“I am a visual learner.”

“My learning style is kinesthetic, I forgot what that even means.”

I am old. Back in my day, there was only one grade school learning style: memorization. This “style” was strictly enforced by the edge of a 12-inch ruler.

I was interested in learning styles because it may directly correlate to interpretive exhibit design, which relies heavily on non-personal interpretation. Learning styles just felt intuitive, common sensical. It did not take long to discover that I, and apparently a large swath of educators, implemented this theory before confirming it. To ensure we are all on the same page, learning styles is widely used to describe how learners gather, sift through, interpret, organize, come to conclusions about, and “store” information for further use.

There are four learning styles: visual, auditory, kinesthetic, and reading/writing.

Despite a study from 2009 (the most cited learning styles study per Google) named “Learning Styles: Concepts and Evidence,” which largely questions the veracity of the theory, the theory persists.

A summary of the findings includes: “… at present, there is no adequate evidence base to justify incorporating learning styles assessments into general educational practice.”

To ensure this 2009 study had not been overturned, I found 2024 articles maintaining their mythological status.

For interpretive planners and content developers, there is a similar concept that does have research backing: multi-modal learning. Multi-modal learning is when multiple modes of learning, e.g., visual and auditory, are used simultaneously. This practice enhances comprehension.

I will take multi-modal learning over memorization and rulers any day of the week

The post The Interpretation Sceptic: Is Your Learning Style a Thing? appeared first on Taylor Studios.

The contents? Some dead, dry stems from a shrub—more specifically, a creosote bush.

Creosote bush grows throughout the Sonoran, Chihuahuan, and Mojave deserts. It’s not very unusual looking, and its flowers, while attractive, are hardly the most dazzling. It can’t be used for culinary purposes, and it isn’t prized in the nursery trade.

So why did I send away for this small bundle of twigs?

The answer was clear before I’d even removed the damp paper wrapping. It was a muggy morning after a heavy thunderstorm—the perfect time for this plant to put on a show. Not with its looks, but with its smell.

If you’ve spent time in the desert southwest just before a rain, you’ll know the scent of creosote bush. It comes from an aromatic resin in the plant’s waxy leaves. It perfumes the humid air as soon as rolling thunderclouds approach, signaling that the wild creatures of the desert are about to show themselves. To me, it smells like celebration.

Smell is a powerful sense, and in human beings, it’s closely tied to our memories.

On many occasions, I’ve witnessed people of diverse ages and backgrounds immediately responding to smell. A whiff of orange blossom water might remind someone of a carefree childhood playing among the citrus gloves of Florida. The aroma of crushed cloves could instantly evoke memories of a walk through a spice market in Indonesia—even if it happened 30 years ago.

Our senses play an incredible role in engaging with the world. The more that we use them, the more we seem to understand. And yet, a significant number of museum exhibits seem to limit visitors to the use of sight.

It is often said that human beings are “visual creatures.” For many people, sight is one of the quickest ways to receive and process information. But it is not the only way, nor is it always the most reliable or informative. A person without the ability to see could still enjoy, appreciate, and understand the magic of creosote bush just as much as a person with excellent eyesight.

At TSI, we strive to incorporate multi-sensory experiences into our exhibits. We have replicated aromas ranging from ripe pawpaw fruit to the inside of a decomposing log. Touchable models introduce visitors to the rough texture of a shagbark hickory tree, or the smoothness of a painted turtle’s shell. Immersive soundscapes call attention to the insect chorus of a forest in late evening, or the heart-pounding rumble of approaching floodwaters.

As exhibit designers, we value the “tried and trusted” use of visual information. But forging connections, sharing facts, and making lasting memories extends far beyond the use of sight. We not only hope to make our visits fun, educational, and inclusive for people of all backgrounds and abilities. We also aim to challenge our existing perceptions and experiences by exploring nature, history, and culture through all that the varied human senses have to offer. This paves the way for engaging discussions and new understanding of our world.

What are some of the sights, sounds, textures, smells, and other sensations that you would want visitors to experience as they explore your favorite places?

TSI enjoys working with clients who aim to capture the sensory experiences of their sites. Our exhibits have the power to help make those sites accessible, understandable, and enjoyable for all.

My heart is thankful for the memory of creosote bush.

What’s your sensory story?

The post Sensory Stories: Awakening Memories with Smell, Sound, and Touch appeared first on Taylor Studios.

It wasn’t all that morose. The best part of this adulting activity was determining our tombstone inscriptions. We set out to create uplifting, perhaps motivational, last thoughts to be set in granite. My wife’s inscription was truly beautiful. Not to be outdone, so was mine.

I decided to have etched the following:

Herein lies Pete, a man who never met an exhibit flip door he liked.

I have never been a person of moderation, so let me give it a shot: I have occasionally witnessed exhibit flip doors I liked. They attained the status of exhibit interactivity.

Before designing exhibit flip doors, ask yourself the following questions to determine if they can be considered truly interactive.

If I was to discover consistent use of truly interactive exhibit flip doors, I may have enough time to revise my epitaph.

Herein lies Pete, a man who never understood dust ruffles or wicker baskets.

The post The Exhibit Flip Door – A False Sense of Interactivity? appeared first on Taylor Studios.

Wrong.

I am a First Generation American. When my family arrived in this country in 1992, only my parents spoke English. Every day of every summer, while school was out of session for me, they went to work. I spent the days with my grandmother. We did all the usual things: played outside, did arts and crafts, saw friends. But most importantly, we took the train to Chicago and went to the museums and zoos. Between her incredibly limited English (please, thank you, help, bathroom) and my elementary school reading level (my earliest museum memories start around kindergarten), we were a pair who may not have gotten much joy out of exhibits. Yet, we did. We came back many times. We spent hours at the Field Museum and Brookfield Zoo. When I got a bit older, we added the Art Institute of Chicago to our travels.

Thinking back, I don’t remember labels, copy, or brochures. I remember images. Without much command of the English language, we didn’t just get by on museum days. We thrived. I am grateful to this day for the exhibit designers, graphic designers, and interpretive planners who kept universal access in mind as they worked. Even without the copy, the exhibits drew me in, took me on a journey, and made sense as stories. Regardless of language or ability, their work was impactful. Looking up at Sue the T. Rex, I didn’t need to know that she was alive during the Cretaceous Period, lived to be 28 years old, or was discovered in 1990 in South Dakota. All I needed to know, I knew by looking at her. She was the center of attention. She pulled my eye as soon as I was through the doors. And once she had me, I knew that this museum was going to be cool. I was willing to walk through every door and look in every corner if it meant seeing another dinosaur, or something equally awesome. No language necessary.

My early museum memories are made up of images like Sue. I remember waxworks of early Homo Sapiens in their rich furs. Without being able to read the copy around them, I understood that they cooked over fires, used every part of the animals they caught, and lived in family structures that looked like my own. I remember colorful pottery from places whose names I didn’t know. I didn’t need to be aware of Greek, Roman, or Mayan history to understand that each culture had its own way of decorating objects and worked with shapes unique to their needs. I remember watching chicks hatch at the Museum of Science and Industry. I never needed to read a word about their life cycle, how long they took to hatch, or the temperature in the incubator. What I remember is marveling at the ways life begins for different creatures.

These core experiences that formed my life-long love of learning were built in such a way that anyone and everyone could enjoy them. As a designer, these memories and the paradigm behind them are always top of mind as I work. Show, don’t tell. A powerful statement piece goes farther than many tiny pieces. The flow of a space tells its story as much as the words that accompany it. Words can be ignored, but feelings can’t. An artifact can speak for itself. Exhibits are for everyone.

The post The Visual Language Paradigm: Exhibit Design for Universal Access appeared first on Taylor Studios.

Once, I was travelling with co-workers and flew on the wrong plane.

Once, I sat on an artifact (chair) in an Austrian castle because I was thinking about my least favorite vegetable.

I consider myself perfect.

Perfect to judge the effectiveness of a site’s exhibit wayfinding system.

As I navigate through the world, I consistently lose my navigational bearings. This loss seems pronounced in informal learning centers. I blame this on my lack my attention to detail, inability to get out of my own thoughts, and vulnerability to distraction.

I have a need for clear and concise exhibit wayfinding. And other visitors do too.

Exhibit Wayfinding Enhances Visitor Experiences

All museums, nature centers, and other informal learning venues have some system of wayfinding. Unfortunately, the effectiveness of these systems varies significantly.

Top-notch wayfinding benefits visitors in many ways.

If your exhibit wayfinding needs evaluation, we would welcome the opportunity…assuming I can board the right airplane.

The post Exhibit Wayfinding: An Undervalued Visitor Need appeared first on Taylor Studios.

Maybe you’ve lived this situation, or maybe it haunts you in the occasional anxiety dream. Either way, it’s time to flip it on its head. Instead of running away or waking in a cold sweat, I want to suggest an alternate ending. When everyone says “I hate it,” know you’ve done your job well and say “thank you.”

The key reason for presenting anything to a group is to get feedback. Unless you’re a professional giving a concert, acting in a play, or opening a gallery, showing your work to people is a step in the growth process. No artistic pursuit is honed in a vacuum; without outside input and inspiration, art is a stagnant, uninspired thing. Why, then, is it so hurtful to be told something you’ve created isn’t the work of genius you thought it was?

So, how can you take these feelings and transmute them into a place of gratitude? By remembering that “I hate it” is much, much more useful than most other feedback you can receive. Hate is as strong as love but comes equipped with action items. When someone is asked to explain the reason for their hate, the answer is rarely, if ever, “I don’t know.” Love can be a generalized feeling but luckily, hate is always directed.

“I hate the color scheme, it’s so jarring!”

“I hate all the angles, they’re so sharp!”

“I hate how cluttered it looks, it makes me claustrophobic!”

As opposed to: “I love it, it’s so pretty!”

You take my point. Hate tells you how to fix it, love tells you nothing. As designers, we are driven by action items. Hate provides those.

I often say that all feedback is positive feedback, including negative feedback. The one caveat I feel obligated to mention at this point is that the only thing about this job that I hate is hearing the words “I like it/it’s fine.” If love is unhelpful and hate is useful, the overt apathy of like and fine are nails in the coffin of creativity. The inherent apathy of these lukewarm sentiments gives you nothing – no passion, no strong feelings, not even a sense of whether revision is necessary. Honestly, when someone tells me something is fine, I lose any drive to revise or improve it; if they can’t be bothered to have a strong feeling, I won’t spend my time making it into something I’m proud of. Give me hate over apathy any day.

When all is said and done, the point of feedback, especially from client to design team, is to improve the product. Feedback fuels revision and makes the end product something the team is proud of and the client is happy to have. While a client’s hate is never personal, the excitement they feel about a carefully revised, customized, and unique design is the best compliment I can receive. Stewarding a design from hate to joy can’t exist without direct, often hard to hear feedback. In turn, this feedback leads to growth, passion, and art.

So truly and honestly, when someone tells you they hate it, smile and tell them thanks.

The post “Thanks, I Hate it!”: Reframing Negative Feedback appeared first on Taylor Studios.

Each place has its charms, but few call to me like the deserts of the American southwest. These vast and arid lands remain my favorite places to explore, learn, and reflect.

While working as an interpretive ranger in the Sonoran Desert of southern Arizona, I encountered hundreds of curious visitors and transplants who were unfamiliar with desert ecology. I wanted to learn about their first impressions.

Many of these people set out to read the desert landscape in the same ways that they had interacted with the leafy parks of their hometowns in eastern and northern states. I learned that this could leave them with misleading and even negative views of my desert home. “Empty, scary, disorienting, deadly, sparse, brutal” were all words that I heard on more than one occasion.

Indeed, the Sonoran Desert can be a land of extremes—from soaring summer temperatures to violent flash floods and spectacular lightning storms. But it is also a land of delicate wildflowers, ancient rock etchings, and enchanting creatures that creep about in the moonlight.

I wanted to share all of these positive features of the desert with the people who attended my programs. But there were challenges involved.

How easy would it be to share the Queen of the Night: a cactus that resembles a dead and shriveled tree branch for most of the year, but sporadically blooms in early summer with huge vanilla-scented flowers that open just after sundown? How could I guide visitors through the complex tunnels and chambers of a kangaroo rat’s burrow system, where the small and furry inhabitants could survive solely on a diet of dry seeds? What about the desert pipevine, with a flower that looks and smells like a mouse’s ear, so it can lure and trap the blood-sucking gnats that pollinate it? Or the quiet and lumbering Gila monster—with scales like beadwork—which only surfaces from its subterranean home for a few days each year?

I realized that many of the desert’s most magnificent spectacles tend to take place under the cover of darkness, whether deep underground or well after nightfall. And many took a very long time to observe, unraveling slowly over weeks, months, or even years. Sometimes it was a matter of sheer luck.

Much of the knowledge that I had gained about the desert came from countless individuals who lived with the land and observed it over many centuries. Without their patience, curiosity, and contributions, most of these beautiful mysteries would have been lost on me.

Thankfully, there are a few ways that interpreters can share “secret knowledge” with visitors while remaining captivating, engaging, and relevant.

One way is the power of the written word—either through engaging graphic panels or books and pamphlets that tell coherent stories. Another is through dynamic illustrations, stop-motion film, or animations that condense the passage of time into digestible pieces. Some interpreters are gifted

storytellers who can excite audiences with the simple yet powerful gift of a campfire tale. Some curate specimens and artifacts that reveal what is normally out of view, and some even have the power to freeze time or transport visitors for a brief moment.

If the prickly pear cacti weren’t fruiting, I could offer pieces of pinkish-red homemade candy so visitors could still experience the refreshing sweetness of cactus fruit. I could reach into my backpack and reveal a bag of small cookies made from coarsely-ground mesquite flour, or a jar or tangly nopales—gifts of the desert that connected visitors with the land through the timeless experience of taste.

In museums and nature centers, we are offered the special opportunity to both remove and connect visitors from their environment, sometimes simultaneously. We can use natural objects, historical relics, video and audio recordings, diagrams, photographs, topographic maps, lifelike models, and yes, sometimes even candy and cookies, to work the magic of revealing what is normally hidden.

When working with TSI to design your dream exhibit, try thinking like a magician. What secrets and illusions are present at your site? How would you want to transport your visitors through time and space? What would you reveal to create a big “WOW!” among your audience? Share your visions with us, and let’s create something truly special!

The post Revealing What is Hidden: Interpretive Investigation appeared first on Taylor Studios.

This predisposition to choose the status quo got me thinking about nature center exhibits. Could SQB account, at least partially, for the conformity of nature center exhibits?

If so, it is the role of exhibit designers and content developers to shoulder creative bravery and bring fresh ideas to the client—ideas clients may never have contemplated. Unique exhibit ideas and their enumerated advantages are features of a well-conceived exhibit design process. What site would choose not to stand apart from all others if provided a viable opportunity?

There is a design approach to do just that and it does not eliminate any visitors’ favorite nature center exhibits: bird songs, binoculars, animal pelts, live animals, dioramas, etc.

The Story’s the Thing

Humans have shared compelling and meaningful stories long before the first nature center was built. Google “science of storytelling” if you have a month of free time to rabbit-hole the physiological and mental effects of story—from endorphin release, to cortisol reduction, to enhanced content recall.

Freeman Tilden understood the power of story. In chapter four, “The Story’s the Thing,” from Tilden’s Interpreting Our Heritage, he states:

Utilizing Tilden’s “devices of language” in nature center exhibits can offer extraordinary, memorable visitor experiences that transcend the status quo.

Here is a thought experiment. Imagine a nature center uses an overarching story as its language device. The story is seamless, thought-provoking, and present throughout the entirety of the gallery. Every diorama, every touchable pelt, every bird call exhibit serves to further the grand narrative, which starts in the lobby and continues on the exterior grounds. Every element of the site is utilized to propel interpretation.

Perhaps a narrator presents the story throughout. Perhaps the story is revealed through diary entries. Perhaps an “enemy” and “hero” character are involved. The options are as limitless as the storytelling techniques available.

If you are looking to distinguish your nature center exhibits from others, let’s bypass SQB and choose the road less travelled…together.

A quick note about central themes. A nature center’s central theme provides the content focus of exhibits. Central themes do not dictate the method used to reveal content focus.

The post A Simple Addition to Nature Center Exhibits to Enhance Meaning and Memory Making appeared first on Taylor Studios.

Scenic design is the holistic creation of a stage environment. The scenic designer is the first artist whose work an audience sees as they enter the theatre. Before the play has even started, the scenery is visible (or strategically obscured), setting the mood before a single word is spoken. Without the input of other design areas or actors, an audience is left to sit with the scenery and their thoughts. Much like walking into an exhibit without an on-site interpreter, the time before a play begins is a self-guided tour of the set.

The process of scenic design, much like the process of exhibit design, is content-driven. The guiding question behind every choice is “Does this serve the story?”. If a set is beautiful but fails to aid in telling the story, it has not served its purpose. This principle carried over easily to exhibit design. Every aesthetic choice must be driven by content. There is no place for doing something because it looks cool or because the team wants to try out a new idea; it only has a home in the exhibit if is serving the content. Just as a scenic designer works with a director and producer in theatre, an exhibit designer works with an interpretive planner and art director.

Another key similarity between scenic design and exhibit design is the presence of an audience. Visitors to an exhibit are guided by the flow of the space, the layout of artifacts, and the order in which they encounter content. While they don’t have actors or a plot to bring them through to the other side, they are still on the receiving end of a narrative. Every element of the exhibit – the placement of each reader rail, image, and model, the shape and theming of each display – comes together to guide visitors through their learning. At the end, they have been told a story composed by the art of the design team, just like seeing a piece of immersive theatre. All we’re missing is the playbill.

As I grow more comfortable with the discipline of exhibit design, I have come to appreciate the pace of this work. At TSI, we create exhibits that last years or even decades. As such, we take the time we need to do justice to the longevity of our work. The pace of theatre is breakneck. A play can go from initial design conference to opening night in as little as two months. I’m still not accustomed to the idea of working on each design phase for as long as I used to spend on an entire project. The care and attention this inspires is a change I’m very much excited for. Not sprinting through my ideas and scrambling to keep up with deliverables will be a welcome change. Lasting art that carries lasting impact deserves time, care, and focus.

While starting my journey as an exhibit designer has pulled me squarely out of my comfort zone, it has also challenged and inspired me in all the familiar ways. I still spend my days telling stories through setting, pouring over books of colors, and learning new facts that give context to my work. I am still a theatre artist, only now my stage is brighter, bigger, and longer lasting.

The post From Limelight to Daylight: Transitioning into Exhibit Design appeared first on Taylor Studios.

During a client workshop, the development of a central theme becomes the guiding principle that shapes the rest of the exhibit design. It answers the most fundamental questions that transform our “mansion of assorted objects” into something approachable, educational, meaningful, and fun.

What do we want visitors to walk away with in their hearts and minds? What is most relevant or captivating?

Answering these questions can require some difficult decisions. Which objects stay on display, and which get moved into collections? Which facts are essential to our story, and which can be left out? Opinions can be strongly divided when it comes to such questions. This why we work with clients from the very beginning to develop a common vocabulary and shared vision for our exhibits.

A central theme should ideally be summarized in a complete sentence. It should represent a cohesive idea. It should support a point of view, and it should forge connections between tangible resources and intangible feelings or ideas.

Interpretive philosophy draws upon the evidence that people tend to remember stories more than facts. Of course, facts are an essential part of any good exhibit—but sharing facts should not be our end goal. Just as we want visitors to learn new things, we also want to facilitate personal and emotional connections to the resources that we interpret.

At one time, our imaginary “mansion full of objects” might have been divided into different rooms displaying rigidly categorized artifacts: paintings, garden tools, or action figures. The exhibit labels would have described these objects in their most tangible sense: their date of manufacture, the materials used to create them, and their intended purpose.

In the preset day, a TSI workshop could breathe new life, meaning, energy, and dimensions of understanding into the same space and objects. It could delve beyond facts to pose meaningful, open-ended questions that inspire self-reflection and dialogue: How do objects help us to define our concept of “home”? How do we ascribe different meanings to the same physical space? How do we relate to our home through different stages of life?

All of these questions could set us on the right track for crafting a strong central theme that captivates and inspires visitors.

Are you dreaming of a new exhibit that accomplishes these goals and more? Let TSI join you for an exciting journey as we work together to build a perfect central theme!

The post Beyond Facts: Crafting a Strong Central Theme appeared first on Taylor Studios.