Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum And Other Adventures In Boston

by sarahcoggrave

Faced with a rainy start to my Boston stay, I sought refuge in one of many of the city’s museums.

The Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum showcases an impressive collection of art and artefacts, accumulated by Isabella Stewart Gardner – a noted patron of the arts. Gardner began travelling and aquiring art following the tragic death of her only child – a son who died from pneumonia at the age of two. She spent three decades exploring the world with her husband Jack, and subseqently shared her discoveries, now housed at the museum. In her will, alongside donations to various charitable organisations, Isabella specifically outlined her vision for the museum, which now continues to preserve her legacy for future visitors.

This noble venture sounded great in principle – the range of materials on display was impressive, but for me it was all a little too crowded; I felt as if the individual pieces didn’t always have space to breathe.

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The architecture of the building deserved its own share of the limelight, but perhaps at times also distracted from the accompanying exhibitions and individual museum pieces. A sort of cultural and historical overload perhaps.

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I couldn’t help but be reminded of my visit to Alcazar in Seville – strange to see bits and pieces of my trip appropriated in other, geographically distant places. Indeed, the museum architecture took inspiration from a multitude of historical and geographical locations.

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And of course the ubiquitous selfie invitation.

Why is it necessary to take selfies everywhere? Are places themselves no longer enough?

To be fair, photography was not permitted in many parts of the museum, so it was reassuring to know that the courtyard was exempt from said restriction.

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One thing that occasionally distresses me at museums and galleries is hearing well-meaning but domineering parents instruct their children on each piece on display. Some of the most creative and wonderful interpretations I’ve heard offered inside cultural institutions have come from children, and it is crushing to witness them being told what something is or means, before they’ve had a chance to figure out their own interpretation.

I only mention this because I observed it in action during my visit, I’m all for education and the sharing of knowledge, but shouldn’t this also be coupled with some space for imagination and mystery?

Rant over. I must admit I felt uncomfortable in the museum – it was filled to bursting point, and many visitors were rude – there was a surprising amount of pushing and shoving. I can imagine that the beautiful courtyard would be tranquil on a quieter day (it was a Sunday), and that even the rooms, chock full of art and decoration, would have seemed less claustrophobic without huge crowds to battle through.

To my perhaps uneducated eye, the collection seemed to closely resemble many that I’ve witnessed in visits to stately homes, palaces and more traditional museums over the years. The whole Grand Tour era, in which wealthy Western travellers toured European cultural sites, and later, the more exotic pilgrimages made to the East, the Orient, and beyond, seems to have historically spawned particular types of cultural tourism and art collecting.

The museum deserves a more in-depth review, but I didn’t make enough notes to do this accurately. I was eager to escape the crowds, even if this meant braving the rain for a while, taking the opportunity to explore more of Boston.

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I must admit to have been intrigued by the Tea Party Museum (I encountered it briefly in passing) but was unwilling to gamble on another large entrance fee in the same day. Like the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, the attraction was surrounded by queues, and would undoubtedly have been busy. Loved the historical sailing vessels outside though – there were two!

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Instead I visited the Fire Museum; a smallish building filled vintage fire engines, museum pieces and burly men discussing the dangers of fire (and military service experience).

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There were some nice pieces – not just the old engines, but also some charming models, historical uniform examples and plenty of paraphernalia.

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Outside the rain occasionally let up, running rivulets along seeping piles of sodden snow.

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As usual, an impromptu walking tour offers plenty of unexpected insights into a city, missed when travelling by subway or bus.

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Unexpected art, for instance, and, perhaps more surprisingly, Primark. When did Primark come to the US?!

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I had hoped to walk the Freedom Trail, but as my leaky boots filled with water, I realised that this, and the rain, would make things a little impractical.

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When I planned this Boston visit, I imagined visiting green parks, walking along the river and admiring the historical parts of the city. Instead I found it, like Chicago, buried deep under the grip of an unusually late winter spell.

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I climbed Beacon Hill…

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…and dodged puddles of sludge on Boston Common.

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Then a little adventure when I got back to the hostel.

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My unseen roommates of the previous night had all but disappeared, except one – an aloof girl who ignored my tentative smile upon entering the room.

Shortly after my return, a trio of waspish St Patrick’s Day revellers trooped in, wearing elaborate (and revealing) costumes and make-up, their luggage housed in designer bags.

They passed a condescending look at me and my plain clothes, before getting pally with Roommate Number 1. This was quite unlike my other hostel experiences – even in the less desirable hostels, I’d rarely met roommates who were unwilling to part with a smile or a hello. Perhaps I wasn’t posh enough for Boston?

Later the strangest occupant arrived – an older lady, who seemed a little out of things – after uttering a few strange comments, she went to bed. The other girls left, and I took a shower in the shower room outside. I then returned for an early night. Shortly after nodding off, I was woken by the sounds of people talking, then hurriedly exiting the dorm. Then the smell – at first I thought someone was eating something strong smelling, then as it got worse, I slowly realised the horrible truth, and made a fast exit myself, bumping into one of the hostel staff, who had seemingly been alerted to the situation.

I felt sorry for the older lady – she evidently had problems of some sort, and was not quite aware of what was going on, but it would be impossible, not to say unhygienic, to stay in the room. Fortunately the hostel organised a new room. This one was overheated, but the roommates were friendly, and it was clean.

See also:

Boston’s Icy Welcome

Amtrak: Not Fit For Purpose?

America

Europe

Japan