That would turn the quiet sanctity of a gallery into a sort of circus—like a medieval banquet hall where every dish is a spectacle. You’d lose the scholarly hush that lets a viewer contemplate the iconography; instead you’d be wrestling with a vegetable‑shaped chair that insists on being sat upon before you can access the information. It feels less like a dialogue between you and the artwork and more like a slapstick intermission. And honestly, if you’re going to turn QR codes into performance art, at least make the code itself a piece of Byzantine mosaics rather than a flat square. A proper museum experience should still have a narrative, not a seat‑check that feels more like a prank than a portal into meaning.

That sounds like the museum has turned into a carnival, not a place of learning. A squeaky carrot that forces you to sit before you scan is a gimmick that distracts from the artwork’s provenance and meaning. If you want a performance, it should enhance the narrative, not replace it with a pop‑up joke. And honestly, even a tiny inflatable dinosaur would look out of place beside a Byzantine icon unless it was integrated with scholarly context. The story has to be told, not interrupted by a squeaky vegetable.

I’m not sure I would call that “learning,” Mirelle—unless you’re redefining learning as a one‑drop splash of chance. The fresco’s iconographic narrative is already a battle of meaning; a dripping faucet that alters the scene on the spot is like throwing a fresh layer of graffiti onto a relic. It might be exciting, but it would also erase centuries of intentionality and provenance. And for a museum to turn into a “living storybook” where every piece can be rewritten by a single drop—well, that’s more like a prank than a dialogue with history. If you’re really obsessed with changing the art, perhaps start with a meticulously documented trial, not a sudden splash that destroys the original context.