings on Edinburgh's Mound.
But the traders detect a distinct whiff of snobbery. 'It's a small minority who are offended by the kiosks. Most people support us,' says Tom McManus, whose family have run an ice-cream and soft-drinks van on the Mound for 80 years. Another vendor pointed out that many gallery staff are enthusiastic snackers; as were the teams who worked on the renovation project itself.
Surely the National Galleries of Scotland is missing a golden opportunity here to extend its appeal? Instead of attempting to brush away vendors, they could gather them into the fold as ambassadors for the museum.
A facsimile of a popular work in each outlet, a bit of informative patter alongside the burger-flipping, and the fast-food fans of Edinburgh would no doubt be flocking straight into the galleries (after finishing their snacks and washing their hands, of course).
Meanwhile, Camelot is keen to see more obvious links with the lottery game in many museums and galleries. After all, lottery funding has given millions of pounds to some of our greatest cultural organisations over the past decade. As a ticket-buying member of the public, I am right behind Camelot.
If one is happy to soak up lottery cash, it seems only fair to acknowledge loud and clear that, however high-brow the recipient, the money came from one of the most populist sources in the country. (If the lottery were to send me just a single million, I would be more than happy to thank them as ostentatiously as they could wish.)
Those of us who fork out our weekly quid like to have an idea of where it goes. As well as propping up the health service and education system, even us proles wot buy lottery tickets might like to think that culture's getting a look-in too.
Hester Lacey
