Stepping off a frenetic Oxford Road pavement and into the relative calm of the Manchester Museum forecourt, I feel like I am crossing an invisible divide of time and space. Putting the Red Brick well and truly into the Manchester University Campus, the Museum buildings loom above me in their gothic majesty. The new entrance is all glass and sharp sheeted metal but the warm light gently seeping from the foyer creates a welcoming glow as you near the doors.

As I enter the museum, I am made immediately aware of the public nature of this space. Disembodied voices echo through the open atrium, footsteps pound on the floors above me and the unmistakable chatter of children winds its way down the twisted wooden staircase. I know my route. I have been here many times before. The museum was my refuge as an undergraduate when I longed for the company of people who were not my age and not students. I would listen to the school groups as they mobbed around the scary giant spider crab, as giddy and fascinated as they were. I would chat to the security guards, usually glad of the distraction, for these were the days before the refurbishment, when far fewer visitors came to see the wonders of things from long ago.

As I reach my intended destination, I am struck by the emptiness and expanse of this area compared to other parts of the museum. The Maori display is hidden behind the glamorous golden Buddha, situated on the landing, which somehow seems to dazzle people, making them walk past the next few cabinets without a second glance. It is also directly opposite the entrance to the interactive part of the ‘Living Cultures’ gallery, the prime objective of most visitors. In order to see the exquisitely carved Maori Storehouse centrepiece, one has to make a conscious effort to turn back and venture into the dimly lit recess, an unnatural and awkward movement.

All of the display cases in this room are traditional and the epitome of Victorian British Museum style. Deep brown wooden cabinets with glass panels rise up from the plush grey carpet, ordered in perfect symmetry around the square room. I feel like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput, my eye-line comes to the very top of each cabinet, forcing me to stoop down to read the information panels. I can see the ugly wires and utilitarian control boxes on the top of each wooden case, silently monitoring the atmospheric conditions surrounding each valued object. These cases radiate solidity and substance, they are safe strong vessels fit for their purpose.

I am alone for most of the time I spend in here. There is only the occasional interruption by other visitors, usually in small groups, as they whizz through on their way to the ‘exciting bit’. I can hear the strange automaton voices of the interactive delights, punctuated with electronic beeps and the frantic tapping of buttons of all shapes and sizes, wafting back into my quiet corner. There is a consistent low buzzing of what I presume to be the many lights in the cabinets, hot from many hours work illuminating exotic treasures. Now and again the elevator pings and despatches bewildered looking people, all seemingly lost and not interested in this floor after all.

Above the Maori cabinet is the storehouse carving with its fearsome ancestral face above the mantel. Alas, the staring, imposing feature is rendered impotent in this environment of unnatural lighting and safe, carpeted indoor setting. The power of the piece is lost, removed as it is from its usual social context and exhibited as if it is artwork. The whole room has this feel of a Butterfly collection; selected artefacts pinned into position and labelled according to date, geography and purpose. The Maori clubs made from glistening, vibrant green jade lie dull and dormant, their lack of motion removing all threat. Without the six-foot, angry looking warrior in tow, they simply look pretty. My heart slows as I notice the canoe prow, disembodied from its awesome wooden waka (boat), dry and static behind the sheet of glass. Memories of early morning paddles, slicing through ocean waves and feeling vital and free haunt me as I expect they do this wooden head. How can you describe the skilful poi dance without music? Why fix a grass skirt to a board when its very purpose is to swish and make rhythmic sound as people’s feet stamp in time?

I’m lucky enough to know the sounds, smells and sights of these particular objects, a privileged observer. Without this knowledge, a visitor could be forgiven for assuming that Maori’s are no more; an extinct exhibit like the Dodo or even part fantasy, like the imagined lives of the ancients with only mummies or clay pots as physical evidence of a grand culture lost. If I were to speak it would be hushed, as if in a library- Do not disturb! It’s as if I might upset the precious things. Without people these objects have become sacred symbols of the exotic. Decisions made by curators have bestowed celestial value upon certain material goods. They now symbolise something different to what they were originally created for, disembodied and out of context.

I see my reflection, bouncing off six cabinets at once. My ghostly figure suddenly provides a human aspect to the display. It is as if I am trapped in the glass cupboard, an example of the lesser-spotted student, complete with sacred backpack and notepad. I’m surrounded by untouchable things; sight is the only way to compute the information. There is no smell, no contextual sound, nothing to feel. A cloak made of feathers hangs immobile, as if it is frozen, belonging to nobody. All I see is a catalogue number and an approximate date of its creation. Name, rank and number. The only information gleaned by an interrogating public from this captured warrior's garment.

My attention is suddenly caught by ‘armour from Kiribati’; a full size warrior shape with no face or visible body, just hand-woven coconut padding floating in limbo, surrounded by vicious weaponry. The helmet is made from a dead porcupine fish. I say made from, it looks to me like someone simply gutted and dried out a dead porcupine fish and put it on their head. I get the distinct impression that perhaps those folk in Kiribati were having a laugh at some hapless anthropologist. The wooden swords with shark’s teeth down each long side look more realistically violent; I try hard not to imagine being struck with one of those and wonder for what reason might a person in Kiribati use such a thing. People continue to walk past; two boys merely glance at the cabinet. They do not notice the funny fish head and gruesome daggers. It’s already too far away from them, separated by glass.