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“In what way?”
“Well, if I can’t get the funding, there won’t be any rebuilding. There might not even be a museum anymore.”
She frowns. “You’re kidding, surely? There are a hundred different ways the museum can sustain itself. I mean, I know we don’t charge for entry, and some grants have fallen through, but there are other ways.”
“Yeah, of course, but they all take time to implement. I have ideas… I want to start a membership program that gives special access to new exhibitions and exclusive events. I’d like to begin an educational program that would bring in funding from schools and universities. We really need to grow the shop—merchandise is a huge source of income. But it all takes time and, of course, investment to begin.”
“I’ve heard that hiring out museum space for weddings is popular,” she says.
My eyebrows rise. “Really? People want to get married in a museum?”
“I would.”
“Yeah, but you’re weird.”
She laughs. “Maybe. But lots of people love the idea of being surrounded by history. There’s something comforting about the reminder of all those people who’ve loved each other through the years.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “I suppose we could even build an exhibition around it.”
“Absolutely—you could build on the Valentine’s Day exhibition and make it a part of an ongoing Love Endures display or something. The history of marriage, models in old wedding dresses, traditional Bridal Kakahu, you know, the Maori cloaks decorated with bird feathers, artifacts from different religions and places. It would be lovely.”
“Hmm.”
“Have you thought about a restaurant?”
“As opposed to the café?”
“Yes. Something much bigger, more exclusive. With museum-themed food, maybe, dishes from history? That would be great fun. You could hold medieval nights where everyone eats off bread trenchers with whole roast pigs and stuff. People would dress up. They’d love it.”
“It’s an idea.”
“You should also definitely think about crowdfunding.”
“I have considered it. It feels a bit…” I hesitate. “Cheap. It’s one thing to ask benefactors for donations. It’s another to ask the general public to donate. What’s the difference between doing that and charging for entry?” She knows how I feel that the country’s history should be available to everyone regardless of their financial situation.
But she says, “It’s very different. It’s voluntary, for a start, the way we have the big piggy bank at the entrance. Lots of visitors want to donate. And although a lot of people struggle financially, not everyone does. Older visitors often have more disposable wealth, for example. And younger people who are passionate about their country’s history would be excited to either contribute or help spread the word to raise money.”
She’s animated, her eyes alight, and that more than anything warms me to her. I enjoy fundraising, and I know I’m good at it, but a lot of people find it distasteful. I’ve never minded asking those who can afford it for money. I only baulk at demanding cash from those who can’t.
“You could run a Kickstarter campaign,” she says. “With the right amount of publicity I’m sure it would do really well.”
“What kind of target would you aim for?”
“It depends. If you wanted to run it locally or regionally, you could start with a modest figure, say fifty thousand dollars. If you could tie it to a broader, global interest like preserving Maori heritage, I think you’d be able to set the bar higher and reach international donors.”
“Hmm.”
“Have you thought about offering a Patreon option? You could offer things like behind-the-scenes content, online lectures, and digital access to collections.”
For the first time since I heard of Sebastian Williams’s death, I feel a faint glimmer of hope.
“Is the Bay of Plenty Archaeological Group paying you for talking to them tonight?” she asks.
“No, of course not.”
“Well, you could have asked them for a donation to the museum in return for your time. You’re so good at sourcing funding, Fraser. I think you just need to cast the net wider.”
“I didn’t realize you knew so much about it,” I say.