Museum of Failure or Gallery of Trying?

Bianca Chatterjee recounts her various fumbles through her 22 years, but also the valuable lessons that these have taught her, including nostalgia and kindness to oneself. 

The Museum of Failure is a touring exhibition that showcases various products and services that have not been commercially successful. In other words, they failed. They failed to do what they were designed to do, to do what they were supposed to do. 

Interestingly enough though, this exhibition is a lucrative novelty to immerse yourself in. When these pop-ups have come about in various cities, there has been no shortage of patrons who were captivated by the weirdness of random ideas that could’ve been. There have been 18 so far, and each one has displayed an array of failed medical tools, personal tech devices, vehicles, and even flavours of Pringles that didn’t sit well with…anyone.

There was a niche trend circulating the short-form content algorithms not too long ago: a carousel post of you, with bubbles recounting things you may have fucked up or simply, not done as well with as you may have initially hoped. 

These tend to include jobs you’ve been fired from, failing numerous classes and being made hyper aware of the debt you’re in, fumbling the love of your life or a friend you felt saw you in a way that you’ve never been recognised before, or just generally being a shitty, shitty person. 

I frequently think of all of the little things that have either happened to me or happened because of me. Mostly good, of course and I’m lucky. But I confess that this collection includes the arguments I’ve had with those closest to me, the lies I’ve been caught out in, the hearts I’ve broken, the car accidents I’ve caused, (I look back and laugh now, but I hit a stationary garbage truck once, two years ago) the friends I’ve neglected, the opportunities I’ve rejected due to being overwhelmed and of course - the years through which I had mistreated myself.

Other than making bad decisions and often repeating those mistakes, I’ve failed classes, said really stupid shit that should’ve just stayed inside my head, made big fusses about being rejected, felt the need to lose weight every day since I was 10, and fallen FLAT on concrete floors almost every time I’ve gotten drunk since I was like, 19; always public and never as drunk or as high-heeled as I should be to go down that hard.

So, my museum of humiliation or personal failures - if you’d go so far as to call them that, is extensive and continues to grow every day. Now, this could definitely be interpreted in a way to get me as down as that one time I literally fell at the feet of the Soda Factory bouncer, dead sober and wearing secure footwear. 

I could think and think and think about how every little mistake I’ve made, every hurtful thing I’ve said or done to myself or someone I care about, is another karmic nail in my coffin and I should be in a state of general anxiety until the other shoe drops. Or, until I make my next mistake, which is when that hum of nervousness turns into all-consuming dread. And then, somehow, getting out of bed to pee, brushing my teeth, or opening the blinds all become extremely difficult. 

I have been a regular patron of my museum of failure, and the gift shop has always left my emotional wallet rinsed. No novelty mug or pen is worth purchasing when they’re this mentally taxing and have you smelling like you haven’t showered in a week (because you haven’t).

There is something comforting about grief, loss and failure. There is a reason why hundreds have flocked to the ‘Museum of Failure’ exhibitions every time they are announced in their city. There is a reason why the trend came and went on social media, and also why you seem to be so wrapped up in the spiral that is your own museum of failure. 

You look back and fantasise about how things should have been done differently, which is essentially a cushy way to satisfy your primal need for control, in the hopes for the most desirable outcome. But also, you eventually allow yourself to grieve…

You allow yourself to grieve what was and what could have been, and you allow yourself to evolve and change for the better.

Looking back at something painful can bring beauty, peace, and eventual freedom. If done right, it reminds one of one’s humanness, the very flawed but very specific series of events that resulted in the given outcome, and how relinquishing control or rigid attachment is freeing and blissful. 

There is beauty in how all of the minute details that come together to result in fuckery and heartache in one moment give your insight into your boundaries, your personality, emotions, or just a great story to share for years. 

There is beauty in knowing that this is your first time living life in your current body and soul, and in accepting the inevitability of the subsequent failure. Because I promise you’ll even be nostalgic about the time you threw up in the beer garden or inappropriately overshared at a group interview because you were so nervous about being forgotten (not my stories, fortunately). 

This means that you eventually learn to embrace and value forgiveness, or choose not to forgive. You also learn to embrace the process, the full spectrum of emotions, and how everything and everyone is unique yet the same. 

The piece de-resistance of my museum of failure should be the fact that it has taken me so long to reframe my understanding of my blunders as evidence of life being a large collection of various different versions of yourself. That I am not just who I am today, but someone who has persevered through stages of both devastation and joy over 22 years thus, far. Someone who has loved and lost, and someone who will hopefully be lucky enough again to do so.

Nostalgia is the best feeling invoked after walking through an art exhibition, because it reminds you that you’ve lived a life worth living and that it must be continued to be seen through, no matter what.