Tuesday, 26 May 2015

Pirates of the South Pacific: a Crown Lynn story

[David Jenkin (1919-2002?), modeller?] for Ambrico Ltd, 'Paris' earthenware bowl, [about 1948]. Based on a British wartime Utility design,
 the bowl was produced using a second-hand press moulding machine imported from England in 1947.
Crown Lynn, the brand name adopted in 1948 by the industrial porcelain (sic) department of the Auckland brick and tile manufacturer Ambrico Ltd has, in recent years, become synonymous with an idea that New Zealanders, when pushed, can turn themselves to producing anything. In this meme Crown Lynn is envisaged as a 'New Zealand icon'; it's a manifestation of a 'number eight wire' mentality; an example of how a plucky New Zealand entrepreneur can build a 'world class' business from scratch, notwithstanding the interference of – usually socialist – governments; and it was compelled to close due to a combination the abolition of the protective tariff and action of bloody-minded unions, unwilling to accept change. More than anything though, it's products are perceived as embodying 'Kiwiana', a term defined by the sociologist Claudia Bell for 'New Zealand locally-produced objects from the post-war period: everyday objects, once prosaic, [which] are now the stuff of wilful nostalgia.' <C Bell, 'Not really beautiful but iconic: New Zealand's Crown Lynn ceramics', Journal of Design History, 25:4 (2012), 414-426, p. 414> It's a compelling myth, all the more so for being a significant distortion of the history of the pottery. It is a carefully confected narrative fostered by the company and, since its demise, by collectors of the factory's wares.

At the beginning of May 2015 Te Toi Uku, the Portage Ceramics Trust, launched a small, entrance-by-appointment 'museum', Te Toi Uku Clayworks, in premises located on land that had previously formed a part of the Ambrico Ltd site. More a display storage facility with a limited on-line access handle than a museum, it's based around a collection formed by the late Richard Quinn (1946-2009) who, following the closure of the pottery in 1989, retrieved a vast array of material from the abandoned works. Although untrained and lacking in any institutional support, Quinn's collecting was of critical significance in terms of a future understanding of when, how and what the factory produced. His work in preserving not only the shards, moulds and other relics of the factory but also its associated documentation was remarkably similar in intent to the actions of the Museum of Applied Arts & Sciences in Sydney in the early 1980s to collect and preserve what was left of the productions of the architectural fittings manufacturer, Wunderlich Ltd, at its Redfern factory.
Opening of Te Toi Uku Clayworks display storage facility in New Lynn, 2 May 2015.
David Cunliffe MP, Facebook
The difference between the two recovery operations is that the Wunderlich rescue was undertaken by trained professionals, received financial assistance from the factory's owner, CSR Building Products,  and was, ultimately, stored under climate-controlled conditions. By contrast Quinn's activities, although condoned by the company owning the closed works, were unfunded, unsystematic and initially at least stored in what was a tin shed. In 1993, the Waitakere City Council employed heavy-handed techniques to exclude Quinn from the site and effectively confiscated his collection on dubious legal grounds. After seven years of legal tussling the council grudgingly paid Quinn $130,000 for the collection that forms the basis of Te Toi Uku.
A selection of Crown Lynn ceramics on display in the New Lynn Library building, May 2015. Lighting is not optimal
Having no dedicated premises in which to either store or display the material, the city council installed a small selection of wares in the newly constructed New Lynn library - in a corridor leading to the public toilets. Following the demise of the Waitakere City Council with the advent of the Auckland unitary council, ownership of the collection was transferred to the Portage Ceramics Trust.
Milton Pottery, Press-moulded earthenware ewer decorated with 'Sailing Boats' transfer prints, [about 1880].
The pottery also made tableware decorated with the English-designed transfer prints.
Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (CG001651)
Despite the ready availability of the raw materials, the production of ceramics in New Zealand has always been a risk. Historically, the local market was small and, being far removed from the flow of new patterns and fashions, was deeply conservative in its buying habits. As in most colonial economies, consumers were satisfied by a steady stream of English-made wares entering the country under preferential tariffs. There were attempts to establish a ceramics industry, following a traditional provincial British pattern, which saw brick and tile works expand their production to include 'fancies' such as crudely modelled vases and figures before moving into the production of more sophisticated ornamental and useful wares and, in a few instances, tablewares. The Milton Pottery, which operated in South Otago between 1873 and 1915 seems to have produced transfer-printed tableware from 1877 <G Henry, New Zealand pottery. 2nd ed. (Auckland: Reed, 1999),  p. 35>. While the quality of the wares produced at Milton may have been comparable with the low-end productions of Staffordshire, they were unable to compete in a market that not only favoured British productions but was also rigged by British manufacturers to ensure their continued dominance.

Given that it was not subject to competition from overseas manufacturers, brick making was in most instances a profitable industry: both raw materials and labour were relatively cheap and available and while the majority of the country's domestic building stock was of timber construction there was a growing demand for bricks for commercial buildings. During the 1920s a number of Auckland potteries were consolidated by the Clark family into a single concern the Amalgamated Brick and Pipe Company Ltd (Ambrico) giving them what amounted to a monopoly over brick and pipe production in the Auckland region. The company suffered during the Great Depression with the collapse of the building industry but the election of a Labour party government in 1935 prompted a turnaround in its fortunes. Labour's state housing programme not only launched a massive building spree but it also specified that the 3500 new homes intended to be built annually should be constructed of New Zealand materials. For Ambrico this meant an increase in the production of bricks and pipes and the cash-flow generated by expanded business enabled the company to diversify its output in 1938 into the production of dry-pressed tiles and electrical fittings. Responsibility for the concern was given to Thomas Edwin Clark (1917-2005), the 21 year old son of the managing director.

Ambrico's decision to expand its manufacturing base reflected the intent of legislation introduced into Parliament in 1936 by the new Labour administration. The Industrial Efficiency Act was intended 'to promote the economic welfare of New Zealand by providing for the promotion of new industries in the most economic form and by so regulating the general organisation, development and operation of industries that a greater measure of industrial efficiency will be secured.' Significantly, the Act also enabled government to provide monetary incentives to manufacturers. A further incentive for local manufacture came in 1938 when, due in part to capital flight and a consequent run on New Zealand overseas funds, the government introduced an import licensing scheme that sought to limit excessive imports of commodities whilst encouraging local industry. This remarkable shift in government policy attracted the ire not only of the British manufacturers and government but also local importers and the conservative opposition but it formed a solid foundation for Ambrico's later success.
Amalgamated Brick and Pipe Company, partially vitrified earthenware bowl produced for the United States Joint Purchasing Board
for use by United States service personnel in New Zealand, [about 1942-44].
Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (CG002430)
World War I had closed the rarely profitable Milton Pottery; World War II was the making of what became Crown Lynn. New Zealand's reliance on British ceramic manufacturers had significant repercussions when the supply was interrupted not only by the destruction of British plants and the enemy's control of shipping lanes but also by the repurposing of industry. Ornamental 'china' imports dropped from a value of £80,000 in 1938 to a mere £9,000 in 1941. Worse hit were the institutional users of 'hotel ware', the utilitarian tableware used in hotels, schools, the railways and the military. The situation was exacerbated in 1942 with the arrival in New Zealand of elements of the United States armed forces.  In order to deal with this unanticipated demand the National Supply Council, which had been established in 1936, realised that it would have to kick start local production and instructed the Department of Industries and Commerce to locate a suitable concern. In conjunction with the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research, Clark investigated the availability of suitable clay bodies and began production of crude but serviceable substitutes for the imported wares. Further state assistance came when the concern was declared an Essential Industrial Undertaking, enabling it to obtain labour and essential imported raw materials and to construct a new, semi automated factory.

With a captive, almost competition-free, market and a new, government-subsidised, plant, Ambrico expanded its production to include domestic tablewares, imitating the form, if not the quality of British Utility wares, with their 'reduction of form to a bare ascetic minimum with the total elimination of any colouration', to employ Graham McLaren's evocative description of the type <G McLaren, 'Utility forgot: shaping the future of the British pottery industry 1941-45', in J Attfield, ed. Utility reassessed: the role of ethics in the practice of design (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1999), 157-170, p. 157>. They were not popular with local consumers more comfortable with the gaudier effusions of the British pre-war pottery industry. Moreover there were quality issues with the New Zealand version. Wholesalers complained that Ambrico wares 'had proved so unsatisfactory to handle, that by common consent of all the firm, the Directors and the travellers, we all preferred to do without it.'<G Jackson, in New Zealand Board of Trade, Public tariff inquiry. Tariff items 214 & 215, china ware, etc. Transcript of proceedings (1952). Archives New Zealand, IC/10/ACC W2537>.
Crown Lynn Potteries Ltd, 'Crown Lynn' earthenware plate, [about 1950]. The central transfer print was sourced in England and the delicate painting of the rim was undertaken by staff recruited in Staffordshire.
Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa (CG002482)
The end of the war saw the gradual dismantling of the restrictions and opportunities of the command economy and the resumption of ceramic imports from Britain. Nonetheless Ambrico was in a strong competitive position. British manufacturers were directing their output primarily to non Sterling bloc economies and import licensing combined with high tariffs on non-British production meant that other overseas manufacturers such as those in Europe and the United States were actively discriminated against by government fiat. Moreover a decision to devalue the New Zealand pound meant Ambrico was in a position to contemplate exporting its wares into the Australian market. In 1947 Clark accompanied by an Ambrico board member Len Stevens (1890-1973) travelled to the United Kingdom where, with the agreement of government, they acquired a number of second-hand machines, observed new patterns and shapes and recruited specialist workers amongst those dissatisfied with the grim conditions prevailing in post-war Britain. The inclusion of Stevens, an Auckland lawyer, chairman of the Dominion Breweries and a key confidant of the construction magnate James Fletcher, suggests Ambrico had been embraced by the Auckland business community.  In what would be recognised today as a blatant instance of intellectual piracy, Ambrico began producing imitations of British lines, more often than not ambiguously branded as being of 'British' origin and with names – such as 'Fancy Fayre', 'Regal Potteries' and 'Crown Lynn' – more redolent of the pot banks of Staffordshire than the industrial periphery of Auckland.
Keith Murray (1892-1981), designer, for  Josiah Wedgwood & Sons Ltd, earthenware vase shape no. 3765 (about 1930).
Shapiro Auctioneers, Sydney
Ernest Shufflebotham (1908-1994) for Crown Lynn Potteries Ltd, earthenware vase (about 1950).
Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, The Walter C Cook Decorative Art Collection, gift of Walter Cook, 1992 (CG001939)
Probably the most blatant example of piracy by the newly-formed Crown Lynn Potteries Ltd was its imitation of a series of vases produced by Josiah Wedgwood & Sons Ltd after designs by the architect of its Barlaston premises, Keith Murray. Murray's designs – he was not a potter – were popular amongst New Zealand consumers not least for Murray's tenuous connection with the country (he was born and spent his first fourteen years here) but they were expensive and scarce. Among the fifteen English staff recruited by Clark in 1947 was a former employee of the Wedgwood concern, Ernest Shufflebotham who, on his arrival at New Lynn in 1948 was set to producing imitations of the wares he had thrown and turned in England. Rather than exhibiting the finely-honed quality of the originals, Shufflebotham's reproductions while competently produced were crudely mechanical and dipped in thick white matt glazes that obscured the turned bands. In 1953, in an effort to further expand the company's consumer base, Clark employed a Dutch ceramic designer Frank Carpay to produce a range of modernistic hand painted wares under the self-consciously exotic 'Handwerk' label that captured the spirit if not the quality of some of the Scandinavian and Italian ceramics being imported in small quantities to satisfy a niche market for well-designed products. Clark declared that he was using Carpay's 'fine china' in a 'campaign to educate the public away from imported china of the "pretty rosebud" variety' <'No "museum pieces": new venture in the manufacture of china', New Zealand Manufacturer (15 December 1953), p. 35>.
Paul Champion, Queen Elizabeth II visiting Crown Lynn, 1963.
Sir George Grey Special Collections, Auckland Libraries (1055-1)
Crown Lynn's dependence on pirated designs suggests design was a problematic for the company and its management; an unresolved hiatus in the process of making, mediating and consuming the wares it produced. Clark's recruitment of English pottery workers along with the acquisition of relatively new machinery indicates an awareness of the problem. Moreover, Clark was an enthusiastic publicist and, from the start, Crown Lynn was prominently featured in the local press as well as being involved in trade fairs, retail displays and tours by the monarch, politicians and other celebrities. Clark seems to have gauged the local mass market well. By producing wares that imitated those of Staffordshire Crown Lynn responded to a consumer demand that, over decades, had been carefully groomed by import agents and retailers to appreciate the more traditional productions of English manufacturers.

These strategies were reactive and failed to address fundamental problems such as production quality which, compared with imported wares, remained crude. The English-recruited staff were all of relatively low status; craftsmen, not educated professionals. The machinery acquired in 1947 was technologically redundant even before it was installed: a British manufacturer observed that he was:
Staggered by some of the most basic principles employed [at Crown Lynn], which I cannot for the life of me imagine were put-in in 1947. If they had been put-in in 1897, I should have thought it would have been more reasonable [...] I mean some of this things there – take the casting: tub and bucket. Well it is going back to the days of bows and arrows <R Bloore, in New Zealand Board of Trade, Public tariff inquiry. Tariff items 214 & 215, china ware, etc. Transcript of proceedings (1952). Archives New Zealand, IC/10/ACC W2537>.
Worse still, the Labour administration's revaluation of the New Zealand pound in 1948 eliminated what had been a 25 per cent subsidy of the company's exports and the election of a National party administration in 1949 on a promise of ending import licensing seemed set to usher in a collapse of the hard-won domestic market but the company continued to expand. Notwithstanding Clark's claim that labour costs were high 'due to New Zealand's higher standard of living' it transpired that they were half those prevailing in England – largely due to a predominantly female workforce – and  could have been lower had production been more efficient. For its first twenty years Crown Lynn seems to have epitomised that quintessentially colonial mentality of 'cobbling things together on the cheap'.
Sparrow Industrial Pictures Ltd, [Women moulding handles for cups at Crown Lynn Potteries Ltd, (about 1955)].
Auckland War Memorial Museum Tāmaki Paenga Hira
By 1956 it was apparent that Crown Lynn was struggling to survive. Following a disastrous fire the company's banker, the British-owned National Bank of New Zealand Ltd instructed Clark to lay off staff: along with tens of production staff, Carpay was 'let go' and Shufflebotham returned to Wedgwood. Production was scaled back to those basic lines that were guaranteed to sell. This gloomy state of affairs seemed set to continue (Clark took to motor racing) when, at the general election of November 1957, a Labour government was returned with a slim majority. The new administration not only advocated an expansion of manufacturing but was also compelled to re-impose import licensing in an attempt to stabilise New Zealand's volatile currency. Moreover, in July 1960, it introduced tariff protection on a number of commodities produced by what were described as 'one-unit' industries; these included Crown Lynn.

Labour's industrial policy ensured Crown Lynn's survival, most notably its strategy of encouraging good design not only in the production of commodities but also in terms of educating retailers and consumers. In its annual report for 1959 the Department of Industries and Commerce asserted that 'In an age when technical skill is of such importance, the function of good design in unifying the qualities of utility, durability, harmony and balance is an important factor in [industrial] development.'<'Report of the Department of Industries and Commerce for the year ending 31 March 1959', AJHR, 4 (1959), H44, p. 19>. This officially-promoted focus on design did more than anything to change not only the appearance of Crown Lynn's products and how they were marketed but also the way the company's management understood that design was more than a concern for appearance but had an impact on every aspect of its activities.
Barry Woods, [Window display by Allan Smith at the Milne & Choyce department store, Palmerston North, about 1963]. Crown Lynn's changed attitude to design during the 1960s extended to controlling its retail image even in provincial New Zealand
Palmerston North City Library
Ambrico/Crown Lynn resorted to design piracy during the late 1940s and 50s because not only was it expedient but also, located at the end of the colonial supply chain, it could get away with it. What might have appeared to be a good business move – getting something for nothing and making a profit on it – in practice turned out to be a disaster. For all its publicity-driven bluster, Crown Lynn management's failure to recognise design as a process concealed a range of critical issues that it consistently failed to address. Its products were derivative, not 'iconic'; it's reliance on 'number eight wire' technology resulted in low production standards; its export 'success' was dependent on a cheap, largely female, labour force, tariff protection and an undervalued currency; its existence and continued survival was brokered on the initiatives of and the support provided by two Labour party administrations. Its heyday during the 1960s and 70s resulted from its adoption of a design led strategy of growth that was predicated on the financial and logistical support of the state.  Crown Lynn Potteries Ltd – renamed Ceramco Ltd in 1974 and the Ceramco Corporation in 1987 – collapsed when the fourth Labour government's attempts to remedy the macroeconomic ills bequeathed by its National party predecessors unleashed the demons of neoliberalism. The production of ceramics was by now a minor part of the Ceramco Corporation's activities and the board, disinterested in the product, unfettered by regulation, devoid of social responsibility and obsessed with the chimera of profit, curtailed investment, asset-stripped the company, laid off staff and in May 1989 finally closed it down.

Thursday, 30 April 2015

Dislocating the Powerhouse

Powerhouse Museum, April 1988. The Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences' Powerhouse Museum venue shortly after its opening.
Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences (00219141)

On 26 November 2014, following months of rumour and speculation, the premier of New South Wales, Mike Baird, announced that Sydney's Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences (MAAS) was to be relocated from its current Ultimo venue, the Powerhouse Museum, to Parramatta, a suburban centre some 23 kilometres west of Sydney's CBD, where it would become part of an 'arts precinct' based around the somewhat grim, architecturally undistinguished, former premises of the King's School, dating from 1834. Baird was quoted as stating that moving the state's museum of design and technology from an inner city locale to a suburban hinterland was ‘an amazing opportunity and I think it shows we need to, think well beyond the CBD of Sydney; we need to spread these opportunities across the city.' The current site of the museum, the listed former Ultimo Power Station will be sold to developers and the proceeds used to part-fund an un-costed move of the museum's collection and a new building.
Old King's School – Parramatta, NSW (2012). Ambrose Hallen's original two-storeyed building of 1834 was significantly modified over the 130 years
it served as a private Anglican boys' school. Following its acquisition in 1968 by the the Askin coalition administration it was
repurposed as the Marsden Rehabilitation Centre for intellectually handicapped children.
Flickr
In the lead-up to the March state election the Baird administration revealed further details of the planned shift and stated that all the funds gained from the sale of the museum site, envisaged in the region of $150-200 million, would be returned to the museum and that it would allocate $10 million 'to develop a business case for the Museum's relocation to ensure it remains the interactive and vibrant place enjoyed by children and families.' The announcement was greeted with enthusiasm by News Corp Australia newspapers with its populist Sydney tabloid the Daily Telegraph enthusing that it was 'Fair go for the West'. A grateful lord mayor of Parramatta declared the move 'visionary' and opined it would 'be a huge boost to local tourism and further cement the City's growing reputation as a major arts and cultural centre'. 

There are a number of reasons behind this proposal, not least the fact that the current conservative coalition state government's majority in the NSW Legislative Assembly was dependent on it winning a number of key western Sydney electorates. But the proposal is more than a cynical 'bread and circuses' move; it's also about the perceived failure of the Powerhouse Museum, a project sponsored by an Australian Labor Party administration that opened in the former Ultimo Power Station in March 1988. In the 27 years since the museum – recently re-branded with its official title – re-opened it has been presided over by five directors (Dr Lindsay Sharp, Terence Measham, Dr Kevin Fewster, Dawn Casey and Rose Hiscock), funding has diminished and visitor numbers have collapsed significantly. In the financial year 1988-1989, the year after it opened, the Powerhouse received state government funding of $24 million ($98 million in 2014 terms) and in the 2013-2013 financial year $28 million, a decrease of around 252%. In 1989-90, its first full year of operation, the Powerhouse attracted 2,112,001 visitors; in the 2013-2014 financial year only 381,582 visitors were recorded. On an annualised basis this represents a drop of some 82% since the museum opened. 

Charles Bayliss (1850-1897), The International Exhibition, from Lady Macquarie's Chair, [1879-1880].
State Library of NSW (SPF/265)

MAAS is one of the two institutional legacies of the Sydney International Exhibition of 1879-1880; the other was the Art Gallery of NSW (AGNSW). Conceived by the progressive administration of Henry Parkes in late 1878 and opening in September 1879 in the colonial architect James Barnet's  gargantuan wooden Garden Palace located in Sydney's Royal Botanic Garden, the exhibition was undoubtedly the city's single most spectacular event during the nineteenth century. Following its closure seven months later, the trustees of the Australian Museum  – which had been established in 1827 'with the aim of 'collecting many rare and curious specimens of natural history' – agreed to establish a branch museum within the Garden Palace based around a collection formed initially from a selection of the manufactured commodities shown at the exhibition. The institution was known as the Technological, Industrial and Sanitary Museum and its formation mirrored the establishment of similar museums around the world from the London-based Museum of Manufactures, which evolved into the Victoria and Albert and Science Museums (Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations,1851) to Kunstindustrimuseet, now Designmuseum Danmark (Den Nordiske Industri-, Landsbrugs- og Kunstudstilling, 1888). In the first of many setbacks that would befall the museum it was destroyed before it opened to the public when the Garden Palace was consumed in a spectacular conflagration in September 1882.

The Sydney museum finally opened to the public – in the former Agricultural Hall in the Domain – in 1889 before moving in 1893 to a modest purpose-built venue in Ultimo, designed by the architect William Kemp, where it was associated with the Sydney Technical College. The museum's title was contracted to the Technological Museum and its governance transferred from the trustees of the Australian Museum to the Minister of Public Instruction. The museum’s links with the college endowed it with a distinctly pedagogical role not only in respect of technology but also the applied arts. Together with the National Art Gallery of NSW, the museum was a repository for the objects used by graduates of the British National Art Training Scheme (the South Kensington Scheme) in teaching the college’s art and design education programmes.
Star Photo Co, Technological College, Sydney [about 1900]. The Technological Museum occupied the building to the left from 1893 to 1993.

Ultimo was not an ideal location for the museum: it was separated from the city centre by the Darling Harbour railway goods yards; the site was physically constrained meaning that the institution was unable to accommodate its growing collections on site; and, unlike its original site in the Botanic Gardens, it was a heavily polluted environment, plagued not only by the smuts and smells of local industry and the goods yard but also those emanating from the Ultimo Power House, which was erected some 500 metres away in 1899 to provide electricity for Sydney's tram network. Despite the dogged efforts of a succession of curators, the museum sank into underfunded obscurity, collecting what it could with scant resources and attempting not only to entertain generations of Sydney school children but also undertake research in those areas in which the museum collected, most notably in the fields of economic botany and chemistry.
NSW Government Printing Office, [Fictile ivory, ceramic and glass displays in the Technological Museum], 1906.
Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences (MRS 295/4/2)

There were stymied attempts to upgrade the museum in the aftermath of the Great Depression: in 1939 the curator, Arthur Penfold, went on a fact-finding tour of Europe (he was reputedly impressed by recent political developments in Germany); plans were drawn up for a new venue; and the museum's governance was restructured and formalised through The Museum of Technology and Applied Sciences Act 1945, which established a board of trustees to oversee its activities. Collecting became increasingly professionalised in the early 1970s with the appointment of specialist curators in fields such as applied arts, technology and transport and professional educators were recruited to articulate the museum's exhibitions to visiting schoolchildren.  
Deutsches Gesundheits-Museum, Köln, Anatomical model (1950-53). The Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences obtained the model from Germany in 1954 ostensibly to further its mission 'to shape model citizens'; the scandal caused by its importation marked one of the few moments of newsworthiness in the museum's pre-Powerhouse history.
Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences (H5789)
It was not until April 1978, when Joseph Glascott, an environmental reporter at the Sydney Morning Herald, published a series of in-depth articles  about the museum Sydney had forgotten, that things began to stir. While elected officials on both the political left and right during the 1970s and 80s viewed cultural grands projets as the ultimate political accolade, it was Glascott's revelatory articles that catalysed a remarkable shift in the attitude of the newly-elected Wran ALP administration toward the museum. In the 1977 state budget the museum's annual grant was a mere $770,000 whereas its sister institutions the Australian Museum and the AGNSW received $2.33 million and $1.3 million, respectively. By 1979 the situation was reversed when Neville Wran announced that, in anticipation of the bicentennial of European settlement in Australia, MAAS would move into new premises, a refurbished Ultimo Power House; the project was estimated to cost $35 million, an economic cost value of approximately $450 million in 2015 terms.

Notwithstanding a general perception, museums are more than exhibition venues. They're institutions with very specific remits based around collections, which they form, document, study, conserve, interpret and communicate to the wider public who, in most instances, ‘own’ them. Exhibitions are a vital part of a museum’s communication brief but – particularly in this increasingly virtual world – they’re not a core function. In the case of MAAS its collection was immense, of enormous scope and, in 1978, housed in appalling conditions and significantly under-researched. Quoted in Glascott's articles, the then director, Jack Willis, estimated that the museum's collection might comprise some 650,000 objects. But as many of these had not been seen for generations – much of the collection was stored in a filthy former wool store in Alexandria – and documentation was significantly deficient, this reckoning was more guesswork than established fact.

Museum staff do not spring fully-formed from the ether and, from 1980, the museum was required not only to recruit new staff and establish new professional disciplines, such as registration and conservation, but also to establish a new managerial framework that would react efficiently and effectively to the pressures exerted on the institution by a project of this immense scale. The result was a highly centralised, hierarchical management system, one that rewarded conformity, minimised challenges and sought to mimic the power differentials of the private sector while diluting the influence of those trained in museum disciplines; enthusiasm was stifled under a regime of micro-management and over-zealous bureaucracy.
The south wing of the first iteration of Sydney Hospital (1815) was redeveloped by the Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences in 1983 to show a small collection of Australian-themed decorative arts and in 1990 as a commercially-driven display of gold and mining. It was transferred to the Historic Houses Trust in 1997.
 J Bar at the English language Wikipedia 
The museum's building, collection and exhibition development programmes during the 1980s were, by any reckoning, extraordinary. The newly-appointed staff not only had to deal with developing and preparing a collection suitable for exhibition in the new facility but they were also tasked with redeveloping a new temporary exhibition space in Ultimo, Stage I (1981), a museum train (1984), which toured the state with a display of 'objects, pictures and ideas', and three historical venues including, in 1982, the former Sydney branch of the Royal Mint  in the south wing of the so-called Rum Hospital (John O'Hearen,1815), in 1984 the  Hyde Park Barracks (Francis Greenway, 1818) and in 1987 the Sydney Observatory (Mortimer Lewis, 1858). These projects all involved significant capital works to their buildings, both to conserve their fabric and to convert them into working museums.

Conversion of the shell of the Ultimo Power House was entrusted to the Government Architect's Branch of the Department of Public Works. Working with museum management, the Government Architect's project architect, Lionel Glendenning, developed a design that, in the fashionable post-modernist language of the time, made passing reference through a barrel-vaulted semi-glazed core to Joseph Paxton's 1851 Crystal Palace. It was an in-joke that had the unfortunate effect of highlighting the design's major problematic: that of responding to the exigencies of the site, flanked as it was by a major arterial road to the west and, on the city-side, a double-track freight railway, as well as being topped and tailed by semi-derelict depots and warehouses. 

Internally, the design struggled to meet the functional requirements of the museum, not only in terms of visitor circulation – a key consideration in the design of such public venues – but also in its provision of spaces for the semi-permanent exhibitions envisaged by the museum’s curatorial staff. In an attempt to overcome these limitations, management employed a number of external design consultants to complement a large team of in-house designers and a project director was brought in to ensure the museum's redevelopment adhered to its politically-driven timetable. Dame Margaret Weston, director of the London Science Museum, was conscripted to review the overall design. As a consequence of this ‘imperial’ intervention the architect Richard Johnson was recruited from the private sector in an attempt to provide visitors with a more seamless experience of the venue but the basic configuration was already established and little could be changed.  
Powerhouse Museum 'Style' exhibition, 1988. External design consultancies were deployed in an attempt to resolve
the venue's spatial deficiencies and to obscure 'gaps' in the museum's collection.
Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences

By the time the Powerhouse opened, Neville Wran was no longer premier and the ceremony was performed by an ALP premier, Barrie Unsworth, on the brink of losing a state election. Notwithstanding the political shenanigans associated with the project, the museum attracted enormous crowds. On the first Saturday some 36,000 visitors squeezed through the doors to inspect 25 semi-permanent thematic exhibitions that spanned the range of the museum's collection, showing objects that ranged from a steam-driven 1784 Boulton & Watt horizontal beam engine and a Consolidated PBY Catalina flying boat to Sèvres vases shown at the 1879 Sydney International Exhibition and Ettore Sottsass’ 1981 post-modern ‘Carlton’ room divider produced under the Italian Memphis brand. 

The exhibitions were broadly integrated around an overall theme of creativity and design. Moreover, in an effort to address the venue's chaotic internal plan and to deal with the hiatuses that had emerged once the museum's collection had been re-housed and more accurately documented and assessed (there had been many misattributions), project management decided to use exhibition design as the primary way of organising the space. Prioritising the design of exhibitions over their content saw the curatorial voice diminished, form dominate substance and interpretation subsumed to entertainment.

To some observers, the new displays evinced a lack of both a critical dimension and a coherent intellectual framework. As the Deakin University academics, Wade Chambers and Rachel Faggetter observed 'The rhetoric that accompanied the museum's opening led the serious visitor to expect a full delineation of the nature and role of creativity, design, invention and innovation in the Australian context.' but, they commented, 'success in this undertaking has so far proved elusive'. <W Chambers and R Faggetter, 'Australia's museum powerhouse', Technology and Culture, 33:3 (1992), 548-559, p. 552>. Assessing the design-focussed exhibitions, Tony Fry argued that the museum aimed merely at being a provincial simulacrum of the London-based Science and Design Museums and New York's Cooper-Hewitt Museum. Discussing the museum's exhibitions he noted that: 'These conventionalist approaches create and induct Australian design history into the great men, great object, great stories syndrome, which not only obscures a more accurate history but also lays foundations for study in fictions and a cultural cringe fall-out.' <T Fry, Design history Australia (Sydney: Hale & Iremonger, 1988), p. 42>. In a very real sense it was these intellectual deficiencies, this subscription to a fictional sense of Australia's material cultural history, which defined the renewed museum. Nonetheless, the visiting public evidently enjoyed the museum; it attracted over a million visitors in its first six months and garnered an impressive range of tourist awards. Scholarly recognition remained elusive.
'Kings, queens and soup tureens', a loan exhibition of 18th century objects from the Campbell Museum collection installed at the Hyde Park Barracks in 1990. Prioritising exhibition design over content resulted in an out of scale, assertively kitsch display that
distorted the historical narrative of the space and overwhelmed the objects
In the aftermath of the museum's re-opening, it became increasingly evident that the political energy channelled to develop the museum's new venues was a double-edged sword. A newly-elected Coalition administration, perceiving the museum as a creature of the former administration, sought to rein in what it judged to be political folly and extravagance. Rather than addressing the institutional deficiencies revealed by the project, consolidating the museum's achievements and developing strategic links with adjacent tertiary education institutions, management reacted to these political and ideological critiques by focussing on the museum as a brand and by developing strategies and implementing policies that, in the fashionable management jargon of the period, were responsive rather than pro-active. Rather than being collection-focussed in its activities the museum began to be seen by the public as a venue for highly-priced, externally-generated commercial exhibitions such as 'Audrey Hepburn, the woman, the style' and 'Star Wars: the magic of myth'. These interactive, often child-focussed, revenue generators had the unfortunate side effect of detracting from other, less well-promoted, exhibitions.

Design – in a travesty of its meaning as a process of production, mediation and consumption – became the museum's defining quality. In a somewhat simplistic reading of the process by the institution's management, design came increasingly to be understood as branding, as a sort of aestheticising; in truth it was, more ominously, a strategically-placed fig leaf for the gradual corporatisation of the museum’s culture. Under its guise the museum was radically de-intellectualised, allowing it to be perceived by dominant power formations as a site of mass culture, a distraction, and a counterbalance to the elitist preoccupations of, for example, the AGNSW or the National Trust of Australia (NSW branch).


Left: Emery Vincent (designers), Powerhouse Museum logo (1988). Centre: Unidentified designers, Powerhouse Museum logo (2000). Right Boccalatte (designers), Museum of Applied Arts & Sciences logo (2014)
As with many of the museums created on the cusp of the neo-liberal political ascendancy, the museum had argued that its success lay in the politically dangerous metric of visitor numbers. The new conservative Coalition state government, seeing visitor numbers as a potential income stream, immediately imposed an entrance charge of $5.00 (now $15.00); perhaps not enough to deter tourists and enthusiasts but more than enough to alienate casual visitors. The state government then began stripping the museum of its off-campus venues. The Hyde Park Barracks, which had ill-advisedly been used as a prestigiously-located temporary exhibition venue, was transferred to the more appropriate custodianship of the Historic Houses Trust of NSW, which had been formed in 1980 specifically to manage government-owned historic properties. Then, following an abortive attempt to transform it from under-visited museum of Australian decorative arts into a fully commercial gold and coining enterprise, the Mint followed suit. In an attempt to broaden its appeal, the museum re-purposed its Castle Hill store as a display storage facility known as the Powerhouse Discovery Centre in 2007. While its allure seems limited – it attracted 18,367 visitors in 2103-2014 – the museum has, in collaboration with the Australian Museum and Sydney Living Museums (the former HHT), decided to expand the facility. It's unclear what the impact of the move west will have on this development. 

Factors other than political and managerial were involved in the museum's perceived decline. From well before the start of the Powerhouse project to the present there have been calls for the museum's collection to be split. In an April 1978 letter to the Sydney Morning Herald, Leo Schofield, then a Sydney ‘tribal elder and gad about town’, argued that 'the time has clearly come to house and display the museum's science and decorative arts collections separately. Members of the public interested in steam engines, models of sailing ships and transparent plastic women are unlikely to be galvanised by a display of eighteenth century porcelain'<'Our dowdy technological museum', Sydney Morning Herald (24 April 1978), p.4>. Proponents of the split resurfaced in 2010 when the then director, Dawn Casey, dismantled ‘Inspired!’ a four year-old, semi-permanent decorative arts display. Responding to this perceived attack, Schofield again emerged on the letters page of the Herald arguing that ‘bit by bit, the applied and decorative arts are being de-emphasised and the program of exhibitions dumbed down’. Similar statements have been made more recently, albeit in not quite so condescending a manner.

It's an appealing conceit. Unlike many of its transport, technology and scientific exhibitions in the Powerhouse, the semi-permanent decorative arts and design exhibitions have proven more fugitive. Moving the decorative arts and design collections into a discrete space – preferably in the ‘cultural circuit’ around the Sydney Domain – while leaving the interactive geewhizzery, the machines and engines, the ‘popular stuff’, for the youthful masses would certainly make things far simpler for those proposing glamorous touring or collection-based exhibitions in keeping with the idea of a museum replicating, in a minor, provincial, way, the sophistry of the far better endowed V&A and Cooper Hewitt museums. This line of reasoning is both perniciously classist and fundamentally ahistorical, undermining MAAS’s abiding rationale as one of the world’s few museums of industrialisation – a veritable museum of manufactures – and leaving it open to the sort of disintegrative solution implied in the proposal to relocate the institution far from its roots.

The Baird administration has, for the wrong reasons, recognised that MAAS – one of the concealed glories of Sydney – is a problematic. It's located in a place that seems to operate against its foundation. Nor does it tie in comfortably to the nearby Darling Harbour public space with the Sydney Aquarium and the National Maritime Museum despite the pragmatic efforts of various directors to reorientate the museum's entrance so that it opens directly onto Darling Harbour. Outside the cultural circuit formed by the AGNSW, the Australian Museum and the various urban venues of Sydney Living Museums, it struggles to attract visitors, particularly tourists, anecdotally many of whom are unaware of its existence; in 2013-2014 only 11% of its surveyed visitors identified as being from overseas. The statistics are even more grim for the Museum's western outreach, the Powerhouse Discovery Centre where zero overseas visitors are recorded and only a statistically insignificant 2% are from outside Sydney.

For some twenty-five years the museum has struggled to demonstrate a sense of institutional coherence in terms of what it does, what its collection is about, what its audience is and how it communicates its mission and purpose. It is not unique in having to address the meta-question of what museums mean in an increasingly digitised age. Are they about education or entertainment; what are their audiences; do physical collections really matter; and are they a public resource available to all or a source of revenue and profit? In announcing the move Baird argued that the museum's relocation would ensure that it remained 'the interactive and vibrant place enjoyed by children and families'. It seems that the NSW government has formed a view that MAAS is pre-eminently a place of entertainment with a primary audience that is both domestic and young, rather than a place of education, knowledge and learning. This stance stands in marked contrast to the state government’s approach to the AGNSW, which not only remains in its Domain location but is currently contemplating yet another $450 million extension. Despite calls by western Sydney lobbyists for the AGNSW and the Australian Museum to follow MAAS west to the demographic centre of Sydney these have been rejected by the state government.
Screenshot of MAAS's webpage in April 2015 with a photograph of the repainted and rebranded Powerhouse Museum building. 
In July 2013 the MAAS trustees moved to address the museum's seemingly intractable systemic difficulties by appointing a new director and management team. The director, Rose Hiscock, has a background in strategic marketing and this seems to have informed many of her decisions including the somewhat prescient one of rebranding the museum by reverting to its official title and downgrading the Powerhouse Museum brand to venue status. Somewhat ingenuously declaring her overarching vision for the institution 'to be the world's leading museum of science and design' she asserted this could be realised through themes such as '"curiosity" for science and "creativity" for applied art', a – perhaps unwitting – reiteration of the generic themes of design and creativity that had informed the Powerhouse Museum's first exhibitions. As Hiscock recognises, the Powerhouse Museum is now located in 'a dynamic and rapidly changing educational and cultural precinct', making it possible for the museum to 'more effectively engage with the business, entertainment and residential life of these new communities.' Evidently this recognition of the museum's changing locale has not been sufficient to sway the NSW government from its purpose. Moreover, despite Hiscock's enthusiastic spin, fundamental problems remain: the collection is far from 'world class' and its acquisition budget is risible; a radically reduced expert staff has impacted on its ability to deliver the sort of exhibition and research programmes commonly associated with world-class museums; and the museum's political environment is, once again, distinctly uncertain.

Museums – certainly museums of art, design and technology – are urban phenomena. To function effectively they require the synergies only found in urban environments: a ready flow of visitors to attend exhibitions and freely access the collections and their attendant resources; good transport links; informed, committed and focussed staff; effective direction; and a commitment from all stakeholders involved in their governance. Setting aside the logistical nightmare involved in relocating a collection of some half a million objects, this proposed move will not resolve the dilemmas the museum currently faces, to the contrary. Relocating a museum developed in an urban context over 136 years to the cultural periphery of the Sydney metropolis, where transport links are limited and visitors are few, and unlikely to increase even with a relocated MAAS, would seem to be antithetical to ensuring its successful future. While Parramatta may be closer to the demographical centre of Sydney, it has neither the infrastructure nor the mass of population and potential connectivity required to support a cultural institution of the museum’s national and international significance. Neo-liberal governments, espousing the language of the corporate sector, are fond of identifying opportunities and this proposal would seem to embrace another corporate stratagem: risk. This proposed move may well turn out to be an, inadequately assessed, risk too far.


Thanks to John Wade for his comments and suggestions on a draft of this post. All opinions and errors are mine.