Nicholas Cullinan is looking out of the window of his office counting the visitors streaming into the British Museum.

“There were 6.5 million last year from all over the world. It’s humbling, especially when they are queuing in the rain,” he says. “I want to run out with an umbrella.”

With more than 3,500 rooms, 8 million artefacts and 1,000 employees, the British Museum is one of the biggest showcases in the world, but by last year the 271-yearold institution had also become a “basket case”, according to the Sunday Times art critic Waldemar Januszczak.

There were buckets under leaking roofs, more than 2,000 objects had been stolen by a rogue curator and flogged on eBay without anyone noticing, the carpets were fraying, the Greeks wanted their Marbles back, and a global museum that harked back to past empires suddenly seemed an anachronism in the culturally sensitive 21st century.

When Cullinan was appointed director last year at 46, even his friends were surprised he was up for the challenge of such a tarnished jewel. He had transformed the National Portrait Gallery while director, deejayed with the singer Courtney Love, who calls him her “soulmate and angel”, and spent weekends in Margate with his husband, the art dealer Mattias Vendelmans, and the artist Tracey Emin. He could have chosen a far more lucrative, cool, cushy job in America, where he’d already been a curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York.

“Now it’s all flipped,” Cullinan says, laughing. “They get the point. Tariffs are trying to tear countries apart, but the British Museum is about connecting countries rather than putting up barriers. This is a global museum for everyone and we’re not going to be embarrassed about that any more. We are going to foster collaboration around the world.”

In the final round of interviews, Cullinan was asked by the trustees, including the formidable Mary Beard and the chairman, George Osborne, to present an object. “I chose the Roman Portland Vase. It’s an object that means a lot to me, not only because it’s stunning but I thought it was a perfect metaphor for the museum as it was dislodged in 1845 by a visitor and smashed into 1,000 pieces.

It’s been restored three times since and it shows something can be badly damaged and, through patience, understanding and diligence, made whole again. That’s what I want to do here,” he says cheekily.

Cullinan is a fascinating mixture of immense self-confidence and quiet modesty, sitting behind his desk in his immaculate suit and tie, with his curly auburn hair, clipped beard and earnest  black-rimmed glasses. In the next sentence he is telling me that the biggest selling point is that the museum is free.

‘Your worst fear is things being stolen. Now colleagues go on eBay to check forensically’

“I first came here when I was four. My parents had just returned from living in America. They had no money and we stayed in a small hostel on Gower Street. But my mother brought me here and we looked at the mummies.” He remembers because he got separated from his mother, “but I didn’t mind. I loved the museum and kept wanting to go back. Then when I was older and we had moved to Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire, she read that you could book to see the Canaletto drawings and made an appointment for us to go. I felt very important but also that these treasures were for everyone, even me. I was a working-class child; I’d never have discovered art if I’d had to pay for it.”

The American museums, he concedes, would have tripled his salary, “but I don’t need money if I have all this. I’ve lived in America as an adult twice and they have incredible museums, but the fact that you have to pay changes the museum’s focus, whereas here we belong to the nation.”

He will always fight for free entrance and wouldn’t charge foreign tourists either, as the Louvre in Paris now does. “One of the original key stipulations was that the museum should be free. In terms of global goodwill, one of the strongest claims we can make to remain custodians is that anyone can walk in from anywhere in the world and see the collections for nothing. That’s a very powerful message.”

The idea, he says, is not to reinvent the museum for the 21st century but to restore its glories. His favourite quote is from Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa’s novel The Leopard: “If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change,” uttered by the upstart nephew of a conservative 19th-century Sicilian prince.

Cullinan smiles. “If you are setting out to modernise an institution it shouldn’t be about change for change’s sake; it should be about honouring tradition and ensuring it thrives in the future. I’ve read the 1749 will of Sir Hans Sloane, who bequeathed the original collection, and he was clear that he wanted the museum to be for the benefit, improvement and knowledge of all persons. Nearly three centuries later that is still a pretty amazing message.”

Cullinan wanders round the museum, through the endless rooms, most days.

“Luckily no one recognises me,” he says.

“I would rather die than introduce myself, but it’s important to overhear what they are saying, whether it’s about the collections or the cakes.”

The scale of the place can feel overwhelming, he admits. “I haven’t even seen all the rooms. I have a floor plan here. I’ve only seen a tiny fraction of the artefacts; about 1 per cent are on view. I’ve been unwrapping boxes and opening drawers but it’s going to take time.”

It’s early afternoon. There’s a lull in the crowds, so we decide to go for a tour of his new domain.

“Most people come to the Rosetta Stone first,” he says. “Then they go to the Parthenon sculptures and can get dispirited not knowing where to go next. We want a joined-up transformation.”

He points out the paint colours. “This blue looks like a municipal swimming pool. In the 19th century these rooms were eau de nil. We might go back to that.”

We wander down to the basement, a warren of brickwork vaults, giant Egyptian feet, sarcophagi and boxes with signs saying, “Caution: do not move”. The wealth of treasures here is extraordinary. It’s like being in an Indiana Jones film. There’s a whole floor that was closed in the Nineties when they couldn’t get wheelchair access.

It feels eerie. “We probably have ghosts,” Cullinan says, as some papers flutter to the floor dislodging dust. “Or it’s our staff.” He introduces me to some of the curators.

“The quality of people here is insane. Their expertise is unrivalled; it’s like running a university. But this morning their main concern was the lack of baked potatoes in their canteen,” he says. “Don’t worry. I’m already on it.”

His focus when not ordering spuds is to try to share the collection as widely as possible globally. “A collection of that depth and scale you wouldn’t want to show all together as it would be indigestible, but it puts us in the position of being able to lend stuff. We are the most generous lender of all the national museums in the world. I saw the Lindow Man discovered in a peat bog when I was little in Manchester. Eight million saw our objects outside London last year. Every year 20 professionals come to us from around the world, so we have an incredible network.”

It’s all about trust and respect, he says. “In Sudan we have built up a great relationship, so we can help to support them now. Sudan has given us 2,000 remains because they knew we would look after them. Part of our role is around cultural diplomacy. We work closely with the police to identify objects that may have been looted or stolen from war-torn areas or illegally exported.”

The future, he is convinced, is in collaboration. “It’s what turns this narrative of everything being stolen or you are hoarding things into a more interesting, truer story about support and custodianship – how we handle this incredible legacy we have all inherited. It’s not for us to change things beyond recognition or foundational things. You are only looking after the collection for the next generation.”

But after 2,000 artefacts were carelessly pilfered, there’s surely some consternation over whether the British Museum can look after all these treasures.

“Luckily, it hasn’t put everyone off donating. Sir Percival David’s £1 billion collection of 1,700 Chinese ceramics has just been given to the museum. Your worst fear as a museum curator is things being stolen, but the BM was especially vulnerable because of the volume of stuff. I don’t have time to go on eBay to check but colleagues do now, forensically. We have more than half back already, but we’re not going through that again.”

They are now aiming to digitise every artefact over the next five years to prevent more theft. “We already have 4.5 million objects online; every department is busy doing it. After that’s done it will give us an incredible digital resource for anyone with internet connection around the globe.”

He’s not planning on giving away any of the collection permanently. “There are a great many Benin bronzes. It’s all fluid. We have a fantastic relationship with MOWAA, the new museum of art in Benin City, and we are sharing a joint archaeological excavation. They might want to borrow other things, but what we can’t do is de-accession, because that would take an act of parliament.”

Doesn’t Cullinan feel a twinge of guilt about the museum keeping artefacts that once belonged to other cultures and countries? “I could make lobbying to get the act changed my sole focus but that seems mad, and it may not be the right thing,” he insists. “I’m keenly aware that whatever I do future generations will debate, so I feel more comfortable with loaning items. This collection has been formed over three centuries. It is the world’s greatest collection. I don’t see my job as undoing that.”

He was once told that there are two types of museums: mirrors that reflect your identity, and windows onto the world.

“We need both. The more you have these divisive discussions around nationalism, the more we have a role to play in giving people another way of thinking about the interconnected world, to be curious about each other. We were the first public institution to be called British, but we were always for a world audience.”

Nor is he prepared to mimic the Tate galleries and start apologising for the collection. “Labels should be accurate, not partisan or political or conforming to a contemporary fad. Visitors like some context, but you need to approach issues with sensitivity, humour and kindness.”

Kindness is an odd word. “Viewers don’t want anything hectoring or accusatory. A lot of these objects were given to us by governments, kings, queens and generous collectors. It’s not about the museum going out there and being rapacious.” Tate Britain’s visitor figures have plummeted since their controversial rehang in 2023, I suggest. “I think our numbers show we’re doing it right,” Cullinan says.

But his museum also reflects the history of our empire, which is not universally admired. “The collection is about empires – not just British but the Greek and Roman empires. In this museum there is the best of humanity and the worst. I thought it was interesting when there was a campaign for a gallery on slavery. We do discuss Sir Hans Sloane’s links to slavery, but we also represent slavery in so many different eras and cultures. You can’t just pick one.”

There are only 15 cases of contested groups or objects, he stresses. These include Ethiopia’s bid to repatriate the Maqdala collection, and the indigenous Australian campaign for the return of the Gweagal shield. But best known are the Parthenon or Elgin Marbles. “Plans are taking shape. We’d love an innovative partnership with Greece where we would lend things and they would lend things back, and we can share knowledge and opportunity rather than debate ownership.”

But would the director return the marbles? He refuses to say. “It would be more about a partnership that could build in trust and depth. They are talismanic objects of this museum. We are clear in the labelling that they are under debate. We don’t shy away from that, but we need to be balanced rather than inflammatory.”

The culture wars, he believes, may be dying down. “I think the conversation is changing. We’re shifting; it’s becoming less divisive. There really are now things to argue about in the world, so we need to pick our battles. You can’t get angry about everything. Here we have the opportunity to open this up to everyone. We could celebrate having the biggest global reach and turn a negative into a positive.”

Sponsorship is another complicated issue. The museum recently accepted £50 million from BP. “You don’t want protesters chained to the front of art galleries; that’s grim. Museums are under much more of a microscope than most other charities and organisations. There is far less fuss about ownership of football clubs.” The only reason not to accept money is if it has been illegally gained or the reputational damage is so much that it cancels out the financial gain, he believes.

“Art shouldn’t become collateral damage in the bid to gain attention for a cause. This approach is already having a chilling effect. We need philanthropic individuals and corporations to keep our doors open and rebuild the collection, otherwise where’s the money coming from? The taxpayers can’t give any more.”

Protesters, he suggests, should take their beef to Parliament Square. “I was raised that if you care about something passionately you should speak out – but lobby the politicians, not us, if your passion is to campaign on the environment. It’s insane you can’t take liquids into museums now in case visitors throw them at paintings. That’s not on.”

The former trustee Antony Gormley calls the museum one of the last unmodernised great museums in Europe.

It’s easy to see why Cullinan is worried about sponsors: he needs to raise nearly £1 billion to redefine the museum – excavating, opening up and rationalising the galleries. It’s a monumental task, but he isn’t daunted. They’ve just chosen the Paris-based Lebanese architect Lina Ghotmeh to reimagine the Western Range galleries. “She’s 44, I’m 47, so this is a longterm project for both of us,” he says.

Would he return the Parthenon Marbles? He won’t say. ‘They are talismanic objects’ 

When the announcement was made, Cullinan said it would be “the biggest transformation of any museum in the world, not just physically but intellectually”.

That’s bold. “Lina will have a year to do the first design and cost it,” Cullinan says.

“This isn’t a frivolous project; we need to restore the buildings.” At the National Portrait Gallery, he raised the money for its reconstruction and delivered the project on time. “Institutional transformation is one of the hardest but most satisfying things if you can make it sing.”

More immediately, he plans to create a new visitor welcome pavilion to take the place of the bleak security tent at the entrance. Next he shows me to the back of the building, where they need to rip out more than 100 ageing boilers and install more energy-friendly machinery. “It’s boring and expensive but necessary. It’s all going to take time, but it’s achievable.”

The eco-warriors should approve. He doesn’t seem anxious about the vast rebuild. Where does he get his selfassurance from? “I’ve no idea.” From being home schooled with his three older sisters, perhaps, but that could have squashed a quieter child. “Home schooling was more free form – lots of reading, and if it was a nice day we would play outside instead in the woods. I sometimes think the reason I don’t mind having a scheduled existence now is that I had a very relaxed childhood.”

Why did his parents, a construction worker and a nurse, decide to pull their children out of school? “In America, they were at a parent meeting for my sister and the teacher said, ‘I have so many students; I can’t give your daughter special attention.’ My mum thought, ‘That is a bit rubbish. I could do a better job myself.’ ” It wasn’t about ideology, he says. “They were very conscientious. They’d save up to take us to the theatre and concerts as well as the library.” He then did his A-levels at a sixth-form college in Huddersfield.

After his exams, his parents took him on his first foreign holiday, a trip to Venice.

“I was 18 and working in Boots Opticians. In Venice’s Accademia gallery I had a moment of clarity and realised I wanted to study art.” He applied to the Courtauld Institute in London, taking the overnight bus from Yorkshire for his interview, and studied for a BA, an MA and PhD before his giddy rise as a curator through the most famous galleries in the world, from the Guggenheim in Bilbao to Tate Modern.

There haven’t been many setbacks for this doctor of art, I suggest. His life seems charmed. I suspect it helps that he is so optimistic and outward-looking, finding it easy to fit in anywhere, whether guiding the Princess of Wales round the National Portrait Gallery or a group of Germans he politely escorts to the Egyptian rooms. He didn’t find it difficult being gay while growing up in the countryside in the Eighties. “It was a scary time with Aids, but it didn’t affect me as I was so young. I feel lucky that I have always been able to be open and honest.”

Cullinan never felt the need to come out. “By the time I was a student, I was pretty clear and quite relaxed about it. I don’t feel the class system has been a problem either. I must have had a little homophobia. Probably more teasing about being ginger.” There was perhaps pressure to do something more lucrative, Cullinan admits. “One of my sisters suggested I got a ‘proper’ career, but if you do something you love you will probably become quite good at it and make a success of it.”

Surprisingly it is the fashion designer Miuccia Prada, he suggests, who has given him the best advice: “To make intelligent things attractive”. He effortlessly appears to mix high and popular culture. “I don’t think I’m a snob. I’m a bit old for TikTok but I love The White Lotus, Mean Girls and everything from classical to jazz. I get to hang out in the best place in the world and chill with the most incredible people. I also think the BM would be the best place for anyone to go on a first date.”

Everyone should feel at home, he says, in the British Museum. “I love this country. It is civilised, compassionate and has a sense of humour. This is the country I am rooting for and championing and this is the museum that means the most to me.”

In some ways, he does feel like a very scholarly, modern, benign version of The Leopard’s prince, surveying his estate, updating the faded grandeur, ensuring this crown jewel will endure for centuries to come. But he’s also the energetic upstart, the outsider who is prepared to come in and raise £1 billion to knock down walls and let in more light; who doesn’t mind when a child does a cartwheel in the Great Court. He seems like a clever choice for the next few years.

The museum’s 300th anniversary is in 2053. “It’s a long time away but I hope I might still be here,” he says. I ask if he’s serious. “There is nowhere else I would want to be,” Cullinan replies. “This is the greatest job in the greatest museum in the world. I can see myself still being here, unless I go under a bus.”