But what ought to be the satellite experience in “Björk” is the show itself. This exhibit is so slight on substance and nuance that it appears to have driven MoMA to a raft of terrible compromises. The museum has subdivided traditional gallery rooms into a kind of winding tent, a space tailored for a show with so few objects and artifacts to see. The tour proceeds at the urging of a responsive audio guide (penned by Björk’s longtime songwriting collaborator, the Icelandic poet Sjón, and narrated by Margrét Vilhjálmsdóttir, an Icelandic actress). The whole thing feels like a Björk-themed amusement ride—complete with awful tourist bottlenecks. About the best thing that can be said for the Soundlines experience is that the audio device works well enough: Moving physically from the mini-pavilion for Debut to the next one (for Post) causes the screen on the unit to change colors and playlists.

Geolocation gimmicks aside, virtually every decision about “Björk” was misconceived. There seems to be just one concern driving “Björk”: What’s the best way to keep throngs of admirers moving right along? The audio tour starts in a holding pen graced by videos of live performances (which viewers can’t stop to watch) and scattered sheet music of song transcriptions (which viewers can’t stop to read). The exhibit entirely skips over her career with The Sugarcubes, the feisty post–New Wave band she helmed in the mid-1980s, to say nothing of her earlier experiments (with groups like Spit and Snot, Exodus, or Medusa). The MoMA show glosses over her film career altogether: Dancer in the Dark and its soundtrack Selmasongs barely warrant a mention, and her other films, 1990’s The Juniper Tree and her 2005 collaboration with Matthew Barney, Drawing Restraint 9, do not at all. At best, the show is an autobiographical sketch told through two or three mementos per official solo album.

Wellhart Ltd. and One Little Indian

That’s not to say that parts of the exhibit aren’t lovely. One of them is a vitrine featuring the dress, slippers, and music box designed by Barney and Alexander McQueen for the video for “Pagan Poetry.” This is the centerpiece for one of the most erotic songs of Björk’s career (from the album Vespertine, which details her courtship with Barney). The dress is carefully arranged on a rotating, dramatically lit plinth. It looks a lot like how the Met presented McQueen’s work in his 2011 retrospective (a vastly superior museum blockbuster). MoMA also assembles the robot models from the 1997 video for “All Is Full of Love.” The Instagram-ready tableau, which resembles the set in miniature, is pure fan service.

Yet Nick Knight (who directed “Pagan Poetry”) and Chris Cunningham (who directed “All Is Full of Love”) get only the barest nods. Michel Gondry, Björk’s longtime video collaborator, and the many designers responsible for her quirky persona all earn only brief mentions: credits on the tombstone placards sprinkled throughout the tour. I didn’t find the name of David Benjamin, an emerging architect, anywhere near the 10-minute music-video installation commissioned by MoMA for “Black Lake,” even though he designed the dramatic volcanic cave island that symbolizes her heartache.

Wellhart Ltd. and One Little Indian

The videos that are so central to Björk’s medium are segregated altogether, locked away in a continuous loop in a black-box theater on another floor, far from the props and costumes. Surely that’s a decision designed to keep the crowds flowing through “Björk” without pausing. The photographers, videographers, and designers who’ve built Björk’s image have shaped her career through collaboration—in a way that no number of weird dresses will ever do for Lady Gaga. Yet each of these artists is relegated to the role of humble doula for Björk’s singular genius. Klaus Biesenbach, the show’s curator, should know better.