When people visit the Netherlands, they usually walk along the canals in Amsterdam, visit the Rijksmuseum, and — if they planned ahead — secure a ticket to the Van Gogh Museum months in advance.

And yet, nestled between green forests and coastal dunes of the North Sea from Wassenaar, near The Hague, lies a quieter, lesser-known destination: Museum Voorlinden.

Voorlinden positions itself as more than a museum — it connects people, art, nature, and architecture. As stated on its website, it aims to be “an oasis of tranquillity in a hectic world, where visitors can marvel and be surprised.”

The integration of art, landscape, and spatial design is central to how the institution approaches its audience.

And, as someone who MUST go to Voorlinden every time they step foot in Klompen shoes, I can say the experience invites slowness and encourages hours of immersion.

Designed by Kraaijvanger Architects, the building is conceived entirely in service of the artworks. Its elongated structure alternates between natural stone and transparent glass, allowing the surrounding landscape to enter the museum experience. Architecture here is not neutral, actively shaping perception.

One of the museum’s defining characteristics is its use of natural light. Exhibition spaces are illuminated by constantly shifting daylight, filtered through a glass roof complemented by subtle artificial lighting. This ensures that artworks are experienced in conditions that feel organic, whether under sunlight or at night.

The interior is organized into three main sections:

Across its twenty galleries, along with an auditorium, library, educational space, conservation studio, and shop, the museum offers a carefully structured yet fluid spatial journey.

Because Museum Voorlinden succeeds in something many institutions fail to do: it ensures visitors DO NOT GET LOST — not only within its 125-meter-long building set in a 40-hectare landscape, but within the meaning of what they are experiencing. This is exhibition design as translation, something I often work on with artists and institutions, trying to bridge that same gap.

During my visit in the summer of 2025, what struck me most was not only the spatial clarity but also the communication system surrounding the exhibition. This stood in sharp contrast to a recurring frustration I have with cultural institutions — especially smaller museums, cultural centres, and galleries:

They often fail to communicate. And that failure creates distance from the audience.

Research on Strategies in Inclusive Museology with the Museo del Prado — alongside frameworks promoted by the Instituto Brasileiro de Museus (IBRAM) and global institutions such as ICOM — shows that a museum’s atmosphere (its physical, emotional, and social environment) plays a decisive role in whether visitors feel welcome. Even when physical accessibility is addressed, a lack of belonging and the perception of elitism remain significant barriers.

Many people experience museums as intimidating, overly intellectual, or simply “not for them.” Barriers are not only physical: they are cultural, linguistic, and psychological.

And this goes far beyond just perception. Outreach initiatives in Brazil have shown that many residents — especially in underserved communities — do not feel they belong in traditional museum environments, even when they live near them.

Even when access is free, distance (geographic and symbolic) matters. Without prior exposure — without a “museum-going habit” formed early — many people never enter these spaces.

And when they do, they are often met with language that excludes them.
How can someone engage with a work if they don’t understand the terms used to describe it? What does Expressionism mean to someone encountering it for the first time? Who is Salvador Dalí, and why does it matter? What does “transfeminism in a postcolonial context” actually communicate to a general audience?

Too often, the answer is: nothing.

One of the things that I notice when I go to museums is that the viewer — the people — don’t really comprehend what is in front of them a lot of the time. They don’t relate, they don’t understand. But as soon as you start to tell them the story: where this came from, why it’s there, who made it, why, or how they did it — people start to get more interested.

Let’s remind ourselves that we were not taught how to interpret art in school. We were taught how to read books. We were taught how to read text, how to follow narratives, and how to extract meaning through words. We rely on language as a bridge to make sense of reality. Without it, many visitors are left navigating unfamiliar territory without a map. And that is something I write about in my Beyond Words: How Language Shapes the Way We See Art article.

This is where the gap emerges: between how people naturally interpret the world, and how museums often communicate their content. Too often, institutions leave understanding to chance, trusting that visitors will intuitively grasp the depth of what is presented.

But without the right forms of mediation, that depth remains inaccessible. This is the kind of gap I spend most of my time working on.

And this is where many museums fall short:

Might be much simpler than you think: with a booklet.

Honestly, Voorlinden is not reinventing the wheel. They are just doing communications and editorial design well. In the same medium, they are not only listing all the artworks one can find in the current exhibition, but also their corresponding sections within the building — what that area is about, how to get there, in which gallery the artworks are, and info about each artwork (the usual: name, artist, date, location, and medium/materials).

And they go even further: they talk about the artist, offer an interpretation of their work, and if this wasn’t enough, every now and then they drop a disclaimer box explaining something niche that usually only insiders of the art world would know.

You don’t even have to open the brochure to see right away that the exhibition is divided into 4 sections, neatly separated by colors:

Intuitive? Yes. Useful for the whole experience while I’m there? Absolutely. Every time I close my brochure, I can easily go back to the section I want.

This is a classic UX principle — recognition over recall — widely discussed by the Nielsen Norman Group. Instead of forcing visitors to remember information, the system makes everything visible: sections are color-coded, spatially mapped, and constantly available as reference. The result is simple but powerful: you don’t have to think about where you are. You just know.

Then, if I flip it to the back, I see them all represented spatially in a map. And mind you, the staff offer you this brochure as soon as your ticket is scanned, avoiding any friction or confusion while exploring the museum.

That is what I’m talking about when we talk about immersion in museums, exhibitions, and cultural spaces.

Just as when I’m reading a book — lost in the narrative, immersed in the story, in awe with the examples while my coffee gets cold a few centimeters away because the outside world doesn’t matter.

To me, exhibitions are spaces to get immersed in — without being lost. They have a narrative. They create worlds made of paintings hung on walls and installations inhabiting the floor. Spaces of alternative reality that allow me to experience something beyond ordinary life, or open my mind toward deeper inner perception or wider outer understanding.

And Voorlinden resolves that by giving me this well-designed, normal-people-friendly floor plan on the back of the brochure:

Remember, I said they gave it to me at the entrance? That is also designed. This starting moment of the visitor’s journey is meaningful. And you can tell because of the illustration’s “YOU START HERE” sign at the entrance.

Note that they don’t tell you where to start; they simply tell you where you are, and where each section of the exhibition is. You are free to explore at your own pace, in your own way. But now, you know. You have a reference. And you can move with confidence.

Or… you can just follow the order of the brochure on the cover. Your choice.

This brochure’s function is to be a support tool throughout the visit. As you flip its pages and enter the galleries, you notice how minimal Voorlinden’s rooms are. No plaques. No texts. Only a parallel world of symbolic pieces that invite you to look, to move, to feel, to relate, to be.

The essential logic of words does not interrupt the visual, more unconscious, and illogical sensorial experience, which is key for us to connect with certain aspects of the mind and body that a lot of us are not in touch with, something I addressed in my article Beyond Words: How Language Shapes the Way We See Art.

As we flip the pages, communication does its work. Per exhibition, we have a dedicated introduction text with accessible words that help the reader understand the abstraction and philosophical tone behind every piece they are about to encounter in the respective gallery.

From this choice of communication style — inviting, proximal, digestible — the museum positions itself as a place of learning, a place that is here to educate, to bridge artists with the public, and to strengthen their relationship through art. It also invites people to think deeper about their own lives, behaviors, and emotions.

From this moment, a portal opens. A portal that takes you to in-between realms:

the personal × the strange
the symbolic × the literal
the conscious × the unconscious.

A place where everything is, and anything can unfold.

But still, guided.

Guided by these words, contained in a seemingly mundane piece of paper. If that’s what you thought when you first saw this brochure, I invite you to think differently. This holds knowledge. And it is up to the viewer not only to view, but to open themselves to what they might see beyond if they truly pay attention to the information being transmitted to them.

Stepping back for a moment from the philosophical hole I’ve just gone into, we can also observe that the museum follows a traditional museological structure: artist name, year of birth, country, title of the work, year produced, materials used / medium. This is standard.

What is not standard is their choice not only to provide a curatorial interpretation of the work — highlighting what makes it relevant, interesting, and unique — but also to do the same for the artist themselves.

As an example, let’s look at this curatorial excerpt about Joseph Cornell from the brochure:

First of all: this fragment already does so much. It helps visitors relate to the artwork beyond an object. It reveals the process, the reality, the life behind what is in front of them. The work has a creator — it is not pointlessly floating in the universe. It now has weight. It came from somewhere, from someone.

The viewer now witnesses the “child” of someone. It carries its DNA. It carries meaning and story. And if the work was already powerful by itself, now, as a human, I instantly connect with the idea that this was made by someone like me. And there is so much beauty in that other human’s universe.

I often say that the artist is someone who sees the world — or themselves — in their own way, and even if afraid, does not shy away from expressing this inner understanding, this perspective, into the outer world. And it is through this sharing that others can relate (or not), but at least recognize that something exists beyond themselves: another way to look, another way to live, another way to see.

And maybe, just maybe, that way resonates.

Second of all: who said Joseph Cornell wasn’t a hoarder? And maybe that’s okay. Look at the beauty behind the disorder, behind the complexity of the mind. I believe many of us exist somewhere along a spectrum. Some more, some less.

And it is refreshing to see that even within our imperfections, our human condition, one can create beauty, meaning, and connection. It is not what you are — it is what you do with it, why, and how.

On this note, I recommend the book Andy Warhol Was a Hoarder: Inside the Minds of History’s Great Personalities by Claudia Kalb. In it, Kalb explores the evolution of mental health through the lives of well-known historical figures. From Marilyn Monroe’s borderline personality disorder to Charles Darwin’s anxiety, she offers insight into how complexity, struggle, and creativity often coexist.

To me, it says: you can still be successful in your own “inadequacy” — and you are not abnormal; you just need to know how to use it.

Another pleasant surprise (and quite non-standard for museum and gallery brochures) was what I call the “educational boxes” at the end of some of the texts. Don’t know what “Still Life” or “Readymade” means? No problem. Voorlinden has the answer — and, better yet, they inform you about it!

With this, Voorlinden is solving two inclusion problems at once.

The first one is language inclusion. Some people don’t understand terms in English — we’re in an international environment, receiving people from all over the world, and the “lost in translation” gap is real. Maybe I do know what an assemblage is in my own native language, but I struggle to understand it in English. And when that happens, the experience breaks. You disconnect. You move on. Not because you’re not interested, but because the entry point is missing.

The second one is what I would call the insertion aspect. Meaning: inviting people to understand the art world better — its terms, its processes, its mediums. Not assuming they already know, but actually bringing them in.
This kind of mediation — small, well-placed entry points — is often the difference between distance and connection.

That is HUGE. Because once people understand, they are more likely to engage. And over time, that engagement can evolve. It can impact thousands of artists’ lives years down the road, because this kind of access builds understanding — and understanding has the potential to create future collectors.

If we look at collector psychology through the lens of Prof. Andrew Dillon’s research published in The Art Basel and UBS Survey of Global Collecting, collecting starts to look very different from the stereotypes we often attach to it.

Rather than being an exceptional or elitist behavior, Dillon suggests that collecting is, in fact, a routine human act — something deeply embedded in how we relate to the world. We gather, we keep, we assign meaning. Not only for economic value, but for identity, connection, memory, and understanding.

A collection can offer life-support over time, a means of trading, a basis for community and communication, a store of value, and a mechanism of self-identity. It can inform, educate, provide emotional comfort, and mark our lives in personally meaningful ways.

Seen this way, collecting is not reserved for a few — it is a spectrum of behavior that most of us already participate in, whether through books, objects, music, or art. The difference is not in the instinct itself, but in the level of knowledge, access, and engagement we develop around it.

And this is where museums come in.

If collecting is a natural human tendency, then participation in the art world is not something inherently distant or exclusive. It is something that can be activated. But for that to happen, people need to understand what they are looking at. They need context, language, entry points. They need to feel that they are allowed in.

When institutions create closeness — when they communicate clearly, when they educate without intimidating, when they translate instead of obscure — they are not only improving the visitor experience. They are opening a pathway.

A pathway that can, over time, lead from curiosity to interest, from interest to engagement, and from engagement to support.

And yes — eventually, even to collecting.

Let’s talk about the “warning” notes in yellow: the safety of the artworks. When I worked at MANIFESTA 15 Barcelona as exhibition staff, it became SO CLEAR that people don’t understand the basic rules of being inside an exhibition. I lost count of how many times I had to shout at both children and adults alike (even grannies) that they are not supposed to touch the artwork.

It is not a matter of age, but of understanding the rules and the reasons behind them. Some people barely go to these spaces, and they can’t comprehend why they wouldn’t be allowed to touch the work. But the reason is not that the art itself is untouchable and holy — it’s that these museums or exhibitions receive hundreds of people every day, and these works can be damaged over time: liquids, oils from hands, food residue, flash, or even someone taking a small piece. All of these can affect a work if done repeatedly — or deliberately. And what a shame. All the time, work, attention, care, and soul put into that piece are put at risk in the moment someone decides to touch it.

With the yellow signs in this brochure, Voorlinden prevents this in a refined way by adding it to the pages, especially by the artworks that are notoriously attractive to one’s hands (or mouth!, which is the case of Simone Post’s Sweet Memories installation room). They reduce the need for staff to intervene, to speak, to shout, to interrupt other people’s experience — other people’s immersion. And we don’t want that.

That moment with oneself or with a loved one, that moment with a concept — sitting with it, allowing space for depth of thought, emotional digestion, or connection — that is sacred.

And trust me, we don’t want a high-pitched “DON’T TOUCH” shout to disturb it.

In the end, this is what Voorlinden’s brochure reminded me: communications and design are not decoration. They are not an extra layer added after the “real” exhibition is done. It is part of the exhibition itself. It shapes how people enter, move, understand, feel, behave, and eventually relate to art.

A good exhibition does not only show works. It builds the conditions for people to meet them.

If you read this drop of wisdom until here, I’ll end it with a question: are you designing exhibitions for yourself and your little club? Or are you designing for others — to connect with these works, and ultimately with the artists (or yourself, if you are the artist) behind them?

Think about it. Because your answer shapes everything.

If you’re working on an exhibition, a project, or trying to make your work more accessible without losing depth, this is exactly what I support through Artist Ally.

If you want to explore this together, you can book a session or reach out directly.