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Noah’s Ark, an interactive exhibit for kids at the Skirball Cultural Center, might be the only place in Los Angeles where a parent can ask their child if they want to scoop up some animal poop and receive an enthusiastic, “Yes, please!” That’s not to make light of the interactive experience — which is among the most fun and inspiring activities for children at a local cultural institution — just to note that it’s a fun perk.

The beloved 18-year-old exhibit quietly reopened in mid-December after being closed for more than three months to undergo a renovation that includes enhanced gallery spaces, immersive theatrical lighting and new interactive set pieces like a giant olive tree that kids can curl up inside, as well as slides that serve as exits from the ark and a watering hole for puppet animals that have just reached dry land.

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The linchpin of the renovation is a reimagined Bloom Garden planted with native, edible and medicinal plants, and fruit trees including mulberry and pineapple guava — all there to explore at the end of a journey on the ark.

“The goal is not to change the story, but to bring forward a chapter that’s always been there — that moment after the storm, when the work begins,” said Rachel Stark, vice president of education and family programs at the Skirball, adding that the new garden creates “this immersive space where you can imagine the storm waters have receded, the rowboat has washed up onto shore. Things are growing, and you are responsible to help add to that.”

The Bloom Garden, which replaced a simpler ornamental garden, was designed by biodynamic farmer and educator Daron Joffe — known as Farmer D — with the goal of creating a multigenerational space for relaxation and inspiration. It was built around artist Ned Kahn’s existing 100-foot-long Rainbow Arbor sculpture with mist sprayers that create rainbows in sunlight as guests walk through. A trickling stream runs through a valley in the garden, and kids are encouraged to play in and around it. There are hammocks, a sand table and raised garden beds with fresh herbs that families can pick, smell and taste.

Stuffed animals that kids can carry through the exhibit line shelves inside the renovated Noah’s Ark exhibit at the Skirball Cultural Center.

(Dania Maxwell / For The Times)

“It’s an inviting space for kids to scramble down into and engage in nature play. It gets them more out of their heads and into the environment,” Joffe said. “I saw kids barefoot out there, which is so cool.”

Parents and children enjoy the Skirball Cultural Center’s new Bloom Garden, which opened alongside the revamped Noah’s Ark exhibit. The garden features raised beds filled with herbs that kids are invited to smell, pick and taste.

(Dania Maxwell / For The Times)

The garden, says Joffe, is a haven for biodiversity, filled with plants that support the full life cycles of butterflies and bees. Shemesh Farms, which employs adults with diverse abilities, will cultivate the garden on an ongoing basis. In addition, the Skirball is looking to hire someone through a Getty Global Art and Sustainability Fellowship. That person will help grow and enhance the garden moving forward.

The Bloom Garden is special in another way: It features the seven ancient plant species that are integral to Jewish teachings, and symbols of the Promised Land — wheat, barley, grapes, figs, pomegranates, olives and dates.

The Skirball, founded in 1996, is a Jewish cultural, arts and education center, but it has always been an inclusive space that welcomes people of all faiths, communities and walks of life. The Noah’s Ark exhibit is based on the story of the biblical flood that caused Noah — at God’s direction — to build a ship for his family and two of each animal on Earth. The boat weathered a punishing storm for 40 days and 40 nights, and when the floodwaters receded, those aboard began a new life.

The exhibit also draws inspiration from hundreds of other flood stories from around the world. Taken together, these stories speak to the resilience of nature and the ability of human beings to cooperate — even when they are very different — in order to make meaningful and lasting change, as well as to be responsible and caring stewards of the earth’s bounty.

Susy Doody and her daughter Joy, 21 months, feed parrot puppets inside the Noah’s Ark exhibit.

(Dania Maxwell / For The Times)

Noah’s Ark is organized into three chapters staged in different areas. The first is an entry room where a storm is brewing and animals are loaded into the ark. The second is the interior of the ark, including a “move-in day” room where kids can rummage through food crates and pick up animal puppets to care for, as well as another room with places where they can feed, bathe, put to sleep and clean up after animals (that’s the fake poop!).

There are also climbing nets that kids can use to ascend to the rafters to take care of the animals up top. A system of pulleys allows children on the ground to hoist food to kids above. The third room is the dry land that kids step onto when they disembark from the ark. It features a rainbow, a massive olive tree with a cozy interior nook and a watering hole for the animals.

I recently took my 9-year-old through the exhibit and she had a blast busily engaging with almost every element of the space. She was particularly taken with a blue tarantula puppet and was encouraged by staff to share her journey through the space with her puppet friend. The only sorrow came when it was time to part ways with the hairy creature she had nurtured during the experience.

Allister Celong, 5, climbs through a rope tunnel in the rafters.

(Dania Maxwell / For The Times)

Over the past 18 years Noah’s Ark has hosted more than a million visitors, with about 50,000 people journeying through the space each year. Joffe noted that the exhibit, with its focus on kindness, empathy and the value of shared labor in pursuit of a healthy, sustainable planet, is more timely than ever in this tumultuous, fractured era.

It has been a place of comfort over the years.

“It is a beloved place — one that many visitors grew up coming to,” said Stark. “And then bring their kids back and their grandkids.”

The Eurovision likes to sell itself as a glittering exercise in European unity, colorful, loud, proudly diverse, and (officially) above politics. Yet anyone who has watched the contest with both eyes open knows that “apolitical” has always been more of a brand promise than a lived reality. In late 2025, that gap widened into a full-blown crisis, as a number of broadcasters reported across outlets that Spain, Ireland, Slovenia, the Netherlands, and Iceland signaled they would not take part in Eurovision 2026 after the European Broadcasting Union (EBU) decided not to exclude Israel amid the ongoing war in Gaza, Palestine.

This episode is not simply “politics invading culture.” It reflects a shift in how legitimacy is demanded and contested in Europe’s cultural diplomacy, particularly when public broadcasters operate under constant online scrutiny. A constructivist lens helps explain why withdrawal can become socially “appropriate” not only because of interests, but because identities, norms, and public expectations set the boundaries of acceptable action.

Eurovision’s political DNA

Eurovision was launched in 1956 as a post-war cultural bridge. Its origin story is important: a shared stage was meant to build familiarity, and familiarity was meant to soften rivalry. That heritage still shapes the contest’s self-image. But Eurovision has long functioned as a stage where politics appears in coded ways through voting patterns, representation debates, and symbolic messaging.

In 2026, the argument is no longer coded. The EBU’s insistence that Eurovision must remain apolitical is being tested by publics who increasingly expect cultural institutions to reflect basic humanitarian values. This tension has been building for years, but the Palestine crisis and the EBU’s decisions have turned it into a legitimacy problem, not merely a public relations headache.

Why withdrawal became “appropriate”

Constructivism in international relations focuses on how identities and norms shape behavior. States and national institutions do not act only from material interests; they also act from what is socially acceptable, what fits their self-image, and the expectations of their audiences.

Three dynamics stand out.

Identity signalling, domestically and externally

For several withdrawing countries, participation carried an identity cost. Public broadcasters—especially those that see themselves as guardians of civic values—operate within national narratives about solidarity, rights, and moral responsibility. Remaining in the contest while public debate framed Israel’s participation as incompatible with humanitarian concerns risked looking like complicity or indifference. Withdrawal, by contrast, functioned as a signal: this is who we are, and this is the line we will not cross.

Importantly, this signalling was not addressed only to external audiences. It was also addressed inward towards domestic publics, artists, and civil society networks. In many European societies, those constituencies are no longer passive consumers of cultural events; they are active participants in the reputational economy surrounding public institutions.

Norm cascades and moral momentum

Once a few broadcasters moved towards withdrawal, the decision quickly gained social momentum. This is what Finnemore and Sikkink described as a “norm cascade”: when a norm shifts from being optional to being expected, and the reputational cost of non-compliance rises. In practical terms, it can start to feel safer to leave than to stay—because staying invites condemnation, while leaving can be framed as moral coherence.

This is also why the dispute escalated so quickly. A single broadcaster withdrawing is a story. Multiple broadcasters withdrawing is a pattern, and patterns trigger moral comparisons. The question changes from “Why did they leave?” to “Why are you still staying?”

The ‘apolitical’ norm is under strain because it looks selective.

The apolitical claim does not collapse simply because people become more emotional. It collapses when it appears inconsistent. Critics repeatedly pointed to Russia’s exclusion in 2022 after the invasion of Ukraine and asked why a different standard was being applied now. The EBU, for its part, has emphasized the contest’s non-political ethos and introduced new rules aimed at insulating Eurovision from government influence.

But in the public sphere, the argument is not purely procedural. It is moral and comparative: if Eurovision can act decisively in one case, why not in another?

Constructivism predicts that institutions struggle when the norms they rely on no longer align with the moral intuitions of their audiences. That is exactly what this crisis reveals.

Digital activism as a legitimacy engine

If this controversy had happened twenty years ago, it would likely have moved more slowly, mediated by newspapers and official statements. Today it unfolds in a real-time digital public sphere where narratives travel quickly across borders and reputational costs escalate fast. Online mobilization—through petitions, artist statements, and hashtag campaigns—helped turn Eurovision into a symbolic battleground, pressuring broadcasters to respond to highly visible moral claims.

Two effects matter most. First, digital dynamics accelerate moral consolidation, which means once “selective neutrality” becomes a dominant frame, hesitation itself is read as a political stance. Second, institutions face continuous visibility. Decisions are no longer a single event but an ongoing justification process, renewed by viral moments and high-profile protest actions linked to Israel’s inclusion.

For cultural diplomacy, this shifts the logic of soft power from image-making towards moral credibility under public scrutiny.

Withdrawal as cultural diplomacy

Withdrawal from Eurovision is, in a strict sense, symbolic. But symbolism is precisely what cultural diplomacy trades in. The act of leaving, particularly when done by public broadcasters, served three strategic functions.

First, moral signalling, which meansbroadcasters and states communicated alignment with humanitarian values and a refusal to normalize perceived injustice.

The second one is reputation management.  In a digital environment, silence can be more costly than action. Withdrawal can reduce domestic backlash and preserve trust in public institutions.

Last, this is ethical positioning as soft power.  The logic of soft power is shifting from colorful branding to ethical coherence. A state may gain credibility not by appearing “fun,” but by appearing consistent with its professed values.

These functions help explain why the controversy is bigger than Eurovision. What is being tested is the idea that cultural platforms can remain insulated from global crises. Many audiences no longer accept that separation.

The EBU’s dilemma: rules, legitimacy, and consistency

The EBU now sits at the center of competing demands. On one side is the institutional need for predictability: rules that keep Eurovision from becoming an arena for state-to-state confrontation. On the other side is the public demand for moral consistency: rules that do not appear selective or politically convenient.

The EBU’s recent approach of avoiding an immediate exclusion decision while adjusting rules—may be defensible from a governance perspective.

Yet governance solutions do not automatically restore legitimacy, because legitimacy is also emotional and relational. It depends on whether audiences believe the institution is acting in good faith and applying standards fairly.

This is where cultural diplomacy meets a hard truth: neutrality is not simply declared; it is earned. And in the digital age, it is re-earned continuously.

What this means for Europe’s cultural diplomacy

Three implications stand out.

First, moral expectation is becoming structural.  European publics increasingly demand moral coherence not only from governments but from cultural institutions as well. Cultural diplomacy is being asked to carry ethical weight.

Second, “European values” are being operationalized. They are no longer abstract slogans. They are used as benchmarks to judge institutions and to accuse them of hypocrisy when they fall short.

Third, public opinion has become a strategic force, not background noise.  Digital mobilization can shape state behavior indirectly by pressuring broadcasters, artists, and institutions that sit at the heart of national identity.

Policy takeaways

If the EBU seeks to protect Eurovision’s legitimacy without turning it into a geopolitical tribunal, three steps would help. First, it should clarify participation principles by defining what “neutrality” means operationally and what thresholds trigger institutional action. Second, it should build a credible consistency mechanism, as audiences will continue comparing cases and demanding transparent reasoning. Third, the EBU should treat the digital sphere as part of governance: proactive engagement and rapid clarification now shape institutional survival as much as formal rule-making.

Conclusion

Eurovision 2026 is not simply a cultural controversy with political noise attached. It is a case study in how identity, norms, and digital activism are reshaping Europe’s cultural diplomacy. Constructivism helps explain why withdrawal became not only possible but, for some, necessary: it aligned state-linked institutions with the moral expectations of their publics.

Eurovision was built to bridge Europe after war. Ironically, its newest crisis shows that unity today is conditional: audiences increasingly expect cultural institutions to be transparent, consistent, and ethically credible, especially when global suffering is impossible to ignore.