Who's Who at CIMAM with Francesca Du Brock
Interview with Francesca Du Brock, von der Heydt Chief Curator at the Anchorage Museum in Alaska, CIMAM member, and recent recipient of the Marica Vilcek Prize in Art History.
You were recently awarded the Marica Vilcek Prize in Art History in recognition of your holistic and comprehensive approach to exhibition curation, as well as your dedication to public education and engagement through museum programming. Could you share more about these best practices in your museum work that you believe contributed to this achievement?
Something that makes the Anchorage Museum unique, I think, is that every curator on the team grew up here in Alaska. Most of us have followed non-traditional paths into the profession, learning on the job through doing the work. An inclusive approach to hiring and embrace of varied forms of experience and knowledge contributes to an internal culture that is experimental and nimble. Because many of us have lifelong (and, in the case of my Indigenous colleagues, generational) connections to this place, we’re deeply invested in its future.
We keep relationships at the core of the work. Often, we’re not researching in a library or online—we’re out meeting people for coffee. Knowledge here is predominantly held within communities, and curatorial work is about relationships and stewardship of those relationships. There may be many competing demands on my time, but I always feel renewed when I make time for human connection—visiting someone at their home, showing up for a community event, or sharing a meal. This applies similarly to our work with artists. We try to be intentional and relationship-focused rather than transactional. This way of working supports more iterative processes, fosters openness to experimentation, and prioritizes different exhibition outcomes geared towards growth and learning.
With climate change being one of your primary areas of study, could you share the types of narratives you are currently exploring or find most compelling regarding this issue?
While there are places in the world where climate change is still understood mostly intellectually, in Alaska, it’s immediate and palpable. Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about perceptual knowledge—knowing that comes from feeling or intuition. I’m interested in how museums can invite learning and exchange that engages our bodies as tools for generating this kind of knowledge—through listening, feeling, moving, sensing, etc. We cannot adequately respond to the challenges presented by climate change—as individuals, communities, and organizations—if we do not transform the way we relate to and understand the web of life, human and non-human, that surrounds and encompasses us, and understand it not only intellectually, but with other senses and forms of intelligence as well.
In your recent exhibition "How to Survive," you explored how the ethics of care can be a powerful tool in reshaping systems of injustice that contribute to climate change. Could you share more about this approach and how it unfolds within the exhibition?
At the Anchorage Museum, we’ve been addressing climate change and its effects in our exhibitions and programming for over a decade, yet How to Survive is our first project to explicitly incorporate concerns around climate and waste into our back-end processes.
One of the most important aspects of the exhibition was considering how the museum itself could demonstrate care: to not only platform work guided by this worldview, but also to evaluate our own processes, approaches, and assumptions.
The international art sector is a significant polluter with a carbon footprint greater than that of the country of Austria. Many folks in the museum field are thinking creatively and expansively about how we can reimagine our relationship to cultural production. For How to Survive, our team developed a set of guiding values: transparency and reflection; valuing relationships with people over objects (attempting to be less transactional in our dealings with artists and collaborators); reducing carbon costs where possible; embracing risk and imperfection; and supporting staff wellness.
Many of the artists we worked with have social, educational, skill-sharing, or activist elements embedded in their practices; these artists served as guides in prioritizing relationships and process and welcoming uncertainty. For example, many large installations in How to Survive were realized via long-distance collaboration with artists and were fabricated in Anchorage using local and repurposed materials. We embraced unknowns by trusting the process and also acknowledging that the process itself was part of the “final product” we wanted to share and understand. Working this way required tremendous patience, flexibility, humility, and trust—as well as significant imaginative dexterity on the artists’ part. It also required substantial coordination, logistics, and creative problem-solving on the museum side.
Your work champions collaboration and inclusivity, emphasizing the importance of diverse voices in museum spaces. How would you describe your approach as a curator, particularly in terms of research and your relationships with artists and institutions?
I see the work of a curator as that of a bridge-builder and connector. It’s about relationships and service to artists, communities, and ideas. I think about nurturing the ecosystem that surrounds the work—how we show up for others, what our needs are, how we reciprocate, etc. All of this takes time and requires being open and accessible to others, so there are trade-offs (for example, I have less time for writing or in-depth research projects).
I learn so much from artists. When artists and curators have a dynamic connection, they ask each other good questions that expand thinking in both directions. Many of my ideas for exhibitions or ways to improve process/approach stem from conversations with artists and their artworks.
Institutionally, I’m increasingly working towards establishing partnerships and networks with like-minded organizations and curators. Practicing in Alaska, where there are few large cultural institutions, I’m very motivated to find opportunities to learn from others and promote dialogue and exchange. Currently, I’m working on a project with partners in Hawaiʻi to consider how climate change is felt across the Pacific region and how cultures of re-use, innovation, and adaptation—intrinsic to geographically remote places—can teach us how we might navigate increasingly turbulent futures.
You’ve mentioned that relevant life experiences, community connections, and a passion for learning and storytelling are invaluable to your practice. What are your most common work practices and go-to sources for research and exhibition curation?
I love this question. Exhibition ideas are often unearthed by reading my local paper, the Anchorage Daily News, talking to friends, or following culture leaders in Alaska and beyond on social media—I’m not super high-minded about where inspiration comes from! As a parent of a young child, I also get ideas from watching children move through space and interact with the world around them.
Being outside, connecting and re-connecting with what makes Alaska so special is critical: appreciating the sense of scale and the way it humbles human activity. It’s overwhelming how much there is to learn and understand about this place—it’s a never-ending source of surprise and wonder. I feel fortunate to have a job where the basic mandate is to be curious and find ways to spark curiosity for others.
I tend to do my best thinking when I’m walking or running, so I try to make time for that a few times a week. And, of course, meeting with artists and community members. Having tea. I sound like a broken record, but it really is my go-to.
You aim to forge new pathways to promote cultural exchange and knowledge-sharing. As a CIMAM member, how do you think CIMAM can support you in advancing these initiatives?
I’d love to think about fostering more dialogue with museum and culture workers situated outside global art centers, especially those working at mid-size or smaller institutions who may, out of necessity, have a scrappier approach to the work. Or museums that frequently work with artists in rural locations…I’m thinking about this with our partners in Hawaiʻi right now, as our states are not connected by road systems. Though our contexts are very different, we “get” each other—there are similar opportunities and challenges.
I also think curators can learn so much from people outside our industry. I would love to see more development opportunities for curators to engage leaders in other fields.
Can you share the title of a book you’ve recently read that has been particularly inspiring for your professional work?
I loved Aruna D’Souza’s Imperfect Solidarities, which argues against empathy as the primary conduit for political allyship and solidarity. She challenges us to act instead from a more difficult “obligation to care,” for human and non-human life, whether or not we empathize. This feels increasingly urgent at a moment when basic human and environmental rights are being questioned and curtailed in the US and around the globe.
What was the last exhibition you attended, and how did it impact you?
I just returned from the Hawaiʻi Triennial, “ALOHA NŌ,” curated by Wassan Al-Khudhairi, Binna Choi, and Noelle M.K.Y. Kahanu. It was exciting to see resonances across our Pacific region, around sovereignty, place-based knowledge, reciprocity, and care for lands, waters, and people.
Finally, could you recommend a song to add to CIMAM’s Spotify playlist?
I previously shared the work of Quinn Christopherson, a great Alaska Native musician. Lately, I’ve been enjoying Masakatsu Tagaki’s Marginalia recordings—improvised singles he releases regularly that incorporate ambient and outdoor sounds/textures. #176 is a recent fave.
Thank you, Francesa!