I have had the opportunity to visit the Natural History Museum in South Kensington, multiple times over the holiday period and into the New Year for a couple of meetings. To me, the Museum stands as one of the world’s most iconic cultural institutions, a cathedral of science and natural wonder where millions have journeyed to imagine the vast tapestry of life on Earth. Its soaring Victorian halls, vaulted ceilings and marquee specimens (from towering dinosaurs to the blue whale skeleton Hope) draw visitors into a narrative of planetary life stretching across deep time. Walking through the museum, I realised that something is missing. Nestled within this grand narrative, for almost half a century, the Human Biology gallery offered something different (housed in a gallery between the Hintze Hall and the Darwin Centre). This was a space dedicated not to the most ancient or exotic life, but to ourselves, our bodies, our experiences, and our place within the living world. That gallery (formally known as the Hall of Human Biology) closed in 2021 after opening in 1977. Its space has since been repurposed and, as of 2025, transformed into the Fixing Our Broken Planet gallery, a new permanent exhibition focused on climate solutions and sustainability while drawing on specimens and themes from across the museum’s collections.

It was seeing the Fixing Our Broken Planet for the first time that made me dwell on the loss of the Human Biology gallery. Now that it is gone, there is much to mourn. Not just for nostalgia’s sake, but because it signals a shift in how we collectively frame what it means to be human, how we learn about our bodies, and how institutions choose which stories deserve a permanent home. To appreciate what has been lost, it helps to recall what the Human Biology gallery was. For many visitors it was an unexpected oasis, a gallery that moved away from dinosaurs and fossils, minerals and ecosystems, and instead invited people to reflect on themselves. In the late 1970s, when it opened, museum curators sought to make biology personal. The gallery engaged visitors with interactive displays about human anatomy, physiology, development from embryo to adulthood, the workings of the brain and nervous system, the complexity of movement and senses, and the broader biological processes that define us. It was educational but also revelatory, a place where you might stand looking at a life-sized skeletal model or a diagram of the heart and feel an immediate, visceral connection to the subject matter.

The exhibition within this gallery introduced visitors to fundamental concepts such as cells, tissues, organs, and body systems, showing how they work together to maintain life. Through interactive displays and real-world examples, it highlighted variation among humans, demonstrating that while all people share the same basic biological blueprint, individual differences are normal and essential to survival. The exhibition also placed human biology into a broader evolutionary and social context, examining how adaptation, development, health, and disease are influenced by lifestyle and environment. By connecting biology to everyday experiences (such as growth, aging, nutrition, and reproduction) it encouraged visitors to better understand their own bodies and appreciate the scientific principles that unite all humans. Overall, the exhibition presented human biology as dynamic and interconnected, fostering scientific literacy and a deeper sense of shared humanity. The most daring part of this gallery, was a detailed explanation of the origins of each of us, educating visitors about the process of fertilisation, development of an embryo, growth as a child, puberty, and aging.

In a world where science and medicine often feel distant or specialised, the Human Biology gallery made science intimate. It didn’t just show what a heart looks like, it invited you to consider your own beating, fragile, and miraculous heart. It didn’t simply explain bone density, it connected you to the structure that allows you to stand, run, and dance. For children and adults alike, it was often their first formal encounter with the biological realities of being human. For museum-goers in the later 20th century (perhaps visiting after school, on a rainy London afternoon) the gallery was a rare place where biology was not abstract but embodied. You didn’t have to be a medical student, a biologist, or a scientist to see yourself reflected in the exhibits. You were both observer and participant in the story. That narrative of self-understanding and connection was powerful. It literally turned a science museum into a mirror of human life. It is one that hasn’t been repeated elsewhere to the same scale although some exhibits in the nearby Science Museum have tried.

When the Human Biology gallery closed in 2021, it was not just another temporary gallery closure. Its removal signified a cultural shift in how the museum frames its public mission. Over recent years, the Natural History Museum has embarked on a major transformation project, aiming to reposition itself as a ‘catalyst for change’ in the face of environmental crises such as climate change and biodiversity loss. As someone trying to fight that fight, I completely understand why and we need to try to empower as many people as we can with the knowledge and passion to create change. However, the rest of the Museum is dedicated to this cause in one way or another. Renovations and new galleries within the museum (including Fixing Our Broken Planet) explicitly emphasise environmental challenges, sustainability solutions, and scientific advocacy for planetary stewardship. This mission, urgent and necessary as it is, has come at the cost of certain spaces dedicated to introspection about human biology itself. In place of understanding ourselves as organisms in all our biological complexity, the dominant narrative of the museum has shifted toward understanding our impact on the planet and its other inhabitants.

The shift in focus makes sense within the wider context of global environmental peril: the climate crisis, habitat destruction, species extinction and the Anthropocene era (the age of profound human impact on the Earth). These narratives are vital. However, the closure of the Human Biology gallery begs questions about balance. How does a society care for the future of the planet while also caring for its citizens’ understanding of themselves? The museum is a place where these stories ought not to be mutually exclusive. What we mourn is not merely the physical space, but the implication that human biology’s place in the grand narrative of life might no longer merit permanent, standalone attention. This is something that I am quite upset about. As you have probably noticed, most of the photos within this blog are not my own and given the fact it was difficult to source the ones I have used (thank you to all the photographers for the use of their images), I am not entirely sure if the Human Biology gallery was the most popular, especially when the dinosaurs were across the corridor. Thinking about other museums, most people visit the Lourve to see the Mona Lisa. Should they close the rest of the galleries and fill them with more information of contemporary issues facing the art world, including the recent theft of jewellery from the Galerie d’Apollon in those galleries with low footfall?

Consider the purpose that the Human Biology gallery served beyond static exhibit information. In a time when society grapples with debates over health, genetics, identity, aging, neuroscience and the ethics of biotechnology, having a public space that comprehensively addressed human biology frankly and accessibly was more than a convenience, it was a form of public education. Understanding how our bodies function isn’t trivia, it has real implications for public health literacy, empathy, and self-awareness. Without such an anchor, visitors must piece together their understanding of human biology from disparate sources, perhaps from the Human Evolution gallery (which focuses on ancient hominins and paths of evolution rather than anatomical development), or from other institutions entirely. But those experiences are not the same. Human evolution explains where we came from, but not fully how we work today. They complement rather than replace one another.

While environmental education is crucial, we also live within our bodies, in the present moment, confronting issues like neurological disease, mental health, aging, and immune system function. A gallery devoted to human biology was a space where those challenges could be contextualised scientifically and humanely. Mourning the closure of a museum gallery might seem peculiar to some. After all, galleries evolve all the time, specimens move, exhibits update, spaces shift. But there’s a difference between change and loss. Many visitors form deep, emotional attachments to specific galleries. For children, a gallery can make subjects come alive; for adults, it can spark memories, curiosity or even career inspiration. The Human Biology gallery was such a place for many. A site of first wonder, of questions asked aloud instead of being hushed in museum corridors. When that space closed, it wasn’t just content that vanished. What vanished (or is now relegated to memory) were the millions of small personal journeys that unfolded there: a teenager gripping a doorknob moulded like a human heart; a parent explaining to a child how lungs inflate; a visitor marvelling at the electrical symphony of the brain. These experiences resist digitisation, cannot be fully recaptured by text panels or virtual tours. I personally remember learning about the uneven areas of the brain dedicated to our senses and movement, through sensory and motor homunculus models as a child. Loss in this sense is both emotional and cultural.

The closure also raises questions about how museums balance institutional priorities with public sentiment. The Natural History Museum’s pivot toward environmental advocacy emerges from genuine scientific concerns and the urgent need to communicate the realities of ecological challenges. Galleries like Fixing Our Broken Planet aim to transform visitors from passive spectators into active stewards. Yet museums also serve as custodians of collective knowledge, not only about the world we inhabit, but about ourselves within that world. When decisions about space are made, whose voice is heard? Behind closed doors, curators weigh budgets, funding streams (such as support from the UK’s Public Bodies Infrastructure Fund), and strategic visions. Beyond the administrative calculus lies a deeper cultural conversation: what stories must we keep telling, and why? Some will argue that human biology is well served by other science museums or educational platforms. Others will point out that in an era of climate breakdown, environmental narratives must dominate. These are not trivial debates. They reflect differing views on what a national museum’s core responsibilities should be: to educate about ourselves, about the cosmos, about planetary processes, or all of the above? In losing the Human Biology gallery, we see an implicit reordering of these priorities.

What might the future hold? It’s possible that the essential themes once hosted by the Human Biology gallery will be integrated into other spaces or formats, perhaps digital programmes, temporary exhibitions, school outreach initiatives, or interactive experiences outside the physical walls of the museum. All of the materials that were housed in the gallery are likely in storage, unless they have been disposed of, and can therefore be repurposed if need be. Indeed, the institution continues to offer educational resources and to celebrate scientific wonder in many forms. The Human Evolution gallery remains open, drawing connections between ancient ancestors and modern human populations. As previously discussed, a number of these figures and signage were themselves repurposed from the Britain: One Million Years of the Human Story temporary exhibition. Yet this gallery focuses primarily on historical lineage, not the present biological machinery of being human. Perhaps other museums, such as the Science Museum, medical museums (Hunterian Museum, Royal College of Physicians Museum, or Museum of Anaesthesia which are all nearby), or university outreach centres, will expand their offerings to fill this gap. It is undeniably different when the Natural History Museum itself, with its global reputation, relinquishes that narrative space. Its absence will be palpable for many.

Mourning the loss of the Human Biology gallery (or rather, honouring what it represented) need not be purely retrospective. It opens a space for dialogue about what we value in public science education. Should the story of human biology be reclaimed in a new, modernised gallery that addresses contemporary issues such as genomics, personalised medicine, nutrition science, neural networks and aging? Should future exhibitions reconsider how to blend self-reflection with environmental awareness? How can institutions better integrate narratives of the self with narratives of the biosphere? If public voices such as students, families, educators, scientists, casual museum lovers express a collective desire for such content, museums listening to those voices might chart a new course that both honours legacy and embraces innovation.

The Human Biology gallery of the Natural History Museum may no longer greet visitors with its familiar displays, but its spirit lives on in memories, in the questions it inspired, and in the way it made millions think about their own bodies as part of the grand tapestry of life. Its loss is not merely physical, it is a reminder that cultural institutions shape not just what we learn, but how we see ourselves. As the museum evolves, as new galleries open and old ones are repurposed, we are left to ask, how will future generations understand themselves? Will they see human beings as bodies of wonder, as integral parts of Earth’s ecological story, or merely as agents of planetary crisis? What is clear is that in mourning the loss of the Human Biology gallery, we are mourning something profound: the place where science became personal, where knowledge met the self, and where visitors encountered their own biology with awe and curiosity. And that is worth remembering.

References

British Museum (Natural History), London. (1977). Human Biology: An Exhibition of Ourselves. Cambridge University Press.

Lindley, M. (1977). Push-button biology. Nature, 268, 84.

Miles, R. S. (1986). Lessons in ‘human biology’: Testing a theory of exhibition design. Museum Management and Curatorship, 5(3), 227–240.

Miles, R. S. & Tout, A. F. (1978). Human biology and the new exhibition scheme in the British Museum (Natural History). Curator: The Museum Journal, 21(1), 36–50.

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