For the life story, read on . .
Once upon a time, I was a scientist. I had an Honours degree in Biochemistry, and thought that it was the first step on the path towards a stellar research career.
But only a few months into my first research job, I started to get itchy feet - it was clear that I had more of the 'gift of the gab' than the discipline of the lab. And then someone told me about this mad course in Canberra where you get to spend the year travelling around Australia making things go bang in front of school kids (or, as it is more properly known, the Questacon Science Circus as part of the ANU's Graduate Diploma in Science Communication). At that time I only had the vaguest idea of what Science Communication was (er . . . science people on telly . . . science writers. . . er . . . ), but I had nothing to lose by applying. And as luck would have it, I got in!
That year in the Science Circus was amazing - I learned so much, met so many great people, and it opened my eyes to what a career in Science Communication might look like. It also whetted my appetite for adventure. So, armed with a three-month work contract and a huge backpack, I headed off on my first foray overseas, to the UK - ostensibly for a two year stint.
That was the late '90s, and the UK was in a building frenzy in the lead-up to the new millennium. Many of the projects under construction were new science centres. I started out in Bristol (that three month contract I'd lined up previously), doing a mixture of exhibit development odd-jobs: researching obscure facts, writing exhibit briefs, evaluating prototypes. Six months later I took a contract in Leicester, as part of the exhibition development team for the National Space Centre (then still a concrete pit on the city's outskirts).
That was where the massive learning curve kicked in, with over 3000 square metres of exhibit space to complete in the space of about 20 months. We were a small team and had to throw our hands at anything that needed doing, be it writing exhibit text, liaising with designers and contractors, speaking to the media, even picking what merchandise should go into the shop.
By the time the Space Centre opened, my two-year stint in the UK was up. But developments behind the scenes (ie. meeting my partner) meant that I wasn't ready to up sticks just yet. And anyway, I was having too much fun, with the opportunities in the UK then dwarfing those available back home.
As luck would have it, when my contract at the Space Centre finished the company who had done the exhibition design for the Centre, Haley Sharpe, invited me to join them as a researcher. This started out with crunching tourism statistics and designing surveys for users of provincial swimming pools; but before long I was working on exhibitions and interpretation for medieval buildings, historic sites in North America, and brand-new museums in the Middle East. I clocked up about a quarter of a million air miles in the five years I was there (please don't talk to me about carbon footprints) and saw some fantastic projects to fruition -- like the National Children's Museum in Amman, Jordan:
It was during this time that I found myself diversifying from purely science communication into what I now call 'cultural communication'. And it occurred to me that whether it's the big bang theory, the significance of a battle site, or the collection of a national museum, it's a pretty similar challenge. All cultural institutions have a story to tell, and they have to do it in a way that captures the interest and imagination of their audiences. Getting a better understanding of these interactions between audiences, sites and stories has since become my professional passion.
About four years ago yet another twist of fate stepped in - my partner was offered a job in my hometown, Adelaide. I was starting to get sick of the British winters anyway, so off we went in a leap of faith back in the direction I'd originally come from.
(I'm still working on the final instalment of this gripping yarn - stay tuned . . )
