Dioramas as Storytellers in Museums:

Learning Come to Life, Almost

Katie Carlson

Humans have relied on stories to communicate many of our most integral values for as long as

we have had language. Today, every one of us knows intuitively when we hear a “good” story—

one that is engaging, riveting, and follows compelling characters. We are also acutely aware of

when we listen to a “bad” story, one that seems boring and feels completely detached from any

personal experiences or how we see the world. A good story captures its audience’s attention and

provokes a sense of investment in the outcome. As a result, storytelling can be a profoundly

effective teaching tool, and it holds great potential to influence the actions of those who listen. In

a setting such as museums—a principal avenue through which cultural learning occurs—stories

play a powerful role: people can see first-hand artifacts, inventions, and cultural icons that have

shaped human societies. We can even find glimpses into the experiences of other species at a

natural history museum. Habitat dioramas, a modern staple of natural history museums,

showcase wildlife set in their natural habitats. They have potential to function as vivid

storytellers; in particular, these dioramas offer abundant opportunities for learning when

supported by museum educators. Looking to the future, this paper ultimately seeks to consider

how multimedia and digital storytelling technologies might supplement the stories that dioramas

can tell. Stories told through dioramas invoke a sense of empathy in museumgoers, thus

heightening retention and ideally prompting the viewers to consider new perspectives after they

exit the museum.

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In order to delve into the reasons why storytelling is a useful tool in museum education, one must

first establish evidence that dioramas are, in fact, a form of storytelling. Dioramas and written

stories share several defining qualities. Both aim to “hook” or draw their audiences into a setting.

When well-executed, the two forms spur curiosity and further queries. Additionally, the narrative

form relies on setting, and dioramas literally embody its importance. A narrative—whatever the

form it takes—holds a great deal of control over its audience. Nearly all classic children’s stories

exemplify this power. If the shepherd boy in Aesop’s fable, “The Boy who Cried Wolf,” had

never had anyone believe his lies, readers would be left contemplating a moral such as “do not

neglect a child.” However, because the villagers trusted the shepherd boy’s lies until he was

really in danger, the common moral is “a liar will not be believed, even when telling the truth”

(Aesop). Stories such as this one demonstrate how impactful the narrative form is, particularly in

molding cultural values. If a fox in a diorama is poised about to pounce onto a prey, viewers may

be more inclined to perceive foxes as ferocious predators than if the fox is positioned limply

draped over the shoulder of a human hunter (fig. 1). Both of these instances elicit an emotional

reaction from their audience, which leads to a far more memorable takeaway than simply stating

“do not tell lies” or “protect endangered foxes from hunters.”

Fig. 1. 1985. Habitat diorama. Bar Harbor, ME: College of the Atlantic, Dorr Museum of Natural History.
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Habitat dioramas originally appeared in natural history museums in the 1880s. Taxidermist Carl

Akeley created the first museum habitat diorama in 1889, which featured muskrats set in

wetlands1 (Kamcke and Hutterer 18). Akeley’s diorama work aimed to preserve species and

habitat that hunting, farming, and industrial development were swiftly destroying. In turn,

museumgoers learned an acute appreciation for these threatened places and began to support

conservation efforts (“Dioramas”). As dioramas gained popularity and they became an essential

feature of natural history museums, so did public recognition of the need for conservation. These

habitat dioramas enabled museum visitors to view taxidermied wildlife poised in action, while

looking from a vantage point far nearer than possible (or safe!) in reality (figs. 2 and 3).

Experiencing wild species and habitat from this novel, proximate angle prompted visitors to

wonder, ask questions, learn, and care about the depicted animals (Livingstone 197).

Fig. 2. Charles B. Hubbard, Groundhog diorama, 1922–24. Hinckley: L.C. Bates Museum.
Photo: John Meader Photography, ©2020.

1
See papers by Caroline Scarola (fig. 3) and Ari Trueba (fig. 2).
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Fig. 3. Charles B. Hubbard, Black bears diorama. 1922–24. Hinckley: L.C. Bates Museum. Photo: John
Meader Photography, ©2020.

In a diorama, the scene is frozen. Taxidermied animals are often positioned to look like they are

mid-action, perpetually still within the illusion of motion. At its origins, the practice of creating

dioramas is grounded in representing movement (Kamcke and Hutterer 10). For Phaedra

Livingstone “[t]he best-executed habitat dioramas evoke the sense of a moment frozen in time,

which the visitor has stumbled upon” (Livingstone 195). This pose, perhaps in tandem with a

vibrant backdrop or lush-looking habitat, seizes the viewer's attention. The mind automatically

begins to imagine what that animal is moving towards and/or away from, leaving opportunity for

imagination to fill in those gaps.

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Figs. 4 and 5. Who’s Eating Who, 1985. Habitat diorama. Bar Harbor, ME: College of the
Atlantic, Dorr Museum of Natural History.

A diorama in the College of the Atlantic’s Dorr Museum of Natural History depicts a Great Horned

Owl soaring down to seize a skunk in its talons. In the same scene, another skunk—but that

could be understood as the owl’s soon-to-be prey—devours another animal’s eggs in a hollow

ground nest (figs. 4 and 5). The owl, skunk, and eggs tell a story purely through their

positioning; however, the very same diorama also leaves room for viewers to develop the

narrative around that moment frozen in time. The open state of curiosity guides visitors to tap

into their “imaginative state” to discern meaning from the diorama (Pujol 2.1). Visitors will

speculate on the infinite possibilities encapsulated in that frozen movement, therefore prompting

questions about that animal's habitat and behavior. A seconds-long interaction between diorama

and visitor, such as this one, seamlessly lends itself to what Sue Dale Tunnicliffe calls “the 4 ‘I’s

sequence […] identify—interest—interpret—investigate” (Tunnicliffe 161). These four stages

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break down how dioramas function in the visitor’s experience. For Tunnicliffe, educators play a

critical role in this learning process, as they make it possible for the audience to become active

investigators instead of passive observers. Using familiar storytelling techniques such as posing

questions, interacting with the audience, and using engaging language, museum educators are an

integral player in prompting visitors to learn from dioramas (Tunnicliffe 162).

Particular methods used in curating museum exhibits reliably attract visitor attention and interest.

The L.C. Bates Museum, located in central Maine, boasts numerous well-crafted habitat

dioramas. A significant portion of the museum’s visitors are school groups and educational tours;

as such, the museum staff cultivates a strong educational program, complete with scavenger

hunts and seasoned lesson plans. These methods encourage visiting students to view the habitat

dioramas and other collections as “treasures,” objects they have a personal stake in discovering.

Additionally, a diorama with a taxidermied animal poised in suspenseful motion is certain to

elicit curiosity from viewers, as well as punchy, dramatic titles. That being said, most

museumgoers already hold robust cultural backgrounds and common knowledge; thus, a well-

crafted diorama works in dialogue with visitors’ personal histories. The individual viewer also

brings his or her own unique biases to the diorama. Let us return to the fox diorama (fig. 1) and

the earlier established idea that visitors will interpret that fox—and perhaps all other foxes, too—

drastically differently based on whether the animal is positioned as hunter or prey. A dead fox

slung over a hunter’s shoulder would more likely appear disturbing, unfamiliar, and gratuitous to

young students from urban Boston, given that hunting is far from their lifestyle, let alone their

livelihood (Tunnicliffe 164). This visitor-based facet of a museum experience is integral to the

learning process; experiential learning relies on students feeling some degree of investment in
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what they are learning. Even if that investment comes as disbelief at what they are viewing,

students now have emotional stake in this diorama. Their takeaways from its lesson will be more

memorable and, in the case of an acutely powerful museum experience, will continue to impact

their values and behaviors after they leave.

Keith Dunmall examines performative storytelling in diorama galleries, observing two broad

categories: “stories from the dioramas, and stories of the dioramas” (Dunmall 244). The

diorama’s original context remains constant, while simultaneously blending into new, visitor-

constructed narrative interpretations. In other words, storytelling “is an action that reproduces but

also produces culture” (Pujol 2.1). The relationship between stories and culture is inextricably

symbiotic. This truth demands that dioramas be presented with conscious intention, and it calls

on curators to consider the story they are telling with every detail (Dal Falco and Vassos S3979).

Behind every facet of a diorama’s appearance is a creator’s choice; inversely, within every facet

of a diorama’s appearance is a viewer’s unique interpretation. One group of scholars dedicated to

producing virtual storytelling technology in museums comments on the nature of this interaction:

“visitors are not empty vessels just like museums are not empty buildings. Therefore, the

balanced museum recognises that museums and visitors equally construct the museum

experience” (Pujol 6). Engaging, interactive diorama exhibits are an essential strategy in

heightening visitors’ interest and retention. Through narrative that engages empathy and even

multi-sensory experience, compelling stories add an emotional charge to the diorama, which

intensifies the impact on visitors as well as the lessons they take with them (Pujol 2.1).
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As curators and scholars delve forward into the future of museum exhibits, archaeological

practices of the past actually hold a great deal of wisdom about the role of narrative in museums.

The field of archaeology has long grappled with the challenges of presenting historical artifacts

in a way that is simultaneously engaging and accurate. The advent of postmodernism in the late

20th century brought an increased awareness of scientific subjectivity (Pujol 2.2). While many

scientists have distinctive training and skills to assert facts about unearthed artifacts, there are

inevitable gaps in those claims. Society relies on anthropologists, historians, linguists, and many

other scholars to comprehend the full picture of these ancient objects. Furthermore, conveying

this history to the public requires skilled educators. The scholars involved in the CHESS project

(Cultural Heritage Experiences through Socio-personal interactions and Storytelling) explain that

“an engaging text that aims to engage or convince the reader needs to have a balance between

validity, reliability, and a human or emotional component” (Pujol 2.2). In essence, scientific facts

and scholarly truth cannot stand alone; their significance in society relies on invoking readers’

sense of empathy.

In an age of rapid personal mobility, access to immense information at the tap of a smartphone,

and ever-more-stimulating media to consume, museums must venture into new territory to avoid

obsolescence. Some have adapted their content to offer virtual visits on the internet, while others

have leaned into the swiftly modernizing world by marketing themselves as an experience of a

bygone era. As far as storytelling goes, museums now have a myriad of new opportunities to

harness the powerful tool of narrative. Multimedia stories can offer visitors rich sensory

experiences, combining sight, sound, touch, and sometimes even smell. Design scholars Federica

Dal Falco and Stavros Vassos assert that “new technology offers possibilities for artefacts,
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historical people, buildings and events to become the characters of a storytelling experience that

unfolds in the form of a dialogue between visitors and the museum” (Dal Falco and Vassos

S3979). Museums have limitless new avenues to extend the visitor experience beyond museum

walls. When an intriguing diorama catches a student’s attention, he or she now has the ability to

research this species further at home. Virtual tours make internationally accessible some of the

invaluable lessons that were formerly confined to the physical space of a museum.

Telling stories has remained a constant tenet of human experience and while stories will not be

departing anytime soon, the ways in which we share and receive them are rapidly changing.

Dioramas offer a glimpse at life unchanged; an unmoving animal poised in the illusion of action.

Museum visitors hustle and bustle through hallways and social media platforms ding incessantly,

yet this habitat is frozen in time. However, I have to wonder if the illusion of a diorama is not

movement after all—perhaps the illusion is that of stillness. Can we ever fully capture a moment

in time? The diorama, though immobile, imparts stories and curiosities into the minds of

museum visitors—the very same visitors who hours later return to their hyper-mobile world,

carrying with them visions of hunting owls and wrestling bears. Thus, it could be that those

taxidermied animals live on, tucked somewhere inside the gazes of countless museum visitors,

quietly informing the ways we shape our world.

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