Page 26 of The Winter Princess
Ella grins. “You’re speaking my language.”
“I’m looking for ways to drum up interest in the museum, and when I dropped by the museum tonight, it occurred to me that restoration work would make good ASMR videos—it’s lots of scraping and brushing.”
Her mouth makes a perfectO. “Yes, and it’s more specialized than fiddling with candy wrappers, so the audience you did find would stick with you. Over the long haul, it would generate interest.”
“What about the short haul?
“How short are we talking?”
I grimace. “New Year’s Eve.”
She laces her fingers behind her head and exhales, finally answering with a shake of her head. “Absolutely do ASMR vids when you’re more established—it’s a genius idea—but you’ll need an aggressive, multi-pronged strategy if you want to drive people to act. Lots of diverse content, lots of flashing lights.”
“Like what?”
She considers. “You could do a bunch of BTS content. Behind the scenes,” she explains when I look confused. “You have the resources. Maybe interview some of the curators. You’d want long-form interviews for YouTube and shorter clips for social media.”
I tap my lip. “Our curators aren’t public figures. Would people be willing to watch Roland become completely unglued about pre-Lutheran reliquaries?”
She lifts a brow. “You underestimate how thirsty the internet is for people becoming unglued about things viewers don’t understand. If you’re lucky, the comment sections will become a battleground of warring factions, brother fighting against brother over provenance and”—she spins her hand, searching her mind for something obscure and art-related—“carbon dating.”
“I’m worried there won’t be two hundred thousand people who’ll take a train out to the museum on a rainy, autumn weekday. Not in Sondmark.” I cup the back of my neck, rubbing the tendons. “Still, we could do it with a pretty small budget.”
“You could cut to the chase and hang more naked art.”
I push her chair with the tip of my toe, admonishing. “Sondish painters really liked a kirtle,” I say, referring to the exterior petticoat necessary in a chilly northern climate. “Cleavage we have. Nudity, not so much. Other ideas?”
She swivels around and rolls to her desk. “You know you have a Pixy account, right?”
I do know it. One of Caroline’s secretarial underlings manages it, and I hear there are appropriate posts under my name.
“Honestly, the biggest tool for bringing more visitors to the museum is in your own pocket.” While delivering this scold, her fingers are dancing over the keyboard. I speak the language of technology like it’s a second tongue, grudgingly learned, but Ella is a native, the kind of native who works in the UN automatic translation booth while simultaneously reading Tolstoy from the original.
“Let’s take a look at what other museums are doing. Ah.” She tilts the screen. “Here’s a hashtag campaign called #MuseumTwinning.”
For a second I think I’m looking at a lavish painting from the Rococo period, but then I look closer. It’s a photograph of an actual person, in their actual bathroom. “Are those toilet paper rolls?”
“Clever, right? Patrons are encouraged to send in recreations of the art they see on the walls. This is Madame du Pompadour by @srslyhistorical, her elaborate wig rendered in toilet paper rolls, her gown a budget shower curtain.”
I’m impressed but I grimace. “There’s not much dignity in bathroom products.”
Ella rolls her eyes at me. “Knock it off, okay? This Vestal Virgin of The Nat talk, this ‘Oh, no, thepoorsmight be having fun with our precious heritage’ business—” She snaps her fingers under my nose. “You want visitors, you get rid of that face. You want to get a whole new crowd into the museum? Be prepared to hustle for them.” She points at her computer monitor. “It’s unexpected and a bit mad, but people like things that are surprising and full of passion.”
Surprising like the V&A. Passion like Greybull.
I scoot closer to my sister. Search after search yields more ideas, and I hastily jot them down on a scrap of paper, wondering what Oskar will think.
“I’m sending links to your email, Freja,” she says. “Lay off the notes. You should get help from that art restorer, the hot one who hates you. Audiences would eat him up.”
I shift in my seat, irritated. “You only think he’s hot compared to the rest of the museum staff.”
She hunches over her keyboard, tapping out a staccato of doom. Several research papers and a profile picture pop up. Evidence.
The picture is just his staff photo, and the photographer did nothing to flatter him, but even with utilitarian lighting and no effort to smile for the camera, Oskar looks a lot hot and a little grumpy.
Ella leans in and reads aloud. “Oskar Velasquez, 32, born in Pavieau—” She gasps, really shocked. “Oh, sister, I thought Clara was playing with fire, falling for a decorated Sondish Naval officer. That’s amateur hour compared to falling for someone from Pavieau.”
“It’s not a problem because I won’t be falling for him. He’s just a coworker.”
