I expected to find a physical-navigation problem inside Positive Exposure’s gallery. I found an open floor plan, wide hallways, and restrooms built beyond typical compliance: a space already above industry standard for accessibility. The actual barrier was upstream of the building entirely. Almost none of that was discoverable online, so wheelchair users couldn’t count on visiting at all.
Spring 2026
Researcher & Strategist
Jasmine Chen, Myra Chen, Conor Mack
UX Research
The brief read like a wayfinding problem. It wasn’t one. Our field visit found a gallery that had already solved for physical access: the hard part for a wheelchair user wasn’t navigating the space, it was deciding whether to come at all, because almost nothing about accessibility was stated anywhere online. If a ramp, elevator, or accommodation isn’t explicitly listed on a site, people don’t assume it exists. Silence reads as inaccessibility, even inside a space built specifically for the disability community.
The research question I carried into synthesis: how might we improve the experience of visiting an art exhibit for people with physical disabilities, specifically wheelchair users?
I grounded this in four named methods: a field study of the gallery itself, a competitive audit, published lived-experience accounts from wheelchair users navigating museums and transit generally, and a literature review. The lived-experience accounts are published writing and video, not participants recruited for this study, and I’m naming that distinction because it matters for how much weight the quotes should carry: they establish the pattern, they don’t replace primary research with this specific gallery’s visitors.
Planning isn’t optional, and where information runs out, people build their own workarounds. “You have to do research about where you want to go, what you want to do,” says Sarah Funk, an NYC travel guide. Where venues stay silent, visitors engineer around the uncertainty themselves: accessible-travel writer Sylvia Longmire describes “wanting to avoid big crowds… I took the Early Access tour at 8:15AM.” A gallery’s website is the highest-value communication point it has, because the visit starts there, days before anyone arrives.
Accessibility is conditional, and it breaks at the transitions, not in the middle of a visit. A planned route fails through a broken elevator, a crowded platform, sidewalk construction. Our own field visit found the same shape at the gallery’s edges: minimal street signage made the entrance hard to locate, a door that may require assistance, and a lobby sign-in pedestal tall enough that a seated visitor might need help reaching it. The literature backs up why this matters as much as it does: research on museum accessibility notes that wheelchair users may decide not to visit at all when accessibility information is missing (Evcil, “Raising Awareness about Accessibility,” Procedia: Social and Behavioral Sciences, 2012).
“You have to do research about where you want to go, what you want to do.” Sarah Funk, NYC travel guide
I designed the pre-visit experience as three connected pages, each answering a specific gap from synthesis rather than a generic accessibility checklist.
Accessibility centralizes logistics that were previously scattered or missing across the site: entrances, circulation, seating, accommodations. Nothing left for a visitor to assume is absent.
Prepare Your Visit shows images and descriptions of the space, including a seated perspective on the art itself, so a visitor can judge conditions in advance rather than discover them at the door.
Where to Start lays out backup routes for a city where accessibility is conditional: MTA and PATH transit, Access-A-Ride, and driving and parking options side by side, on the logic that NYC visitors need a plan B built in.
Accessible environments don’t automatically produce accessible experiences. This gallery had already done the harder, more expensive work of building a genuinely accessible space, and it was still invisible to part of the community it was built for, because none of that was legible before anyone left home.
Two honest limits. Our site visit fell between exhibitions, so we never observed the gallery during regular operations with visitors present. And this work validated the problem, not the solution: the redesign hasn’t been tested with wheelchair users yet. That’s the immediate next step, alongside richer pre-visit formats I’d want to try: route previews from the nearest transit stops, environmental walkthrough videos, short orientation clips.
What I’d still want to know: how much of “trust” in a space you’ve never visited comes down to seeing it in advance, versus just being told plainly what to expect?
I expected to find a physical-navigation problem inside Positive Exposure’s gallery. I found an open floor plan, wide hallways, and restrooms built beyond typical compliance: a space already above industry standard for accessibility. The actual barrier was upstream of the building entirely. Almost none of that was discoverable online, so wheelchair users couldn’t count on visiting at all.
Spring 2026
Researcher & Strategist
Jasmine Chen, Myra Chen, Conor Mack
UX Research
The brief read like a wayfinding problem. It wasn’t one. Our field visit found a gallery that had already solved for physical access: the hard part for a wheelchair user wasn’t navigating the space, it was deciding whether to come at all, because almost nothing about accessibility was stated anywhere online. If a ramp, elevator, or accommodation isn’t explicitly listed on a site, people don’t assume it exists. Silence reads as inaccessibility, even inside a space built specifically for the disability community.
The research question I carried into synthesis: how might we improve the experience of visiting an art exhibit for people with physical disabilities, specifically wheelchair users?
I grounded this in four named methods: a field study of the gallery itself, a competitive audit, published lived-experience accounts from wheelchair users navigating museums and transit generally, and a literature review. The lived-experience accounts are published writing and video, not participants recruited for this study, and I’m naming that distinction because it matters for how much weight the quotes should carry: they establish the pattern, they don’t replace primary research with this specific gallery’s visitors.
Planning isn’t optional, and where information runs out, people build their own workarounds. “You have to do research about where you want to go, what you want to do,” says Sarah Funk, an NYC travel guide. Where venues stay silent, visitors engineer around the uncertainty themselves: accessible-travel writer Sylvia Longmire describes “wanting to avoid big crowds… I took the Early Access tour at 8:15AM.” A gallery’s website is the highest-value communication point it has, because the visit starts there, days before anyone arrives.
Accessibility is conditional, and it breaks at the transitions, not in the middle of a visit. A planned route fails through a broken elevator, a crowded platform, sidewalk construction. Our own field visit found the same shape at the gallery’s edges: minimal street signage made the entrance hard to locate, a door that may require assistance, and a lobby sign-in pedestal tall enough that a seated visitor might need help reaching it. The literature backs up why this matters as much as it does: research on museum accessibility notes that wheelchair users may decide not to visit at all when accessibility information is missing (Evcil, “Raising Awareness about Accessibility,” Procedia: Social and Behavioral Sciences, 2012).
“You have to do research about where you want to go, what you want to do.” Sarah Funk, NYC travel guide
I designed the pre-visit experience as three connected pages, each answering a specific gap from synthesis rather than a generic accessibility checklist.
Accessibility centralizes logistics that were previously scattered or missing across the site: entrances, circulation, seating, accommodations. Nothing left for a visitor to assume is absent.
Prepare Your Visit shows images and descriptions of the space, including a seated perspective on the art itself, so a visitor can judge conditions in advance rather than discover them at the door.
Where to Start lays out backup routes for a city where accessibility is conditional: MTA and PATH transit, Access-A-Ride, and driving and parking options side by side, on the logic that NYC visitors need a plan B built in.
Accessible environments don’t automatically produce accessible experiences. This gallery had already done the harder, more expensive work of building a genuinely accessible space, and it was still invisible to part of the community it was built for, because none of that was legible before anyone left home.
Two honest limits. Our site visit fell between exhibitions, so we never observed the gallery during regular operations with visitors present. And this work validated the problem, not the solution: the redesign hasn’t been tested with wheelchair users yet. That’s the immediate next step, alongside richer pre-visit formats I’d want to try: route previews from the nearest transit stops, environmental walkthrough videos, short orientation clips.
What I’d still want to know: how much of “trust” in a space you’ve never visited comes down to seeing it in advance, versus just being told plainly what to expect?
I expected to find a physical-navigation problem inside Positive Exposure’s gallery. I found an open floor plan, wide hallways, and restrooms built beyond typical compliance: a space already above industry standard for accessibility. The actual barrier was upstream of the building entirely. Almost none of that was discoverable online, so wheelchair users couldn’t count on visiting at all.
Spring 2026
Researcher & Strategist
Jasmine Chen, Myra Chen, Conor Mack
UX Research
The brief read like a wayfinding problem. It wasn’t one. Our field visit found a gallery that had already solved for physical access: the hard part for a wheelchair user wasn’t navigating the space, it was deciding whether to come at all, because almost nothing about accessibility was stated anywhere online. If a ramp, elevator, or accommodation isn’t explicitly listed on a site, people don’t assume it exists. Silence reads as inaccessibility, even inside a space built specifically for the disability community.
The research question I carried into synthesis: how might we improve the experience of visiting an art exhibit for people with physical disabilities, specifically wheelchair users?
I grounded this in four named methods: a field study of the gallery itself, a competitive audit, published lived-experience accounts from wheelchair users navigating museums and transit generally, and a literature review. The lived-experience accounts are published writing and video, not participants recruited for this study, and I’m naming that distinction because it matters for how much weight the quotes should carry: they establish the pattern, they don’t replace primary research with this specific gallery’s visitors.
Planning isn’t optional, and where information runs out, people build their own workarounds. “You have to do research about where you want to go, what you want to do,” says Sarah Funk, an NYC travel guide. Where venues stay silent, visitors engineer around the uncertainty themselves: accessible-travel writer Sylvia Longmire describes “wanting to avoid big crowds… I took the Early Access tour at 8:15AM.” A gallery’s website is the highest-value communication point it has, because the visit starts there, days before anyone arrives.
Accessibility is conditional, and it breaks at the transitions, not in the middle of a visit. A planned route fails through a broken elevator, a crowded platform, sidewalk construction. Our own field visit found the same shape at the gallery’s edges: minimal street signage made the entrance hard to locate, a door that may require assistance, and a lobby sign-in pedestal tall enough that a seated visitor might need help reaching it. The literature backs up why this matters as much as it does: research on museum accessibility notes that wheelchair users may decide not to visit at all when accessibility information is missing (Evcil, “Raising Awareness about Accessibility,” Procedia: Social and Behavioral Sciences, 2012).
“You have to do research about where you want to go, what you want to do.” Sarah Funk, NYC travel guide
I designed the pre-visit experience as three connected pages, each answering a specific gap from synthesis rather than a generic accessibility checklist.
Accessibility centralizes logistics that were previously scattered or missing across the site: entrances, circulation, seating, accommodations. Nothing left for a visitor to assume is absent.
Prepare Your Visit shows images and descriptions of the space, including a seated perspective on the art itself, so a visitor can judge conditions in advance rather than discover them at the door.
Where to Start lays out backup routes for a city where accessibility is conditional: MTA and PATH transit, Access-A-Ride, and driving and parking options side by side, on the logic that NYC visitors need a plan B built in.
Accessible environments don’t automatically produce accessible experiences. This gallery had already done the harder, more expensive work of building a genuinely accessible space, and it was still invisible to part of the community it was built for, because none of that was legible before anyone left home.
Two honest limits. Our site visit fell between exhibitions, so we never observed the gallery during regular operations with visitors present. And this work validated the problem, not the solution: the redesign hasn’t been tested with wheelchair users yet. That’s the immediate next step, alongside richer pre-visit formats I’d want to try: route previews from the nearest transit stops, environmental walkthrough videos, short orientation clips.
What I’d still want to know: how much of “trust” in a space you’ve never visited comes down to seeing it in advance, versus just being told plainly what to expect?