Robert’s Rules of Order? The art? The revenue? The needs of the community?
It’s the first Tuesday in February. Welcome to your first board meeting!
It’s 7:00pm. You rushed home, had a quick dinner, and drove like a bat out of hell to get there at 6:55.
Surprisingly, you’re among the first people there.
You were unanimously elected to the board at the January meeting. Two weeks ago, you had a 30-minute orientation led by another board member, the person who cajoled you to serve. She showed you the board contract. The board contract starts with a stipulation that it is the responsibility of the board to raise money for the organization.
Board membership requires: one of the top 3 gifts you donate each year, a purchase of (or sale of all the tickets to) your own personal table at the annual fundraising dinner, at least two sets of season tickets to the company, service on a committee, and a commitment to proselytizing for the company at every opportunity. You’ve toured the venue, met an artist or two, sat with the executive director and artistic director, both of whom thanked you for serving.
You didn’t quite realize before the board election exactly how much membership would cost. You can afford it. Or maybe you can’t. But now the contract is signed. Either way, it certainly would have been nice to know before the January meeting.
Somebody pours you a glass of wine. You later discover that this was the development director. You get a queasy feeling each time every time she looks at you, as though you were prey.
The chair calls the board to order at 7:15. The last person walks in the room. Conversational hubbub begins anew and more minutes pass.
At 7:30, the chair actually pounds the table with a gavel. Is this a play or a meeting?
The chair reads the agenda. An intern sits in the corner taking minutes. Robert’s Rules of Order directs the stilted conversation. The chair takes twenty minutes to issue an opening statement. He talks about how lucky the company is to have its artistic staff. The executive director smiles nervously.
There are myriad motions, seconds, and endless discussion on even the most mundane things, every now and then punctuated by a unanimous vote. If the vote is always going to be unanimous, you ask yourself, then why does it require all this discussion? Do people here not know how to take “yes” for an answer?
You pour your second glass of wine.
It is now 9:00. You worked all day, and now you’re having trouble keeping your eyes open. Suddenly, the board chair looks at you and asks you to introduce yourself. You stand and clumsily tell people who you are, why you’re there, and how excited you are to get started. You look around and see multiple glasses of wine being poured and receive a tidy, but overstuffed binder from that cultish development director. She explains nothing.
You sit, and at 9:05, the artistic director waxes poetic about the next production for about a half hour. He talks about the performers, the design — he even brings a tiny mockup of the set — and his vision. He announces that the event will be completely sold out. The marketing director winces.
(You later discover that the artistic director always says the events will sell out.)
At 9:30, the head of the development committee begins her report. You notice that she is sitting almost on the lap of the development director who smiles broadly, teeth bared, like a ventriloquist. The committee head, whose facial expression never quite changes, tells the fabulous story of all the work done by the development leader and all the fundraising programs that have been launched.
All the discussion leads to an impression that, if there are financial issues for the company, they don’t seem to be emanating from the development department. At least that’s what the head of the committee keeps saying. Did you notice the development director’s lips move?
The meeting goes until 10:30. Nothing is discussed except how the company is doing against the budget for the year, and even that is couched with caveats. The executive director’s report begins. She announces, just as she had written in the report that preceded the meeting by two weeks, that the company is short on payroll, due that Friday. Most of the board members are surprised by this information. (You read the report, so you already knew. Didn’t anyone else?)
The board chair says, glumly, that tickets must be sold, money must be raised, and expenses must be cut. The rest of the board members nod. One board member wants others to start an endowment fund. Another recommends that Warren Buffet be notified. Still another, an heiress, writes a check, right there at the table, to cover the payroll for that week. She receives applause.
The board chair suddenly adjourns the meeting and requests an executive session. The motion is seconded and discussion ensues, where not much is said. Staff members are excused. The chair advises the rest of the board that unless the executive director raises more money, there might have to be a change in leadership.
“Isn’t that our job, to use our connections to raise money?” you ask.
“I don’t have time to raise money,” replies the board chair, sternly. “That’s what the executive director is supposed to do.” The rest of the board nods in agreement.
You ask innocently, “Then why is it in the board contract?”
The meeting is adjourned at 11:00. As you watch people file out, you make note that there was no report about the needs of the community. Is this the right board for you?
Is it?
Based in Kirkland, Washington, Alan Harrison is a writer and speaker specializing in nonprofit organizations, strategy, the arts, and life politics. His columns appear regularly in major publications. Contact him directly at alan@501c3.guru.
If you’re feeling generous or inspired, just click on the coffee cup above. You don’t have to, of course, but if you can afford it and find some value here, please provide the desperate need for caffeine.
Alan is always looking for good opportunities to write and consult for nonprofits that need a hand. And, of course, that elusive Perfect Opportunity™.
Having read a number of Alan’s cranky articles on non-profit arts organization governance in the past few months, I remain a little confused as to what he’s trying to accomplish both here and in his other snarky columns. If he’s trying to shame those of us in non-profit governance into reform, then stating worst case scenarios and seemingly equating them to all arts orgs seems a peculiarly ineffective way of doing it.
Are there poorly run dysfunctional arts non-profits? Of course! More than there should be. Are there perfectly run ones? Maybe a few, but every group has room for improvement. It’s a spectrum of quality and most fall somewhere in the middle of a complex Venn diagram of good intentions, available time, skills, funds, and other factors. Still, most people, whether volunteer board member or paid staffer, approach their work with a belief in their organization and its mission and with a sincere hope of bettering their group and their community.
We can debate the effectiveness and mission of various arts non-profits, and again it’s a spectrum, but wholesale shaming is really only good for getting us to shut down and ignore you. Many of us start and end our meetings on time, do our best to integrate new board members, think deeply about our missions, and try to measure our impact while maintaining the quality of what we do – be it art creation, education, advocacy, or whatever. At the end of the day we’re largely trying to do our best to provide a service to our communities that we believe in and that probably wouldn’t exist otherwise.
So if you want to discuss reforms like adults, by all means, let’s do so. But let’s try to leave out the cynical juvenile criticism, which does little to advance the conversation.