(3463,19,'2012-10-29 19:16:42','2012-10-29 19:16:42','Since I came to Wesleyan nearly fifteen years ago, a key focus of my job has been outreach to the faculty, and thus the undergraduates, through the curriculum.  To this end, I teach thirty-five to fifty class sessions each academic year in Special Collections &amp; Archives (SC&amp;A).  Disciplines range from Astronomy to Writing, and just about everything in between.\r\n\r\nThough all class sessions have the common goal of raising undergraduate awareness of and interest in the holdings of SC&amp;A, each class presentation is different, based on both the subject of the course and the pedagogical purpose for which the materials will be used.  Some sessions take a classic “dog and pony show” approach, in which I—or sometimes the professor and I—present a group of interesting materials from our collections and talk briefly about each item, how it connects to the course, and/or how it might be used in the students’ research.  In other sessions, students take a more active role by doing an in-class assignment.  One such assignment we often use is the “mystery book exercise” that a history of science faculty member and I developed together.  “Mystery book” is a fun, fast-paced exercise that trains students to evaluate an unfamiliar source quickly and teaches information literacy skills using books or documents connected to the subject of the course.  After spending a few minutes looking at a book they haven’t seen before, students answer ten questions, which range from the (usually) easy identification of the author to more complex considerations of how the mystery book might inform their research.  Still other classes use the visit to SC&amp;A as preparation for an in-depth paper or project that requires, or at least strongly encourages, the use of materials in Special Collections &amp; Archives.  These longer assignments are as varied as the classes, and they include traditional term papers, documentary editing projects, artists’ books, and creative writing based on primary sources, among others.  For the full list of mystery book questions, other assignments, and comments from Wesleyan professors who use Special Collections &amp; Archives in teaching, see the online exhibition, <em><a href=\"http://oldbooks.site.wesleyan.edu/\">Old Books, New Pedagogy: Special Collections and Archives in the Curriculum</a></em>.\r\n\r\nOf course, not all the work I do with undergraduates is teaching them about archives and special collections in class settings.  Often class visits spark students’ use of SC&amp;A for other courses, senior theses or essays, co-curricular activities, or just simple personal interest.  In many of these cases, I work one-on-one with the students to help them identify relevant materials, focus topics, find related books or documents, understand the context – all typical functions of reference and instruction librarians.\r\n\r\nMuch of my recent professional activity has focused on teaching undergraduates using archives and special collections.  I’ve just completed co-editing a volume of case studies on this topic, entitled <em>Past or Portal? Enhancing Undergraduate Learning through Special Collections and Archives</em>.  The book, recently published by the the Association of College and Research Libraries, contains nearly fifty real-life examples of undergraduate curricular use of archives and special collections in a wide variety of institutions.','Undergraduates in the Archives - Taraba 1','','inherit','open','open','','1558-revision-20','','','2012-10-29 19:16:42','2012-10-29 19:16:42','',1558,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1558-revision-20/',0,'revision','',0),(3464,19,'2012-10-29 19:22:25','2012-10-29 19:22:25','Ed Folsom has written that one of the goals of the Whitman Archive is to “grow the database so that the surprises of searching and juxtaposing will become richer and more frequent.\" Folsom’s vision is that the Whitman Archive will become not only a centralized repository for all of Whitman’s texts, but also a discovery tool for exploring what he calls “the wild and unpredictable intersections of the data that the interface allows us to generate.”[ref]Ed Folsom, “Database as Genre: The Epic Transformation of Archives,” <em>PMLA</em> 112.5 (2007): 1609-10.[/ref] The prospect of having the Archive uncover meaningful relationships between texts is, indeed, an exciting one. As Jonathan Freedman notes, the “ability to link heterogeneous subjects and find once-occulted connections and interconnections makes scholarship invigoratingly fun.”[ref]Jonathan Freedman, “Whitman, Database, Information Culture,” <em>PMLA</em> 112.5 (2007): 1597.[/ref] As a frequent user of the Whitman Archive, I’ve experienced this “invigorating fun” first-hand, and I look forward to the Archive including more texts by and about Whitman, and incorporating more discovery tools like Brian Pytlik Zillig’s <a href=\"http://www.whitmanarchive.org/resources/tools/index.html\">TokenX</a>.\r\n\r\nAs someone working on digital humanities projects of my own, however, I’m as interested in understanding what it takes to create such tools for discovery as I am the end-user experience of having digital tools make “unpredictable” and “invigorating” discoveries on my behalf. For the remainder of this essay, I’m going to share some thoughts on what has to happen on the back end of a digital project in order to make an otherwise rigorously structured digital artifact feel “wild and unpredictable” to its users. I’ll start with Kenneth M. Price’s description of the necessary labor that goes into structuring data such that it will yield surprising results for end users: \"A database is not an undifferentiated sea of information out of which structure emerges,” Price writes. “Argument is always there from the beginning in how those constructing a database choose to categorize information.\"[ref]Price, “Edition.”[/ref] To an end user who searches a database and finds an interesting juxtaposition between a handful of the hundreds (or thousands) of total documents on that database, it can seem as if those documents have emerged out of “an undifferentiated sea of information.” The reality, however, is far different.\r\n\r\nWhen Price alludes to the process that the creators of a database go through as they decide how to “categorize information,” he makes it clear that whenever a user generates a surprising set of juxtapositions between documents it is because someone, somewhere, at some point, has meticulously categorized those documents in such a way that a search engine (or other text analysis tool) will be able to process those documents in a meaningful way. Jerome McGann, who has also commented on the rigorous process of structuring data that is required to create a digital archive, writes that “databases and all digital instruments require the most severe kinds of categorical forms. The power of database—of digital instruments in general—rests in its ability to draw sharp, disambiguated distinctions.”[ref]Jerome McGann, “Database, Interface, and Archival Fever,” <em>PMLA</em> 112.5 (2007): 1590.[/ref] As both Price and McGann indicate, what can feel like a surprising juxtaposition for the end user has, to a certain extent, already been determined in advance through a time- and labor-intensive process of marking-up, encoding, or otherwise categorizing data.\r\n\r\nThis is not to say that those who structure the data for a digital archive have already anticipated every possible search string that users could ever imagine. On the contrary, what interests me as both the user and the creator of digital archives is the effect by which this “sharp, disambiguated” structuring of data can, indeed, produce juxtapositions that archivists could never have predicted. The fundamental preconditions for cultivating such serendipitous discoveries, it seems to me, are a large enough data set and a sufficiently intelligent schema for categorizing that data (not to mention the time, money, software, hardware, human resources, and expertise required to process and categorize the data in the first place).\r\n\r\nAllow me to cite an example from outside the realm of digital archiving to illustrate what’s involved in structuring data that yields serendipitous juxtapositions. Pandora Radio is an Internet music service whose goal is to create customized, online radio stations for its users. This customization is based on the work of the Music Genome Project, which has categorized the musical attributes of thousands of different songs. Taking into consideration “everything from melody, harmony and rhythm, to instrumentation, orchestration, arrangement, lyrics, and . . . singing and vocal harmony,” the Music Genome Project assigns anywhere between 150 and 400 different descriptors to a single song. These descriptors are based on both objective criteria such as the types of instruments used in the song or whether the song is in a major or a minor key, as well as more subjective criteria such as whether or not a song features “Acoustic Sonority,” “Prevalent Use of Groove,” or a “Wet Recording Sound.\"[ref]“The Music Genome Project,” Pandora Radio, accessed December 2, 2010 <a href=\"http://www.pandora.com/mgp.shtml\">http://www.pandora.com/mgp.shtml</a>.[/ref] (These descriptors are referred to as musical “genes,” but they could just as easily be called metadata or tags.) Visitors to Pandora Radio type in the name of a song that they like, and then based on the attributes that have been pre-assigned to that song, Pandora will play other songs with similar attributes. The promise of Pandora is that once a database of songs is categorized according to a controlled vocabulary capable of being processed by a computer, listeners will be pleasantly surprised to discover songs that they never knew they already liked. (These songs are, of course, available for purchase so that no serendipitous discovery goes un-capitalized.)\r\n\r\nI cite this example within the context of the Whitman Archive not necessarily because Pandora Radio provides a model for digital scholarship of nineteenth-century literature, but because the process of categorizing songs for the Music Genome Project is remarkably similar to the archivist’s effort of structuring data in such a way that it can produce surprising results for the end user. For both Pandora and the Whitman Archive, then, the goal is to reach the tipping point where methodical structuring becomes unexpected discovery, where the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing and structured data takes on forms that the structure-ers never quite imagined. I like to think that this tipping point where structure yields serendipity is similar to the moment in a fractal pattern where geometry becomes art, the moment where a rigorous, mathematically defined structure takes on an aesthetic quality that was never explicitly intended by the mathematical code that undergirds it, but that is nevertheless absolutely dependent upon that code for its very existence.\r\n\r\nMy hope as both the user and creator of digital archives is that we can come to a better understanding of the processes of classification and naming that are involved in these efforts structure data in meaningful ways. Scholars of literature are already comfortable thinking about the power of language to represent—and even create—the world around us. We already have at our disposal a variety of theoretical apparatuses for thinking about the power of language to name and define the world, from the formalism of the New Critics to the semiotics of the Post-Structuralists and even the focus on the materiality of language in Book History scholarship. What we need to add to this list of theories and methodologies is a more sophisticated understanding of taxonomy and categorization. This will not only require an interdisciplinary rendezvous with librarians and scholars of information architecture, but it will also demand that we do the cultural history of such seemingly mundane phenomena as filing cabinets and accounting ledgers. Compared to the work being done by digital humanities scholars in the areas of data visualization, text mining, social networking, and geo-spatial analysis, studying the history of cataloging, sorting, and organizing seems to be the intellectual equivalent of a trip to Target to buy hard-plastic storage bins when you’d rather be at the Apple Store picking up an iPad. Nevertheless, everything that we want digital technology to do to help us better understand literary texts depends upon our ability to properly name, sort, and categorize the information that we put into a computer. We do ourselves a disservice to ignore or even minimize this crucial stage of the process.\r\n\r\nOne of the most frequently quoted statements about the future of digital scholarship in the humanities comes from Jerome McGann, who wrote that “the digital technology used by humanities scholars has focused almost exclusively on methods of sorting, accessing, and disseminating large bodies of materials. In this respect the work has not engaged the central questions and concerns of the [humanities, which is] . . . . the exploration and explanation of aesthetic works.”[ref]Jerome McGann, <em>Radiant Textuality: Literature after the World Wide Web</em> (New York: Palgrave, 2001), xi-xii.[/ref] I don’t want to make a straw-man out of McGann’s powerful insight, but I can’t help but take issue with his claim that the “sorting” of texts will not aid us in our goal of using digital technology to explore and explain aesthetic works. Before a digital tool of any kind can work with a text in any way, the elements of that text must be sorted, classified, and categorized according to a schema that the computer will understand. This is not to say that scholars in the digital humanities should put aside their text visualization projects and their geo-spatial analyses in order to do the Dewey Decimal system one better, but rather that the foundational tasks of organizing and classifying should more completely theorized and more intimately woven into the fabric of digital scholarship.\r\n\r\nBy attending to the tedium of taxonomy we may begin to feel like nineteenth-century scriveners rather than twenty-first century techies. Like those scriveners of old, we may prefer not to spend our time with such mundane things. Nevertheless, if we wish to generate the kinds of “wild and unpredictable intersections of . . . data” that “makes scholarship invigoratingly fun” we should embrace what actually promises to be a fascinating conversation about the history of taxonomy, structure, classification, and form. This conversation will take us through the Library of Alexandria, the Great Chain of Being, medieval bestiaries, Wunderkammer, the Mundaneum, the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, cryptography, tarot cards, and Vannevar Bush’s Memex. Every time we tag, code, or classify a text for a digital archive, we are participating in the long history of human classification systems. The better able we are to understand that history and to situate ourselves within it, the better understanding we will have of our digital archives and what they can do.','The Walt Whitman Archive - Whitley  4','Ed Folsom has written that one of the goals of the Whitman Archive is to “grow the database so that the surprises of searching and juxtaposing will become richer and more frequent.\" Folsom’s vision is that the Whitman Archive will become not only a centralized repository for all of Whitman’s texts, but also a discovery to...','inherit','open','open','','144-revision-43','','','2012-10-29 19:22:25','2012-10-29 19:22:25','',144,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/144-revision-43/',0,'revision','',0),(3467,19,'2012-10-15 23:06:48','2012-10-15 23:06:48','As an undergraduate English major with a concentration in creative writing, I had always regarded books as a portal into the world of fiction, a place where I could study plots and themes, setting and syntax. I had never stopped to consider books as historical objects until my first class in English 241: Archeology of Text. The assignment for the final research paper seemed simple: use what we learned during the semester to explore, analyze, and describe a document of interest from Goucher’s Special Collections.\r\n\r\nI knew from the start that I was intrigued by Goucher’s prolific collection of Jane Austen materials, but needed something specific to spark my interest. Walking around the small Special Collections room in the Julia Rogers Library, my gaze landed on a blue box behind a glass case. I soon learned that inside that box lay the first American edition of <em>Emma</em> (Philadelphia: M. Carey; for sale by Wells &amp; Lilly, Boston, 1816).  Nancy Magnuson, college librarian, told me all about Alberta Burke’s letters and thought that they might contain clues for my research. I have always been fascinated with letters (both reading and writing them), and the process of tracking a specific book through personal correspondences captivated me. I chose to study the 1816 first American edition of <em>Emma</em> and explore the letters that track how it found a home in Goucher’s library.\r\n\r\n<div id=\"attachment_1273\" class=\"alignright right\" style=\"width:320px; margin-left: 20px; margin-bottom:20px;\"><img class=\"size-full wp-image-1273\" title=\"goucher_student action photo_kendall\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-action-photo_kendall.jpg\" alt=\"Sarah Kendall working with the Burke copy of the American first edition of Austen\'s Emma\" width=\"320\" height=\"375\" /> <span class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sarah Kendall working with the Burke copy of the American first edition of Austen\'s <em>Emma</em> (Philadelphia: M. Carey; for sale by Wells &amp; Lilly, Boston, 1816).in the former Rare Book Collection Seminar Room (December 2007).</span></div>\r\n\r\nI remain baffled by the amount of information and detailed history I discovered while writing a descriptive bibliography. I wrote detailed accounts of the letters from Alberta Burke and David Gilson, the letters between David Gilson and Henry Burke, and the 1816 first edition of <em>Emma</em>. After seeing the interest that both Alberta Burke and David Gilson had in the first American edition of <em>Emma</em>, I knew that perusing the pages and studying the tome in detail would be essential to revealing the book’s history. Sifting through dozens of letters hoping to find mention of <em>Emma</em> thrilled me to no end. Reading different letters from various sources also illuminated how various people valued the first edition and why they wanted it in their possession. The circuit of corresponding materials proved equally intriguing and helpful for tracking down how the book traveled from Philadelphia to Goucher’s library.\r\n\r\nI learned that by latching on to a specific topic, I could follow a steady thread of conversation about <em>Emma</em>. The experience made me feel like a genuine historian instead of an undergraduate student simply researching journal articles or internet resources. It felt very special and intellectually stimulating to handle history with my own hands! I even discovered two additional letters hidden between the inside cover and the title page of the first volume. Unearthing these two letters felt very encouraging and proved that there is always the possibility of finding something new within the archives.','Sarah Kendall - Commentary','As an undergraduate English major with a concentration in Creative Writing, I had always regarded books as a portal into the world of fiction; a place where I could study plots and themes, setting and syntax. I had never stopped to consider books as historical objects until my first class in English 241: Archeology of Text. The assignment for the final research paper seemed simple: use what we learned during the semester to explore, analyze, and describe a document of interest from Goucher’s Special Collections.','inherit','open','open','','1053-revision-17','','','2012-10-15 23:06:48','2012-10-15 23:06:48','',1053,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1053-revision-17/',0,'revision','',0),(3469,19,'2012-10-29 23:13:21','2012-10-29 23:13:21','As an undergraduate English major with a concentration in creative writing, I had always regarded books as a portal into the world of fiction, a place where I could study plots and themes, setting and syntax. I had never stopped to consider books as historical objects until my first class in English 241: Archeology of Text. The assignment for the final research paper seemed simple: use what we learned during the semester to explore, analyze, and describe a document of interest from Goucher’s Special Collections.\r\n\r\nI knew from the start that I was intrigued by Goucher’s prolific collection of Jane Austen materials, but needed something specific to spark my interest. Walking around the small Special Collections room in the Julia Rogers Library, my gaze landed on a blue box behind a glass case. I soon learned that inside that box lay the first American edition of <em>Emma</em> (Philadelphia: M. Carey; for sale by Wells &amp; Lilly, Boston, 1816).  Nancy Magnuson, college librarian, told me all about Alberta Burke’s letters and thought that they might contain clues for my research. I have always been fascinated with letters (both reading and writing them), and the process of tracking a specific book through personal correspondences captivated me. I chose to study the 1816 first American edition of <em>Emma</em> and explore the letters that track how it found a home in Goucher’s library.\r\n\r\n<img class=\"size-full wp-image-1273\" title=\"goucher_student action photo_kendall\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-action-photo_kendall.jpg\" alt=\"Sarah Kendall working with the Burke copy of the American first edition of Austen\'s Emma\" width=\"320\" height=\"375\" />\r\n\r\nI remain baffled by the amount of information and detailed history I discovered while writing a descriptive bibliography. I wrote detailed accounts of the letters from Alberta Burke and David Gilson, the letters between David Gilson and Henry Burke, and the 1816 first edition of <em>Emma</em>. After seeing the interest that both Alberta Burke and David Gilson had in the first American edition of <em>Emma</em>, I knew that perusing the pages and studying the tome in detail would be essential to revealing the book’s history. Sifting through dozens of letters hoping to find mention of <em>Emma</em> thrilled me to no end. Reading different letters from various sources also illuminated how various people valued the first edition and why they wanted it in their possession. The circuit of corresponding materials proved equally intriguing and helpful for tracking down how the book traveled from Philadelphia to Goucher’s library.\r\n\r\nI learned that by latching on to a specific topic, I could follow a steady thread of conversation about <em>Emma</em>. The experience made me feel like a genuine historian instead of an undergraduate student simply researching journal articles or internet resources. It felt very special and intellectually stimulating to handle history with my own hands! I even discovered two additional letters hidden between the inside cover and the title page of the first volume. Unearthing these two letters felt very encouraging and proved that there is always the possibility of finding something new within the archives.\r\n\r\n<span class=\"small\">This research paper can be read online, or downloaded in its original form as a word document.</span>','Sarah Kendall - Commentary','As an undergraduate English major with a concentration in Creative Writing, I had always regarded books as a portal into the world of fiction; a place where I could study plots and themes, setting and syntax. I had never stopped to consider books as historical objects until my first class in English 241: Archeology of Text. The assignment for the final research paper seemed simple: use what we learned during the semester to explore, analyze, and describe a document of interest from Goucher’s Special Collections.','inherit','open','open','','1053-revision-19','','','2012-10-29 23:13:21','2012-10-29 23:13:21','',1053,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1053-revision-19/',0,'revision','',0),(3470,10,'2012-10-24 01:09:46','2012-10-24 01:09:46','Archival research is an important source for coursework and teaching, as professors and instructors are increasingly incorporating work with primary documents into undergraduate courses. Because access to primary resources is often restricted by research room hours, and can be further limited because of preservation concerns if materials are extremely fragile or if collections are not fully inventoried, this kind of research takes time. Despite this, many student researchers leave archives with a great deal more information than they will be able to explore in their written scholarship. Students’ research goals also inform their actual practice, although, due to the many pleasures and challenges of working with primary documents, even the best intentions often change dramatically when working through a collection of materials. Whatever the situation, undergraduates working with primary documents need to be aware of a number of general recommendations, in addition to any particular archive’s specific rules.\r\n\r\nThough the individual archive or library is the best first source of information for working with specific collections, the following resources provide general information about working effectively with archival materials that may be of use to students and/or their teachers.\r\n<h1>Resources for Working with Primary Source Documents</h1>\r\n<h3>Comprehensive</h3>\r\nSchmidt, Laura. \"Using Archives: A Guide to Effective Research.\" <em>Society of American Archivists</em>. 2011. <a href=\"http://www2.archivists.org/usingarchives\">http://www2.archivists.org/usingarchives</a>. An excellent primer for using archives, with considerations such as: \"What Are Archives and How do They Differ from Libraries?\"; \"Requesting Materials Remotely\"; \"Planning to Visit an Archive\"; and \"Notes on Copyright, Restrictions, and Unprocessed Collections.\"\r\n<h3>Handling Documents</h3>\r\nNational Archives (UK). \"Handling Documents.\" <em>The National Archives.</em> 2011. <a href=\"http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/visit/document-handling.htm\">http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/visit/document-handling.htm</a>. A basic overview for handling documents, including best practices and an explanation of common types of documents and handling needs.\r\n\r\nNational Park Service. \"Handling Archival Documents and Manuscripts.\" <em>Conserve O Gram </em>19, no. 17 (Sept. 1996). <a href=\"http://www.nps.gov/museum/publications/conserveogram/19-17.pdf\">http://www.nps.gov/museum/publications/conserveogram/19-17.pdf</a>. A brief guide focused on handling archival documents and manuscripts organized into a series of do’s and don’ts, including setting up the research area, moving materials, and dealing with problems (brittle, damaged, attached, and contaminated materials).\r\n<h3>Working in Archives</h3>\r\nArchives of American Art. \"Frequently Asked Questions.\" <em>Archives of American Art: Ask Us.</em> 2011. <a href=\"http://www.aaa.si.edu/askus/faq\">http://www.aaa.si.edu/askus/faq</a>: A general FAQ addressing basic questions and providing policy information, such as the need for researchers to schedule appointments, a useful reminder no matter which archive you plan to use.\r\n\r\nNew York University Libraries. \"Using Archives and Manuscripts.\" <em>New York</em><em> University</em><em> Libraries: Research Guides.</em> 2011. <a href=\"http://nyu.libguides.com/content.php?pid=38517\">http://nyu.libguides.com/content.php?pid=38517</a>. Intended for researchers using NYU collections, this guide also provides general relevant information, including definitions, recommendations on handling materials, and best practices for archival research.\r\n<h3>Teaching</h3>\r\nThe National Archives Experience (US). \"Tool Box.\"<em> The National Archives Experience: Educators and Students. </em>2011. <a href=\"http://www.archives.gov/nae/education/tool-box.html\">http://www.archives.gov/nae/education/tool-box.html</a>. The \"Tool Box\" includes many basic documents explaining the benefits of teaching with primary sources, basics for teaching with primary documents, and links to teaching workshops and collaborative opportunities (<a href=\"http://www.archives.gov/nae/education/collaboration.html\">http://www.archives.gov/nae/education/collaboration.html</a>).\r\n\r\nNational Archives of Australia. <em>Vrroom: Virtual Reading Room</em>. 2011. <a href=\"http://vrroom.naa.gov.au/\">http://vrroom.naa.gov.au/</a>. With a tagline of \"easy access to archival records for teachers and students,\" <em>Vrroom</em> is designed as a full virtual reading room, allowing users to search and browse archival collections, as well as providing support for teaching and research.\r\n<h3>Working with Technology in Archives</h3>\r\nBateman, Kirklin, Sheila Brennan, Douglas Mudd, and Paula Petrik. \"Taking a Byte Out of the Archives: Making Technology Work for You.\" <em>Perspectives Online </em>43, no. 1: (Jan. 2005)\r\n<a href=\"http://www.historians.org/perspectives/issues/2005/0501/0501arc1.cfm\">http://www.historians.org/perspectives/issues/2005/0501/0501arc1.cfm</a>. A useful overview of working with technology in archives, as well as maintaining electronic documents and notes from archival research. Published in 2005, the guide is somewhat dated (it does not include Zotero, for example, which rolled out in 2006).','How to Work with Primary Source Documents','','inherit','open','open','','2045-revision-21','','','2012-10-24 01:09:46','2012-10-24 01:09:46','',2045,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/2045-revision-21/',0,'revision','',0);

INSERT INTO `wp_posts_bu` VALUES (3536,19,'2012-11-14 01:12:53','2012-11-14 01:12:53','The primal scene of archival research takes place in a dreary reading room. A researcher sits at her table, inert. An archivist enters, pushing a cart that bears a dozen dusty gray boxes. (Can we get a close-up of a box, please, to show the label with the long call number? [note type=\'figure\' number=\'1\'] <iframe src=\"http://www.youtube.com/embed/5ykY6moIaDE?rel=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\"></iframe> A staged archival encounter.[/note]) The archivist unhinges a box, removes a numbered file folder and, placing it at the researcher’s elbow, steps back. The researcher stirs, then sits upright with a mechanical jolt. She turns sharply in the direction of the folder, flips it open and cocks her head towards the flimsy leaves inside; now she is reading. (Zoom in on the eyes as they click into focus.) Now she is reading, and now she truly comes alive; she bends towards the papers, taps her forehead in thought. A sheaf of blank paper and a pencil appear on her table, and she begins taking notes. Her fingers fly—and soon, so do the pages she is writing upon. Caught up in eddies of excitement, they swoop to the ceiling and around the room and down to the floor, where they fall together into perfect piles. Bindings sprout from the outer strata; the pages sew themselves into bright, tight, hard-cover books. These the archivist gathers up and places on the shelves that line the room, next to other books and gray boxes.\r\n\r\nI may have it backwards: in other versions of the fantasy, it is the archive that is first animated by the presence of the researcher, a Dr. Coppelius who waves a pencil and sets the dusty boxes to dancing. But either way, the archival imaginary posits a symbiotic relationship between researcher and source, a photogenic pas de deux that leads to a finished scholarly product. This work, in turn, enters the archive for the next generation of researchers; it might even be taken apart again so that its secret ingredients (notes, drafts, letters) can themselves be served up in a series of boxes. Such a strangely private form of publication it creates, the coupling of researcher and source.\r\n\r\nWhat Freudian trauma results from witnessing this sight? Only the harm that myth inflicts. This primal scene is a fiction, a dream of perfect union between researcher and source that ignores, first of all, the full cast of characters. What about the archivist, who is rendered invisible? What about all those within and without the archive, upon whose labor—acquiring, preserving, organizing, reading, cataloging, describing, interpreting, analyzing, debating, teaching, writing, editing, digitizing, referencing and publishing—the current project depends? More a barn dance than a pas de deux: an archival encounter is an enactment of social authorship long before the researcher enters the room. [note number=\'1\']See Jerome McGann, A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983) on the idea of social authorship, which could be described as “the dialectic between the historically located individual author and the historically developed institutions of literary production” that help create a work, eg, printers, publishers, editors and readers (81).[/note]\r\n\r\nBut even a barn dance is much too mannered a metaphor. The sketch above misleads us more generally about the experience on the ground. Doing time in an archive is often tedious, uncomfortable and bewildering. For librarians, there is the struggle to promote and simultaneously protect what you have; the difficulty of fitting unruly materials into arrangements and workflows; and worries about space and time—where to put it all, how to address your backlog. For researchers, there is the struggle to locate the archives you need and what matters to you inside them; the uncertainty created by unruly data; and worries about time and space— how to access what you need during your research trip, how to record and organize the information you gather. At both ends, the archival encounter is counter-cinematic and erratic, days of monotonous sifting and dead-ends punctuated by one or two, or maybe zero, hidden moments of vivid, peculiar joy.\r\n\r\nSo archival research does not fulfill its ideal outline. So what? Who cares? Why dredge up the fantasy? Because the fantasy continues to structure our archival encounters—what we expect and undertake in the reading room, what we allow it to mean. Twenty years ago, Alice Kaplan observed that “conventional academic discourse requires that when you write up the results of your archival work, you tell a story about what you found, but not about how you found it. The less the seams of your findings show, the better your discoveries lend themselves to use by others… tell[ing] these stories breaks their spell and violates the spirit of the archives.” [note number=\'2\']Alice Yaeger Kaplan, “Working in the Archives,” Yale French Studies 77 (1990): 103-116; 103, 107.[/note] With a few word changes, the same could be said about what counts as professional archivist discourse: the impersonal, neutral genre of the finding aid, for example, should say what is in a collection, but should not discuss what is confusing or missing in it, or the problems it posed in processing. [note number=\'3\']See, for example, James M. O’Toole and Richard J. Cox, Understanding Archives and Manuscripts (Chicago: Society of American Archivists, 2006).[/note] Despite the growing recognition that this sequestration is never completely possible—that the material conditions and social relations of the archive shape the work we do in it—that work continues to be represented in professional and scholarly publications as if it is. Despite the recent call to move to the fore “the backstage of the archives—how they are constructed, policed, experienced, and manipulated” in order to support historiography “not merely [as] a project of fact-retrieval” but as “a set of complex processes of selection, interpretation, and even creative invention,” the “backstage” stays in the background. [note number=\'4\']Antoinette Burton, “Introduction: Archive Fever, Archive Stories,” Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History, ed. Burton (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 7-8.[/note] Antoinette Burton may be correct that “many if not most historians operate under the assumption that history is a highly interpretive act,” but this belief is not yet reflected in the archival encounter: the ways that researchers (not just historians) and librarians report their experiences with primary sources; the ways that librarians and researchers work together; the ways librarians and researchers regard the involvement of “non specialists.” [note number=\'5\']Burton, 8. Burton notes that “whether historians concede or fully countenance the impact of such contingencies on their work is another question. They rarely speak of them, and even more rarely do they do so in print” (8). Her books recuperates some of those archive stories but this effort, I’ll suggest below, is hampered by other kinds of obligations.[/note] While the advent of digitization and electronic resource sharing has revolutionized the research landscape, making primary sources public in unprecedented ways, there remains in the archive a habitus of secret knowledge—the “spell” that Kaplan is loathe to break. This is not necessarily intentional. It is rather the effect of layering recent shifts in technology, theory and professional definition onto older foundations: petrified conditions, relations, expectations and systems that continue to operate in part through the enduring power of fantasies about research. What we have in the archive is a stratified groundwork that still governs our archival encounters.\r\n\r\nBut, you will object, the archive has already changed. Now we have the “archival turn”—the scholarly interest in the archive not just as a source of evidence but as an epistemological mode. Surely, this attention to the constructedness of the archive has led to a revealing reconsideration of what actually goes on inside an archive; surely, as a result, those archaic fantasies have diminished. Have they? In what follows, I begin by unearthing one stratum of the archival turn, the decade of the 1990s, as represented by three texts: Kaplan’s essay mentioned above, “Working in the Archives” (1990) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'2\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-369\" title=\"fig 2 kaplan\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photocopy of Alice Yaeger Kaplan’s “Working in the Archives.”[/note]; Derrida’s Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (1994/95) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'3\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-372\" title=\"fig 3 Derrida\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Print out of Jacque Derrida’s “Archive Fever” from Diacritics.[/note]; and Carolyn Steedman’s Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (2001). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'4\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-373\" title=\"fig 4 steedman\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Library copy of Carolyn Steedman’s Dust.[/note] [note number=\'6\']Jacques Derrida, “Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression,” Diacritics 25.2 (Summer 1995): 9-63. Web. 1 Dec. 2010. Carolyn Steedman, Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2001).[/note] A cross-examination of these three texts reveals a pattern of interests, a set of efforts to defy customary practices—but only, it turns out, “in theory.” While certain practices are challenged in these texts, they leave mostly intact the older strata of archival research fantasies and conventions. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman do not dislodge the forces that organize the actual archival encounter.\r\n\r\nHow does this happen? Why is practice so stubborn? We need another take on archival practice: not practice in theory, but practice in action; not the 1990s, but now; not in terms of textual patterns, but in terms that suit the subject: the terms of the archival encounter itself, and the eccentric, anachronistic and even monotonous experience it generates. My second look at practice will take the form of a series of vignettes about a real-life archive, the George Peabody Library in Baltimore. While this narrative structure may seem to recreate the division of labor between theory and practice, my hope is that—by giving practice the last word—we’ll be in a better position to synthesize the two.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>I. “The library doubles as a detective’s office.” [note number=\'7\']Kaplan, 114.[/note]</strong>\r\n\r\nThe archival turn could be dated to the founding of “scientific” history in the mid-nineteenth century, or to the development a century later of the quantitative methods of the Annales School, or to other evidence-based movements in the history of history, but what is generally meant by this phrase corresponds with the formation of cultural studies and the use of the archive as a conceptual category. That is, the archival turn has to do with the notion of the “figuration” of the archive, a parallel decline in its empirical authority and a related expansion of its relevance within domains that are not exclusively historiographic, like art, literary criticism, textual studies, media studies and information studies. [note number=\'8\']See the use of the term in, for example, Carolyn Hamilton et al, eds., Refiguring the Archive (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2002), Cheryl Simon, ed., Following the Archival Turn: Photography, the Museum, and the Archive, special issue of Visual Resources: A Journal of Documentation 18.2 (June 2002), and Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). This turn is partially construed as a “move from archive-as-source to archive-as-subject,” but also by the earlier metaphorical interest in “the archive” that goes back to the 1980s (Stoler, 44-45) and by Foucauldian descriptions of archives as “‘monuments to particular configurations of power” (Hamilton, qtd. in Burton, 6).[/note] But it is not irrelevant that a devotion to archival methods precedes by many decades contemporary theories of the archive; if the archival turn lacks a precise origin, this (we will see) is completely in keeping with its own preoccupations.\r\n\r\nKaplan therefore represents in some ways an arbitrary beginning for this cross-examination—clearly the archive as a conceptual category predates 1990—but her article does initiate something new: the recognition that there is something called an “archive story” that must remain hidden in order for the official “results” to function authoritatively. In admitting this bit of professional legerdemain, and in telling her own archive story in a prestigious scholarly journal, Kaplan not only commits the violation she prohibits but also contradicts it. Through its publication, Kaplan’s own archive story is elevated to the status of “results”—a kind of research that shadows conventional academic discourse. Indeed, Kaplan notes, such “fables” of research “can be analyzed like a text,” a “mixed up genre” that combines the “redemptive detective fiction” with the epic and the dime novel. [note number=\'9\']Kaplan, 106, 107.[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan’s archive story thus marks a distinctive moment in the archival turn—one which gained its most prominent authorization in 1994, with a paper that Jacques Derrida delivered (in English) to a conference sponsored by the Freud Museum, the Courtauld Institute and the Société International d’Histoire de la Psychiatrie et de la Psychoanalyse. Called initially “The Concept of the Archive: A Freudian Impression,” the lecture was revised and published in 1995 as Mal d’archive: une impression freudienne in French; the published English version echoed the French publication with its 1995 title Archive Fever. As Carolyn Steedman points out in Dust: The Archive and Cultural History, however, this work that has been assigned a seminal status in archival studies “for the main part… is not about archives at all, but is rather a sustained contemplation of a work of history, of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s Freud’s Moses: Judaism Terminable and Interminable (1991),” itself a sustained contemplation of Moses and Monotheism—which (according to Steedman) Yerushalmi examines through Freud’s description of the work as a “‘historical novel,’ or a kind of historical story,” undertaken “in order to understand the period of baroque anti-semitism through which he was living.” [note number=\'10\']Steedman, 3.[/note]\r\n\r\nDizzy yet? Let’s undertake a more careful reading of this splatter pattern of intra-references—or, to stick with the archaeological metaphor, let’s call them groups of potsherds buried in the 1990s layer of the “archival turn.” Digging down to reassemble them reveals a set of interests with special implications for archival practice.\r\n\r\nThe most prominent group of sherds to note are the fragments of disciplinarity: the inter-, multi- or perhaps simply anti-disciplinarity of the texts, authors and audiences caught up in these three archival addresses. Kaplan, an American scholar of French literature, calls the post-theory exchange between literature and history a “cross-pollination of desire between historians and literary critics” undertaken “with the curiosity and energetic passion of collectors.” [note number=\'11\']Kaplan, 107-108.[/note] Steedman, a British historian, performs this cross-pollinating process without comment: her epigraph to Dust is from Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, one chapter treats George Eliot’s Middlemarch in depth… in fact, almost every chapter depends on a literary text. [note number=\'12\']Another chapter invokes Elizabeth Gaskell’s 1848 novel Mary Barton, a third is anchored by W. H. Auden’s poem “Homage to Clio,” and a fourth finds its most eloquent examples in Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.[/note] Derrida, a French philosopher, produced a work that has been exceptionally mobile across disciplines, forms, languages and professional domains. He gave his initial talk to an audience drawing on three different kinds of institutions; Mal d’Archive was published in book form in both French and English, but also made an intermediate appearance as an essay in the journal diacritics. All of these texts, it seems, respond to the provocations of the archive—to the materials and circumstances of discovery—rather than to the disciplinary distinctions that arguably divide the archive from itself.\r\n\r\nArchive Fever has become a founding document even though, as Steedman notes in the very beginning of her book, many in Derrida’s audience “knew the ‘archival turn’ to be [already] well underway” at the time of his talk. [note number=\'13\']Steedman, 2.[/note] As it happens—and this is the second group of sherds I see—these three essays have in common an investment in or a problem with origins, especially with the failure of origins. Derrida, for example, defines archive fever as a kind of Freudian death drive—a drive to fix and preserve which at the same time “works to destroy the archive: on the condition of effacing but also with a view to effacing its own ‘proper’ traces… [it] is above all anarchivic, one could say, or archiviolithic… the archive always works, and a priori, against itself.” [note number=\'14\']Derrida, 14. [/note] If the archival impulse is driven to destroy its own work, then the question of origins ultimately point to the larger question of disorder. [note number=\'15\']The disorder of origins makes frequent appearances in the essay but one example will make the point—in the “Preamble” where he recounts how he titled the talk that he had not yet written and was to give at the Freud Museum. The “Preamble” starts with his reflections on the word “impression,” which has several simultaneous registers of meaning for him. One of these is the “scriptural or typographic” register: that of the graphic impression that marks a substrate. In English, “impression” is phonetically related to “repression” and “suppression,” key words in the Freudian vocabulary, translated respectively from the German Verdrängung and Unterdrückung. English, that is, retains the rhyming relationship of the two German terms, and “impression” in this company comes to have a vaguely Freudian meaning as well. But in French, Verdrängung is “refoulement,” which means something more like expulsion, a driving away. The Freudian sense of the French word “répression” has been reserved for Unterdrückung. So English “repression” defines a phenomenon that must be distinguished from the French “répression.” These translational shifts “directly concern the structures of archivization,” Derrida says, “because they touch on the topic differences and thus on the location of the substrates of traces\" (Derrida, 23). In other words, how do you classify concepts whose meanings shift across languages? Where do you store them in a disciplinary grammar—or in an archive? How do these asymmetrical linguistic structures shape the establishment and extension of a new science? For Derrida, the difference between “repression” and “répression” is “enough to disrupt the tranquil landscape of all historical knowledge, of all historiography, and even of all self-consistent ‘scholarship’” (Derrida, 23).[/note]\r\n\r\nOrigin failure appears both as deliberate performance and as unintentional oversight in these essays. Derrida stages his own inability to get past “go”; with an introductory section, and subsequent sections sub-titled “Exergue,” “Preamble,” “Foreword,” his essay functions, Steedman notes, like a “primer offering instruction in the principle of deferral.” [note number=\'16\']A short notice called “Priere d’inserer,” published only in the French book version, carried the bulk of an argument for which there was no room in the lecture. Steedman, 7.[/note] For all her insight into Derrida’s titling adventures, however, Steedman’s title is marked by its own origin aporia. While her first chapter is devoted to Archive Fever—a “let’s begin at the beginning” homage to the seminal text—her book’s title, Dust, seems more indebted to the last sentence of Kaplan’s essay, published five years before Derrida’s: “Usually there is no mother lode, no original manuscript to be retrieved—the gold is all in the dust.” [note number=\'17\']Kaplan, 116.[/note] Kaplan, however, is never mentioned. [note number=\'18\']Kaplan also begins her essay with a brief consideration of the “arche,” the Greek and Latin term for the public records office, which is a major starting point for Derrida. Is he borrowing from her, or is she borrowing from him, given that this sort of etymological investigation was an established signature of Deconstruction?[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan, for her part, unravels her own archive story. She gives us a kind of “whodunit”—her search for the ephemeral sources of Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s anti-semitic pamphlet Bagatelles pour un massacre (1937). She uses this account to exemplify her effort to “move through the archival process and recover some of the stories that get deleted in the final scholarly form.” [note number=\'19\']Kaplan, 104. For this reason, perhaps, Kaplan never reveals what she ultimately discovers in her successful search for Celine’s sources. In fact, it’s not entirely clear whether her pre-emptive and truncated treatment of her archive story is deliberate or not. Is this treatment meant to indirectly support her official claim about “results”? Or does the presence of the archive story suggest that telling it is an impulse she can’t quite control? Thanks, Lauren Coats, for helping tease this problem out.[/note] These beginnings are preemptively struck out, however, by what seems to be her main claim: “the passion of the archives must finally be used to eradicate all personal stories in the interests of the dry archival report, fit for a public.” [note number=\'20\']Kaplan, 103.[/note] Only in the “para-text”—a preface, for example—can the archive story appear without “interrupt[ing] or complicat[ing] the narrative so much that no results could ever be understood or perceived.” [note number=\'21\']Kaplan, 104.[/note] Despite this unequivocal assertion, the personal “whodunit” prevails in her essay, especially in the final section set in the Centre du documentation juive contemporain (CDJC). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'5\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-5-cdjc-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-423\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-423\" title=\"fig 5 cdjc\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-5-cdjc1-333x250.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Website for the Centre de documentation juive contemporain.[/note] It is this library, where Kaplan solves the mystery of Céline’s sources, that “doubles as a detective’s office.”\r\n\r\nWhile Kaplan’s research mystery resolves neatly, the truth about archives is that they are full of gaps, mistakes and excesses: in the words of one of the CDJC librarians, “‘ici on trouve tout’—there’s some of everything here”—but not, one could add, all of anything. [note number=\'22\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] Kaplan’s essay ends by nullifying both her detective story success and her “dry archival report,” by recognizing the disorder on which both of these narratives are unsteadily perched: “The archive is constituted by these errors, these pieces out of place, which are then reintegrated into a story of some kind.” [note number=\'23\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] “A story of some kind”? So much for “results.”\r\n\r\nKaplan sets us up to perceive one final potsherd pattern common to these three essays. If origin-less disorder is the order of the archive, it is a disorder that is generated out of human loss—a disorder that joins the body and the material world. The archive is always predicated on historical violence of some sort, whatever is censored, erased, excluded, trumped up, used up, misplaced, conquered, killed. Moreover, the archival categories that mark both the visible victories and hidden defeats do not stay within their walls; the archive is both a repository of existing schemas and a means of perpetuating them in the world beyond. While we might usually think of this disciplinary activity as a pact between the archive and its political authors, Steedman makes it clear that the dilemmas of order shape the archival body in many ways. For example, she takes literally the provocation of Derrida’s title Archive Fever to investigate the illness that researchers contract on the penultimate day of their trip to the archive: prompted by the anxiety of the task that remains unfinished, they end their research with night-sweats and head-aches. But what seems like a strangely specific malady is transformed by Steedman into a far-reaching social symptom: by relating the researcher’s “archive fever” to the terrible diseases suffered by tanners, skinners and other workers in the trades associated with paper and leather, Steedman expands our sense of who is in the archive—the bodies whose specialized labors populate our libraries with books, the many kinds of expertise the archive consumes.\r\n\r\nFor Derrida, the relation between the material archive and its human architects focuses on one kind of “graphic mark,” a particular “private inscription”: circumcision as the archival signature that is also the signature of patrimoine, with Freud’s relationship to his father as his main example. [note number=\'24\']Derrida, 19.[/note] It is perhaps not a coincidence that the body in question in both Kaplan’s and Derrida’s archive is Jewish, for that is a body that has come to symbolize the destructive power of classificatory regimes. Despite her contention that the private passions motivating research must be kept secret, Kaplan is fascinated by the “missing person stories” at the CDJC: by the “quantity of people who are there for personal reasons,” the survivors of occupation or deportation or camps, or their descendants, quietly looking up their lost ones or noisily dropping off their memoirs. [note number=\'25\']Kaplan, 113.[/note] This disorganized crowd of dead and living bodies tries to meet up with an equally disorganized crowd of materials—individual letters, trial transcripts, pamphlets, newspapers, first-person accounts, books, photographs, lists. The monumental task of match-making, the librarians’ work, is never complete. More papers are always generated or declassified or discovered, different human questions and needs emerge. The tidy choreography of the research fantasy, where the detective always finds her man, is not so much in evidence; what we have instead is corpora in excess of existing categories.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\nKaplan, Derrida and Steedman open up the archival body. They show us how paper meets the press of flesh; they make us feel just how intimate it is. [note number=\'26\']This interest in the corporeal dimensions and effects of order, its human and non-human components, has in common with their other gestures—an experimental attitude towards conventional disciplinarity and attention to the priority of disorder—the circumstances of the academic humanities in the 1990s. Since the archival turn came out of the ascent of cultural studies and allied intrigues in the 1970s and ‘80s, the circles in the Venn diagram of these ventures will necessarily overlap. We could also say that the archive took off when it did precisely because it made a clever new container for these preoccupations, thick in the humanities atmosphere at the time, where they were distilled and united. [/note] But for all their revelations about the limits of discipline and the multiplicities of disorder in the archive, these texts do not disclose the specific methods of engagement that led to their existence. While Kaplan offers up her own archival victory and outlines several other such stories, she still insists on their marginalization. [note number=\'27\']“Were the story of how you got the story really to be told inside the book, it would interrupt or complicate the narrative so much that no results could be understood or even perceived. Every story of success in the archives is emotionally charged, for only the most extreme emotions can drive people to the drudgery, to the discomfort, of sitting and sifting through dog-eared documents, manuscripts, microfilms. To reveal those emotions would not only gum up the narrative, it would threaten its credibility, by showing on what thin strands of coincidence, accident, or on what unfair forms of friendship, ownership, geographical proximity, the discoveries were based” (Kaplan, 104).[/note] If these texts are not concerned with actual practices in the archive or changes in its methodologies, what do they tell us?\r\n\r\nFirst, they suggest one reason for the perpetuation of myths about the archive. While Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are eager to show how archival materials do not conform to disciplinary distinctions—an enthusiasm related to other disruptive tendencies in late twentieth-century humanist scholarship –they seem less cognizant of a related phenomenon: the archive does not obey strict professional divisions, either. In Kaplan’s library-as-detective’s-office metaphor, the scholar is the detective, but does the “Eureka” moment belong only to the scholar who pieces together a narrative? What about the people who prepared those pieces? The archivist is still missing in action. Likewise, these essays do not dwell on missing boxes, illegible papers, neglected citations. There are no descriptions of archival slogging, no admissions that some materials failed to be relevant. And of course, there are no prescriptions for a different order. It is not the main aim of Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman to effect an evolution of practice; archival turnistas are not interested in disorder in order to re-order. But it is worth remembering that it is not in their professional interest as scholars to make their practices more transparent.\r\n\r\nSecondly, along the same lines, these texts inform us of the duplicity of speculative practices that reveal but cannot live out the instability of their archival mandates. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are put into the position of saying, “Yes, the archive is biased, idiosyncratic and treacherous—but the observations I draw from it are flawless.” [note number=\'28\']Derrida, unlike Kaplan and Steedman, makes no claims to work inside an actual archive, unless we consider Yerushalmi’s book as a kind of archive. But the fact that the essay was written self-consciously for presentation at the Freud Museum suggests that it was made out of an archive indirectly—in its construction, if not in its contents. [/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, these texts suggest why archival studies that attempt to be explicit about the messy nature of the archive have become instead “archive studies.” In more recent works like Refiguring the Archive (2002), Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions and the Writing of History (2005) and Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (2009), the archive appears as a subject in its own right. Although the archival scenarios that are put into play in each of these books incorporate different disciplines—art, history, anthropology, literature, post-colonial studies—they have essentially created a new discipline. “Archive studies” is something we might, in the taxonomy of disciplines, see as the love-child of cultural studies, history and archival methodology. Moreover, this new discipline has in common with other humanities disciplines a complete blindness about its professional investments; it does not register much awareness of the professional investments of librarians, archivists, curators and “non-specialists,” or invite insights from those perspectives. Perhaps this is inevitably what happens when academics must give legitimacy to something new, which in turn reflects the pressures of scholarly communication: a topic must be delineated in conventional terms in order to merit publication. [note number=\'29\']Perhaps this is also the moment to ask why we—I—have been using the term “archive” all along, with its statist resonances, rather than the term “collection,” which has institutional but also personal resonances. Does “archive” bring us closer to recognizably “serious scholarship”?[/note] But it is also true that in these more recent books, which openly investigate the archive’s power-politics, the disorderly drift of the archive and its hybrid corporeality have mostly been bent towards a particular narrative about the archive as an agent of history rather than as a set of ongoing practices. It is as if the historical archive has been assembled in ways that reflect and reiterate power relations, but the contemporary archive has not; it is as if the researcher’s own research travails remain a transparent layer over the body of work that it constructs. [note number=\'30\']Of course, this is precisely what Derrida meant about the “death drive” of the archival impulse. Archive Stories is something of an exception; researchers speak openly here about themselves as researchers. It is interesting, however, that this book—like Steedman’s—doesn’t cite Kaplan’s essay as a precursor text despite the clear titular link.[/note]\r\n\r\nPerhaps it would also be fair to note that, if archival studies are now being formulated as an interdisciplinary discipline called “archive studies,” this might be just another stage in the turn. It might be that what comes next reconfigures the premise of disciplinarity and the promise of disorder, with a different approach to the human/non-human interactions that the archive documents and realizes: a more diffuse and multi-vocal set of practices in place of a new field. One way to imagine this approach would be to fully embrace Kaplan’s idea of the archive story as an account of what one hoped for, looked for and found, what one did and did not do, in the archive—an account loosed from the quarantine she advocates. Some very basic genre precedents for the archive story do exist; the bibliographic essay and the methodology statement, for example, have played an important role in many disciplines in the past and still do in some. Instead of a para-textual nod towards that archive story (in Kaplan’s sense), why not create a parallel text written collaboratively by the researcher(s) and the librarian(s), or by one person acting in both professional capacities, that runs alongside the official “results”? Or in a set of expanded notes that address not just the “what” and “where” but the “how” and “why” of sources, which are lifted from their small-type, bottom-of-page basement up into the light? Or—to add yet another layer—parallel texts that also offer room for exchange with other researchers, archivists and even interested “non specialists,” like collectors, bibliophiles and fans?\r\n\r\nIf it is hasn’t been clear already that I have scrupulously avoided so far the other kind of archive, the digital archive, it will be now. What I am imagining would be far too complicated to produce or consult in print, but would not be at all difficult to organize as a digital object—as an archive in its own right. By avoiding the digital archive up to this point, I have also finessed the fact that our current archival research methods are completely reliant on the digital archive, along with the development of online research tools and electronic instruments of data discovery and organization. Those conditions probably bear the most responsibility for making the archive visible as something that warranted a “turn” in the first place. Even Derrida refers in each version of Archive Fever to the computer on which he is currently composing, predicting that email will not only totally transform the archive as he knows it, but will make his own essay obsolete.\r\n\r\nIn short, we already have in place both the theory and the media that will make it possible to enact a radical new archival practice. We have in place what we need to integrate the archive story into the archive itself, while making it visible as a new form of “results.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>II. The library doubles as a librarian’s office.</strong>\r\n\r\nI could end here, with a triumphant firing of the starter pistol and a rousing cheer. But that would be a bit disingenuous, given that the starter pistol for both the archival turn and the academic use of the internet actually went off decades ago. So the question remains, what stands in the way of the practical enactment of the archival turn’s speculative insights? I’d like to engage this question by following Kaplan’s example (but not her main claim): through some archive story-telling about the George Peabody Library. These three vignettes, identified as “typical” through conversations with my colleague Paul Espinosa, illustrate the intractable formations that present-day archival encounters come up against.\r\n\r\n<strong>1. The Perils of Description.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A group of Russian speakers visits the Peabody Library. The dozen men and women sit down around the screen that Paul has set up. He narrates a brief slide-show about the Peabody’s history, then leads them to a table where a dozen books from the collection have been laid out in cradles. He tells them about each book: what it is, why it is interesting. Each phrase of his presentation is painstakingly translated by the group’s leader into Russian.</blockquote>\r\nWhen academic and community groups visit the Peabody, my colleagues and I draw upon a standard tour-guide’s repertoire to describe it. We explain that George Peabody was a tradesman cum financier cum philanthropist who decided in 1857 that Baltimore needed a cultural institution to support the arts and learning. We talk about the evolution of the Peabody Institute, the four-part athenaeum that resulted, with its art gallery, lecture series, conservatory and free, public, non-circulating library. We discuss the model of philanthropy that George Peabody initiated and its wide-ranging influence. We point out the signal features of the awe-inspiring architecture of the current library, built to accommodate a rapidly growing collection in 1878. But when it comes to the library itself, as a collection, it is hard to know what to say. How to accurately translate the library’s holdings into a succinct and memorable statement that conveys an appropriate level of detail to different audiences? While it poses specific challenges, the Peabody also exemplifies more general problems of collection description.\r\n\r\nWe do not lack evidence for the evolving contents of the Peabody. We have the two-volume printed list of “desiderata” drawn up by the Peabody’s first librarian, John G. Morris. [note number=\'31\']Alphabetical Catalogue of Books to be Purchased for the Library of the Peabody Institute, Baltimore, Vols. 1 and 2 (Baltimore: John D. Toy, 1861, 1863).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'6\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-6-alpha-index-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-395\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-395\" title=\"fig 6 alpha index\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-6-alpha-index1-336x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"484\" /></a>Alphabetical index from Alphabetical Catalouge (“desiderata”).[/note] We have the collections register for several decades’-worth of acquisitions, recording bibliographic information and accession numbers that can still be found on the inside front end papers of many of the books in the collection. We have the librarians’ annual reports to the library trustees. [note number=\'32\']The Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore: The Founder’s Letters and the Papers Relating to its Dedication and History, Up to the 1st January, 1868 (Baltimore: William K. Boyle, 1868); and subsequent Annual Reports, 1869, etc.[/note] We have the library’s first printed catalogue, an unsurpassed achievement when first published in 1883, which listed 100,000 volumes by author and title. [note number=\'33\']Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Vols. 1-5 (Baltimore: Isaac Friedenwald, 1883; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, [1961?]; also on googlebooks), and Second Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Including the Additions Made Since 1882, Vols. 1-8 (Baltimore: Deutsch Lithographic and Printing, 1896; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, 1961).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'7\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-7-print-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-396\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-396\" title=\"fig 7 print cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-7-print-cat-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Reprinted volumes of the Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute (1883).[/note] We have the cards from the Dewey decimal system card catalogue, which replaced the printed catalogue in the 1910s. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'8\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-8-card-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-397\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-397\" title=\"fig 8 card cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-8-card-cat.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>One of two card catalogues in the Peabody.[/note] Now, of course, the library’s collections are represented in an online catalogue that integrates them with other collections in the Hopkins library system.\r\n\r\nThese markers of the collection, however, fail to satisfy some contemporary research queries for reasons that are both practical and philosophical. The transfer of the printed index, organized by author, to the Dewey decimal system, organized by topic, represented a major epistemological shift that facilitated browsing by subject category. But of course, those categories are embedded in historically-bound notions about the subjects and structures of knowledge: Dewey was invented in the 1870s, and the 22 revisions it has undergone since then cannot overcome its essential organizational distortions. For example, the literature range—the 800s—offers only 10% of its categorical space to literatures in languages other than English, Germanic and Romance languages, Greek and Latin.\r\n\r\nIn the case of the Peabody, the Dewey arrangements overlay even older systems of knowledge hierarchy. Should we continue to offer, for example, a description of the Peabody’s “voyages and travels” books? This category represents a Renaissance schematic that was still in service in the mid-nineteenth century; while actual “voyages and travels” were extended by colonial ventures, the category was eventually disbanded. Dewey combined it with geography to make a sub-category of “history.” In keeping active the old-fashioned phrase “voyages and travels,” we are participating in a centuries-long project of euphemism about the material aims and actual activities of colonialism; we are privileging an early phase of the Peabody’s evolution over later phases; we may even be confusing modern researchers. And yet, as one of the topics in Morris’s “desiderata,” a considerable portion of the Peabody’s collection was acquired with the aim of fleshing out that descriptor. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'9\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-9-index-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-398\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-398\" title=\"fig 9 index detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-9-index-detail-336x274.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"274\" /></a>Detail of subject index from Alphabetical Catalouge No. 2 (“desiderata”).[/note]\r\n\r\nYet another classificatory dilemma is expressed by George Peabody’s original statement of the library’s purpose: that it “be furnished in every department of knowledge, with the most approved literature… It should consist on the best works on every subject… to satisfy the researches of students who may be engaged in the pursuit of knowledge not ordinarily attainable in the private libraries of the country.” [note number=\'34\']“Letters from George Peabody, Esq.: Baltimore, February 12th, 1857,” in Founder’s Letters, 7.[/note] The Peabody was founded as a cultural institution for the people of Baltimore, but from the first, this democratic ambition was in conflict with the intellectual aspirations of the first librarians and their desire to facilitate civic “self-improvement.” Morris (a doctor of divinity), his successor Nathaniel Holmes Morison (a schoolmaster and poet), and Morison’s assistant and successor Philip Uhler (who had trained as an entomologist) were all devoted to the nineteenth-century idea of the scholar-librarian. Morison wrote in one annual report that “Education always proceeds from the above downward, from the best to the common minds, from the leaders of the people to the people themselves. Furnish... the foundations of intelligence and thought, and they will... stimulate and improve the whole community.\" [note number=\'35\']Qtd. in Franklin Parker and Betty J. Parker, “PIB Ref. Library. 8-Morison\'s Philosophy of Excellence,” in George Peabody (1795-1869): A-Z Handbook of the Massachusetts-Born Merchant in the South, London-Based Banker, and Philanthropist\'s Life, Influence, and Related People, Places, Events, and Institutions. . 11 Mar. 2011.[/note] When the Johns Hopkins University was founded in 1876 in close proximity to the Peabody—in large part to take advantage of the library—the tendency of the librarians to address scholarly needs and “approved literature” over popular desires was given additional momentum. In keeping with these ideas, the Peabody’s librarians kept careful track of their readers’ choices, noting with special caution the numbers of novels that were requested. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'10\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-10-annual-report-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-399\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-399\" title=\"fig 10 annual report detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-10-annual-report-detail-336x452.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"452\" /></a>Detail from First Annual Report showing chart of books read, with special mention of fiction.[/note] This schism at the heart of the library’s collecting paradigm was not unique to the Peabody; the question of reading matter—should it offer leisure for the masses or the means of social uplift?—was central to the public library movement of the second half of the nineteenth century. [note number=\'36\']See, for example, Alexis McCrossen, “’One Cathedral More’ or ‘Mere Lounging Places for Bummers’? The Cultural Politics of Leisure and the Public Library in Gilded Age America,” Libraries &amp; Culture 41.2 (2006): 169-188; Paul Sturges, “The Public Library and Reading by the Masses: Historical Perspectives on the USA and Britain 1850-1900,” ; Trustees of the Public Library of the City of Boston, Upon the Objects to be Attained by the Establishment of a Public Library, 12 Dec. 2010.[/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, the Peabody’s “desiderata” acquisitions and librarians’ selections were supplemented by book donations from local elites—bibliophiles with extensive private collections that included incunabula, classical authors in Renaissance editions, expensive illustrated atlases. At the same time, book donations came in from more plebian sources. The Peabody’s growth overlapped with the decline of the local social libraries, and it eventually absorbed some of the books from the Library Company of Baltimore, Robinson’s Circulating Library and several small professional and mechanics’ libraries. And I haven’t even touched on the Peabody’s twentieth-century fate.\r\n\r\nThe variety of philanthropic impulses, resource streams and classification philosophies that have fed the Peabody over the 150 years of its existence has led to a collection that does not so much map the nineteenth-century mind as signal its odd amalgam of popular and scholarly investments. The Peabody’s collection effectively evades succinct description—at least, any kind of description that pretends to be coherent, that is not perforated by its stakes in local history, library history, book history. But more importantly, it suggests the degree to which accident and opportunity and prejudice and wealth and the changing winds of cataloguing rules shape any archive. Description, which should be the most fundamental tool of communication between librarians and researchers, turns out to be utterly elusive. Yet we do not know what to replace them with, these inadequate descriptions, these exercises in stilted and partial translation.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>2. The Researcher’s Progress.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>I am preparing for my class about women and nineteenth-century print culture, which meets in the Peabody; we have reached the part of the syllabus where we look at gift books and annuals. I want students to examine several examples of these literary miscellanies, offering some illustration of their variety, and I have a list of such items that I have used in the past. But since I also want to show the students new acquisitions, I need to refresh my list. I will start with “gift book” as a keyword in the online catalogue.</blockquote>\r\nIn place of perfect and commensurate description—not possible—what we have are cataloguing systems that indexically represent collections through data and metadata that are, as I have already suggested, historically marked and inevitably inconsistent. In the case of the Peabody, these records are further compromised: Dewey cards developed from a nineteenth-century print index do not offer Library of Congress subject terms or detailed tables of contents; they also frequently lack other kinds of information. [note number=\'37\']Many of the electronic records for Peabody books have been copy-cataloged, that is, developed from records for identical books in other libraries. But these records might also be incomplete or inconsistent, given that many are quite old. The expense of original cataloging prevents our staff from creating full, new records for every item in the Peabody’s collection of over 300,000 titles.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'11\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-11-ddc-cards/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-400\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-400\" title=\"fig 11 ddc cards\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-11-ddc-cards-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Dewey cards for “gift books.”[/note] My search for “gift book” will turn up bequests—the term “gift book” is often attached to these donations—and it will miss many of the nineteenth-century gift books and annuals in our collection whose records lack subject classifications, or whose subject classifications reference the book’s contents, not its format. For example, the 1848 Rough and Ready Annual: or, Military Souvenir published by Appleton’s has been assigned the subject “Mexican War, 1846-1848—Anecdotes.” [note number=\'38\']Rough and Ready Annual (New York: D. Appleton; Philadelphia: G.S. Appleton, 1848).[/note]\r\n\r\nThe problem of finding is perhaps only a sub-set of the problem of description, but I want to give it special attention because it introduces another variable: the physical space of the object. My search for gift books in the Peabody also entails the privilege of retrieving the books from the stacks. There are two search processes, the intellectual and the physical, that I must navigate. The intellectual search in this case requires a variety of keyword/date range combinations, and ultimately, recourse to my prepared bibliography—a holdover from pre-catalogue research methods. Now the second search begins.\r\n\r\nThe Rough and Ready Annual is at 973.62 A5121, in the “general history of North America; United States” category. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'12\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-12-rr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-401\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-401\" title=\"fig 12 r&amp;r\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-12-rr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Rough and Ready Annual in the stacks.[/note] This call number range is on the second floor, west side. Other items on my list are in very different parts of the library. Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them, edited by the temperance writer T. S. Arthur and published in London, has been given the call number 813 A7910 duodecimo—fourth floor east, in the “American literature in English, fiction” section. [note number=\'39\']Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them (London: Knight &amp; Co., [1857]). This title does not appear in at least one Arthur bibliography; see Donald A Koch, \"Timothy Shay Arthur,\" Antebellum Writers in New York and the South, ed. Joel Myerson (Detroit: Gale Research, 1979), from Literature Resource Center. Web. 19 Feb. 2011. To check on this, I need Mitchell Sharpe Jr.’s A Bibliography of the Published Books of Timothy Shay Arthur (Atlanta: Emory University, 1954), a typewritten quarto at 012 A791S, but it seems to be missing.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'13\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-13-orange/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-402\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-402\" title=\"fig 13 orange\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-13-orange-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Orange Blossoms in the stacks.[/note] Arthur shows up again as co-editor of The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present, which has received more extensive description as it contains the first printing of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “Siope.” [note number=\'40\']The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present (Baltimore: Bayly and Burns, [1838]).[/note] We have two copies of this very genteel little gift book, one at 808.83 B2175 (rhetoric &amp; collections of literature), and one at 810.8 C297 (American literature in English). The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons is in the rare book room at the south end of the third floor. [note number=\'41\']The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons (London: The Religious Tract Society, ca. 1850).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'14\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-14-rbr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-403\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-403\" title=\"fig 14 rbr\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-14-rbr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The rare book room.[/note] In this case, the book’s rarity has to do with a lovely fore-edge painting. It has been assigned to 820.8 N42017 (general books about literature). On the other end of the “rare” continuum is The Family Circle and Parlor Annual, volume 5 in a series, which is shelved up on the sixth floor with the periodicals at 051 F198 (serials in American English). [note number=\'42\']The Family Circle and Parlor Annual (New York: Comstock, 1847).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'15\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-15-parlor/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-404\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-404\" title=\"fig 15 parlor\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-15-parlor-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Parlor Annual in the stacks.[/note]\r\n\r\nI’ll fill out call slips for each book, stick the slips into red flags, and put the flags in an order that will help me chart a logical course through the stacks. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'16\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-16-slips/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-405\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-405\" title=\"fig 16 slips\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-16-slips-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Call slips and flags.[/note] It’s easiest to start on the sixth floor and work one’s way down, picking up books along the way. Usually I find other interesting items as I go, so I carry a batch of blank call slips and extra flags. (On this occasion, for example, I find The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse; published in 1813 and inscribed by its owner in 1817, it pre-dates by several years the official beginning of the gift book phenomenon. It might be more of a “literary almanac.” [note number=\'43\']The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse (Philadelphia: David Hogan, 1813).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'17\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-17-new-reader/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-406\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-406\" title=\"fig 17 new reader\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-17-new-reader-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Inscription in The New American Reader.[/note]) Usually I am also unable to locate at least one of the books I have set out to find. Most likely the book has been misshelved, so I’ll check the quartos and folios, which are shelved separately; then I’ll check the rare book room’s octavo, duodecimo and quarto shelving areas. It used to astonish me that books were still shelved by format in the Peabody, but it does save space. At the same time, this shelving system—along with the multiple distinct areas within the library where books may reside, eg the rare book room, the reference section, the genealogy books, the Limited Editions Club, and several discrete named collections—means that retrieving a few books can take quite a long time, as I traipse up and down the six floors of the library, thread through stacks, open secured doors with multiple keys, turn lights on and off, and maneuver a book truck in and out of a tiny service elevator built in the 1920s. By the end of the journey, the library and I will have exchanged dust; I’ll take on a few streaks of red rot, and the library will have taken in particles from my body as well.\r\n\r\nWhile the Peabody is unique, these conditions are not in the end very unusual. In terms of the intellectual search, the absence of “gift book” from many of the catalogue records is no less egregious than the absence of other information—the names of all the contributors; the subjects of the illustrations. The metadata is potentially infinite. The “gift book” only exists as a category because of scholars who teased out this cultural phenomenon; it would be very difficult to define its absolute borders. In terms of the physical search, the Peabody might be messier than, say, a rare book library that has assigned current LC call numbers to all its contents and houses them in compact shelving, but it exemplifies the general on-the-ground situation. As I wind my way through the Peabody stacks, I remember how much more difficult it is to gather research materials from several different institutions.\r\n\r\nThe fact is, for scholars who rely on archives, research is something you do only after you have already undertaken a rigorous search. It is the search that provides you with the foundational sense of your subject. But the search is rarely acknowledged or accredited; even the foot-soldier craft of bibliography, the link between “librarianship” and “scholarship,” has largely lost its scholarly status.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>3. An Architecture of Disctinction.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A non-affiliate researcher contacts the Peabody about our H. L. Mencken collections. Since she will bring a couple of graduate students with her, I set up a group work space in one of the library alcoves where the three of them can share materials and talk without disturbing other readers. I pull the requested volumes with the help of some students and set the cart up within easy reach of the alcove. When the researchers arrive, I show them the Mencken collections on the ground floor. Then I lead them to their group work space and leave them, returning to the glassed-in office behind the reading room, the vantage point that allows me to monitor the otherwise empty reading room.</blockquote>\r\nIn “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” a team of Dutch sociologists investigates the library as a space that is strongly marked by situational norms—“knowledge-based beliefs about how to behave in particular situations that are shaped by social influence.” [note number=\'44\']Henk Aarts and Ap Dijksterhuis, “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 84.1 (2003), 19.[/note] Their research leads them to argue, however, that such norms do not require direct social influences to be triggered; in fact, “the situation can activate mental representations of normative behaviors automatically. And once activated, these representations provide the knowledge necessary for guiding one’s own situationally appropriate behavior.” [note number=\'45\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 19.[/note] Physical environments do not necessarily prompt these behaviors; rather, the behavior “depend[s] on whether the environment is of immediate behavioral relevance.” [note number=\'46\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 20.[/note] Talking in a quiet voice in the library, a normative behavior, is only activated for those who plan to visit the library.\r\n\r\nTen years ago, when the research for this article was conducted, the “silence of the library” was still a widespread norm. While the situation is now often reversed—in our main campus library, we must designate specific quiet areas because otherwise a sociable undergraduate din would take over—the norm of silence does continue to preside at the Peabody. Because it is off campus, the Peabody is often attractively under-populated compared to the crowded main library; it is mostly used by advanced researchers and those who seek a quiet place to study. The large central open area catches and amplifies even the smallest noises. The shelf-lined alcoves on either side of this central area offer the appearance of privacy, but in fact are little echo chambers. Visitors immediately detect these acoustics, and—except for the periodic tour groups—most spend their time in the Peabody in silence. But it is not just the physics of sound that shape behaviors here, as the Dutch researchers show; the social expectations of the space prefigure those behaviors.\r\n\r\nIn setting up a group work space for the Mencken researchers, I have quite deliberately contravened the usual norm of silence. Clearly, I am not inviting them to shout, and by putting them in an alcove in back, I have taken measures to protect any quiet-seeking visitors who might arrive. But in accordance with new ideas about the use of library space, my colleagues and I have decided that we must accommodate group study even if it might occasionally disrupt the silence desired by others. As it happens, the Mencken researchers’ conversation is eventually interrupted by a tour group, and the two activities play out side by side.\r\n\r\nI must admit that at moments I have mixed feelings about the tour groups and even the study cohorts. While my pedagogical instincts tend towards cheerful hub-bub, there is a part of me that is still in awe of the sanctuary-like atmosphere of the Peabody. John Morris called the library a “cathedral of books,” and clearly that’s what architect Edmund G. Lind had in mind. The central area with its grand skylight and the alcoves on its sides is like a nave bordered with chapels. Lind didn’t need a psychological study of environment-based situational norms to tell him that he might activate different behaviors within his building. The great central space inspires reverence—your eye is drawn to the skylight the way it would be drawn to the rose windows of Chartres, and on its way up catches row upon solemn row of books stowed behind gilded railings, a testament to the accumulated wisdom of the ages. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'18\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-18-skylight/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-407\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-407\" title=\"fig 18 skylight\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-18-skylight.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>The skylight in the George Peabody Library.[/note] But step into an alcove, especially on the ground floor where each is filled with an immense wooden table, and you instantly feel something else, something no less grand but more human. The alcoves are study-sized, and once you sit down at one of those dark, gleaming, broad tables, it is like you are the master of your own private library. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'19\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-19-alcove/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-408\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-408\" title=\"fig 19 alcove\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-19-alcove-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Alcove in the George Peabody Library.[/note]\r\n\r\nIronically, the Peabody’s architecture was out-dated by the time it was completed. With the professionalization of librarianship and the evolution of library science in the late nineteenth century, librarians like William Frederick Poole advocated for a functional rather than decorative design of interior library space. [note number=\'47\']See William Frederick Poole, Remarks on Library Construction (Chicago: Jansen, McClurg, 1884).[/note] Moreover, the actual use of space in the Peabody in the late nineteenth century was at odds with its symbolic appeal. The main library was known as the “stack room”; readers were seated in a comparatively plain reading room on the other side of the main doors. In this arrangement, the librarians reigned inside the gorgeous “cathedral of books,” but the building’s potential to civilize the masses was lost.\r\n\r\nNow, of course, we do not send readers outside. Inside the “stack room,” we explicitly call visitors’ attention to its beauty to explain the connections between the library’s architecture and its collections—how both speak eloquently of Victorian values. At the same time, we who staff the library have relegated ourselves to its periphery. We work in the glassed-in room at one end that serves as a monitoring point and occasional classroom; the official “librarian’s office” in one corner—its luxurious proportions suggesting something like a sacristy and something like a robber baron’s lair—is now shared work-space stuffed with several desks and laden book trucks. There is another monitoring station near the main doors. I often do my work at the photography station, in the back of one of the alcoves [note type=\'figure\' number=\'20\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-20-station/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-409\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-409\" title=\"fig 20 station\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-20-station-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photography station in the George Peabody Library.[/note]. It offers some privacy but is close enough to the central reading tables to be accessible to readers.\r\n\r\nThe space of the Peabody initiates other situational behaviors besides the norm of silence, and our work-station arrangements testify to this. The spatial re-centralizing of readers and marginalization of staff is not merely practical; it is a reflection of the modern office of librarianship. We are there to be of service, in a para-textual position. Consequently, our work should be out of sight; it should be separate from and secondary to the work that readers do. Our locations call upon us, in other words, to support the scholar’s effort to hide the “seams of [her] findings” by hiding the ways we contribute to that work—by the ways we sometimes do that work.\r\n\r\nI think about these complications as I escort the Mencken researchers to their table and walk back to the glassed-in office, where there is nothing pressing for me to do. I’d rather spend more time talking with them. I’d like to learn about their research and introduce them to some underappreciated parts of the collection. I’d like to share with them what I learned curating an exhibition of Mencken-related magazines and writing about one of those magazines. But I don’t want to get in their way; it’s likely that they are ready to get on with work that they don’t see as connected to mine. The professional norms of the archive are strong, and although I know how to talk about my research in many contexts—in presentations, interviews, hotel elevators—I haven’t figured out how to mix my scholarly role with the curatorial role I am supposed to play here, in the Peabody. In the end, I say nothing. Professional segregation is another kind of silence in the library.\r\n\r\nWe cannot change the archaeological record beneath our feet, but we can rearrange the fossils we dig up to create new narratives. We can tell different kinds of archive stories, including the story of what research in the archive was and is. Is it too idealistic to expect that dissolving the entrenched fantasies about archival research will make room for new methods? Is it naïve to imagine a space that, in putting into practice the archival turn’s preliminary insights about disciplinary and disorder, can support experimentation, facilitate connection across professions and disciplines, and enable new discoveries?','Disciplinarity and Disorder','','inherit','open','open','','2199-revision-30','','','2012-11-14 01:12:53','2012-11-14 01:12:53','',2199,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/2199-revision-30/',0,'revision','',0),(3537,19,'2012-11-14 01:19:51','2012-11-14 01:19:51','The primal scene of archival research takes place in a dreary reading room. A researcher sits at her table, inert. An archivist enters, pushing a cart that bears a dozen dusty gray boxes. (Can we get a close-up of a box, please, to show the label with the long call number? [note type=\'figure\' number=\'1\'] <iframe src=\"http://www.youtube.com/embed/5ykY6moIaDE?rel=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\"></iframe> A staged archival encounter.[/note]) The archivist unhinges a box, removes a numbered file folder and, placing it at the researcher’s elbow, steps back. The researcher stirs, then sits upright with a mechanical jolt. She turns sharply in the direction of the folder, flips it open and cocks her head towards the flimsy leaves inside; now she is reading. (Zoom in on the eyes as they click into focus.) Now she is reading, and now she truly comes alive; she bends towards the papers, taps her forehead in thought. A sheaf of blank paper and a pencil appear on her table, and she begins taking notes. Her fingers fly—and soon, so do the pages she is writing upon. Caught up in eddies of excitement, they swoop to the ceiling and around the room and down to the floor, where they fall together into perfect piles. Bindings sprout from the outer strata; the pages sew themselves into bright, tight, hard-cover books. These the archivist gathers up and places on the shelves that line the room, next to other books and gray boxes.\r\n\r\nI may have it backwards: in other versions of the fantasy, it is the archive that is first animated by the presence of the researcher, a Dr. Coppelius who waves a pencil and sets the dusty boxes to dancing. But either way, the archival imaginary posits a symbiotic relationship between researcher and source, a photogenic pas de deux that leads to a finished scholarly product. This work, in turn, enters the archive for the next generation of researchers; it might even be taken apart again so that its secret ingredients (notes, drafts, letters) can themselves be served up in a series of boxes. Such a strangely private form of publication it creates, the coupling of researcher and source.\r\n\r\nWhat Freudian trauma results from witnessing this sight? Only the harm that myth inflicts. This primal scene is a fiction, a dream of perfect union between researcher and source that ignores, first of all, the full cast of characters. What about the archivist, who is rendered invisible? What about all those within and without the archive, upon whose labor—acquiring, preserving, organizing, reading, cataloging, describing, interpreting, analyzing, debating, teaching, writing, editing, digitizing, referencing and publishing—the current project depends? More a barn dance than a pas de deux: an archival encounter is an enactment of social authorship long before the researcher enters the room. [note number=\'1\']See Jerome McGann, A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983) on the idea of social authorship, which could be described as “the dialectic between the historically located individual author and the historically developed institutions of literary production” that help create a work, eg, printers, publishers, editors and readers (81).[/note]\r\n\r\nBut even a barn dance is much too mannered a metaphor. The sketch above misleads us more generally about the experience on the ground. Doing time in an archive is often tedious, uncomfortable and bewildering. For librarians, there is the struggle to promote and simultaneously protect what you have; the difficulty of fitting unruly materials into arrangements and workflows; and worries about space and time—where to put it all, how to address your backlog. For researchers, there is the struggle to locate the archives you need and what matters to you inside them; the uncertainty created by unruly data; and worries about time and space— how to access what you need during your research trip, how to record and organize the information you gather. At both ends, the archival encounter is counter-cinematic and erratic, days of monotonous sifting and dead-ends punctuated by one or two, or maybe zero, hidden moments of vivid, peculiar joy.\r\n\r\nSo archival research does not fulfill its ideal outline. So what? Who cares? Why dredge up the fantasy? Because the fantasy continues to structure our archival encounters—what we expect and undertake in the reading room, what we allow it to mean. Twenty years ago, Alice Kaplan observed that “conventional academic discourse requires that when you write up the results of your archival work, you tell a story about what you found, but not about how you found it. The less the seams of your findings show, the better your discoveries lend themselves to use by others… tell[ing] these stories breaks their spell and violates the spirit of the archives.” [note number=\'2\']Alice Yaeger Kaplan, “Working in the Archives,” Yale French Studies 77 (1990): 103-116; 103, 107.[/note] With a few word changes, the same could be said about what counts as professional archivist discourse: the impersonal, neutral genre of the finding aid, for example, should say what is in a collection, but should not discuss what is confusing or missing in it, or the problems it posed in processing. [note number=\'3\']See, for example, James M. O’Toole and Richard J. Cox, Understanding Archives and Manuscripts (Chicago: Society of American Archivists, 2006).[/note] Despite the growing recognition that this sequestration is never completely possible—that the material conditions and social relations of the archive shape the work we do in it—that work continues to be represented in professional and scholarly publications as if it is. Despite the recent call to move to the fore “the backstage of the archives—how they are constructed, policed, experienced, and manipulated” in order to support historiography “not merely [as] a project of fact-retrieval” but as “a set of complex processes of selection, interpretation, and even creative invention,” the “backstage” stays in the background. [note number=\'4\']Antoinette Burton, “Introduction: Archive Fever, Archive Stories,” Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History, ed. Burton (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 7-8.[/note] Antoinette Burton may be correct that “many if not most historians operate under the assumption that history is a highly interpretive act,” but this belief is not yet reflected in the archival encounter: the ways that researchers (not just historians) and librarians report their experiences with primary sources; the ways that librarians and researchers work together; the ways librarians and researchers regard the involvement of “non specialists.” [note number=\'5\']Burton, 8. Burton notes that “whether historians concede or fully countenance the impact of such contingencies on their work is another question. They rarely speak of them, and even more rarely do they do so in print” (8). Her books recuperates some of those archive stories but this effort, I’ll suggest below, is hampered by other kinds of obligations.[/note] While the advent of digitization and electronic resource sharing has revolutionized the research landscape, making primary sources public in unprecedented ways, there remains in the archive a habitus of secret knowledge—the “spell” that Kaplan is loathe to break. This is not necessarily intentional. It is rather the effect of layering recent shifts in technology, theory and professional definition onto older foundations: petrified conditions, relations, expectations and systems that continue to operate in part through the enduring power of fantasies about research. What we have in the archive is a stratified groundwork that still governs our archival encounters.\r\n\r\nBut, you will object, the archive has already changed. Now we have the “archival turn”—the scholarly interest in the archive not just as a source of evidence but as an epistemological mode. Surely, this attention to the constructedness of the archive has led to a revealing reconsideration of what actually goes on inside an archive; surely, as a result, those archaic fantasies have diminished. Have they? In what follows, I begin by unearthing one stratum of the archival turn, the decade of the 1990s, as represented by three texts: Kaplan’s essay mentioned above, “Working in the Archives” (1990) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'2\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-369\" title=\"fig 2 kaplan\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photocopy of Alice Yaeger Kaplan’s “Working in the Archives.”[/note]; Derrida’s Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (1994/95) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'3\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-372\" title=\"fig 3 Derrida\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Print out of Jacque Derrida’s “Archive Fever” from Diacritics.[/note]; and Carolyn Steedman’s Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (2001). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'4\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-373\" title=\"fig 4 steedman\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Library copy of Carolyn Steedman’s Dust.[/note] [note number=\'6\']Jacques Derrida, “Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression,” Diacritics 25.2 (Summer 1995): 9-63. Web. 1 Dec. 2010. Carolyn Steedman, Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2001).[/note] A cross-examination of these three texts reveals a pattern of interests, a set of efforts to defy customary practices—but only, it turns out, “in theory.” While certain practices are challenged in these texts, they leave mostly intact the older strata of archival research fantasies and conventions. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman do not dislodge the forces that organize the actual archival encounter.\r\n\r\nHow does this happen? Why is practice so stubborn? We need another take on archival practice: not practice in theory, but practice in action; not the 1990s, but now; not in terms of textual patterns, but in terms that suit the subject: the terms of the archival encounter itself, and the eccentric, anachronistic and even monotonous experience it generates. My second look at practice will take the form of a series of vignettes about a real-life archive, the George Peabody Library in Baltimore. While this narrative structure may seem to recreate the division of labor between theory and practice, my hope is that—by giving practice the last word—we’ll be in a better position to synthesize the two.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>I. “The library doubles as a detective’s office.” [note number=\'7\']Kaplan, 114.[/note]</strong>\r\n\r\nThe archival turn could be dated to the founding of “scientific” history in the mid-nineteenth century, or to the development a century later of the quantitative methods of the Annales School, or to other evidence-based movements in the history of history, but what is generally meant by this phrase corresponds with the formation of cultural studies and the use of the archive as a conceptual category. That is, the archival turn has to do with the notion of the “figuration” of the archive, a parallel decline in its empirical authority and a related expansion of its relevance within domains that are not exclusively historiographic, like art, literary criticism, textual studies, media studies and information studies. [note number=\'8\']See the use of the term in, for example, Carolyn Hamilton et al, eds., Refiguring the Archive (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2002), Cheryl Simon, ed., Following the Archival Turn: Photography, the Museum, and the Archive, special issue of Visual Resources: A Journal of Documentation 18.2 (June 2002), and Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). This turn is partially construed as a “move from archive-as-source to archive-as-subject,” but also by the earlier metaphorical interest in “the archive” that goes back to the 1980s (Stoler, 44-45) and by Foucauldian descriptions of archives as “‘monuments to particular configurations of power” (Hamilton, qtd. in Burton, 6).[/note] But it is not irrelevant that a devotion to archival methods precedes by many decades contemporary theories of the archive; if the archival turn lacks a precise origin, this (we will see) is completely in keeping with its own preoccupations.\r\n\r\nKaplan therefore represents in some ways an arbitrary beginning for this cross-examination—clearly the archive as a conceptual category predates 1990—but her article does initiate something new: the recognition that there is something called an “archive story” that must remain hidden in order for the official “results” to function authoritatively. In admitting this bit of professional legerdemain, and in telling her own archive story in a prestigious scholarly journal, Kaplan not only commits the violation she prohibits but also contradicts it. Through its publication, Kaplan’s own archive story is elevated to the status of “results”—a kind of research that shadows conventional academic discourse. Indeed, Kaplan notes, such “fables” of research “can be analyzed like a text,” a “mixed up genre” that combines the “redemptive detective fiction” with the epic and the dime novel. [note number=\'9\']Kaplan, 106, 107.[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan’s archive story thus marks a distinctive moment in the archival turn—one which gained its most prominent authorization in 1994, with a paper that Jacques Derrida delivered (in English) to a conference sponsored by the Freud Museum, the Courtauld Institute and the Société International d’Histoire de la Psychiatrie et de la Psychoanalyse. Called initially “The Concept of the Archive: A Freudian Impression,” the lecture was revised and published in 1995 as Mal d’archive: une impression freudienne in French; the published English version echoed the French publication with its 1995 title Archive Fever. As Carolyn Steedman points out in Dust: The Archive and Cultural History, however, this work that has been assigned a seminal status in archival studies “for the main part… is not about archives at all, but is rather a sustained contemplation of a work of history, of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s Freud’s Moses: Judaism Terminable and Interminable (1991),” itself a sustained contemplation of Moses and Monotheism—which (according to Steedman) Yerushalmi examines through Freud’s description of the work as a “‘historical novel,’ or a kind of historical story,” undertaken “in order to understand the period of baroque anti-semitism through which he was living.” [note number=\'10\']Steedman, 3.[/note]\r\n\r\nDizzy yet? Let’s undertake a more careful reading of this splatter pattern of intra-references—or, to stick with the archaeological metaphor, let’s call them groups of potsherds buried in the 1990s layer of the “archival turn.” Digging down to reassemble them reveals a set of interests with special implications for archival practice.\r\n\r\nThe most prominent group of sherds to note are the fragments of disciplinarity: the inter-, multi- or perhaps simply anti-disciplinarity of the texts, authors and audiences caught up in these three archival addresses. Kaplan, an American scholar of French literature, calls the post-theory exchange between literature and history a “cross-pollination of desire between historians and literary critics” undertaken “with the curiosity and energetic passion of collectors.” [note number=\'11\']Kaplan, 107-108.[/note] Steedman, a British historian, performs this cross-pollinating process without comment: her epigraph to Dust is from Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, one chapter treats George Eliot’s Middlemarch in depth… in fact, almost every chapter depends on a literary text. [note number=\'12\']Another chapter invokes Elizabeth Gaskell’s 1848 novel Mary Barton, a third is anchored by W. H. Auden’s poem “Homage to Clio,” and a fourth finds its most eloquent examples in Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.[/note] Derrida, a French philosopher, produced a work that has been exceptionally mobile across disciplines, forms, languages and professional domains. He gave his initial talk to an audience drawing on three different kinds of institutions; Mal d’Archive was published in book form in both French and English, but also made an intermediate appearance as an essay in the journal diacritics. All of these texts, it seems, respond to the provocations of the archive—to the materials and circumstances of discovery—rather than to the disciplinary distinctions that arguably divide the archive from itself.\r\n\r\nArchive Fever has become a founding document even though, as Steedman notes in the very beginning of her book, many in Derrida’s audience “knew the ‘archival turn’ to be [already] well underway” at the time of his talk. [note number=\'13\']Steedman, 2.[/note] As it happens—and this is the second group of sherds I see—these three essays have in common an investment in or a problem with origins, especially with the failure of origins. Derrida, for example, defines archive fever as a kind of Freudian death drive—a drive to fix and preserve which at the same time “works to destroy the archive: on the condition of effacing but also with a view to effacing its own ‘proper’ traces… [it] is above all anarchivic, one could say, or archiviolithic… the archive always works, and a priori, against itself.” [note number=\'14\']Derrida, 14. [/note] If the archival impulse is driven to destroy its own work, then the question of origins ultimately point to the larger question of disorder. [note number=\'15\']The disorder of origins makes frequent appearances in the essay but one example will make the point—in the “Preamble” where he recounts how he titled the talk that he had not yet written and was to give at the Freud Museum. The “Preamble” starts with his reflections on the word “impression,” which has several simultaneous registers of meaning for him. One of these is the “scriptural or typographic” register: that of the graphic impression that marks a substrate. In English, “impression” is phonetically related to “repression” and “suppression,” key words in the Freudian vocabulary, translated respectively from the German Verdrängung and Unterdrückung. English, that is, retains the rhyming relationship of the two German terms, and “impression” in this company comes to have a vaguely Freudian meaning as well. But in French, Verdrängung is “refoulement,” which means something more like expulsion, a driving away. The Freudian sense of the French word “répression” has been reserved for Unterdrückung. So English “repression” defines a phenomenon that must be distinguished from the French “répression.” These translational shifts “directly concern the structures of archivization,” Derrida says, “because they touch on the topic differences and thus on the location of the substrates of traces\" (Derrida, 23). In other words, how do you classify concepts whose meanings shift across languages? Where do you store them in a disciplinary grammar—or in an archive? How do these asymmetrical linguistic structures shape the establishment and extension of a new science? For Derrida, the difference between “repression” and “répression” is “enough to disrupt the tranquil landscape of all historical knowledge, of all historiography, and even of all self-consistent ‘scholarship’” (Derrida, 23).[/note]\r\n\r\nOrigin failure appears both as deliberate performance and as unintentional oversight in these essays. Derrida stages his own inability to get past “go”; with an introductory section, and subsequent sections sub-titled “Exergue,” “Preamble,” “Foreword,” his essay functions, Steedman notes, like a “primer offering instruction in the principle of deferral.” [note number=\'16\']A short notice called “Priere d’inserer,” published only in the French book version, carried the bulk of an argument for which there was no room in the lecture. Steedman, 7.[/note] For all her insight into Derrida’s titling adventures, however, Steedman’s title is marked by its own origin aporia. While her first chapter is devoted to Archive Fever—a “let’s begin at the beginning” homage to the seminal text—her book’s title, Dust, seems more indebted to the last sentence of Kaplan’s essay, published five years before Derrida’s: “Usually there is no mother lode, no original manuscript to be retrieved—the gold is all in the dust.” [note number=\'17\']Kaplan, 116.[/note] Kaplan, however, is never mentioned. [note number=\'18\']Kaplan also begins her essay with a brief consideration of the “arche,” the Greek and Latin term for the public records office, which is a major starting point for Derrida. Is he borrowing from her, or is she borrowing from him, given that this sort of etymological investigation was an established signature of Deconstruction?[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan, for her part, unravels her own archive story. She gives us a kind of “whodunit”—her search for the ephemeral sources of Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s anti-semitic pamphlet Bagatelles pour un massacre (1937). She uses this account to exemplify her effort to “move through the archival process and recover some of the stories that get deleted in the final scholarly form.” [note number=\'19\']Kaplan, 104. For this reason, perhaps, Kaplan never reveals what she ultimately discovers in her successful search for Celine’s sources. In fact, it’s not entirely clear whether her pre-emptive and truncated treatment of her archive story is deliberate or not. Is this treatment meant to indirectly support her official claim about “results”? Or does the presence of the archive story suggest that telling it is an impulse she can’t quite control? Thanks, Lauren Coats, for helping tease this problem out.[/note] These beginnings are preemptively struck out, however, by what seems to be her main claim: “the passion of the archives must finally be used to eradicate all personal stories in the interests of the dry archival report, fit for a public.” [note number=\'20\']Kaplan, 103.[/note] Only in the “para-text”—a preface, for example—can the archive story appear without “interrupt[ing] or complicat[ing] the narrative so much that no results could ever be understood or perceived.” [note number=\'21\']Kaplan, 104.[/note] Despite this unequivocal assertion, the personal “whodunit” prevails in her essay, especially in the final section set in the Centre du documentation juive contemporain (CDJC). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'5\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-5-cdjc-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-423\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-423\" title=\"fig 5 cdjc\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-5-cdjc1-333x250.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Website for the Centre de documentation juive contemporain.[/note] It is this library, where Kaplan solves the mystery of Céline’s sources, that “doubles as a detective’s office.”\r\n\r\nWhile Kaplan’s research mystery resolves neatly, the truth about archives is that they are full of gaps, mistakes and excesses: in the words of one of the CDJC librarians, “‘ici on trouve tout’—there’s some of everything here”—but not, one could add, all of anything. [note number=\'22\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] Kaplan’s essay ends by nullifying both her detective story success and her “dry archival report,” by recognizing the disorder on which both of these narratives are unsteadily perched: “The archive is constituted by these errors, these pieces out of place, which are then reintegrated into a story of some kind.” [note number=\'23\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] “A story of some kind”? So much for “results.”\r\n\r\nKaplan sets us up to perceive one final potsherd pattern common to these three essays. If origin-less disorder is the order of the archive, it is a disorder that is generated out of human loss—a disorder that joins the body and the material world. The archive is always predicated on historical violence of some sort, whatever is censored, erased, excluded, trumped up, used up, misplaced, conquered, killed. Moreover, the archival categories that mark both the visible victories and hidden defeats do not stay within their walls; the archive is both a repository of existing schemas and a means of perpetuating them in the world beyond. While we might usually think of this disciplinary activity as a pact between the archive and its political authors, Steedman makes it clear that the dilemmas of order shape the archival body in many ways. For example, she takes literally the provocation of Derrida’s title Archive Fever to investigate the illness that researchers contract on the penultimate day of their trip to the archive: prompted by the anxiety of the task that remains unfinished, they end their research with night-sweats and head-aches. But what seems like a strangely specific malady is transformed by Steedman into a far-reaching social symptom: by relating the researcher’s “archive fever” to the terrible diseases suffered by tanners, skinners and other workers in the trades associated with paper and leather, Steedman expands our sense of who is in the archive—the bodies whose specialized labors populate our libraries with books, the many kinds of expertise the archive consumes.\r\n\r\nFor Derrida, the relation between the material archive and its human architects focuses on one kind of “graphic mark,” a particular “private inscription”: circumcision as the archival signature that is also the signature of patrimoine, with Freud’s relationship to his father as his main example. [note number=\'24\']Derrida, 19.[/note] It is perhaps not a coincidence that the body in question in both Kaplan’s and Derrida’s archive is Jewish, for that is a body that has come to symbolize the destructive power of classificatory regimes. Despite her contention that the private passions motivating research must be kept secret, Kaplan is fascinated by the “missing person stories” at the CDJC: by the “quantity of people who are there for personal reasons,” the survivors of occupation or deportation or camps, or their descendants, quietly looking up their lost ones or noisily dropping off their memoirs. [note number=\'25\']Kaplan, 113.[/note] This disorganized crowd of dead and living bodies tries to meet up with an equally disorganized crowd of materials—individual letters, trial transcripts, pamphlets, newspapers, first-person accounts, books, photographs, lists. The monumental task of match-making, the librarians’ work, is never complete. More papers are always generated or declassified or discovered, different human questions and needs emerge. The tidy choreography of the research fantasy, where the detective always finds her man, is not so much in evidence; what we have instead is corpora in excess of existing categories.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\nKaplan, Derrida and Steedman open up the archival body. They show us how paper meets the press of flesh; they make us feel just how intimate it is. [note number=\'26\']This interest in the corporeal dimensions and effects of order, its human and non-human components, has in common with their other gestures—an experimental attitude towards conventional disciplinarity and attention to the priority of disorder—the circumstances of the academic humanities in the 1990s. Since the archival turn came out of the ascent of cultural studies and allied intrigues in the 1970s and ‘80s, the circles in the Venn diagram of these ventures will necessarily overlap. We could also say that the archive took off when it did precisely because it made a clever new container for these preoccupations, thick in the humanities atmosphere at the time, where they were distilled and united. [/note] But for all their revelations about the limits of discipline and the multiplicities of disorder in the archive, these texts do not disclose the specific methods of engagement that led to their existence. While Kaplan offers up her own archival victory and outlines several other such stories, she still insists on their marginalization. [note number=\'27\']“Were the story of how you got the story really to be told inside the book, it would interrupt or complicate the narrative so much that no results could be understood or even perceived. Every story of success in the archives is emotionally charged, for only the most extreme emotions can drive people to the drudgery, to the discomfort, of sitting and sifting through dog-eared documents, manuscripts, microfilms. To reveal those emotions would not only gum up the narrative, it would threaten its credibility, by showing on what thin strands of coincidence, accident, or on what unfair forms of friendship, ownership, geographical proximity, the discoveries were based” (Kaplan, 104).[/note] If these texts are not concerned with actual practices in the archive or changes in its methodologies, what do they tell us?\r\n\r\nFirst, they suggest one reason for the perpetuation of myths about the archive. While Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are eager to show how archival materials do not conform to disciplinary distinctions—an enthusiasm related to other disruptive tendencies in late twentieth-century humanist scholarship –they seem less cognizant of a related phenomenon: the archive does not obey strict professional divisions, either. In Kaplan’s library-as-detective’s-office metaphor, the scholar is the detective, but does the “Eureka” moment belong only to the scholar who pieces together a narrative? What about the people who prepared those pieces? The archivist is still missing in action. Likewise, these essays do not dwell on missing boxes, illegible papers, neglected citations. There are no descriptions of archival slogging, no admissions that some materials failed to be relevant. And of course, there are no prescriptions for a different order. It is not the main aim of Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman to effect an evolution of practice; archival turnistas are not interested in disorder in order to re-order. But it is worth remembering that it is not in their professional interest as scholars to make their practices more transparent.\r\n\r\nSecondly, along the same lines, these texts inform us of the duplicity of speculative practices that reveal but cannot live out the instability of their archival mandates. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are put into the position of saying, “Yes, the archive is biased, idiosyncratic and treacherous—but the observations I draw from it are flawless.” [note number=\'28\']Derrida, unlike Kaplan and Steedman, makes no claims to work inside an actual archive, unless we consider Yerushalmi’s book as a kind of archive. But the fact that the essay was written self-consciously for presentation at the Freud Museum suggests that it was made out of an archive indirectly—in its construction, if not in its contents. [/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, these texts suggest why archival studies that attempt to be explicit about the messy nature of the archive have become instead “archive studies.” In more recent works like Refiguring the Archive (2002), Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions and the Writing of History (2005) and Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (2009), the archive appears as a subject in its own right. Although the archival scenarios that are put into play in each of these books incorporate different disciplines—art, history, anthropology, literature, post-colonial studies—they have essentially created a new discipline. “Archive studies” is something we might, in the taxonomy of disciplines, see as the love-child of cultural studies, history and archival methodology. Moreover, this new discipline has in common with other humanities disciplines a complete blindness about its professional investments; it does not register much awareness of the professional investments of librarians, archivists, curators and “non-specialists,” or invite insights from those perspectives. Perhaps this is inevitably what happens when academics must give legitimacy to something new, which in turn reflects the pressures of scholarly communication: a topic must be delineated in conventional terms in order to merit publication. [note number=\'29\']Perhaps this is also the moment to ask why we—I—have been using the term “archive” all along, with its statist resonances, rather than the term “collection,” which has institutional but also personal resonances. Does “archive” bring us closer to recognizably “serious scholarship”?[/note] But it is also true that in these more recent books, which openly investigate the archive’s power-politics, the disorderly drift of the archive and its hybrid corporeality have mostly been bent towards a particular narrative about the archive as an agent of history rather than as a set of ongoing practices. It is as if the historical archive has been assembled in ways that reflect and reiterate power relations, but the contemporary archive has not; it is as if the researcher’s own research travails remain a transparent layer over the body of work that it constructs. [note number=\'30\']Of course, this is precisely what Derrida meant about the “death drive” of the archival impulse. Archive Stories is something of an exception; researchers speak openly here about themselves as researchers. It is interesting, however, that this book—like Steedman’s—doesn’t cite Kaplan’s essay as a precursor text despite the clear titular link.[/note]\r\n\r\nPerhaps it would also be fair to note that, if archival studies are now being formulated as an interdisciplinary discipline called “archive studies,” this might be just another stage in the turn. It might be that what comes next reconfigures the premise of disciplinarity and the promise of disorder, with a different approach to the human/non-human interactions that the archive documents and realizes: a more diffuse and multi-vocal set of practices in place of a new field. One way to imagine this approach would be to fully embrace Kaplan’s idea of the archive story as an account of what one hoped for, looked for and found, what one did and did not do, in the archive—an account loosed from the quarantine she advocates. Some very basic genre precedents for the archive story do exist; the bibliographic essay and the methodology statement, for example, have played an important role in many disciplines in the past and still do in some. Instead of a para-textual nod towards that archive story (in Kaplan’s sense), why not create a parallel text written collaboratively by the researcher(s) and the librarian(s), or by one person acting in both professional capacities, that runs alongside the official “results”? Or in a set of expanded notes that address not just the “what” and “where” but the “how” and “why” of sources, which are lifted from their small-type, bottom-of-page basement up into the light? Or—to add yet another layer—parallel texts that also offer room for exchange with other researchers, archivists and even interested “non specialists,” like collectors, bibliophiles and fans?\r\n\r\nIf it is hasn’t been clear already that I have scrupulously avoided so far the other kind of archive, the digital archive, it will be now. What I am imagining would be far too complicated to produce or consult in print, but would not be at all difficult to organize as a digital object—as an archive in its own right. By avoiding the digital archive up to this point, I have also finessed the fact that our current archival research methods are completely reliant on the digital archive, along with the development of online research tools and electronic instruments of data discovery and organization. Those conditions probably bear the most responsibility for making the archive visible as something that warranted a “turn” in the first place. Even Derrida refers in each version of Archive Fever to the computer on which he is currently composing, predicting that email will not only totally transform the archive as he knows it, but will make his own essay obsolete.\r\n\r\nIn short, we already have in place both the theory and the media that will make it possible to enact a radical new archival practice. We have in place what we need to integrate the archive story into the archive itself, while making it visible as a new form of “results.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>II. The library doubles as a librarian’s office.</strong>\r\n\r\nI could end here, with a triumphant firing of the starter pistol and a rousing cheer. But that would be a bit disingenuous, given that the starter pistol for both the archival turn and the academic use of the internet actually went off decades ago. So the question remains, what stands in the way of the practical enactment of the archival turn’s speculative insights? I’d like to engage this question by following Kaplan’s example (but not her main claim): through some archive story-telling about the George Peabody Library. These three vignettes, identified as “typical” through conversations with my colleague Paul Espinosa, illustrate the intractable formations that present-day archival encounters come up against.\r\n\r\n<strong>1. The Perils of Description.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A group of Russian speakers visits the Peabody Library. The dozen men and women sit down around the screen that Paul has set up. He narrates a brief slide-show about the Peabody’s history, then leads them to a table where a dozen books from the collection have been laid out in cradles. He tells them about each book: what it is, why it is interesting. Each phrase of his presentation is painstakingly translated by the group’s leader into Russian.</blockquote>\r\nWhen academic and community groups visit the Peabody, my colleagues and I draw upon a standard tour-guide’s repertoire to describe it. We explain that George Peabody was a tradesman cum financier cum philanthropist who decided in 1857 that Baltimore needed a cultural institution to support the arts and learning. We talk about the evolution of the Peabody Institute, the four-part athenaeum that resulted, with its art gallery, lecture series, conservatory and free, public, non-circulating library. We discuss the model of philanthropy that George Peabody initiated and its wide-ranging influence. We point out the signal features of the awe-inspiring architecture of the current library, built to accommodate a rapidly growing collection in 1878. But when it comes to the library itself, as a collection, it is hard to know what to say. How to accurately translate the library’s holdings into a succinct and memorable statement that conveys an appropriate level of detail to different audiences? While it poses specific challenges, the Peabody also exemplifies more general problems of collection description.\r\n\r\nWe do not lack evidence for the evolving contents of the Peabody. We have the two-volume printed list of “desiderata” drawn up by the Peabody’s first librarian, John G. Morris. [note number=\'31\']Alphabetical Catalogue of Books to be Purchased for the Library of the Peabody Institute, Baltimore, Vols. 1 and 2 (Baltimore: John D. Toy, 1861, 1863).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'6\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-6-alpha-index-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-395\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-395\" title=\"fig 6 alpha index\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-6-alpha-index1-336x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"484\" /></a>Alphabetical index from Alphabetical Catalouge (“desiderata”).[/note] We have the collections register for several decades’-worth of acquisitions, recording bibliographic information and accession numbers that can still be found on the inside front end papers of many of the books in the collection. We have the librarians’ annual reports to the library trustees. [note number=\'32\']The Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore: The Founder’s Letters and the Papers Relating to its Dedication and History, Up to the 1st January, 1868 (Baltimore: William K. Boyle, 1868); and subsequent Annual Reports, 1869, etc.[/note] We have the library’s first printed catalogue, an unsurpassed achievement when first published in 1883, which listed 100,000 volumes by author and title. [note number=\'33\']Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Vols. 1-5 (Baltimore: Isaac Friedenwald, 1883; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, [1961?]; also on googlebooks), and Second Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Including the Additions Made Since 1882, Vols. 1-8 (Baltimore: Deutsch Lithographic and Printing, 1896; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, 1961).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'7\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-7-print-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-396\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-396\" title=\"fig 7 print cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-7-print-cat-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Reprinted volumes of the Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute (1883).[/note] We have the cards from the Dewey decimal system card catalogue, which replaced the printed catalogue in the 1910s. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'8\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-8-card-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-397\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-397\" title=\"fig 8 card cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-8-card-cat.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>One of two card catalogues in the Peabody.[/note] Now, of course, the library’s collections are represented in an online catalogue that integrates them with other collections in the Hopkins library system.\r\n\r\nThese markers of the collection, however, fail to satisfy some contemporary research queries for reasons that are both practical and philosophical. The transfer of the printed index, organized by author, to the Dewey decimal system, organized by topic, represented a major epistemological shift that facilitated browsing by subject category. But of course, those categories are embedded in historically-bound notions about the subjects and structures of knowledge: Dewey was invented in the 1870s, and the 22 revisions it has undergone since then cannot overcome its essential organizational distortions. For example, the literature range—the 800s—offers only 10% of its categorical space to literatures in languages other than English, Germanic and Romance languages, Greek and Latin.\r\n\r\nIn the case of the Peabody, the Dewey arrangements overlay even older systems of knowledge hierarchy. Should we continue to offer, for example, a description of the Peabody’s “voyages and travels” books? This category represents a Renaissance schematic that was still in service in the mid-nineteenth century; while actual “voyages and travels” were extended by colonial ventures, the category was eventually disbanded. Dewey combined it with geography to make a sub-category of “history.” In keeping active the old-fashioned phrase “voyages and travels,” we are participating in a centuries-long project of euphemism about the material aims and actual activities of colonialism; we are privileging an early phase of the Peabody’s evolution over later phases; we may even be confusing modern researchers. And yet, as one of the topics in Morris’s “desiderata,” a considerable portion of the Peabody’s collection was acquired with the aim of fleshing out that descriptor. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'9\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-9-index-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-398\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-398\" title=\"fig 9 index detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-9-index-detail-336x274.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"274\" /></a>Detail of subject index from Alphabetical Catalouge No. 2 (“desiderata”).[/note]\r\n\r\nYet another classificatory dilemma is expressed by George Peabody’s original statement of the library’s purpose: that it “be furnished in every department of knowledge, with the most approved literature… It should consist on the best works on every subject… to satisfy the researches of students who may be engaged in the pursuit of knowledge not ordinarily attainable in the private libraries of the country.” [note number=\'34\']“Letters from George Peabody, Esq.: Baltimore, February 12th, 1857,” in Founder’s Letters, 7.[/note] The Peabody was founded as a cultural institution for the people of Baltimore, but from the first, this democratic ambition was in conflict with the intellectual aspirations of the first librarians and their desire to facilitate civic “self-improvement.” Morris (a doctor of divinity), his successor Nathaniel Holmes Morison (a schoolmaster and poet), and Morison’s assistant and successor Philip Uhler (who had trained as an entomologist) were all devoted to the nineteenth-century idea of the scholar-librarian. Morison wrote in one annual report that “Education always proceeds from the above downward, from the best to the common minds, from the leaders of the people to the people themselves. Furnish... the foundations of intelligence and thought, and they will... stimulate and improve the whole community.\" [note number=\'35\']Qtd. in Franklin Parker and Betty J. Parker, “PIB Ref. Library. 8-Morison\'s Philosophy of Excellence,” in George Peabody (1795-1869): A-Z Handbook of the Massachusetts-Born Merchant in the South, London-Based Banker, and Philanthropist\'s Life, Influence, and Related People, Places, Events, and Institutions. . 11 Mar. 2011.[/note] When the Johns Hopkins University was founded in 1876 in close proximity to the Peabody—in large part to take advantage of the library—the tendency of the librarians to address scholarly needs and “approved literature” over popular desires was given additional momentum. In keeping with these ideas, the Peabody’s librarians kept careful track of their readers’ choices, noting with special caution the numbers of novels that were requested. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'10\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-10-annual-report-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-399\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-399\" title=\"fig 10 annual report detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-10-annual-report-detail-336x452.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"452\" /></a>Detail from First Annual Report showing chart of books read, with special mention of fiction.[/note] This schism at the heart of the library’s collecting paradigm was not unique to the Peabody; the question of reading matter—should it offer leisure for the masses or the means of social uplift?—was central to the public library movement of the second half of the nineteenth century. [note number=\'36\']See, for example, Alexis McCrossen, “’One Cathedral More’ or ‘Mere Lounging Places for Bummers’? The Cultural Politics of Leisure and the Public Library in Gilded Age America,” Libraries &amp; Culture 41.2 (2006): 169-188; Paul Sturges, “The Public Library and Reading by the Masses: Historical Perspectives on the USA and Britain 1850-1900,” ; Trustees of the Public Library of the City of Boston, Upon the Objects to be Attained by the Establishment of a Public Library, 12 Dec. 2010.[/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, the Peabody’s “desiderata” acquisitions and librarians’ selections were supplemented by book donations from local elites—bibliophiles with extensive private collections that included incunabula, classical authors in Renaissance editions, expensive illustrated atlases. At the same time, book donations came in from more plebian sources. The Peabody’s growth overlapped with the decline of the local social libraries, and it eventually absorbed some of the books from the Library Company of Baltimore, Robinson’s Circulating Library and several small professional and mechanics’ libraries. And I haven’t even touched on the Peabody’s twentieth-century fate.\r\n\r\nThe variety of philanthropic impulses, resource streams and classification philosophies that have fed the Peabody over the 150 years of its existence has led to a collection that does not so much map the nineteenth-century mind as signal its odd amalgam of popular and scholarly investments. The Peabody’s collection effectively evades succinct description—at least, any kind of description that pretends to be coherent, that is not perforated by its stakes in local history, library history, book history. But more importantly, it suggests the degree to which accident and opportunity and prejudice and wealth and the changing winds of cataloguing rules shape any archive. Description, which should be the most fundamental tool of communication between librarians and researchers, turns out to be utterly elusive. Yet we do not know what to replace them with, these inadequate descriptions, these exercises in stilted and partial translation.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>2. The Researcher’s Progress.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>I am preparing for my class about women and nineteenth-century print culture, which meets in the Peabody; we have reached the part of the syllabus where we look at gift books and annuals. I want students to examine several examples of these literary miscellanies, offering some illustration of their variety, and I have a list of such items that I have used in the past. But since I also want to show the students new acquisitions, I need to refresh my list. I will start with “gift book” as a keyword in the online catalogue.</blockquote>\r\nIn place of perfect and commensurate description—not possible—what we have are cataloguing systems that indexically represent collections through data and metadata that are, as I have already suggested, historically marked and inevitably inconsistent. In the case of the Peabody, these records are further compromised: Dewey cards developed from a nineteenth-century print index do not offer Library of Congress subject terms or detailed tables of contents; they also frequently lack other kinds of information. [note number=\'37\']Many of the electronic records for Peabody books have been copy-cataloged, that is, developed from records for identical books in other libraries. But these records might also be incomplete or inconsistent, given that many are quite old. The expense of original cataloging prevents our staff from creating full, new records for every item in the Peabody’s collection of over 300,000 titles.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'11\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-11-ddc-cards/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-400\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-400\" title=\"fig 11 ddc cards\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-11-ddc-cards-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Dewey cards for “gift books.”[/note] My search for “gift book” will turn up bequests—the term “gift book” is often attached to these donations—and it will miss many of the nineteenth-century gift books and annuals in our collection whose records lack subject classifications, or whose subject classifications reference the book’s contents, not its format. For example, the 1848 Rough and Ready Annual: or, Military Souvenir published by Appleton’s has been assigned the subject “Mexican War, 1846-1848—Anecdotes.” [note number=\'38\']Rough and Ready Annual (New York: D. Appleton; Philadelphia: G.S. Appleton, 1848).[/note]\r\n\r\nThe problem of finding is perhaps only a sub-set of the problem of description, but I want to give it special attention because it introduces another variable: the physical space of the object. My search for gift books in the Peabody also entails the privilege of retrieving the books from the stacks. There are two search processes, the intellectual and the physical, that I must navigate. The intellectual search in this case requires a variety of keyword/date range combinations, and ultimately, recourse to my prepared bibliography—a holdover from pre-catalogue research methods. Now the second search begins.\r\n\r\nThe Rough and Ready Annual is at 973.62 A5121, in the “general history of North America; United States” category. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'12\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-12-rr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-401\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-401\" title=\"fig 12 r&amp;r\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-12-rr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Rough and Ready Annual in the stacks.[/note] This call number range is on the second floor, west side. Other items on my list are in very different parts of the library. Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them, edited by the temperance writer T. S. Arthur and published in London, has been given the call number 813 A7910 duodecimo—fourth floor east, in the “American literature in English, fiction” section. [note number=\'39\']Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them (London: Knight &amp; Co., [1857]). This title does not appear in at least one Arthur bibliography; see Donald A Koch, \"Timothy Shay Arthur,\" Antebellum Writers in New York and the South, ed. Joel Myerson (Detroit: Gale Research, 1979), from Literature Resource Center. Web. 19 Feb. 2011. To check on this, I need Mitchell Sharpe Jr.’s A Bibliography of the Published Books of Timothy Shay Arthur (Atlanta: Emory University, 1954), a typewritten quarto at 012 A791S, but it seems to be missing.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'13\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-13-orange/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-402\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-402\" title=\"fig 13 orange\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-13-orange-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Orange Blossoms in the stacks.[/note] Arthur shows up again as co-editor of The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present, which has received more extensive description as it contains the first printing of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “Siope.” [note number=\'40\']The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present (Baltimore: Bayly and Burns, [1838]).[/note] We have two copies of this very genteel little gift book, one at 808.83 B2175 (rhetoric &amp; collections of literature), and one at 810.8 C297 (American literature in English). The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons is in the rare book room at the south end of the third floor. [note number=\'41\']The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons (London: The Religious Tract Society, ca. 1850).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'14\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-14-rbr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-403\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-403\" title=\"fig 14 rbr\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-14-rbr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The rare book room.[/note] In this case, the book’s rarity has to do with a lovely fore-edge painting. It has been assigned to 820.8 N42017 (general books about literature). On the other end of the “rare” continuum is The Family Circle and Parlor Annual, volume 5 in a series, which is shelved up on the sixth floor with the periodicals at 051 F198 (serials in American English). [note number=\'42\']The Family Circle and Parlor Annual (New York: Comstock, 1847).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'15\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-15-parlor/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-404\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-404\" title=\"fig 15 parlor\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-15-parlor-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Parlor Annual in the stacks.[/note]\r\n\r\nI’ll fill out call slips for each book, stick the slips into red flags, and put the flags in an order that will help me chart a logical course through the stacks. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'16\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-16-slips/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-405\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-405\" title=\"fig 16 slips\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-16-slips-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Call slips and flags.[/note] It’s easiest to start on the sixth floor and work one’s way down, picking up books along the way. Usually I find other interesting items as I go, so I carry a batch of blank call slips and extra flags. (On this occasion, for example, I find The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse; published in 1813 and inscribed by its owner in 1817, it pre-dates by several years the official beginning of the gift book phenomenon. It might be more of a “literary almanac.” [note number=\'43\']The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse (Philadelphia: David Hogan, 1813).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'17\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-17-new-reader/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-406\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-406\" title=\"fig 17 new reader\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-17-new-reader-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Inscription in The New American Reader.[/note]) Usually I am also unable to locate at least one of the books I have set out to find. Most likely the book has been misshelved, so I’ll check the quartos and folios, which are shelved separately; then I’ll check the rare book room’s octavo, duodecimo and quarto shelving areas. It used to astonish me that books were still shelved by format in the Peabody, but it does save space. At the same time, this shelving system—along with the multiple distinct areas within the library where books may reside, eg the rare book room, the reference section, the genealogy books, the Limited Editions Club, and several discrete named collections—means that retrieving a few books can take quite a long time, as I traipse up and down the six floors of the library, thread through stacks, open secured doors with multiple keys, turn lights on and off, and maneuver a book truck in and out of a tiny service elevator built in the 1920s. By the end of the journey, the library and I will have exchanged dust; I’ll take on a few streaks of red rot, and the library will have taken in particles from my body as well.\r\n\r\nWhile the Peabody is unique, these conditions are not in the end very unusual. In terms of the intellectual search, the absence of “gift book” from many of the catalogue records is no less egregious than the absence of other information—the names of all the contributors; the subjects of the illustrations. The metadata is potentially infinite. The “gift book” only exists as a category because of scholars who teased out this cultural phenomenon; it would be very difficult to define its absolute borders. In terms of the physical search, the Peabody might be messier than, say, a rare book library that has assigned current LC call numbers to all its contents and houses them in compact shelving, but it exemplifies the general on-the-ground situation. As I wind my way through the Peabody stacks, I remember how much more difficult it is to gather research materials from several different institutions.\r\n\r\nThe fact is, for scholars who rely on archives, research is something you do only after you have already undertaken a rigorous search. It is the search that provides you with the foundational sense of your subject. But the search is rarely acknowledged or accredited; even the foot-soldier craft of bibliography, the link between “librarianship” and “scholarship,” has largely lost its scholarly status.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>3. An Architecture of Disctinction.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A non-affiliate researcher contacts the Peabody about our H. L. Mencken collections. Since she will bring a couple of graduate students with her, I set up a group work space in one of the library alcoves where the three of them can share materials and talk without disturbing other readers. I pull the requested volumes with the help of some students and set the cart up within easy reach of the alcove. When the researchers arrive, I show them the Mencken collections on the ground floor. Then I lead them to their group work space and leave them, returning to the glassed-in office behind the reading room, the vantage point that allows me to monitor the otherwise empty reading room.</blockquote>\r\nIn “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” a team of Dutch sociologists investigates the library as a space that is strongly marked by situational norms—“knowledge-based beliefs about how to behave in particular situations that are shaped by social influence.” [note number=\'44\']Henk Aarts and Ap Dijksterhuis, “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 84.1 (2003), 19.[/note] Their research leads them to argue, however, that such norms do not require direct social influences to be triggered; in fact, “the situation can activate mental representations of normative behaviors automatically. And once activated, these representations provide the knowledge necessary for guiding one’s own situationally appropriate behavior.” [note number=\'45\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 19.[/note] Physical environments do not necessarily prompt these behaviors; rather, the behavior “depend[s] on whether the environment is of immediate behavioral relevance.” [note number=\'46\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 20.[/note] Talking in a quiet voice in the library, a normative behavior, is only activated for those who plan to visit the library.\r\n\r\nTen years ago, when the research for this article was conducted, the “silence of the library” was still a widespread norm. While the situation is now often reversed—in our main campus library, we must designate specific quiet areas because otherwise a sociable undergraduate din would take over—the norm of silence does continue to preside at the Peabody. Because it is off campus, the Peabody is often attractively under-populated compared to the crowded main library; it is mostly used by advanced researchers and those who seek a quiet place to study. The large central open area catches and amplifies even the smallest noises. The shelf-lined alcoves on either side of this central area offer the appearance of privacy, but in fact are little echo chambers. Visitors immediately detect these acoustics, and—except for the periodic tour groups—most spend their time in the Peabody in silence. But it is not just the physics of sound that shape behaviors here, as the Dutch researchers show; the social expectations of the space prefigure those behaviors.\r\n\r\nIn setting up a group work space for the Mencken researchers, I have quite deliberately contravened the usual norm of silence. Clearly, I am not inviting them to shout, and by putting them in an alcove in back, I have taken measures to protect any quiet-seeking visitors who might arrive. But in accordance with new ideas about the use of library space, my colleagues and I have decided that we must accommodate group study even if it might occasionally disrupt the silence desired by others. As it happens, the Mencken researchers’ conversation is eventually interrupted by a tour group, and the two activities play out side by side.\r\n\r\nI must admit that at moments I have mixed feelings about the tour groups and even the study cohorts. While my pedagogical instincts tend towards cheerful hub-bub, there is a part of me that is still in awe of the sanctuary-like atmosphere of the Peabody. John Morris called the library a “cathedral of books,” and clearly that’s what architect Edmund G. Lind had in mind. The central area with its grand skylight and the alcoves on its sides is like a nave bordered with chapels. Lind didn’t need a psychological study of environment-based situational norms to tell him that he might activate different behaviors within his building. The great central space inspires reverence—your eye is drawn to the skylight the way it would be drawn to the rose windows of Chartres, and on its way up catches row upon solemn row of books stowed behind gilded railings, a testament to the accumulated wisdom of the ages. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'18\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-18-skylight/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-407\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-407\" title=\"fig 18 skylight\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-18-skylight.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>The skylight in the George Peabody Library.[/note] But step into an alcove, especially on the ground floor where each is filled with an immense wooden table, and you instantly feel something else, something no less grand but more human. The alcoves are study-sized, and once you sit down at one of those dark, gleaming, broad tables, it is like you are the master of your own private library. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'19\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-19-alcove/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-408\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-408\" title=\"fig 19 alcove\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-19-alcove-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Alcove in the George Peabody Library.[/note]\r\n\r\nIronically, the Peabody’s architecture was out-dated by the time it was completed. With the professionalization of librarianship and the evolution of library science in the late nineteenth century, librarians like William Frederick Poole advocated for a functional rather than decorative design of interior library space. [note number=\'47\']See William Frederick Poole, Remarks on Library Construction (Chicago: Jansen, McClurg, 1884).[/note] Moreover, the actual use of space in the Peabody in the late nineteenth century was at odds with its symbolic appeal. The main library was known as the “stack room”; readers were seated in a comparatively plain reading room on the other side of the main doors. In this arrangement, the librarians reigned inside the gorgeous “cathedral of books,” but the building’s potential to civilize the masses was lost.\r\n\r\nNow, of course, we do not send readers outside. Inside the “stack room,” we explicitly call visitors’ attention to its beauty to explain the connections between the library’s architecture and its collections—how both speak eloquently of Victorian values. At the same time, we who staff the library have relegated ourselves to its periphery. We work in the glassed-in room at one end that serves as a monitoring point and occasional classroom; the official “librarian’s office” in one corner—its luxurious proportions suggesting something like a sacristy and something like a robber baron’s lair—is now shared work-space stuffed with several desks and laden book trucks. There is another monitoring station near the main doors. I often do my work at the photography station, in the back of one of the alcoves [note type=\'figure\' number=\'20\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-20-station/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-409\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-409\" title=\"fig 20 station\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-20-station-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photography station in the George Peabody Library.[/note]. It offers some privacy but is close enough to the central reading tables to be accessible to readers.\r\n\r\nThe space of the Peabody initiates other situational behaviors besides the norm of silence, and our work-station arrangements testify to this. The spatial re-centralizing of readers and marginalization of staff is not merely practical; it is a reflection of the modern office of librarianship. We are there to be of service, in a para-textual position. Consequently, our work should be out of sight; it should be separate from and secondary to the work that readers do. Our locations call upon us, in other words, to support the scholar’s effort to hide the “seams of [her] findings” by hiding the ways we contribute to that work—by the ways we sometimes do that work.\r\n\r\nI think about these complications as I escort the Mencken researchers to their table and walk back to the glassed-in office, where there is nothing pressing for me to do. I’d rather spend more time talking with them. I’d like to learn about their research and introduce them to some underappreciated parts of the collection. I’d like to share with them what I learned curating an exhibition of Mencken-related magazines and writing about one of those magazines. But I don’t want to get in their way; it’s likely that they are ready to get on with work that they don’t see as connected to mine. The professional norms of the archive are strong, and although I know how to talk about my research in many contexts—in presentations, interviews, hotel elevators—I haven’t figured out how to mix my scholarly role with the curatorial role I am supposed to play here, in the Peabody. In the end, I say nothing. Professional segregation is another kind of silence in the library.\r\n\r\nWe cannot change the archaeological record beneath our feet, but we can rearrange the fossils we dig up to create new narratives. We can tell different kinds of archive stories, including the story of what research in the archive was and is. Is it too idealistic to expect that dissolving the entrenched fantasies about archival research will make room for new methods? Is it naïve to imagine a space that, in putting into practice the archival turn’s preliminary insights about disciplinary and disorder, can support experimentation, facilitate connection across professions and disciplines, and enable new discoveries?','Disciplinarity and Disorder','','inherit','open','open','','2199-revision-31','','','2012-11-14 01:19:51','2012-11-14 01:19:51','',2199,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/2199-revision-31/',0,'revision','',0),(3538,19,'2012-11-14 01:20:36','2012-11-14 01:20:36','The primal scene of archival research takes place in a dreary reading room. A researcher sits at her table, inert. An archivist enters, pushing a cart that bears a dozen dusty gray boxes. (Can we get a close-up of a box, please, to show the label with the long call number? [note type=\'figure\' number=\'1\'] <iframe src=\"http://www.youtube.com/embed/5ykY6moIaDE?rel=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\"></iframe> A staged archival encounter.[/note]) The archivist unhinges a box, removes a numbered file folder and, placing it at the researcher’s elbow, steps back. The researcher stirs, then sits upright with a mechanical jolt. She turns sharply in the direction of the folder, flips it open and cocks her head towards the flimsy leaves inside; now she is reading. (Zoom in on the eyes as they click into focus.) Now she is reading, and now she truly comes alive; she bends towards the papers, taps her forehead in thought. A sheaf of blank paper and a pencil appear on her table, and she begins taking notes. Her fingers fly—and soon, so do the pages she is writing upon. Caught up in eddies of excitement, they swoop to the ceiling and around the room and down to the floor, where they fall together into perfect piles. Bindings sprout from the outer strata; the pages sew themselves into bright, tight, hard-cover books. These the archivist gathers up and places on the shelves that line the room, next to other books and gray boxes.\r\n\r\nI may have it backwards: in other versions of the fantasy, it is the archive that is first animated by the presence of the researcher, a Dr. Coppelius who waves a pencil and sets the dusty boxes to dancing. But either way, the archival imaginary posits a symbiotic relationship between researcher and source, a photogenic pas de deux that leads to a finished scholarly product. This work, in turn, enters the archive for the next generation of researchers; it might even be taken apart again so that its secret ingredients (notes, drafts, letters) can themselves be served up in a series of boxes. Such a strangely private form of publication it creates, the coupling of researcher and source.\r\n\r\nWhat Freudian trauma results from witnessing this sight? Only the harm that myth inflicts. This primal scene is a fiction, a dream of perfect union between researcher and source that ignores, first of all, the full cast of characters. What about the archivist, who is rendered invisible? What about all those within and without the archive, upon whose labor—acquiring, preserving, organizing, reading, cataloging, describing, interpreting, analyzing, debating, teaching, writing, editing, digitizing, referencing and publishing—the current project depends? More a barn dance than a pas de deux: an archival encounter is an enactment of social authorship long before the researcher enters the room. [note number=\'1\']See Jerome McGann, A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983) on the idea of social authorship, which could be described as “the dialectic between the historically located individual author and the historically developed institutions of literary production” that help create a work, eg, printers, publishers, editors and readers (81).[/note]\r\n\r\nBut even a barn dance is much too mannered a metaphor. The sketch above misleads us more generally about the experience on the ground. Doing time in an archive is often tedious, uncomfortable and bewildering. For librarians, there is the struggle to promote and simultaneously protect what you have; the difficulty of fitting unruly materials into arrangements and workflows; and worries about space and time—where to put it all, how to address your backlog. For researchers, there is the struggle to locate the archives you need and what matters to you inside them; the uncertainty created by unruly data; and worries about time and space— how to access what you need during your research trip, how to record and organize the information you gather. At both ends, the archival encounter is counter-cinematic and erratic, days of monotonous sifting and dead-ends punctuated by one or two, or maybe zero, hidden moments of vivid, peculiar joy.\r\n\r\nSo archival research does not fulfill its ideal outline. So what? Who cares? Why dredge up the fantasy? Because the fantasy continues to structure our archival encounters—what we expect and undertake in the reading room, what we allow it to mean. Twenty years ago, Alice Kaplan observed that “conventional academic discourse requires that when you write up the results of your archival work, you tell a story about what you found, but not about how you found it. The less the seams of your findings show, the better your discoveries lend themselves to use by others… tell[ing] these stories breaks their spell and violates the spirit of the archives.” [note number=\'2\']Alice Yaeger Kaplan, “Working in the Archives,” Yale French Studies 77 (1990): 103-116; 103, 107.[/note] With a few word changes, the same could be said about what counts as professional archivist discourse: the impersonal, neutral genre of the finding aid, for example, should say what is in a collection, but should not discuss what is confusing or missing in it, or the problems it posed in processing. [note number=\'3\']See, for example, James M. O’Toole and Richard J. Cox, Understanding Archives and Manuscripts (Chicago: Society of American Archivists, 2006).[/note] Despite the growing recognition that this sequestration is never completely possible—that the material conditions and social relations of the archive shape the work we do in it—that work continues to be represented in professional and scholarly publications as if it is. Despite the recent call to move to the fore “the backstage of the archives—how they are constructed, policed, experienced, and manipulated” in order to support historiography “not merely [as] a project of fact-retrieval” but as “a set of complex processes of selection, interpretation, and even creative invention,” the “backstage” stays in the background. [note number=\'4\']Antoinette Burton, “Introduction: Archive Fever, Archive Stories,” Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History, ed. Burton (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 7-8.[/note] Antoinette Burton may be correct that “many if not most historians operate under the assumption that history is a highly interpretive act,” but this belief is not yet reflected in the archival encounter: the ways that researchers (not just historians) and librarians report their experiences with primary sources; the ways that librarians and researchers work together; the ways librarians and researchers regard the involvement of “non specialists.” [note number=\'5\']Burton, 8. Burton notes that “whether historians concede or fully countenance the impact of such contingencies on their work is another question. They rarely speak of them, and even more rarely do they do so in print” (8). Her books recuperates some of those archive stories but this effort, I’ll suggest below, is hampered by other kinds of obligations.[/note] While the advent of digitization and electronic resource sharing has revolutionized the research landscape, making primary sources public in unprecedented ways, there remains in the archive a habitus of secret knowledge—the “spell” that Kaplan is loathe to break. This is not necessarily intentional. It is rather the effect of layering recent shifts in technology, theory and professional definition onto older foundations: petrified conditions, relations, expectations and systems that continue to operate in part through the enduring power of fantasies about research. What we have in the archive is a stratified groundwork that still governs our archival encounters.\r\n\r\nBut, you will object, the archive has already changed. Now we have the “archival turn”—the scholarly interest in the archive not just as a source of evidence but as an epistemological mode. Surely, this attention to the constructedness of the archive has led to a revealing reconsideration of what actually goes on inside an archive; surely, as a result, those archaic fantasies have diminished. Have they? In what follows, I begin by unearthing one stratum of the archival turn, the decade of the 1990s, as represented by three texts: Kaplan’s essay mentioned above, “Working in the Archives” (1990) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'2\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-369\" title=\"fig 2 kaplan\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photocopy of Alice Yaeger Kaplan’s “Working in the Archives.”[/note]; Derrida’s Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (1994/95) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'3\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-372\" title=\"fig 3 Derrida\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Print out of Jacque Derrida’s “Archive Fever” from Diacritics.[/note]; and Carolyn Steedman’s Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (2001). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'4\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-373\" title=\"fig 4 steedman\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Library copy of Carolyn Steedman’s Dust.[/note] [note number=\'6\']Jacques Derrida, “Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression,” Diacritics 25.2 (Summer 1995): 9-63. Web. 1 Dec. 2010. Carolyn Steedman, Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2001).[/note] A cross-examination of these three texts reveals a pattern of interests, a set of efforts to defy customary practices—but only, it turns out, “in theory.” While certain practices are challenged in these texts, they leave mostly intact the older strata of archival research fantasies and conventions. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman do not dislodge the forces that organize the actual archival encounter.\r\n\r\nHow does this happen? Why is practice so stubborn? We need another take on archival practice: not practice in theory, but practice in action; not the 1990s, but now; not in terms of textual patterns, but in terms that suit the subject: the terms of the archival encounter itself, and the eccentric, anachronistic and even monotonous experience it generates. My second look at practice will take the form of a series of vignettes about a real-life archive, the George Peabody Library in Baltimore. While this narrative structure may seem to recreate the division of labor between theory and practice, my hope is that—by giving practice the last word—we’ll be in a better position to synthesize the two.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>I. “The library doubles as a detective’s office.” [note number=\'7\']Kaplan, 114.[/note]</strong>\r\n\r\nThe archival turn could be dated to the founding of “scientific” history in the mid-nineteenth century, or to the development a century later of the quantitative methods of the Annales School, or to other evidence-based movements in the history of history, but what is generally meant by this phrase corresponds with the formation of cultural studies and the use of the archive as a conceptual category. That is, the archival turn has to do with the notion of the “figuration” of the archive, a parallel decline in its empirical authority and a related expansion of its relevance within domains that are not exclusively historiographic, like art, literary criticism, textual studies, media studies and information studies. [note number=\'8\']See the use of the term in, for example, Carolyn Hamilton et al, eds., Refiguring the Archive (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2002), Cheryl Simon, ed., Following the Archival Turn: Photography, the Museum, and the Archive, special issue of Visual Resources: A Journal of Documentation 18.2 (June 2002), and Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). This turn is partially construed as a “move from archive-as-source to archive-as-subject,” but also by the earlier metaphorical interest in “the archive” that goes back to the 1980s (Stoler, 44-45) and by Foucauldian descriptions of archives as “‘monuments to particular configurations of power” (Hamilton, qtd. in Burton, 6).[/note] But it is not irrelevant that a devotion to archival methods precedes by many decades contemporary theories of the archive; if the archival turn lacks a precise origin, this (we will see) is completely in keeping with its own preoccupations.\r\n\r\nKaplan therefore represents in some ways an arbitrary beginning for this cross-examination—clearly the archive as a conceptual category predates 1990—but her article does initiate something new: the recognition that there is something called an “archive story” that must remain hidden in order for the official “results” to function authoritatively. In admitting this bit of professional legerdemain, and in telling her own archive story in a prestigious scholarly journal, Kaplan not only commits the violation she prohibits but also contradicts it. Through its publication, Kaplan’s own archive story is elevated to the status of “results”—a kind of research that shadows conventional academic discourse. Indeed, Kaplan notes, such “fables” of research “can be analyzed like a text,” a “mixed up genre” that combines the “redemptive detective fiction” with the epic and the dime novel. [note number=\'9\']Kaplan, 106, 107.[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan’s archive story thus marks a distinctive moment in the archival turn—one which gained its most prominent authorization in 1994, with a paper that Jacques Derrida delivered (in English) to a conference sponsored by the Freud Museum, the Courtauld Institute and the Société International d’Histoire de la Psychiatrie et de la Psychoanalyse. Called initially “The Concept of the Archive: A Freudian Impression,” the lecture was revised and published in 1995 as Mal d’archive: une impression freudienne in French; the published English version echoed the French publication with its 1995 title Archive Fever. As Carolyn Steedman points out in Dust: The Archive and Cultural History, however, this work that has been assigned a seminal status in archival studies “for the main part… is not about archives at all, but is rather a sustained contemplation of a work of history, of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s Freud’s Moses: Judaism Terminable and Interminable (1991),” itself a sustained contemplation of Moses and Monotheism—which (according to Steedman) Yerushalmi examines through Freud’s description of the work as a “‘historical novel,’ or a kind of historical story,” undertaken “in order to understand the period of baroque anti-semitism through which he was living.” [note number=\'10\']Steedman, 3.[/note]\r\n\r\nDizzy yet? Let’s undertake a more careful reading of this splatter pattern of intra-references—or, to stick with the archaeological metaphor, let’s call them groups of potsherds buried in the 1990s layer of the “archival turn.” Digging down to reassemble them reveals a set of interests with special implications for archival practice.\r\n\r\nThe most prominent group of sherds to note are the fragments of disciplinarity: the inter-, multi- or perhaps simply anti-disciplinarity of the texts, authors and audiences caught up in these three archival addresses. Kaplan, an American scholar of French literature, calls the post-theory exchange between literature and history a “cross-pollination of desire between historians and literary critics” undertaken “with the curiosity and energetic passion of collectors.” [note number=\'11\']Kaplan, 107-108.[/note] Steedman, a British historian, performs this cross-pollinating process without comment: her epigraph to Dust is from Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, one chapter treats George Eliot’s Middlemarch in depth… in fact, almost every chapter depends on a literary text. [note number=\'12\']Another chapter invokes Elizabeth Gaskell’s 1848 novel Mary Barton, a third is anchored by W. H. Auden’s poem “Homage to Clio,” and a fourth finds its most eloquent examples in Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.[/note] Derrida, a French philosopher, produced a work that has been exceptionally mobile across disciplines, forms, languages and professional domains. He gave his initial talk to an audience drawing on three different kinds of institutions; Mal d’Archive was published in book form in both French and English, but also made an intermediate appearance as an essay in the journal diacritics. All of these texts, it seems, respond to the provocations of the archive—to the materials and circumstances of discovery—rather than to the disciplinary distinctions that arguably divide the archive from itself.\r\n\r\nArchive Fever has become a founding document even though, as Steedman notes in the very beginning of her book, many in Derrida’s audience “knew the ‘archival turn’ to be [already] well underway” at the time of his talk. [note number=\'13\']Steedman, 2.[/note] As it happens—and this is the second group of sherds I see—these three essays have in common an investment in or a problem with origins, especially with the failure of origins. Derrida, for example, defines archive fever as a kind of Freudian death drive—a drive to fix and preserve which at the same time “works to destroy the archive: on the condition of effacing but also with a view to effacing its own ‘proper’ traces… [it] is above all anarchivic, one could say, or archiviolithic… the archive always works, and a priori, against itself.” [note number=\'14\']Derrida, 14. [/note] If the archival impulse is driven to destroy its own work, then the question of origins ultimately point to the larger question of disorder. [note number=\'15\']The disorder of origins makes frequent appearances in the essay but one example will make the point—in the “Preamble” where he recounts how he titled the talk that he had not yet written and was to give at the Freud Museum. The “Preamble” starts with his reflections on the word “impression,” which has several simultaneous registers of meaning for him. One of these is the “scriptural or typographic” register: that of the graphic impression that marks a substrate. In English, “impression” is phonetically related to “repression” and “suppression,” key words in the Freudian vocabulary, translated respectively from the German Verdrängung and Unterdrückung. English, that is, retains the rhyming relationship of the two German terms, and “impression” in this company comes to have a vaguely Freudian meaning as well. But in French, Verdrängung is “refoulement,” which means something more like expulsion, a driving away. The Freudian sense of the French word “répression” has been reserved for Unterdrückung. So English “repression” defines a phenomenon that must be distinguished from the French “répression.” These translational shifts “directly concern the structures of archivization,” Derrida says, “because they touch on the topic differences and thus on the location of the substrates of traces\" (Derrida, 23). In other words, how do you classify concepts whose meanings shift across languages? Where do you store them in a disciplinary grammar—or in an archive? How do these asymmetrical linguistic structures shape the establishment and extension of a new science? For Derrida, the difference between “repression” and “répression” is “enough to disrupt the tranquil landscape of all historical knowledge, of all historiography, and even of all self-consistent ‘scholarship’” (Derrida, 23).[/note]\r\n\r\nOrigin failure appears both as deliberate performance and as unintentional oversight in these essays. Derrida stages his own inability to get past “go”; with an introductory section, and subsequent sections sub-titled “Exergue,” “Preamble,” “Foreword,” his essay functions, Steedman notes, like a “primer offering instruction in the principle of deferral.” [note number=\'16\']A short notice called “Priere d’inserer,” published only in the French book version, carried the bulk of an argument for which there was no room in the lecture. Steedman, 7.[/note] For all her insight into Derrida’s titling adventures, however, Steedman’s title is marked by its own origin aporia. While her first chapter is devoted to Archive Fever—a “let’s begin at the beginning” homage to the seminal text—her book’s title, Dust, seems more indebted to the last sentence of Kaplan’s essay, published five years before Derrida’s: “Usually there is no mother lode, no original manuscript to be retrieved—the gold is all in the dust.” [note number=\'17\']Kaplan, 116.[/note] Kaplan, however, is never mentioned. [note number=\'18\']Kaplan also begins her essay with a brief consideration of the “arche,” the Greek and Latin term for the public records office, which is a major starting point for Derrida. Is he borrowing from her, or is she borrowing from him, given that this sort of etymological investigation was an established signature of Deconstruction?[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan, for her part, unravels her own archive story. She gives us a kind of “whodunit”—her search for the ephemeral sources of Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s anti-semitic pamphlet Bagatelles pour un massacre (1937). She uses this account to exemplify her effort to “move through the archival process and recover some of the stories that get deleted in the final scholarly form.” [note number=\'19\']Kaplan, 104. For this reason, perhaps, Kaplan never reveals what she ultimately discovers in her successful search for Celine’s sources. In fact, it’s not entirely clear whether her pre-emptive and truncated treatment of her archive story is deliberate or not. Is this treatment meant to indirectly support her official claim about “results”? Or does the presence of the archive story suggest that telling it is an impulse she can’t quite control? Thanks, Lauren Coats, for helping tease this problem out.[/note] These beginnings are preemptively struck out, however, by what seems to be her main claim: “the passion of the archives must finally be used to eradicate all personal stories in the interests of the dry archival report, fit for a public.” [note number=\'20\']Kaplan, 103.[/note] Only in the “para-text”—a preface, for example—can the archive story appear without “interrupt[ing] or complicat[ing] the narrative so much that no results could ever be understood or perceived.” [note number=\'21\']Kaplan, 104.[/note] Despite this unequivocal assertion, the personal “whodunit” prevails in her essay, especially in the final section set in the Centre du documentation juive contemporain (CDJC). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'5\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-5-cdjc-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-423\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-423\" title=\"fig 5 cdjc\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-5-cdjc1-333x250.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Website for the Centre de documentation juive contemporain.[/note] It is this library, where Kaplan solves the mystery of Céline’s sources, that “doubles as a detective’s office.”\r\n\r\nWhile Kaplan’s research mystery resolves neatly, the truth about archives is that they are full of gaps, mistakes and excesses: in the words of one of the CDJC librarians, “‘ici on trouve tout’—there’s some of everything here”—but not, one could add, all of anything. [note number=\'22\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] Kaplan’s essay ends by nullifying both her detective story success and her “dry archival report,” by recognizing the disorder on which both of these narratives are unsteadily perched: “The archive is constituted by these errors, these pieces out of place, which are then reintegrated into a story of some kind.” [note number=\'23\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] “A story of some kind”? So much for “results.”\r\n\r\nKaplan sets us up to perceive one final potsherd pattern common to these three essays. If origin-less disorder is the order of the archive, it is a disorder that is generated out of human loss—a disorder that joins the body and the material world. The archive is always predicated on historical violence of some sort, whatever is censored, erased, excluded, trumped up, used up, misplaced, conquered, killed. Moreover, the archival categories that mark both the visible victories and hidden defeats do not stay within their walls; the archive is both a repository of existing schemas and a means of perpetuating them in the world beyond. While we might usually think of this disciplinary activity as a pact between the archive and its political authors, Steedman makes it clear that the dilemmas of order shape the archival body in many ways. For example, she takes literally the provocation of Derrida’s title Archive Fever to investigate the illness that researchers contract on the penultimate day of their trip to the archive: prompted by the anxiety of the task that remains unfinished, they end their research with night-sweats and head-aches. But what seems like a strangely specific malady is transformed by Steedman into a far-reaching social symptom: by relating the researcher’s “archive fever” to the terrible diseases suffered by tanners, skinners and other workers in the trades associated with paper and leather, Steedman expands our sense of who is in the archive—the bodies whose specialized labors populate our libraries with books, the many kinds of expertise the archive consumes.\r\n\r\nFor Derrida, the relation between the material archive and its human architects focuses on one kind of “graphic mark,” a particular “private inscription”: circumcision as the archival signature that is also the signature of patrimoine, with Freud’s relationship to his father as his main example. [note number=\'24\']Derrida, 19.[/note] It is perhaps not a coincidence that the body in question in both Kaplan’s and Derrida’s archive is Jewish, for that is a body that has come to symbolize the destructive power of classificatory regimes. Despite her contention that the private passions motivating research must be kept secret, Kaplan is fascinated by the “missing person stories” at the CDJC: by the “quantity of people who are there for personal reasons,” the survivors of occupation or deportation or camps, or their descendants, quietly looking up their lost ones or noisily dropping off their memoirs. [note number=\'25\']Kaplan, 113.[/note] This disorganized crowd of dead and living bodies tries to meet up with an equally disorganized crowd of materials—individual letters, trial transcripts, pamphlets, newspapers, first-person accounts, books, photographs, lists. The monumental task of match-making, the librarians’ work, is never complete. More papers are always generated or declassified or discovered, different human questions and needs emerge. The tidy choreography of the research fantasy, where the detective always finds her man, is not so much in evidence; what we have instead is corpora in excess of existing categories.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\nKaplan, Derrida and Steedman open up the archival body. They show us how paper meets the press of flesh; they make us feel just how intimate it is. [note number=\'26\']This interest in the corporeal dimensions and effects of order, its human and non-human components, has in common with their other gestures—an experimental attitude towards conventional disciplinarity and attention to the priority of disorder—the circumstances of the academic humanities in the 1990s. Since the archival turn came out of the ascent of cultural studies and allied intrigues in the 1970s and ‘80s, the circles in the Venn diagram of these ventures will necessarily overlap. We could also say that the archive took off when it did precisely because it made a clever new container for these preoccupations, thick in the humanities atmosphere at the time, where they were distilled and united. [/note] But for all their revelations about the limits of discipline and the multiplicities of disorder in the archive, these texts do not disclose the specific methods of engagement that led to their existence. While Kaplan offers up her own archival victory and outlines several other such stories, she still insists on their marginalization. [note number=\'27\']“Were the story of how you got the story really to be told inside the book, it would interrupt or complicate the narrative so much that no results could be understood or even perceived. Every story of success in the archives is emotionally charged, for only the most extreme emotions can drive people to the drudgery, to the discomfort, of sitting and sifting through dog-eared documents, manuscripts, microfilms. To reveal those emotions would not only gum up the narrative, it would threaten its credibility, by showing on what thin strands of coincidence, accident, or on what unfair forms of friendship, ownership, geographical proximity, the discoveries were based” (Kaplan, 104).[/note] If these texts are not concerned with actual practices in the archive or changes in its methodologies, what do they tell us?\r\n\r\nFirst, they suggest one reason for the perpetuation of myths about the archive. While Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are eager to show how archival materials do not conform to disciplinary distinctions—an enthusiasm related to other disruptive tendencies in late twentieth-century humanist scholarship –they seem less cognizant of a related phenomenon: the archive does not obey strict professional divisions, either. In Kaplan’s library-as-detective’s-office metaphor, the scholar is the detective, but does the “Eureka” moment belong only to the scholar who pieces together a narrative? What about the people who prepared those pieces? The archivist is still missing in action. Likewise, these essays do not dwell on missing boxes, illegible papers, neglected citations. There are no descriptions of archival slogging, no admissions that some materials failed to be relevant. And of course, there are no prescriptions for a different order. It is not the main aim of Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman to effect an evolution of practice; archival turnistas are not interested in disorder in order to re-order. But it is worth remembering that it is not in their professional interest as scholars to make their practices more transparent.\r\n\r\nSecondly, along the same lines, these texts inform us of the duplicity of speculative practices that reveal but cannot live out the instability of their archival mandates. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are put into the position of saying, “Yes, the archive is biased, idiosyncratic and treacherous—but the observations I draw from it are flawless.” [note number=\'28\']Derrida, unlike Kaplan and Steedman, makes no claims to work inside an actual archive, unless we consider Yerushalmi’s book as a kind of archive. But the fact that the essay was written self-consciously for presentation at the Freud Museum suggests that it was made out of an archive indirectly—in its construction, if not in its contents. [/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, these texts suggest why archival studies that attempt to be explicit about the messy nature of the archive have become instead “archive studies.” In more recent works like Refiguring the Archive (2002), Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions and the Writing of History (2005) and Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (2009), the archive appears as a subject in its own right. Although the archival scenarios that are put into play in each of these books incorporate different disciplines—art, history, anthropology, literature, post-colonial studies—they have essentially created a new discipline. “Archive studies” is something we might, in the taxonomy of disciplines, see as the love-child of cultural studies, history and archival methodology. Moreover, this new discipline has in common with other humanities disciplines a complete blindness about its professional investments; it does not register much awareness of the professional investments of librarians, archivists, curators and “non-specialists,” or invite insights from those perspectives. Perhaps this is inevitably what happens when academics must give legitimacy to something new, which in turn reflects the pressures of scholarly communication: a topic must be delineated in conventional terms in order to merit publication. [note number=\'29\']Perhaps this is also the moment to ask why we—I—have been using the term “archive” all along, with its statist resonances, rather than the term “collection,” which has institutional but also personal resonances. Does “archive” bring us closer to recognizably “serious scholarship”?[/note] But it is also true that in these more recent books, which openly investigate the archive’s power-politics, the disorderly drift of the archive and its hybrid corporeality have mostly been bent towards a particular narrative about the archive as an agent of history rather than as a set of ongoing practices. It is as if the historical archive has been assembled in ways that reflect and reiterate power relations, but the contemporary archive has not; it is as if the researcher’s own research travails remain a transparent layer over the body of work that it constructs. [note number=\'30\']Of course, this is precisely what Derrida meant about the “death drive” of the archival impulse. Archive Stories is something of an exception; researchers speak openly here about themselves as researchers. It is interesting, however, that this book—like Steedman’s—doesn’t cite Kaplan’s essay as a precursor text despite the clear titular link.[/note]\r\n\r\nPerhaps it would also be fair to note that, if archival studies are now being formulated as an interdisciplinary discipline called “archive studies,” this might be just another stage in the turn. It might be that what comes next reconfigures the premise of disciplinarity and the promise of disorder, with a different approach to the human/non-human interactions that the archive documents and realizes: a more diffuse and multi-vocal set of practices in place of a new field. One way to imagine this approach would be to fully embrace Kaplan’s idea of the archive story as an account of what one hoped for, looked for and found, what one did and did not do, in the archive—an account loosed from the quarantine she advocates. Some very basic genre precedents for the archive story do exist; the bibliographic essay and the methodology statement, for example, have played an important role in many disciplines in the past and still do in some. Instead of a para-textual nod towards that archive story (in Kaplan’s sense), why not create a parallel text written collaboratively by the researcher(s) and the librarian(s), or by one person acting in both professional capacities, that runs alongside the official “results”? Or in a set of expanded notes that address not just the “what” and “where” but the “how” and “why” of sources, which are lifted from their small-type, bottom-of-page basement up into the light? Or—to add yet another layer—parallel texts that also offer room for exchange with other researchers, archivists and even interested “non specialists,” like collectors, bibliophiles and fans?\r\n\r\nIf it is hasn’t been clear already that I have scrupulously avoided so far the other kind of archive, the digital archive, it will be now. What I am imagining would be far too complicated to produce or consult in print, but would not be at all difficult to organize as a digital object—as an archive in its own right. By avoiding the digital archive up to this point, I have also finessed the fact that our current archival research methods are completely reliant on the digital archive, along with the development of online research tools and electronic instruments of data discovery and organization. Those conditions probably bear the most responsibility for making the archive visible as something that warranted a “turn” in the first place. Even Derrida refers in each version of Archive Fever to the computer on which he is currently composing, predicting that email will not only totally transform the archive as he knows it, but will make his own essay obsolete.\r\n\r\nIn short, we already have in place both the theory and the media that will make it possible to enact a radical new archival practice. We have in place what we need to integrate the archive story into the archive itself, while making it visible as a new form of “results.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>II. The library doubles as a librarian’s office.</strong>\r\n\r\nI could end here, with a triumphant firing of the starter pistol and a rousing cheer. But that would be a bit disingenuous, given that the starter pistol for both the archival turn and the academic use of the internet actually went off decades ago. So the question remains, what stands in the way of the practical enactment of the archival turn’s speculative insights? I’d like to engage this question by following Kaplan’s example (but not her main claim): through some archive story-telling about the George Peabody Library. These three vignettes, identified as “typical” through conversations with my colleague Paul Espinosa, illustrate the intractable formations that present-day archival encounters come up against.\r\n\r\n<strong>1. The Perils of Description.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A group of Russian speakers visits the Peabody Library. The dozen men and women sit down around the screen that Paul has set up. He narrates a brief slide-show about the Peabody’s history, then leads them to a table where a dozen books from the collection have been laid out in cradles. He tells them about each book: what it is, why it is interesting. Each phrase of his presentation is painstakingly translated by the group’s leader into Russian.</blockquote>\r\nWhen academic and community groups visit the Peabody, my colleagues and I draw upon a standard tour-guide’s repertoire to describe it. We explain that George Peabody was a tradesman cum financier cum philanthropist who decided in 1857 that Baltimore needed a cultural institution to support the arts and learning. We talk about the evolution of the Peabody Institute, the four-part athenaeum that resulted, with its art gallery, lecture series, conservatory and free, public, non-circulating library. We discuss the model of philanthropy that George Peabody initiated and its wide-ranging influence. We point out the signal features of the awe-inspiring architecture of the current library, built to accommodate a rapidly growing collection in 1878. But when it comes to the library itself, as a collection, it is hard to know what to say. How to accurately translate the library’s holdings into a succinct and memorable statement that conveys an appropriate level of detail to different audiences? While it poses specific challenges, the Peabody also exemplifies more general problems of collection description.\r\n\r\nWe do not lack evidence for the evolving contents of the Peabody. We have the two-volume printed list of “desiderata” drawn up by the Peabody’s first librarian, John G. Morris. [note number=\'31\']Alphabetical Catalogue of Books to be Purchased for the Library of the Peabody Institute, Baltimore, Vols. 1 and 2 (Baltimore: John D. Toy, 1861, 1863).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'6\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-6-alpha-index-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-395\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-395\" title=\"fig 6 alpha index\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-6-alpha-index1-336x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"484\" /></a>Alphabetical index from Alphabetical Catalouge (“desiderata”).[/note] We have the collections register for several decades’-worth of acquisitions, recording bibliographic information and accession numbers that can still be found on the inside front end papers of many of the books in the collection. We have the librarians’ annual reports to the library trustees. [note number=\'32\']The Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore: The Founder’s Letters and the Papers Relating to its Dedication and History, Up to the 1st January, 1868 (Baltimore: William K. Boyle, 1868); and subsequent Annual Reports, 1869, etc.[/note] We have the library’s first printed catalogue, an unsurpassed achievement when first published in 1883, which listed 100,000 volumes by author and title. [note number=\'33\']Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Vols. 1-5 (Baltimore: Isaac Friedenwald, 1883; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, [1961?]; also on googlebooks), and Second Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Including the Additions Made Since 1882, Vols. 1-8 (Baltimore: Deutsch Lithographic and Printing, 1896; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, 1961).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'7\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-7-print-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-396\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-396\" title=\"fig 7 print cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-7-print-cat-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Reprinted volumes of the Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute (1883).[/note] We have the cards from the Dewey decimal system card catalogue, which replaced the printed catalogue in the 1910s. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'8\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-8-card-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-397\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-397\" title=\"fig 8 card cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-8-card-cat.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>One of two card catalogues in the Peabody.[/note] Now, of course, the library’s collections are represented in an online catalogue that integrates them with other collections in the Hopkins library system.\r\n\r\nThese markers of the collection, however, fail to satisfy some contemporary research queries for reasons that are both practical and philosophical. The transfer of the printed index, organized by author, to the Dewey decimal system, organized by topic, represented a major epistemological shift that facilitated browsing by subject category. But of course, those categories are embedded in historically-bound notions about the subjects and structures of knowledge: Dewey was invented in the 1870s, and the 22 revisions it has undergone since then cannot overcome its essential organizational distortions. For example, the literature range—the 800s—offers only 10% of its categorical space to literatures in languages other than English, Germanic and Romance languages, Greek and Latin.\r\n\r\nIn the case of the Peabody, the Dewey arrangements overlay even older systems of knowledge hierarchy. Should we continue to offer, for example, a description of the Peabody’s “voyages and travels” books? This category represents a Renaissance schematic that was still in service in the mid-nineteenth century; while actual “voyages and travels” were extended by colonial ventures, the category was eventually disbanded. Dewey combined it with geography to make a sub-category of “history.” In keeping active the old-fashioned phrase “voyages and travels,” we are participating in a centuries-long project of euphemism about the material aims and actual activities of colonialism; we are privileging an early phase of the Peabody’s evolution over later phases; we may even be confusing modern researchers. And yet, as one of the topics in Morris’s “desiderata,” a considerable portion of the Peabody’s collection was acquired with the aim of fleshing out that descriptor. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'9\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-9-index-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-398\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-398\" title=\"fig 9 index detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-9-index-detail-336x274.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"274\" /></a>Detail of subject index from Alphabetical Catalouge No. 2 (“desiderata”).[/note]\r\n\r\nYet another classificatory dilemma is expressed by George Peabody’s original statement of the library’s purpose: that it “be furnished in every department of knowledge, with the most approved literature… It should consist on the best works on every subject… to satisfy the researches of students who may be engaged in the pursuit of knowledge not ordinarily attainable in the private libraries of the country.” [note number=\'34\']“Letters from George Peabody, Esq.: Baltimore, February 12th, 1857,” in Founder’s Letters, 7.[/note] The Peabody was founded as a cultural institution for the people of Baltimore, but from the first, this democratic ambition was in conflict with the intellectual aspirations of the first librarians and their desire to facilitate civic “self-improvement.” Morris (a doctor of divinity), his successor Nathaniel Holmes Morison (a schoolmaster and poet), and Morison’s assistant and successor Philip Uhler (who had trained as an entomologist) were all devoted to the nineteenth-century idea of the scholar-librarian. Morison wrote in one annual report that “Education always proceeds from the above downward, from the best to the common minds, from the leaders of the people to the people themselves. Furnish... the foundations of intelligence and thought, and they will... stimulate and improve the whole community.\" [note number=\'35\']Qtd. in Franklin Parker and Betty J. Parker, “PIB Ref. Library. 8-Morison\'s Philosophy of Excellence,” in George Peabody (1795-1869): A-Z Handbook of the Massachusetts-Born Merchant in the South, London-Based Banker, and Philanthropist\'s Life, Influence, and Related People, Places, Events, and Institutions. . 11 Mar. 2011.[/note] When the Johns Hopkins University was founded in 1876 in close proximity to the Peabody—in large part to take advantage of the library—the tendency of the librarians to address scholarly needs and “approved literature” over popular desires was given additional momentum. In keeping with these ideas, the Peabody’s librarians kept careful track of their readers’ choices, noting with special caution the numbers of novels that were requested. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'10\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-10-annual-report-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-399\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-399\" title=\"fig 10 annual report detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-10-annual-report-detail-336x452.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"452\" /></a>Detail from First Annual Report showing chart of books read, with special mention of fiction.[/note] This schism at the heart of the library’s collecting paradigm was not unique to the Peabody; the question of reading matter—should it offer leisure for the masses or the means of social uplift?—was central to the public library movement of the second half of the nineteenth century. [note number=\'36\']See, for example, Alexis McCrossen, “’One Cathedral More’ or ‘Mere Lounging Places for Bummers’? The Cultural Politics of Leisure and the Public Library in Gilded Age America,” Libraries &amp; Culture 41.2 (2006): 169-188; Paul Sturges, “The Public Library and Reading by the Masses: Historical Perspectives on the USA and Britain 1850-1900,” ; Trustees of the Public Library of the City of Boston, Upon the Objects to be Attained by the Establishment of a Public Library, 12 Dec. 2010.[/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, the Peabody’s “desiderata” acquisitions and librarians’ selections were supplemented by book donations from local elites—bibliophiles with extensive private collections that included incunabula, classical authors in Renaissance editions, expensive illustrated atlases. At the same time, book donations came in from more plebian sources. The Peabody’s growth overlapped with the decline of the local social libraries, and it eventually absorbed some of the books from the Library Company of Baltimore, Robinson’s Circulating Library and several small professional and mechanics’ libraries. And I haven’t even touched on the Peabody’s twentieth-century fate.\r\n\r\nThe variety of philanthropic impulses, resource streams and classification philosophies that have fed the Peabody over the 150 years of its existence has led to a collection that does not so much map the nineteenth-century mind as signal its odd amalgam of popular and scholarly investments. The Peabody’s collection effectively evades succinct description—at least, any kind of description that pretends to be coherent, that is not perforated by its stakes in local history, library history, book history. But more importantly, it suggests the degree to which accident and opportunity and prejudice and wealth and the changing winds of cataloguing rules shape any archive. Description, which should be the most fundamental tool of communication between librarians and researchers, turns out to be utterly elusive. Yet we do not know what to replace them with, these inadequate descriptions, these exercises in stilted and partial translation.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>2. The Researcher’s Progress.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>I am preparing for my class about women and nineteenth-century print culture, which meets in the Peabody; we have reached the part of the syllabus where we look at gift books and annuals. I want students to examine several examples of these literary miscellanies, offering some illustration of their variety, and I have a list of such items that I have used in the past. But since I also want to show the students new acquisitions, I need to refresh my list. I will start with “gift book” as a keyword in the online catalogue.</blockquote>\r\nIn place of perfect and commensurate description—not possible—what we have are cataloguing systems that indexically represent collections through data and metadata that are, as I have already suggested, historically marked and inevitably inconsistent. In the case of the Peabody, these records are further compromised: Dewey cards developed from a nineteenth-century print index do not offer Library of Congress subject terms or detailed tables of contents; they also frequently lack other kinds of information. [note number=\'37\']Many of the electronic records for Peabody books have been copy-cataloged, that is, developed from records for identical books in other libraries. But these records might also be incomplete or inconsistent, given that many are quite old. The expense of original cataloging prevents our staff from creating full, new records for every item in the Peabody’s collection of over 300,000 titles.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'11\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-11-ddc-cards/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-400\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-400\" title=\"fig 11 ddc cards\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-11-ddc-cards-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Dewey cards for “gift books.”[/note] My search for “gift book” will turn up bequests—the term “gift book” is often attached to these donations—and it will miss many of the nineteenth-century gift books and annuals in our collection whose records lack subject classifications, or whose subject classifications reference the book’s contents, not its format. For example, the 1848 Rough and Ready Annual: or, Military Souvenir published by Appleton’s has been assigned the subject “Mexican War, 1846-1848—Anecdotes.” [note number=\'38\']Rough and Ready Annual (New York: D. Appleton; Philadelphia: G.S. Appleton, 1848).[/note]\r\n\r\nThe problem of finding is perhaps only a sub-set of the problem of description, but I want to give it special attention because it introduces another variable: the physical space of the object. My search for gift books in the Peabody also entails the privilege of retrieving the books from the stacks. There are two search processes, the intellectual and the physical, that I must navigate. The intellectual search in this case requires a variety of keyword/date range combinations, and ultimately, recourse to my prepared bibliography—a holdover from pre-catalogue research methods. Now the second search begins.\r\n\r\nThe Rough and Ready Annual is at 973.62 A5121, in the “general history of North America; United States” category. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'12\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-12-rr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-401\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-401\" title=\"fig 12 r&amp;r\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-12-rr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Rough and Ready Annual in the stacks.[/note] This call number range is on the second floor, west side. Other items on my list are in very different parts of the library. Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them, edited by the temperance writer T. S. Arthur and published in London, has been given the call number 813 A7910 duodecimo—fourth floor east, in the “American literature in English, fiction” section. [note number=\'39\']Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them (London: Knight &amp; Co., [1857]). This title does not appear in at least one Arthur bibliography; see Donald A Koch, \"Timothy Shay Arthur,\" Antebellum Writers in New York and the South, ed. Joel Myerson (Detroit: Gale Research, 1979), from Literature Resource Center. Web. 19 Feb. 2011. To check on this, I need Mitchell Sharpe Jr.’s A Bibliography of the Published Books of Timothy Shay Arthur (Atlanta: Emory University, 1954), a typewritten quarto at 012 A791S, but it seems to be missing.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'13\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-13-orange/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-402\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-402\" title=\"fig 13 orange\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-13-orange-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Orange Blossoms in the stacks.[/note] Arthur shows up again as co-editor of The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present, which has received more extensive description as it contains the first printing of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “Siope.” [note number=\'40\']The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present (Baltimore: Bayly and Burns, [1838]).[/note] We have two copies of this very genteel little gift book, one at 808.83 B2175 (rhetoric &amp; collections of literature), and one at 810.8 C297 (American literature in English). The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons is in the rare book room at the south end of the third floor. [note number=\'41\']The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons (London: The Religious Tract Society, ca. 1850).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'14\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-14-rbr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-403\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-403\" title=\"fig 14 rbr\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-14-rbr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The rare book room.[/note] In this case, the book’s rarity has to do with a lovely fore-edge painting. It has been assigned to 820.8 N42017 (general books about literature). On the other end of the “rare” continuum is The Family Circle and Parlor Annual, volume 5 in a series, which is shelved up on the sixth floor with the periodicals at 051 F198 (serials in American English). [note number=\'42\']The Family Circle and Parlor Annual (New York: Comstock, 1847).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'15\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-15-parlor/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-404\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-404\" title=\"fig 15 parlor\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-15-parlor-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Parlor Annual in the stacks.[/note]\r\n\r\nI’ll fill out call slips for each book, stick the slips into red flags, and put the flags in an order that will help me chart a logical course through the stacks. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'16\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-16-slips/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-405\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-405\" title=\"fig 16 slips\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-16-slips-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Call slips and flags.[/note] It’s easiest to start on the sixth floor and work one’s way down, picking up books along the way. Usually I find other interesting items as I go, so I carry a batch of blank call slips and extra flags. (On this occasion, for example, I find The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse; published in 1813 and inscribed by its owner in 1817, it pre-dates by several years the official beginning of the gift book phenomenon. It might be more of a “literary almanac.” [note number=\'43\']The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse (Philadelphia: David Hogan, 1813).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'17\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-17-new-reader/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-406\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-406\" title=\"fig 17 new reader\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-17-new-reader-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Inscription in The New American Reader.[/note]) Usually I am also unable to locate at least one of the books I have set out to find. Most likely the book has been misshelved, so I’ll check the quartos and folios, which are shelved separately; then I’ll check the rare book room’s octavo, duodecimo and quarto shelving areas. It used to astonish me that books were still shelved by format in the Peabody, but it does save space. At the same time, this shelving system—along with the multiple distinct areas within the library where books may reside, eg the rare book room, the reference section, the genealogy books, the Limited Editions Club, and several discrete named collections—means that retrieving a few books can take quite a long time, as I traipse up and down the six floors of the library, thread through stacks, open secured doors with multiple keys, turn lights on and off, and maneuver a book truck in and out of a tiny service elevator built in the 1920s. By the end of the journey, the library and I will have exchanged dust; I’ll take on a few streaks of red rot, and the library will have taken in particles from my body as well.\r\n\r\nWhile the Peabody is unique, these conditions are not in the end very unusual. In terms of the intellectual search, the absence of “gift book” from many of the catalogue records is no less egregious than the absence of other information—the names of all the contributors; the subjects of the illustrations. The metadata is potentially infinite. The “gift book” only exists as a category because of scholars who teased out this cultural phenomenon; it would be very difficult to define its absolute borders. In terms of the physical search, the Peabody might be messier than, say, a rare book library that has assigned current LC call numbers to all its contents and houses them in compact shelving, but it exemplifies the general on-the-ground situation. As I wind my way through the Peabody stacks, I remember how much more difficult it is to gather research materials from several different institutions.\r\n\r\nThe fact is, for scholars who rely on archives, research is something you do only after you have already undertaken a rigorous search. It is the search that provides you with the foundational sense of your subject. But the search is rarely acknowledged or accredited; even the foot-soldier craft of bibliography, the link between “librarianship” and “scholarship,” has largely lost its scholarly status.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>3. An Architecture of Disctinction.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A non-affiliate researcher contacts the Peabody about our H. L. Mencken collections. Since she will bring a couple of graduate students with her, I set up a group work space in one of the library alcoves where the three of them can share materials and talk without disturbing other readers. I pull the requested volumes with the help of some students and set the cart up within easy reach of the alcove. When the researchers arrive, I show them the Mencken collections on the ground floor. Then I lead them to their group work space and leave them, returning to the glassed-in office behind the reading room, the vantage point that allows me to monitor the otherwise empty reading room.</blockquote>\r\nIn “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” a team of Dutch sociologists investigates the library as a space that is strongly marked by situational norms—“knowledge-based beliefs about how to behave in particular situations that are shaped by social influence.” [note number=\'44\']Henk Aarts and Ap Dijksterhuis, “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 84.1 (2003), 19.[/note] Their research leads them to argue, however, that such norms do not require direct social influences to be triggered; in fact, “the situation can activate mental representations of normative behaviors automatically. And once activated, these representations provide the knowledge necessary for guiding one’s own situationally appropriate behavior.” [note number=\'45\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 19.[/note] Physical environments do not necessarily prompt these behaviors; rather, the behavior “depend[s] on whether the environment is of immediate behavioral relevance.” [note number=\'46\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 20.[/note] Talking in a quiet voice in the library, a normative behavior, is only activated for those who plan to visit the library.\r\n\r\nTen years ago, when the research for this article was conducted, the “silence of the library” was still a widespread norm. While the situation is now often reversed—in our main campus library, we must designate specific quiet areas because otherwise a sociable undergraduate din would take over—the norm of silence does continue to preside at the Peabody. Because it is off campus, the Peabody is often attractively under-populated compared to the crowded main library; it is mostly used by advanced researchers and those who seek a quiet place to study. The large central open area catches and amplifies even the smallest noises. The shelf-lined alcoves on either side of this central area offer the appearance of privacy, but in fact are little echo chambers. Visitors immediately detect these acoustics, and—except for the periodic tour groups—most spend their time in the Peabody in silence. But it is not just the physics of sound that shape behaviors here, as the Dutch researchers show; the social expectations of the space prefigure those behaviors.\r\n\r\nIn setting up a group work space for the Mencken researchers, I have quite deliberately contravened the usual norm of silence. Clearly, I am not inviting them to shout, and by putting them in an alcove in back, I have taken measures to protect any quiet-seeking visitors who might arrive. But in accordance with new ideas about the use of library space, my colleagues and I have decided that we must accommodate group study even if it might occasionally disrupt the silence desired by others. As it happens, the Mencken researchers’ conversation is eventually interrupted by a tour group, and the two activities play out side by side.\r\n\r\nI must admit that at moments I have mixed feelings about the tour groups and even the study cohorts. While my pedagogical instincts tend towards cheerful hub-bub, there is a part of me that is still in awe of the sanctuary-like atmosphere of the Peabody. John Morris called the library a “cathedral of books,” and clearly that’s what architect Edmund G. Lind had in mind. The central area with its grand skylight and the alcoves on its sides is like a nave bordered with chapels. Lind didn’t need a psychological study of environment-based situational norms to tell him that he might activate different behaviors within his building. The great central space inspires reverence—your eye is drawn to the skylight the way it would be drawn to the rose windows of Chartres, and on its way up catches row upon solemn row of books stowed behind gilded railings, a testament to the accumulated wisdom of the ages. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'18\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-18-skylight/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-407\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-407\" title=\"fig 18 skylight\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-18-skylight.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>The skylight in the George Peabody Library.[/note] But step into an alcove, especially on the ground floor where each is filled with an immense wooden table, and you instantly feel something else, something no less grand but more human. The alcoves are study-sized, and once you sit down at one of those dark, gleaming, broad tables, it is like you are the master of your own private library. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'19\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-19-alcove/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-408\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-408\" title=\"fig 19 alcove\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-19-alcove-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Alcove in the George Peabody Library.[/note]\r\n\r\nIronically, the Peabody’s architecture was out-dated by the time it was completed. With the professionalization of librarianship and the evolution of library science in the late nineteenth century, librarians like William Frederick Poole advocated for a functional rather than decorative design of interior library space. [note number=\'47\']See William Frederick Poole, Remarks on Library Construction (Chicago: Jansen, McClurg, 1884).[/note] Moreover, the actual use of space in the Peabody in the late nineteenth century was at odds with its symbolic appeal. The main library was known as the “stack room”; readers were seated in a comparatively plain reading room on the other side of the main doors. In this arrangement, the librarians reigned inside the gorgeous “cathedral of books,” but the building’s potential to civilize the masses was lost.\r\n\r\nNow, of course, we do not send readers outside. Inside the “stack room,” we explicitly call visitors’ attention to its beauty to explain the connections between the library’s architecture and its collections—how both speak eloquently of Victorian values. At the same time, we who staff the library have relegated ourselves to its periphery. We work in the glassed-in room at one end that serves as a monitoring point and occasional classroom; the official “librarian’s office” in one corner—its luxurious proportions suggesting something like a sacristy and something like a robber baron’s lair—is now shared work-space stuffed with several desks and laden book trucks. There is another monitoring station near the main doors. I often do my work at the photography station, in the back of one of the alcoves [note type=\'figure\' number=\'20\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-20-station/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-409\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-409\" title=\"fig 20 station\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-20-station-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photography station in the George Peabody Library.[/note]. It offers some privacy but is close enough to the central reading tables to be accessible to readers.\r\n\r\nThe space of the Peabody initiates other situational behaviors besides the norm of silence, and our work-station arrangements testify to this. The spatial re-centralizing of readers and marginalization of staff is not merely practical; it is a reflection of the modern office of librarianship. We are there to be of service, in a para-textual position. Consequently, our work should be out of sight; it should be separate from and secondary to the work that readers do. Our locations call upon us, in other words, to support the scholar’s effort to hide the “seams of [her] findings” by hiding the ways we contribute to that work—by the ways we sometimes do that work.\r\n\r\nI think about these complications as I escort the Mencken researchers to their table and walk back to the glassed-in office, where there is nothing pressing for me to do. I’d rather spend more time talking with them. I’d like to learn about their research and introduce them to some underappreciated parts of the collection. I’d like to share with them what I learned curating an exhibition of Mencken-related magazines and writing about one of those magazines. But I don’t want to get in their way; it’s likely that they are ready to get on with work that they don’t see as connected to mine. The professional norms of the archive are strong, and although I know how to talk about my research in many contexts—in presentations, interviews, hotel elevators—I haven’t figured out how to mix my scholarly role with the curatorial role I am supposed to play here, in the Peabody. In the end, I say nothing. Professional segregation is another kind of silence in the library.\r\n\r\nWe cannot change the archaeological record beneath our feet, but we can rearrange the fossils we dig up to create new narratives. We can tell different kinds of archive stories, including the story of what research in the archive was and is. Is it too idealistic to expect that dissolving the entrenched fantasies about archival research will make room for new methods? Is it naïve to imagine a space that, in putting into practice the archival turn’s preliminary insights about disciplinary and disorder, can support experimentation, facilitate connection across professions and disciplines, and enable new discoveries?','Disciplinarity and Disorder','','inherit','open','open','','2199-revision-32','','','2012-11-14 01:20:36','2012-11-14 01:20:36','',2199,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/2199-revision-32/',0,'revision','',0),(3561,19,'2012-10-15 23:06:43','2012-10-15 23:06:43','<iframe src=\"http://player.vimeo.com/video/37986760?title=0&amp;byline=0&amp;portrait=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\"></iframe>','The Development of Masculinity','','inherit','open','open','','1698-revision-11','','','2012-10-15 23:06:43','2012-10-15 23:06:43','',1698,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1698-revision-11/',0,'revision','',0),(3583,19,'2012-11-02 21:40:24','2012-11-02 21:40:24','<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/castle-book1.png\"><img class=\"size-full wp-image-2008 clear\" title=\"Castle Book\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/castle-book1.png\" alt=\"Castle Book\" width=\"526\" height=\"357\" /></a><span class=\"caption\">Castle Book of Hours #2, use of Rouen. Manuscript, written and illustrated in Rouen, France, mid-15th century. Bryn Mawr College Library.</span>\r\n\r\nThe encounter of the person with the object: that is the object of this journal and the focus of this first issue.   This particular object, the <em>Castle Book of Hours #2</em>, a gift to the Bryn Mawr College Library, has been in my hands several times and is now part of an exhibition of objects from the College’s Special Collections.  All of the objects in the exhibition have been in the hands of students and faculty over the years, encountered in classrooms, used in assignments, touched.\r\n\r\nHow do people encounter the <em>Castle Book of Hours #2</em>? We get some answer to this question in <a href=\"http://www.brynmawr.edu/library/exhibitions.html\" target=\"_blank\">“Worlds to Discover”</a>, an exhibit in honor of the 125<sup>th</sup> anniversary of Bryn Mawr College. The exhibit features objects that are set off by statements from students and faculty about how the object matters.  With this <em>Book of Hours</em>, faculty member Martha Easton remarks that instead of one page – out of context – when one has this manuscript in one’s hands, one gets a better sense of how this object “might have been used and consumed.” The encounters for Anne Harding, a student at Bryn Mawr, seem to be moving her towards a career that will keep her in touch with objects like these.\r\n\r\n<!--[if IE]><object width=\"545\" height=\"349\" id=\"viddlerOuter-ab2b7739\" classid=\"clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"//www.viddler.com/player/ab2b7739/0/\"><param name=\"allowScriptAccess\" value=\"always\"><param name=\"allowNetworking\" value=\"all\"><param name=\"allowFullScreen\" value=\"true\"><param name=\"flashVars\" value=\"f=1&#038;autoplay=f&#038;disablebranding=f\"><object id=\"viddlerInner-ab2b7739\"><video id=\"viddlerVideo-ab2b7739\" src=\"//www.viddler.com/file/ab2b7739/html5mobile/\" type=\"video/mp4\" width=\"545\" height=\"307\" poster=\"//www.viddler.com/thumbnail/ab2b7739/\" controls=\"controls\" x-webkit-airplay=\"allow\"></video></object></object><![endif]--> <!--[if !IE]> <!--> <object id=\"viddlerOuter-ab2b7739\" width=\"545\" height=\"349\" classid=\"clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000\" codebase=\"http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0\"><param name=\"allowScriptAccess\" value=\"always\" /><param name=\"allowNetworking\" value=\"all\" /><param name=\"allowFullScreen\" value=\"true\" /><param name=\"flashVars\" value=\"f=1&amp;autoplay=f&amp;disablebranding=f\" /><param name=\"src\" value=\"//www.viddler.com/player/ab2b7739/0/\" /><embed id=\"viddlerOuter-ab2b7739\" width=\"545\" height=\"349\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" src=\"//www.viddler.com/player/ab2b7739/0/\" allowScriptAccess=\"always\" allowNetworking=\"all\" allowFullScreen=\"true\" flashVars=\"f=1&amp;autoplay=f&amp;disablebranding=f\" /><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-includes/js/tinymce/themes/advanced/img/trans.gif\" id=\"viddlerInner-ab2b7739\" class=\"mceItemMedia mceItemFlash\" width=\"320\" height=\"240\" data-mce-json=\"{\'video\':{},\'params\':{\'src\':null},\'name\':null,\'object_html\':\'&lt;video id=\\&quot;viddlerVideo-ab2b7739\\&quot; src=\\&quot;//www.viddler.com/file/ab2b7739/html5mobile/\\&quot; type=\\&quot;video/mp4\\&quot; width=\\&quot;545\\&quot; height=\\&quot;307\\&quot; poster=\\&quot;//www.viddler.com/thumbnail/ab2b7739/\\&quot; controls=\\&quot;controls\\&quot; x-webkit-airplay=\\&quot;allow\\&quot;&gt;&lt;/video&gt;\',\'hspace\':null,\'vspace\':null,\'align\':null,\'bgcolor\':null}\"></img></object> <!--<![endif]-->\r\n\r\nI want to point to another encounter with this same object.  The teacher of a fifth grade art class, teaching the students to create their own illuminated manuscripts, asked that I bring in examples of illuminated manuscripts, and this was one of two that I brought along.  The fascination to the students was two-fold:  one, was the value of the object – how much was it worth?  This is something that college students ask too, so I say something like – well, as much as maybe a house is worth.  But that fascination was replaced quickly by the issue at hand:  the students had work to do; they were creating their own illumination and they wanted to use and consume this manuscript themselves.  Each of them had an initial letter, the first letter in their first name, to create for their own manuscript.  So the hunt was on, and luckily for them and for me, each of those letters could be found in the pages of this manuscript. Unlike Easton and Harding, the fifth graders themselves consumed the manuscripts, as opposed to getting the sense of how the manuscript was consumed.  They served as a reminder of the many ways that objects now in special collections speak to those who encounter them, from the first users of the Castle Book of Hours #2 to 21st-century students of all ages.','Same Object, Different Audiences','The encounter of the person with the object: that is the object of this journal and the focus of this first issue.   This particular object, the Castle Book of Hours #2, a gift to the Bryn Mawr College Library, has been in my hands several times and is now part of an exhibition of objects from the College’s Special Collections.  All of the objects in the exhibition have been in the hands of students and faculty over the years, encountered in classrooms, used in assignments, touched.','inherit','open','open','','222-revision-48','','','2012-11-02 21:40:24','2012-11-02 21:40:24','',222,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/222-revision-48/',0,'revision','',0),(3570,19,'2012-10-15 23:06:49','2012-10-15 23:06:49','','Academy of American Franciscan History (Berkeley)','','inherit','open','open','','911-revision-2','','','2012-10-15 23:06:49','2012-10-15 23:06:49','',911,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/911-revision-2/',0,'revision','',0),(3539,19,'2012-11-07 01:32:44','2012-11-07 01:32:44','“So, how do we bring students to our table?” That was the question a special collections librarian asked in 1999. <sup><a id=\"ref1\" href=\"#fn1\">[1]</a></sup> Now, in 2012, the question is no longer how: “Teaching with primary source materials is unquestionably ‘hot’ in higher education [as] authentic rare books, manuscripts, or archival documents\" appear in many undergraduate classrooms. <sup><a id=\"ref2\" href=\"#fn2\">[2]</a></sup>\r\n\r\nThe table is full; the effort to bring undergraduates into special collections and archives has been enormously successful. What matters now is how to turn these encounters to account. What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? How do librarians, curators, archivists, instructors, and technology specialists collaborate to get such projects off the ground? How do we make use of these encounters to develop research and interpretive skills, showcase students’ findings, and learn from their discoveries? What do students report that they have gained through their archival experiences?\r\n\r\nIn this issue of “Archives, Remixed,” we present six case studies illustrating inventive solutions to these dilemmas of success. The parameters and formats of these projects demonstrate the diversity of ways to teach with primary source materials: not all of the projects take place in a classroom context (although some do); not all the student work is authored singly (although some is). Some projects involve one institution, while others involve partnerships with local organizations or other universities or colleges; some projects are more analog, others more digital; and some end when the student’s work is complete, while others continue. The projects all have historical claims, but the array of objects under consideration—architectural drawings, photographs, ancient statuary, newspaper clippings, rare books, personal mementos—speaks to many disciplines. The academic institutions where these projects originate, from a community college to liberal arts colleges to a research university, vary as much as the projects themselves.\r\n\r\nEach case study focuses on the work students produce in these archival encounters. On each case-study page, you will find a sample of student work accompanied by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who structured the projects and guided students through them; as well as links to related or additional resources.\r\n\r\nWe invite you to explore, to comment, and to use these case studies as fodder for your own research and teaching projects.\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[1]</sup>Allen, Susan M. “Rare Books and the College Library: Current Practices in Marrying Undergraduates to Special Collections.” Rare Books &amp; Manuscripts Librarianship 13.2 (Spring 1999): 110-19.</div>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[2]</sup> Bahde, Anne. “Taking the Show on the Road: Special Collections Instruction in the Campus Classroom.” RBM: A Journal of Rare Books, Manuscripts, &amp; Cultural Heritage 12.2 (Fall 2011): 75.</div>','Undergraduates in the Archives: <br />Student Project Case Studies','What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? These six case studies answer this question by showcasing student work that emerges from hands-on archival work, including course papers, robots, digitized images, documentary film, and more.  Each case study features the student work, accompanied and contextualized by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); and commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who worked with the students.','inherit','open','open','','1711-revision-44','','','2012-11-07 01:32:44','2012-11-07 01:32:44','',1711,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1711-revision-44/',0,'revision','',0),(3540,19,'2012-11-14 03:58:55','2012-11-14 03:58:55','“So, how do we bring students to our table?” That was the question a special collections librarian asked in 1999. <sup><a id=\"ref1\" href=\"#fn1\">[1]</a></sup> Now, in 2012, the question is no longer how: “Teaching with primary source materials is unquestionably ‘hot’ in higher education [as] authentic rare books, manuscripts, or archival documents\" appear in many undergraduate classrooms. <sup><a id=\"ref2\" href=\"#fn2\">[2]</a></sup>\r\n\r\nThe table is full; the effort to bring undergraduates into special collections and archives has been enormously successful. What matters now is how to turn these encounters to account. What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? How do librarians, curators, archivists, instructors, and technology specialists collaborate to get such projects off the ground? How do we make use of these encounters to develop research and interpretive skills, showcase students’ findings, and learn from their discoveries? What do students report that they have gained through their archival experiences?\r\n\r\nIn this issue of “Archives, Remixed,” we present six case studies illustrating inventive solutions to these dilemmas of success. The parameters and formats of these projects demonstrate the diversity of ways to teach with primary source materials: not all of the projects take place in a classroom context (although some do); not all the student work is authored singly (although some is). Some projects involve one institution, while others involve partnerships with local organizations or other universities or colleges; some projects are more analog, others more digital; and some end when the student’s work is complete, while others continue. The projects all have historical claims, but the array of objects under consideration—architectural drawings, photographs, ancient statuary, newspaper clippings, rare books, personal mementos—speaks to many disciplines. The academic institutions where these projects originate, from a community college to liberal arts colleges to a research university, vary as much as the projects themselves.\r\n\r\nEach case study focuses on the work students produce in these archival encounters. On each case-study page, you will find a sample of student work accompanied by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who structured the projects and guided students through them; as well as links to related or additional resources.\r\n\r\nWe invite you to explore, to comment, and to use these case studies as fodder for your own research and teaching projects.\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[1]</sup>Allen, Susan M. “Rare Books and the College Library: Current Practices in Marrying Undergraduates to Special Collections.” Rare Books &amp; Manuscripts Librarianship 13.2 (Spring 1999): 110-19.</div>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[2]</sup> Bahde, Anne. “Taking the Show on the Road: Special Collections Instruction in the Campus Classroom.” RBM: A Journal of Rare Books, Manuscripts, &amp; Cultural Heritage 12.2 (Fall 2011): 75.</div>','Undergraduates in the Archives: Student Project Case Studies','What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? These six case studies answer this question by showcasing student work that emerges from hands-on archival work, including course papers, robots, digitized images, documentary film, and more.  Each case study features the student work, accompanied and contextualized by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); and commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who worked with the students.','inherit','open','open','','1711-revision-45','','','2012-11-14 03:58:55','2012-11-14 03:58:55','',1711,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1711-revision-45/',0,'revision','',0),(3541,19,'2012-10-15 23:06:45','2012-10-15 23:06:45','[gallery order=\"desc\" columns=\"4\" link=\"file\" slideshow=\"true\" fb_title_show=\"false\"]\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_1388\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"150\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/lehigh_student-work_image1.jpg\" rel=\"lightbox\"><img class=\"size-thumbnail wp-image-1388  \" title=\"lehigh_student work_image1\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/lehigh_student-work_image1-150x150.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"150\" height=\"150\" /></a> The Trade with Cedar Crest. From Lehigh’s student newspaper, The Brown &amp; White (September 17, 1971). Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.[/caption]','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-52','','','2012-10-15 23:06:45','2012-10-15 23:06:45','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-52/',0,'revision','',0),(3547,19,'2012-11-14 04:40:18','2012-11-14 04:40:18','','lehigh_student-work_img5','Cartoon by Gene Mater in The Brown & White (September 14, 1971). Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library. ','inherit','open','open','','lehigh_student-work_img5','','','2012-11-14 04:40:18','2012-11-14 04:40:18','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img5.jpg',5,'attachment','image/jpeg',0),(3548,19,'2012-11-14 04:40:19','2012-11-14 04:40:19','','lehigh_student-work_img6','Student Gene Mater speaking out at a student event (Epitome 1970, p.40).  Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries.','inherit','open','open','','lehigh_student-work_img6','','','2012-11-14 04:40:19','2012-11-14 04:40:19','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img6.jpg',6,'attachment','image/jpeg',0),(3549,19,'2012-11-14 04:40:21','2012-11-14 04:40:21','','lehigh_student-work_img7','Some students were clearly for coeducation, assembling and speaking out at rallies.  (The Brown & White, April 18, 1969).  Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.	','inherit','open','open','','lehigh_student-work_img7','','','2012-11-14 04:40:21','2012-11-14 04:40:21','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg',7,'attachment','image/jpeg',0),(3550,19,'2012-11-14 04:37:57','2012-11-14 04:37:57','[photospace] ','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-54','','','2012-11-14 04:37:57','2012-11-14 04:37:57','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-54/',0,'revision','',0),(3566,19,'2012-11-14 06:03:15','2012-11-14 06:03:15','','Archival Materials into Documentary Film','Students in an English and Women’s Studies undergraduate course at Lehigh University used materials from Lehigh’s Special Collections and University Archives to create a documentary film. The students used these archival resources, along with interviews and other research, to tell a chapter of their own institution’s history, focusing on issues of gender and masculinity as Lehigh went from all-male to coed in 1971.','inherit','open','open','','1108-revision-20','','','2012-11-14 06:03:15','2012-11-14 06:03:15','',1108,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1108-revision-20/',0,'revision','',0),(3552,19,'2012-11-14 04:46:56','2012-11-14 04:46:56','[caption id=\"attachment_3549\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"308\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\" alt=\"Clipping\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img7\" width=\"308\" height=\"308\" class=\"size-full wp-image-3549\" /></a> Some students were clearly for coeducation, assembling and speaking out at rallies.  (The Brown & White, April 18, 1969).  Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.	[/caption][photospace]','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-56','','','2012-11-14 04:46:56','2012-11-14 04:46:56','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-56/',0,'revision','',0),(3553,19,'2012-11-14 04:47:28','2012-11-14 04:47:28','[caption id=\"attachment_3549\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"308\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\"><img class=\"size-full wp-image-3549\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img7\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\" alt=\"Clipping\" width=\"308\" height=\"308\" /></a> Some students were clearly for coeducation, assembling and speaking out at rallies. (The Brown &amp; White, April 18, 1969). Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.[/caption]\r\n\r\n[photospace]','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-57','','','2012-11-14 04:47:28','2012-11-14 04:47:28','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-57/',0,'revision','',0),(3562,19,'2012-11-14 06:00:36','2012-11-14 06:00:36','<iframe src=\"http://player.vimeo.com/video/37986760?title=0&amp;byline=0&amp;portrait=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\"></iframe>','The Development of Masculinity','','inherit','open','open','','1698-revision-12','','','2012-11-14 06:00:36','2012-11-14 06:00:36','',1698,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1698-revision-12/',0,'revision','',0),(3563,19,'2012-11-14 06:00:57','2012-11-14 06:00:57','<iframe src=\"http://player.vimeo.com/video/37986760?title=0&amp;byline=0&amp;portrait=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"640\" height=\"480\"></iframe>','The Development of Masculinity','','inherit','open','open','','1698-revision-13','','','2012-11-14 06:00:57','2012-11-14 06:00:57','',1698,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1698-revision-13/',0,'revision','',0),(3564,19,'2012-10-15 23:06:47','2012-10-15 23:06:47','','Archival Materials into Documentary Film','Students in an English and Women’s Studies undergraduate course at Lehigh University used materials from Lehigh’s Special Collections and University Archives to create a documentary film. The students used these archival resources, along with interviews and other research, to tell a chapter of their own institution’s history, focusing on issues of gender and masculinity as Lehigh went from all-male to coed in 1971.','inherit','open','open','','1108-revision-19','','','2012-10-15 23:06:47','2012-10-15 23:06:47','',1108,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1108-revision-19/',0,'revision','',0),(3565,19,'2012-11-14 05:36:20','2012-11-14 05:36:20','[photospace exclude=3556]','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-62','','','2012-11-14 05:36:20','2012-11-14 05:36:20','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-62/',0,'revision','',0),(3551,19,'2012-11-14 04:46:22','2012-11-14 04:46:22','[caption id=\"attachment_3549\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"250\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7-250x250.jpg\" alt=\"Clipping\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img7\" width=\"250\" height=\"250\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-3549\" /></a> Some students were clearly for coeducation, assembling and speaking out at rallies.  (The Brown & White, April 18, 1969).  Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.	[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3548\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"250\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img6.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img6-250x250.jpg\" alt=\"Student Gene Mater speaking\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img6\" width=\"250\" height=\"250\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-3548\" /></a> Student Gene Mater speaking out at a student event (Epitome 1970, p.40).  Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries.[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3547\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"250\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img5.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img5-250x250.jpg\" alt=\"Cartoon by Gene Mater\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img5\" width=\"250\" height=\"250\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-3547\" /></a> Cartoon by Gene Mater in The Brown & White (September 14, 1971). Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library. [/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3546\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"249\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img4.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img4-249x250.jpg\" alt=\"Class of 1948’s 15th reunion\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img4\" width=\"249\" height=\"250\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-3546\" /></a> Photograph of the Class of 1948’s 15th reunion (1963).  Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries.[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3545\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"249\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img3.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img3-249x250.jpg\" alt=\"student dancing with his date\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img3\" width=\"249\" height=\"250\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-3545\" /></a> Lehigh student dances with his date at a mixer (Epitome 1970, p.252).  Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries. [/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3544\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"250\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img2.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img2-250x250.jpg\" alt=\"Alpha Lambda Omega\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img2\" width=\"250\" height=\"250\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-3544\" /></a> Alpha Lambda Omega fraternity member list from Epitome, Lehigh’s yearbook (1970, p. 233). Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries.[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3543\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"250\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img1.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img1-250x250.jpg\" alt=\"The Trade with Cedar Crest.\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img1\" width=\"250\" height=\"250\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-3543\" /></a> The Trade with Cedar Crest.  From Lehigh’s student newspaper, The Brown & White (September 17, 1971).  Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[photospace]','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-55','','','2012-11-14 04:46:22','2012-11-14 04:46:22','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-55/',0,'revision','',0),(3555,19,'2012-11-14 04:49:17','2012-11-14 04:49:17','[photospace]','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-59','','','2012-11-14 04:49:17','2012-11-14 04:49:17','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-59/',0,'revision','',0),(3556,19,'2012-11-14 05:03:05','2012-11-14 05:03:05','','lehigh_student-work_slideshow','','inherit','open','open','','lehigh_student-work_slideshow','','','2012-11-14 05:03:05','2012-11-14 05:03:05','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/lehigh_student-work_slideshow.jpg',0,'attachment','image/jpeg',0),(3557,19,'2012-11-14 04:52:15','2012-11-14 04:52:15','[photospace]','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-60','','','2012-11-14 04:52:15','2012-11-14 04:52:15','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-60/',0,'revision','',0),(3558,19,'2012-11-14 05:05:29','2012-11-14 05:05:29','[photospace exclude=3556]','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-61','','','2012-11-14 05:05:29','2012-11-14 05:05:29','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-61/',0,'revision','',0),(3554,19,'2012-11-14 04:48:02','2012-11-14 04:48:02','[caption id=\"attachment_3549\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"308\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\"><img class=\"size-full wp-image-3549\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img7\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\" alt=\"Clipping\" width=\"308\" height=\"308\" /></a> Some students were clearly for coeducation, assembling and speaking out at rallies. (The Brown &amp; White, April 18, 1969). Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.[/caption]\r\n\r\n[photospace][caption id=\"attachment_3549\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"308\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img7.jpg\" alt=\"Clipping\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img7\" width=\"308\" height=\"308\" class=\"size-full wp-image-3549\" /></a> Some students were clearly for coeducation, assembling and speaking out at rallies.  (The Brown & White, April 18, 1969).  Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.	[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3548\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"638\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img6.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img6.jpg\" alt=\"Student Gene Mater speaking\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img6\" width=\"638\" height=\"638\" class=\"size-full wp-image-3548\" /></a> Student Gene Mater speaking out at a student event (Epitome 1970, p.40).  Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries.[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3547\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"322\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img5.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img5.jpg\" alt=\"Cartoon by Gene Mater\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img5\" width=\"322\" height=\"322\" class=\"size-full wp-image-3547\" /></a> Cartoon by Gene Mater in The Brown & White (September 14, 1971). Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library. [/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3546\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"499\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img4.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img4.jpg\" alt=\"Class of 1948’s 15th reunion\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img4\" width=\"499\" height=\"499\" class=\"size-full wp-image-3546\" /></a> Photograph of the Class of 1948’s 15th reunion (1963).  Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries.[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3545\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"446\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img3.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img3.jpg\" alt=\"student dancing with his date\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img3\" width=\"446\" height=\"446\" class=\"size-full wp-image-3545\" /></a> Lehigh student dances with his date at a mixer (Epitome 1970, p.252).  Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries. [/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3544\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"515\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img2.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img2.jpg\" alt=\"Alpha Lambda Omega\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img2\" width=\"515\" height=\"515\" class=\"size-full wp-image-3544\" /></a> Alpha Lambda Omega fraternity member list from Epitome, Lehigh’s yearbook (1970, p. 233). Reproduced by permission from Special Collections, Lehigh University Libraries.[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n[caption id=\"attachment_3543\" align=\"alignnone\" width=\"638\"]<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img1.jpg\"><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/11/lehigh_student-work_img1.jpg\" alt=\"The Trade with Cedar Crest.\" title=\"lehigh_student-work_img1\" width=\"638\" height=\"638\" class=\"size-full wp-image-3543\" /></a> The Trade with Cedar Crest.  From Lehigh’s student newspaper, The Brown & White (September 17, 1971).  Image courtesy of Lehigh University Digital Library.[/caption]\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n','Lehigh - Archival Materials','','inherit','open','open','','1387-revision-58','','','2012-11-14 04:48:02','2012-11-14 04:48:02','',1387,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1387-revision-58/',0,'revision','',0),(3568,19,'2012-11-09 04:34:52','2012-11-09 04:34:52','Behind a low glass case in Goucher’s Special Collection Room sits a humble blue book box that holds the first American edition of Jane Austen’s <em>Emma</em>. Valued from nineteen to seventy-five thousand dollars on ABEBooks.com, the edition is unquestionably valuable. But how did this extremely rare copy end up in Goucher’s modest library? In a letter to David Gilson on August 5th, 1967 Alberta Burke revealed that she owned a copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma, which formerly belonged to Siegfried Sassoon. The two corresponded from 1967 to 1975 until Alberta fell ill. Throughout this time a steady thread of conversation exists about the Philadelphia Emma.\r\n\r\nAfter seeing the interest that both Alberta Burke and David Gilson had in the first American edition of Emma, perusing the pages and studying the tome in detail was essential to discover first hand the majesty of the volumes.\r\n\r\n<span id=\"attachment_1319\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"width: 281px;\"><a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image2_kendall.jpg\"><img class=\"size-medium wp-image-1319  \" title=\"goucher_student work image2_kendall\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image2_kendall-281x250.jpg\" alt=\"First Edition of Emma (1816)\" width=\"281\" height=\"250\" /></a> <span class=\"wp-caption-text\">Front pastedown and first flyleaf of the Burke Collection copy of the American first edition of Emma (1816), with the book plates of the Countess of Dalhousie, Frank J. Hogan, and Alberta H. Burke.</span></span>\r\n\r\nThe inside of the custom-made blue book box is coated with a light perimeter of oil damage. Nancy Magnuson, one of Goucher’s librarians and liaisons for the Special Collections, said that Alberta Burke felt so attached to the books and bindings in her collections that she oiled the leather twice a year, far more then necessary. The first volume’s brown leather is faded and has been repaired after cracking. On the inside cover are two pasted rectangular cutouts. The first, measuring 3.5cm tall and 8cm wide, reads “Countess of Dalhousie” in delicate black print. The mysterious figure of the Countess Dalhousie intrigued both David Gilson and Alberta Burke. In a letter dated August 15th 1967 Burke wrote, “The Countess of Dalhousie’s signature, but no date, is on the title page. I like to think, most romantically, but with no evidence that she purchased it in new york when she was in Canada with her husband who was governor-general there in 1819.”\r\n\r\nFive months later Burke and Gilson are still perplexed by the elusive Countess and her involvement with the edition. On January 12th, 1968 she writes to Gilson hoping to answer the questions he’d had about the 1816 Philadelphia Emma. She notes that over the first half of the page in volume I there is a note in pencil, “not I think in Sasoon’s writing, probably in that of Percy (Mathews) who was the agent who arranged the sale from Mr. Sasoon to Mr. Hogan.” The note, hand-written in pencil that has faded to the extent of being almost translucent, reads “Countess of D- wife to the 9th Earl (1770-1838). Who was Governor of Canada, Nova Scotia, etc 1819-1828- this explains her owning this edition, which was unknown to G. Keynes when he compiled his Bibliography of Jane Austen, 1929.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\nThese pieces of evidence show that after being published by M. Carey in Philadelphia, this edition left Chesnut Street and most likely traveled into the hands of Lady Dalhousie. “This copy,” Gilson writes in his bibliography of Jane Austen, “was in the present century found in Salisbury by Siegfried Sassoon.”\r\n\r\nIn the same letter dated August 15th, 1967 in which she writes to Gilson about her romantic notion that the Countess of Dalhousie purchased Emma when visiting New York, she alludes to another letter involving Siegfried Sassoon. “You may be amused at a sentence from Siegfried Sassoon’s letter to Mr. Percy Elkin Mathews (who arranged the sale of the other 1816 Emma to Mr. Hogan in 1941. G. Keynes will be livid with me, as he wrote saying he must collate it as he wants to write something bout it for the Times Lit Supplement- which is poaching on your preserves, isn’t it?” She writes specifically to Gilson that, “ this is not for quotation in any article, but solely for your own pleasure.” Alberta Burke must have known this would tickle David Gilson’s fancy. Since Gilson first intended to write his bibliography on Jane Austen as a revised edition Geoffrey Keynes’s 1929 bibliography, he would understand Muir’s frustration with people encroaching on his research topic.\r\n\r\nBetween the letters from Burke and Gilson and the evidence left behind inside Emma, the provenance of this edition is fairly clear. Emma travels from the Philadelphia publisher to the Countess to Siegfried Sassoon. Inside the first volume of the Emma being examined lays a piece of lavender stationary, measuring 17.6cm tall x 13cm wide, folded in half. Opening it reveals that at the top of the stationary is typed “Heytesbury House, Wiltshire” and at the end of the letter is the minute script signature of Siegfried Sassoon.\r\n\r\nThe letter, addressed to Muir, dated March 12th, 1941 is written in Sassoon’s light and witty style. He starts his letter with, “Emma returns to you in a twitter of excitement about going to California. She is sure that Mr. F. Hogan is a very nice man, though she intends to be a bit sharp with him until she gets to know him.” He then jokes with Muir at the expense of Keynes, writing how “G. Keynes will be livid with me, as he wrote saying he must collate it as he wants to write something about it for the Times Lit Supplement- which is poaching on your preserves, isn’t it?”\r\n\r\nIn 1941 Sassoon sold the edition through Elkin Mathews to Frank J. Hogan (Gilson, 100). Under the Countess of Dalhousie’s book label is the red leather label of Frank J. Hogan. Around the name in gold lettering it reads “the true university of these days is a collection of books.”\r\n\r\nIn addition to the lavender letter from Siegfried Sassoon, two additional correspondences hide between the inside cover and the title page. One letter was written to Mr. Hogan from Mr. Muir relating that the 1816 Philadelphia edition of Emma was on its way. The stationary was that of The Antiquarian Booksellers Association, shown by the stamp on the top right corner. Printed at the top is the name “Elkin Mathews LTD” followed by the director’s names: Greville Worthington, Ian L. Fleming, and P. H. Muir. Underneath the names describes the objects in which these men were interested in: “Rare Books, Manuscripts, Literary Portraits, Music.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\nLetters leading to other letters seems to be a theme when following this first American edition of Emma. In the letter to Mr. Hogan from Mr. Muir, Muir writes how he feels it is important that Mr. Hogan also get, along with the copy of Emma, the letter from Mr. Sassoon (the lavender letter found in the first volume.) “I think it is only right and proper that you should have with the book the letter that Sassoon sent me when sending the book to me. My own feeling is that one cannot have too much of this kind of thing in association with books.” The truth in Muir’s statement could not be more paramount as it relates to this particular edition of Emma. Burke and Gilson’s letter lead to examining the 1816 Philadelphia edition, which hold the additional correspondences from Sassoon and Muir. Being able to handle and analyze one of the three first American editions is a privilege in itself (Gilson, 100). Yet more than just handling the two volumes, I found the circuit of corresponding materials equally intriguing and helpful to track how the book came from Philadelphia, to the Countess Dalhousie, to Siegfried Sassoon to Frank J. Hogan and finally to Alberta Burke.\r\n\r\nThe last letter found inside the first volume relating to Emma’s provenance is from Mr. Muir to Alberta Burke. Muir writes to Alberta on different stationary then when writing to Mr. Hogan, perhaps to add a more personal touch. Typed on yellow paper with the green “Elkin Mathews Ltd” insignia printed at the top, the letter is typed and dated May 22nd, 1945. Mr. Muir writes that Mr. Hogan purchased the first American 1816 Philadelphia edition for Alberta for only 300 dollars. “I congratulate you,” he writes, “on getting it so cheaply. It is exceedingly rare.”\r\n\r\nThe last letter from Alberta Burke to David Gilson is dated February 4th, 1975. After this date the Austen letters continue between Alberta’s husband Henry Burke and David Gilson. After Alberta’s death on May 22nd, 1975 Goucher’s library received her Jane Austen collection. According to Goucher’s pamphlet “Twenty-Five Years of Jane Austen,” Alberta had always intended to donate the collection to Goucher. “From the time when my Jane Austen material first began to overflow the one-shelf bounds assigned to it, I have always intended that Goucher should be the ultimate recipient, and I have hoped that, sometime in the future, others would partake of the very great pleasure which they have given me for many years.”\r\n\r\nWhen David Gilson in 1982 published A Bibliography of Jane Austen he acknowledged his gratitude to Alberta and Henry Burke. Both Alberta Burke and David Gilson benefited from their letters to one another. Alberta Burke, with her deep seeded love and interest in all things Austen, was able to help David Gilson with his mission to track down Austen texts, study and describe them.\r\n<h5>Works Cited</h5>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\">Gilson, David. <em>A Bibliography of Jane Austen</em>. first. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982.</div>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\">Austen, Jane. <em>Emma</em>. First. Philadelphia: M.Carey, 1816.</div>\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Letters From Alberta Burke to David Gilson</h5>\r\n<ul>\r\n	<li>“Apartment Stationary” 18.8 cm tall x 25.9 cm wide, written section is 18.8cm tall x 13.1 cm wide, folded into four quarters for mailing, black ink, cream paper, red print of “Apartment 1318 116 West University Parkway Baltimore, Maryland 21210.” Gray and maroon thin stripe border.</li>\r\n	<li>“Blue Air Mail” 30.5 cm tall x 18.1cm wide, folded into a 9.7cm tall x 14.8cm wide envelope, black ink, written completely on first side and on first fourth and last fourth on other side.</li>\r\n	<li>“Gray Apartment Stationary” 18.8cm tall x 25.9cm wide, written section is 18.8 cm tall x 13.1 cm wide, folded into four quarters for mailing, black ink, cream paper, gray print of “Apartment 1318 116 West University Parkway Baltimore, Maryland 21210.” Gray thin stripe border.</li>\r\n	<li>“Small Note Card” 14cm tall x 8.4cm wide, thicker note-card type cream paper, written only on one side, addressed to “Mr. D.J Gilson, J1 Blenheim Drive Oxford OX2 8DL England” Airmail! is written above the address in red marker. “Burke 1318 Broadview Apts. 116 W. University Parkway Baltimore, Maryland 21210” is typed in upper left corner. Written in blue ink.</li>\r\n</ul>\r\n<strong>August 5, 1967\r\n</strong><em>Apartment Stationary\r\n</em>Tells Mr. Gilson that she has the Frank J. Hogan copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma, which formerly belonged to Siegfried Sassoon.\r\n\r\n<strong>August 15, 1967\r\n</strong><em>Apartment Stationary\r\n</em><em>Written in black fountain pen (script writing), fairly uniform line spacing\r\n</em>“You may be amused at a sentence from Siegfried Sassoon’s letter to Mr. Percy Elkin Mathews (who arranged the sale of the other 1816 Emma to Mr. Hogan in 1941. “G. Keynes will be livid with me, as he wrote saying he must collate it as he wants to write something bout it for the Times Lit Supplement—which is poaching on your preserves, isn’t it?” This is not for quotation in any article, but solely for your own pleasure.”\r\n\r\n“Since my copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma…her signature, but no date, is on the title page) I like to think, most romantically, but with no evidence, that she purchased it as a new work when she was in Canada with her husband who was governor-general there in 1819.”\r\n\r\n<strong>January 12, 1968\r\n</strong><em>Apartment Stationary\r\n</em>“I hope that I can answer your questions about the Philadelphia 1816 Emma satisfactorily. On inside cover of both volumes is a book place or visiting card (I don’t know which it is) bearing only the engraved words “Coweliers Dalhousie”…no device etc. In the first volume at the left and perpendicular to the lives of priutsey on the title pages is the signature “Cou C Dalhousie” (there is a bit of extra curlicue over the first letter.) However in volume two the signature…is plainly “C B Dalhousie” over the first preliminary half of volume I here is a note in pencil, not I think in Sassoon’s writing, probably in that of Percy (Mathews) who was the agent who arranged the sale from Mr. Sassoon to Mr. Hogan.”\r\n\r\n<strong>June 10, 1969\r\n</strong><em>Blue Air Mail\r\n</em>“Does Mr. C.B. Hogan’s copy of the 1st Am. E [Emma] conform to the Goodspeed, Boolm Cat. No 317, p.4, 1940 description: “Three vols. In 2…Published by M. Cary. 21 Chestnut St. ….Boston 1816.” I – not sure M. Hogan’s article so can’t collate my copy until his description of his E of my 1st edition is bound(?)”\r\n\r\n<strong>November 18, 1969\r\n</strong><em>Gray Apartment Stationary\r\n</em>“I was delighted to know of a 3rd (if imperfect copy of the Philadelphia E turning up. When I first read the description of it in Goodspeeds (I think) 1940 catalogue I thought it was some Bookshop.\r\n#16 went for $1300 to the same buyer\r\n#17 \" \" 550 \" \" \"\r\n#18 $40.00\r\n#19 $35.00\r\n#20 (The companion to the A--) was valued at $1250 00 by the estate and had a reserve price of $550 which was not reached so that the item was withdrawn.”\r\n\r\n<strong>March 11, 1973\r\n</strong><em>Small Note Card\r\n</em>“In looking for something else, I picked out a letter of Dr. R.W. Chapurace to me dated 13.10.51. In it he says “The 1816 Philadelphia Emma was the result of Scott’s Quarterly Review, I guess. One day I looked out [the word looks like “whatelup” but this is impossible!] 2 R 1826 and found that it is of a ‘New Edition’ N.A+P that lso is unrecorded.” I haven’t checked further to see if I, or any one else has these listed, and perhaps, I am first causing you unnecessary trouble or being commonly behind the fair.”\r\n\r\n<strong>December 16, 1973\r\n</strong><em>Gray Apartment Stationary\r\n</em>“The only first in boards which I have which has its labels intact (they match Keynes) is M.P. The E has had the backstrips repaired and the N.A.+P 2 packstrips have crumbled away completely + 2 are very cracked + missing the labels”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Letters from Gilson to Henry Burke (after Alberta falls ill)</h5>\r\n<ul>\r\n	<li>“Small White Paper” 17.9cm tall x 13.7cm wide, blue ink, almost transparent white paper, written on only one side.</li>\r\n	<li>“Blue Air Mail” 30.5 cm tall x 18.1cm wide, folded into a 9.7cm tall x 14.8cm wide envelope, black ink, written completely on first side and on first fourth and last fourth on other side.</li>\r\n</ul>\r\n<strong>June 14th, 1975\r\n</strong><em>Blue Air Mail\r\n</em>“I see that Sotheby’s are selling on 23rd of June “an autograph letter by Jane Austen to her publisher commenting on the review of her novel Emma by Sir Walter Scott”: presumably RWC 127, marked as ‘original not traced’. I suppose the Pierpont Morgan will be bidding for this!”\r\n\r\n<strong>August 3rd, 1975\r\n</strong><em>Small White Paper\r\n</em>“It would be very kind if you could give me the correct address of Goucher College, and also the name of the librarian whom I should contact with any query relating to Alberta’s books (there may be queries over some of the rarer items, especially the 1816 Philadelphia Emma.)”\r\n\r\n<strong>October 16th, 1976\r\n</strong><em>Small White Pape</em><em>r\r\n</em><em>Written on both sides.\r\n</em>“I spent a very interesting morning on 1st September at John Murray in Albemarte Street; they kindly allowed me to see their ledgers, giving the publication costs and other details of the first editions of Emma and Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.”\r\n\r\n<strong>December 26th, 1976\r\n</strong><em>Small White Paper.\r\n</em><em>Written on both sides.\r\n</em>“Miss Jones of Goucher College has very kindly sent me-free of charge- an excellent photograph of the title page of Vol.1 of Alberta’s copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma (my reproduction in the Autumn 1969 Book Collector was from a Xerox of Mr. Hogan’s copy; this photograph is much clearer).”\r\n\r\n<strong>March 20th, 1977\r\n</strong><em>Small White Paper\r\n</em><em>Written on both sides.\r\n</em>“Christie’s sold first editions of Emma and of Northanger Abbey and Persuasion on 2nd February- not particularly good copies (from the catalogue descriptions) although with the half-titles in each case; I don’t know who bought them, but they fetched 350 pounds and 230 pounds respectively. I have been given an extremely imperfect copy of the first-edition of Emma, consisting only of Vol.1 (lacking the half-title), and Vol.3 (lacking all before p.19.) It clearly has no commercial value, but still seems worth having.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Letters Found Inside First Volume of 1816 Philadelphia <em>Emma</em></h5>\r\n<strong>Letter 1\r\n</strong><em>17.6cm tall x 13cm wide, grayish blue stationary with “Heytesbury House, Wiltshire” printed on top, dated “12a.3.41,” hand written in script, black ink.</em>\r\n“Dear Muir,\r\n‘Emma’ returns to you in a twitter of excitement about ‘going to California.’ She is sure that Mr. F. Hogan is a very nice man though she intends to be a bit sharp with him until she has got to know him.\r\nSeriously- I am greatly obliged to you and --- agree to your 15% etc, and my wish you are making a bit more out of it. (G. Keynes will be livid with me, as he would say, he ---- collate it as he wants to write something about it for the ----- which his --- on your ---, isn’t it?) ….\r\nYours, SS (written on top of each other)\r\n\r\n<span id=\"attachment_1316\" style=\"width: 250px;\"><a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image3_kendall.jpg\"><img class=\"size-medium wp-image-1316\" title=\"goucher_student work image3_kendall\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image3_kendall-186x250.jpg\" alt=\"Siegfried Sassoon\'s letter to Percy Muir\" width=\"186\" height=\"250\" /></a> <span class=\"wp-caption-text\">Siegfried Sassoon\'s letter to Percy Muir, antiquarian book dealer, regarding Sassoon\'s sale of the American first edition of <em>Emma</em> (1816) to Frank J. Hogan (dated December 3, 1941). The letter was discovered inside the front cover of the Burke Collection copy.</span></span>\r\n\r\n<strong>Letter 2</strong>\r\n<em>“Antiquarian Booksellers Association” stamp on top left, written March 18, 1941 and received April 17, 1941 (received date written in pencil on top right corner,) stationary is of “Elkin Mathews LTD. Directors: Greville Worthington, Ian L. Fleming, and P.H. Muir,” underneath is typed “Rare Books, Manuscripts, Literary Portraits, Music.”</em>\r\n“Dear Mr. Hogan,\r\nThis is just a brief note formally to announce the fact that “Emma” left here today on her long journey to California. I think it only right and proper that you should have with the book the letter that Sassoon sent me when sending the book to me. My own feeling is that one cannot have too much of this kind of thing in association with books. I think Siegfried Sassoon a great writer and I would be glad to have this letter myself were I buying one of his books, and I have the feeling that you may think that way, too, so I enclose the letter. He was a great friend and admirer of Charlotte Mew’s, by the way, which may help to endear him to you.\r\nWith every good wish and kind regards,\r\nYours very sincerely,\r\nP. H. MuirHand\r\nwritten note (in same green ink as Muir’s signature) written below signature of “P.H Muir”:\r\n“Note the date on SS’s letter, evidently written on 131h”\r\n\r\n<strong>Letter 3</strong>\r\n<em>Yellow paper, green “Elkin Mathews Ltd,” dated May 22, 1945, typed in faded black ink.</em>\r\n“Dear Mrs. Burke,\r\nThank you very much indeed for your letter of May 6th. I congratulate you on getting the “Emma” so cheaply. It is exceedingly rare and Mr. Hogan as very glad to pay 300 dollars for it. I mention the price in dollars because at the time he bought it the 1-pound was below par and fluctuating, so that the price was actually quoted in dollars. I say that the price was set by Mr. Sassoon and not by me, but I saw no reason at the time to take exception to it.\r\nI always have you in mind for any interesting Jane Austen items, which turn up.\r\nYours very sincerely,\r\nP.H. Muir (signed in green ink)\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Emma (1st Edition Philadelphia 1816)</h5>\r\n18.3cm tall x 11.1cm (cover)\r\n\r\n<em>Inside Cover</em>\r\ncut and pasted paper of: COUNTESS OF DALHOUSIE, below: maroon and gold sticker of: Ex Libris Frank J. Hogan (around name says: the true university of these days is a collection of books”\r\n\r\n<em>Next Page</em>\r\nwritten by hand in faded pencil: ”Countess of d.- wife of the 9th Earl (1770-1838). Who was Governor of Canada, Nova Scotia, etc. 1819-1828- This explains her owning this edition, which was unknown to G. Keynes when he compiled his Bibliography of Jane Austen, 1929.”\r\nunder this is the paper square for the “Alberta H. Burke”\r\n\r\n<span id=\"attachment_1314\"><a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image1_kendall.jpg\"><img class=\"size-medium wp-image-1314\" title=\"goucher_student work image1_kendall\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image1_kendall-147x250.jpg\" alt=\"American first edition of Jane Austen\'s Emma\" width=\"147\" height=\"250\" /></a> <span class=\"wp-caption-text\">Title page of the Burke Collection copy of the American first edition of Jane Austen\'s <em>Emma</em> (1816).</span></span>\r\n\r\n<em>Title Page</em>\r\nEMMA:\r\nA Novel\r\nHere Volumes in Two\r\n(written on side, vertically: A.B. Dallhousie)\r\nBy the Author of “Pride and Prejudice,”\r\n&amp;c. &amp;c.\r\nVol. 1\r\nPHILADELPHIA:\r\nPublished by M.Carey, No. 121 Chesnut Street\r\nAnd for Sale by Wells &amp; Lilly, Boston\r\n1816\r\n\r\n<em>Next Page</em>\r\nTo his Royal Highness\r\nThe Prince Regent, This Work Is, By his Royal Highness’s Permission, Most Respectfully Dedicated, By His Royal Highness’s Dutiful and Obedient Humble Servant, The Author.”\r\n\r\n<em>First Page of Text</em>\r\n18cm tall x 9.8cm wide\r\nA2 at bottom of first page – 8 pages later is “B” (vol.1), 4 pages later “B2”, 8 pages later “C” (vol.1.), 4 pages later “C2”, 8 pages later “D” (vol.1)\r\naverage full page text block: 12.5cm tall x 7.4cm wide\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Letters Found Inside Second Volume</h5>\r\n<strong>Letter 1</strong>\r\n<em>21.5cm tall x13.9cm wide, typed: “Charles Sessler Inc.” Established 1882, Bookseller and Printseller 1308 Walnut Street Philadelphia, PA. 19107” stationary</em>\r\n<em> dated April 24, 1967</em>\r\n“Dear Mr. Burke:\r\nIn 1945 we purchased in New York at the sale of the Frank J. Hogan Library, item No. 7, a copy of EMMA, printed in Philadelphia by Carey in 1816.\r\nDo you still have this book and would you be willing to part with it?”\r\nYours Sincerely,\r\nMabel Zahn (signed in ink)\r\nZ.T. in bottom left corner, typed (?)\r\n\r\n<strong>Letter 2</strong>\r\n<em>Typed, same stationary as letter 1</em>\r\n<em> dated May 3, 1967</em>\r\n“Dear Mr. Burke:\r\nThank you so much for your letter of May 1st.\r\nI am glad that you still have the copy of EMMA. Our inquiry was for a bibliographic purpose. Someone who is working on the bibliography has asked us about the copy we sold you and naturally we followed through for him.\r\nWith best wishes,\r\nYours Sincerely,\r\nMabel Zahn\r\n-Z.T. in bottom left corner, typed (?)','How Emma Travels: by letters, hands and libraries','Behind a low glass case in Goucher’s Special Collection Room sits a humble blue book box that holds the first American edition of Jane Austen’s Emma. Valued from nineteen to seventy-five thousand dollars on ABEBooks.com, the edition is unquestionably valuable. But how did this extremely rare copy end up in Goucher’s modest library? In a letter to David Gilson on August 5th, 1967 Alberta Burke revealed that she owned a copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma, which formerly belonged to Siegfried Sassoon. The two corresponded from 1967 to 1975 until Alberta fell ill. Throughout this time a steady thread of conversation exists about the Philadelphia Emma.\r\n\r\nAfter seeing the interest that both Alberta Burke and David Gilson had in the first American edition of Emma, perusing the pages and studying the tome in detail was essential to discover first hand the majesty of the volumes.','inherit','open','open','','1300-revision-67','','','2012-11-09 04:34:52','2012-11-09 04:34:52','',1300,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1300-revision-67/',0,'revision','',0),(3571,19,'2012-11-14 04:15:17','2012-11-14 04:15:17','“So, how do we bring students to our table?” That was the question a special collections librarian asked in 1999. <sup><a id=\"ref1\" href=\"#fn1\">[1]</a></sup> Now, in 2012, the question is no longer how: “Teaching with primary source materials is unquestionably ‘hot’ in higher education [as] authentic rare books, manuscripts, or archival documents\" appear in many undergraduate classrooms. <sup><a id=\"ref2\" href=\"#fn2\">[2]</a></sup>\r\n\r\nThe table is full; the effort to bring undergraduates into special collections and archives has been enormously successful. What matters now is how to turn these encounters to account. What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? How do librarians, curators, archivists, instructors, and technology specialists collaborate to get such projects off the ground? How do we make use of these encounters to develop research and interpretive skills, showcase students’ findings, and learn from their discoveries? What do students report that they have gained through their archival experiences?\r\n\r\nIn this issue of “Archives, Remixed,” we present six case studies illustrating inventive solutions to these dilemmas of success. The parameters and formats of these projects demonstrate the diversity of ways to teach with primary source materials: not all of the projects take place in a classroom context (although some do); not all the student work is authored singly (although some is). Some projects involve one institution, while others involve partnerships with local organizations or other universities or colleges; some projects are more analog, others more digital; and some end when the student’s work is complete, while others continue. The projects all have historical claims, but the array of objects under consideration—architectural drawings, photographs, ancient statuary, newspaper clippings, rare books, personal mementos—speaks to many disciplines. The academic institutions where these projects originate, from a community college to liberal arts colleges to a research university, vary as much as the projects themselves.\r\n\r\nEach case study focuses on the work students produce in these archival encounters. On each case-study page, you will find a sample of student work accompanied by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who structured the projects and guided students through them; as well as links to related or additional resources.\r\n\r\nWe invite you to explore, to comment, and to use these case studies as fodder for your own research and teaching projects.\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[1]</sup>Allen, Susan M. “Rare Books and the College Library: Current Practices in Marrying Undergraduates to Special Collections.” Rare Books &amp; Manuscripts Librarianship 13.2 (Spring 1999): 110-19.</div>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[2]</sup> Bahde, Anne. “Taking the Show on the Road: Special Collections Instruction in the Campus Classroom.” RBM: A Journal of Rare Books, Manuscripts, &amp; Cultural Heritage 12.2 (Fall 2011): 75.</div>','Undergraduates in the Archives: Student Project Case Studies','What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? These six case studies answer this question by showcasing student work that emerges from hands-on archival work, including course papers, robots, digitized images, documentary film, and more.  Each case study features the student work, accompanied and contextualized by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); and commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who worked with the students.','inherit','open','open','','1711-revision-46','','','2012-11-14 04:15:17','2012-11-14 04:15:17','',1711,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1711-revision-46/',0,'revision','',0),(3573,19,'2012-11-14 01:21:49','2012-11-14 01:21:49','The primal scene of archival research takes place in a dreary reading room. A researcher sits at her table, inert. An archivist enters, pushing a cart that bears a dozen dusty gray boxes. (Can we get a close-up of a box, please, to show the label with the long call number? [note type=\'figure\' number=\'1\'] <iframe src=\"http://www.youtube.com/embed/5ykY6moIaDE?rel=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\"></iframe> A staged archival encounter.[/note]) The archivist unhinges a box, removes a numbered file folder and, placing it at the researcher’s elbow, steps back. The researcher stirs, then sits upright with a mechanical jolt. She turns sharply in the direction of the folder, flips it open and cocks her head towards the flimsy leaves inside; now she is reading. (Zoom in on the eyes as they click into focus.) Now she is reading, and now she truly comes alive; she bends towards the papers, taps her forehead in thought. A sheaf of blank paper and a pencil appear on her table, and she begins taking notes. Her fingers fly—and soon, so do the pages she is writing upon. Caught up in eddies of excitement, they swoop to the ceiling and around the room and down to the floor, where they fall together into perfect piles. Bindings sprout from the outer strata; the pages sew themselves into bright, tight, hard-cover books. These the archivist gathers up and places on the shelves that line the room, next to other books and gray boxes.\r\n\r\nI may have it backwards: in other versions of the fantasy, it is the archive that is first animated by the presence of the researcher, a Dr. Coppelius who waves a pencil and sets the dusty boxes to dancing. But either way, the archival imaginary posits a symbiotic relationship between researcher and source, a photogenic pas de deux that leads to a finished scholarly product. This work, in turn, enters the archive for the next generation of researchers; it might even be taken apart again so that its secret ingredients (notes, drafts, letters) can themselves be served up in a series of boxes. Such a strangely private form of publication it creates, the coupling of researcher and source.\r\n\r\nWhat Freudian trauma results from witnessing this sight? Only the harm that myth inflicts. This primal scene is a fiction, a dream of perfect union between researcher and source that ignores, first of all, the full cast of characters. What about the archivist, who is rendered invisible? What about all those within and without the archive, upon whose labor—acquiring, preserving, organizing, reading, cataloging, describing, interpreting, analyzing, debating, teaching, writing, editing, digitizing, referencing and publishing—the current project depends? More a barn dance than a pas de deux: an archival encounter is an enactment of social authorship long before the researcher enters the room. [note number=\'1\']See Jerome McGann, A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983) on the idea of social authorship, which could be described as “the dialectic between the historically located individual author and the historically developed institutions of literary production” that help create a work, eg, printers, publishers, editors and readers (81).[/note]\r\n\r\nBut even a barn dance is much too mannered a metaphor. The sketch above misleads us more generally about the experience on the ground. Doing time in an archive is often tedious, uncomfortable and bewildering. For librarians, there is the struggle to promote and simultaneously protect what you have; the difficulty of fitting unruly materials into arrangements and workflows; and worries about space and time—where to put it all, how to address your backlog. For researchers, there is the struggle to locate the archives you need and what matters to you inside them; the uncertainty created by unruly data; and worries about time and space— how to access what you need during your research trip, how to record and organize the information you gather. At both ends, the archival encounter is counter-cinematic and erratic, days of monotonous sifting and dead-ends punctuated by one or two, or maybe zero, hidden moments of vivid, peculiar joy.\r\n\r\nSo archival research does not fulfill its ideal outline. So what? Who cares? Why dredge up the fantasy? Because the fantasy continues to structure our archival encounters—what we expect and undertake in the reading room, what we allow it to mean. Twenty years ago, Alice Kaplan observed that “conventional academic discourse requires that when you write up the results of your archival work, you tell a story about what you found, but not about how you found it. The less the seams of your findings show, the better your discoveries lend themselves to use by others… tell[ing] these stories breaks their spell and violates the spirit of the archives.” [note number=\'2\']Alice Yaeger Kaplan, “Working in the Archives,” Yale French Studies 77 (1990): 103-116; 103, 107.[/note] With a few word changes, the same could be said about what counts as professional archivist discourse: the impersonal, neutral genre of the finding aid, for example, should say what is in a collection, but should not discuss what is confusing or missing in it, or the problems it posed in processing. [note number=\'3\']See, for example, James M. O’Toole and Richard J. Cox, Understanding Archives and Manuscripts (Chicago: Society of American Archivists, 2006).[/note] Despite the growing recognition that this sequestration is never completely possible—that the material conditions and social relations of the archive shape the work we do in it—that work continues to be represented in professional and scholarly publications as if it is. Despite the recent call to move to the fore “the backstage of the archives—how they are constructed, policed, experienced, and manipulated” in order to support historiography “not merely [as] a project of fact-retrieval” but as “a set of complex processes of selection, interpretation, and even creative invention,” the “backstage” stays in the background. [note number=\'4\']Antoinette Burton, “Introduction: Archive Fever, Archive Stories,” Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History, ed. Burton (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 7-8.[/note] Antoinette Burton may be correct that “many if not most historians operate under the assumption that history is a highly interpretive act,” but this belief is not yet reflected in the archival encounter: the ways that researchers (not just historians) and librarians report their experiences with primary sources; the ways that librarians and researchers work together; the ways librarians and researchers regard the involvement of “non specialists.” [note number=\'5\']Burton, 8. Burton notes that “whether historians concede or fully countenance the impact of such contingencies on their work is another question. They rarely speak of them, and even more rarely do they do so in print” (8). Her books recuperates some of those archive stories but this effort, I’ll suggest below, is hampered by other kinds of obligations.[/note] While the advent of digitization and electronic resource sharing has revolutionized the research landscape, making primary sources public in unprecedented ways, there remains in the archive a habitus of secret knowledge—the “spell” that Kaplan is loathe to break. This is not necessarily intentional. It is rather the effect of layering recent shifts in technology, theory and professional definition onto older foundations: petrified conditions, relations, expectations and systems that continue to operate in part through the enduring power of fantasies about research. What we have in the archive is a stratified groundwork that still governs our archival encounters.\r\n\r\nBut, you will object, the archive has already changed. Now we have the “archival turn”—the scholarly interest in the archive not just as a source of evidence but as an epistemological mode. Surely, this attention to the constructedness of the archive has led to a revealing reconsideration of what actually goes on inside an archive; surely, as a result, those archaic fantasies have diminished. Have they? In what follows, I begin by unearthing one stratum of the archival turn, the decade of the 1990s, as represented by three texts: Kaplan’s essay mentioned above, “Working in the Archives” (1990) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'2\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-369\" title=\"fig 2 kaplan\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photocopy of Alice Yaeger Kaplan’s “Working in the Archives.”[/note]; Derrida’s Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (1994/95) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'3\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-372\" title=\"fig 3 Derrida\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Print out of Jacque Derrida’s “Archive Fever” from Diacritics.[/note]; and Carolyn Steedman’s Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (2001). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'4\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-373\" title=\"fig 4 steedman\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Library copy of Carolyn Steedman’s Dust.[/note] [note number=\'6\']Jacques Derrida, “Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression,” Diacritics 25.2 (Summer 1995): 9-63. Web. 1 Dec. 2010. Carolyn Steedman, Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2001).[/note] A cross-examination of these three texts reveals a pattern of interests, a set of efforts to defy customary practices—but only, it turns out, “in theory.” While certain practices are challenged in these texts, they leave mostly intact the older strata of archival research fantasies and conventions. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman do not dislodge the forces that organize the actual archival encounter.\r\n\r\nHow does this happen? Why is practice so stubborn? We need another take on archival practice: not practice in theory, but practice in action; not the 1990s, but now; not in terms of textual patterns, but in terms that suit the subject: the terms of the archival encounter itself, and the eccentric, anachronistic and even monotonous experience it generates. My second look at practice will take the form of a series of vignettes about a real-life archive, the George Peabody Library in Baltimore. While this narrative structure may seem to recreate the division of labor between theory and practice, my hope is that—by giving practice the last word—we’ll be in a better position to synthesize the two.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>I. “The library doubles as a detective’s office.” [note number=\'7\']Kaplan, 114.[/note]</strong>\r\n\r\nThe archival turn could be dated to the founding of “scientific” history in the mid-nineteenth century, or to the development a century later of the quantitative methods of the Annales School, or to other evidence-based movements in the history of history, but what is generally meant by this phrase corresponds with the formation of cultural studies and the use of the archive as a conceptual category. That is, the archival turn has to do with the notion of the “figuration” of the archive, a parallel decline in its empirical authority and a related expansion of its relevance within domains that are not exclusively historiographic, like art, literary criticism, textual studies, media studies and information studies. [note number=\'8\']See the use of the term in, for example, Carolyn Hamilton et al, eds., Refiguring the Archive (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2002), Cheryl Simon, ed., Following the Archival Turn: Photography, the Museum, and the Archive, special issue of Visual Resources: A Journal of Documentation 18.2 (June 2002), and Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). This turn is partially construed as a “move from archive-as-source to archive-as-subject,” but also by the earlier metaphorical interest in “the archive” that goes back to the 1980s (Stoler, 44-45) and by Foucauldian descriptions of archives as “‘monuments to particular configurations of power” (Hamilton, qtd. in Burton, 6).[/note] But it is not irrelevant that a devotion to archival methods precedes by many decades contemporary theories of the archive; if the archival turn lacks a precise origin, this (we will see) is completely in keeping with its own preoccupations.\r\n\r\nKaplan therefore represents in some ways an arbitrary beginning for this cross-examination—clearly the archive as a conceptual category predates 1990—but her article does initiate something new: the recognition that there is something called an “archive story” that must remain hidden in order for the official “results” to function authoritatively. In admitting this bit of professional legerdemain, and in telling her own archive story in a prestigious scholarly journal, Kaplan not only commits the violation she prohibits but also contradicts it. Through its publication, Kaplan’s own archive story is elevated to the status of “results”—a kind of research that shadows conventional academic discourse. Indeed, Kaplan notes, such “fables” of research “can be analyzed like a text,” a “mixed up genre” that combines the “redemptive detective fiction” with the epic and the dime novel. [note number=\'9\']Kaplan, 106, 107.[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan’s archive story thus marks a distinctive moment in the archival turn—one which gained its most prominent authorization in 1994, with a paper that Jacques Derrida delivered (in English) to a conference sponsored by the Freud Museum, the Courtauld Institute and the Société International d’Histoire de la Psychiatrie et de la Psychoanalyse. Called initially “The Concept of the Archive: A Freudian Impression,” the lecture was revised and published in 1995 as Mal d’archive: une impression freudienne in French; the published English version echoed the French publication with its 1995 title Archive Fever. As Carolyn Steedman points out in Dust: The Archive and Cultural History, however, this work that has been assigned a seminal status in archival studies “for the main part… is not about archives at all, but is rather a sustained contemplation of a work of history, of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s Freud’s Moses: Judaism Terminable and Interminable (1991),” itself a sustained contemplation of Moses and Monotheism—which (according to Steedman) Yerushalmi examines through Freud’s description of the work as a “‘historical novel,’ or a kind of historical story,” undertaken “in order to understand the period of baroque anti-semitism through which he was living.” [note number=\'10\']Steedman, 3.[/note]\r\n\r\nDizzy yet? Let’s undertake a more careful reading of this splatter pattern of intra-references—or, to stick with the archaeological metaphor, let’s call them groups of potsherds buried in the 1990s layer of the “archival turn.” Digging down to reassemble them reveals a set of interests with special implications for archival practice.\r\n\r\nThe most prominent group of sherds to note are the fragments of disciplinarity: the inter-, multi- or perhaps simply anti-disciplinarity of the texts, authors and audiences caught up in these three archival addresses. Kaplan, an American scholar of French literature, calls the post-theory exchange between literature and history a “cross-pollination of desire between historians and literary critics” undertaken “with the curiosity and energetic passion of collectors.” [note number=\'11\']Kaplan, 107-108.[/note] Steedman, a British historian, performs this cross-pollinating process without comment: her epigraph to Dust is from Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, one chapter treats George Eliot’s Middlemarch in depth… in fact, almost every chapter depends on a literary text. [note number=\'12\']Another chapter invokes Elizabeth Gaskell’s 1848 novel Mary Barton, a third is anchored by W. H. Auden’s poem “Homage to Clio,” and a fourth finds its most eloquent examples in Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.[/note] Derrida, a French philosopher, produced a work that has been exceptionally mobile across disciplines, forms, languages and professional domains. He gave his initial talk to an audience drawing on three different kinds of institutions; Mal d’Archive was published in book form in both French and English, but also made an intermediate appearance as an essay in the journal diacritics. All of these texts, it seems, respond to the provocations of the archive—to the materials and circumstances of discovery—rather than to the disciplinary distinctions that arguably divide the archive from itself.\r\n\r\nArchive Fever has become a founding document even though, as Steedman notes in the very beginning of her book, many in Derrida’s audience “knew the ‘archival turn’ to be [already] well underway” at the time of his talk. [note number=\'13\']Steedman, 2.[/note] As it happens—and this is the second group of sherds I see—these three essays have in common an investment in or a problem with origins, especially with the failure of origins. Derrida, for example, defines archive fever as a kind of Freudian death drive—a drive to fix and preserve which at the same time “works to destroy the archive: on the condition of effacing but also with a view to effacing its own ‘proper’ traces… [it] is above all anarchivic, one could say, or archiviolithic… the archive always works, and a priori, against itself.” [note number=\'14\']Derrida, 14. [/note] If the archival impulse is driven to destroy its own work, then the question of origins ultimately point to the larger question of disorder. [note number=\'15\']The disorder of origins makes frequent appearances in the essay but one example will make the point—in the “Preamble” where he recounts how he titled the talk that he had not yet written and was to give at the Freud Museum. The “Preamble” starts with his reflections on the word “impression,” which has several simultaneous registers of meaning for him. One of these is the “scriptural or typographic” register: that of the graphic impression that marks a substrate. In English, “impression” is phonetically related to “repression” and “suppression,” key words in the Freudian vocabulary, translated respectively from the German Verdrängung and Unterdrückung. English, that is, retains the rhyming relationship of the two German terms, and “impression” in this company comes to have a vaguely Freudian meaning as well. But in French, Verdrängung is “refoulement,” which means something more like expulsion, a driving away. The Freudian sense of the French word “répression” has been reserved for Unterdrückung. So English “repression” defines a phenomenon that must be distinguished from the French “répression.” These translational shifts “directly concern the structures of archivization,” Derrida says, “because they touch on the topic differences and thus on the location of the substrates of traces\" (Derrida, 23). In other words, how do you classify concepts whose meanings shift across languages? Where do you store them in a disciplinary grammar—or in an archive? How do these asymmetrical linguistic structures shape the establishment and extension of a new science? For Derrida, the difference between “repression” and “répression” is “enough to disrupt the tranquil landscape of all historical knowledge, of all historiography, and even of all self-consistent ‘scholarship’” (Derrida, 23).[/note]\r\n\r\nOrigin failure appears both as deliberate performance and as unintentional oversight in these essays. Derrida stages his own inability to get past “go”; with an introductory section, and subsequent sections sub-titled “Exergue,” “Preamble,” “Foreword,” his essay functions, Steedman notes, like a “primer offering instruction in the principle of deferral.” [note number=\'16\']A short notice called “Priere d’inserer,” published only in the French book version, carried the bulk of an argument for which there was no room in the lecture. Steedman, 7.[/note] For all her insight into Derrida’s titling adventures, however, Steedman’s title is marked by its own origin aporia. While her first chapter is devoted to Archive Fever—a “let’s begin at the beginning” homage to the seminal text—her book’s title, Dust, seems more indebted to the last sentence of Kaplan’s essay, published five years before Derrida’s: “Usually there is no mother lode, no original manuscript to be retrieved—the gold is all in the dust.” [note number=\'17\']Kaplan, 116.[/note] Kaplan, however, is never mentioned. [note number=\'18\']Kaplan also begins her essay with a brief consideration of the “arche,” the Greek and Latin term for the public records office, which is a major starting point for Derrida. Is he borrowing from her, or is she borrowing from him, given that this sort of etymological investigation was an established signature of Deconstruction?[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan, for her part, unravels her own archive story. She gives us a kind of “whodunit”—her search for the ephemeral sources of Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s anti-semitic pamphlet Bagatelles pour un massacre (1937). She uses this account to exemplify her effort to “move through the archival process and recover some of the stories that get deleted in the final scholarly form.” [note number=\'19\']Kaplan, 104. For this reason, perhaps, Kaplan never reveals what she ultimately discovers in her successful search for Celine’s sources. In fact, it’s not entirely clear whether her pre-emptive and truncated treatment of her archive story is deliberate or not. Is this treatment meant to indirectly support her official claim about “results”? Or does the presence of the archive story suggest that telling it is an impulse she can’t quite control? Thanks, Lauren Coats, for helping tease this problem out.[/note] These beginnings are preemptively struck out, however, by what seems to be her main claim: “the passion of the archives must finally be used to eradicate all personal stories in the interests of the dry archival report, fit for a public.” [note number=\'20\']Kaplan, 103.[/note] Only in the “para-text”—a preface, for example—can the archive story appear without “interrupt[ing] or complicat[ing] the narrative so much that no results could ever be understood or perceived.” [note number=\'21\']Kaplan, 104.[/note] Despite this unequivocal assertion, the personal “whodunit” prevails in her essay, especially in the final section set in the Centre du documentation juive contemporain (CDJC). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'5\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-5-cdjc-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-423\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-423\" title=\"fig 5 cdjc\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-5-cdjc1-333x250.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Website for the Centre de documentation juive contemporain.[/note] It is this library, where Kaplan solves the mystery of Céline’s sources, that “doubles as a detective’s office.”\r\n\r\nWhile Kaplan’s research mystery resolves neatly, the truth about archives is that they are full of gaps, mistakes and excesses: in the words of one of the CDJC librarians, “‘ici on trouve tout’—there’s some of everything here”—but not, one could add, all of anything. [note number=\'22\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] Kaplan’s essay ends by nullifying both her detective story success and her “dry archival report,” by recognizing the disorder on which both of these narratives are unsteadily perched: “The archive is constituted by these errors, these pieces out of place, which are then reintegrated into a story of some kind.” [note number=\'23\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] “A story of some kind”? So much for “results.”\r\n\r\nKaplan sets us up to perceive one final potsherd pattern common to these three essays. If origin-less disorder is the order of the archive, it is a disorder that is generated out of human loss—a disorder that joins the body and the material world. The archive is always predicated on historical violence of some sort, whatever is censored, erased, excluded, trumped up, used up, misplaced, conquered, killed. Moreover, the archival categories that mark both the visible victories and hidden defeats do not stay within their walls; the archive is both a repository of existing schemas and a means of perpetuating them in the world beyond. While we might usually think of this disciplinary activity as a pact between the archive and its political authors, Steedman makes it clear that the dilemmas of order shape the archival body in many ways. For example, she takes literally the provocation of Derrida’s title Archive Fever to investigate the illness that researchers contract on the penultimate day of their trip to the archive: prompted by the anxiety of the task that remains unfinished, they end their research with night-sweats and head-aches. But what seems like a strangely specific malady is transformed by Steedman into a far-reaching social symptom: by relating the researcher’s “archive fever” to the terrible diseases suffered by tanners, skinners and other workers in the trades associated with paper and leather, Steedman expands our sense of who is in the archive—the bodies whose specialized labors populate our libraries with books, the many kinds of expertise the archive consumes.\r\n\r\nFor Derrida, the relation between the material archive and its human architects focuses on one kind of “graphic mark,” a particular “private inscription”: circumcision as the archival signature that is also the signature of patrimoine, with Freud’s relationship to his father as his main example. [note number=\'24\']Derrida, 19.[/note] It is perhaps not a coincidence that the body in question in both Kaplan’s and Derrida’s archive is Jewish, for that is a body that has come to symbolize the destructive power of classificatory regimes. Despite her contention that the private passions motivating research must be kept secret, Kaplan is fascinated by the “missing person stories” at the CDJC: by the “quantity of people who are there for personal reasons,” the survivors of occupation or deportation or camps, or their descendants, quietly looking up their lost ones or noisily dropping off their memoirs. [note number=\'25\']Kaplan, 113.[/note] This disorganized crowd of dead and living bodies tries to meet up with an equally disorganized crowd of materials—individual letters, trial transcripts, pamphlets, newspapers, first-person accounts, books, photographs, lists. The monumental task of match-making, the librarians’ work, is never complete. More papers are always generated or declassified or discovered, different human questions and needs emerge. The tidy choreography of the research fantasy, where the detective always finds her man, is not so much in evidence; what we have instead is corpora in excess of existing categories.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\nKaplan, Derrida and Steedman open up the archival body. They show us how paper meets the press of flesh; they make us feel just how intimate it is. [note number=\'26\']This interest in the corporeal dimensions and effects of order, its human and non-human components, has in common with their other gestures—an experimental attitude towards conventional disciplinarity and attention to the priority of disorder—the circumstances of the academic humanities in the 1990s. Since the archival turn came out of the ascent of cultural studies and allied intrigues in the 1970s and ‘80s, the circles in the Venn diagram of these ventures will necessarily overlap. We could also say that the archive took off when it did precisely because it made a clever new container for these preoccupations, thick in the humanities atmosphere at the time, where they were distilled and united. [/note] But for all their revelations about the limits of discipline and the multiplicities of disorder in the archive, these texts do not disclose the specific methods of engagement that led to their existence. While Kaplan offers up her own archival victory and outlines several other such stories, she still insists on their marginalization. [note number=\'27\']“Were the story of how you got the story really to be told inside the book, it would interrupt or complicate the narrative so much that no results could be understood or even perceived. Every story of success in the archives is emotionally charged, for only the most extreme emotions can drive people to the drudgery, to the discomfort, of sitting and sifting through dog-eared documents, manuscripts, microfilms. To reveal those emotions would not only gum up the narrative, it would threaten its credibility, by showing on what thin strands of coincidence, accident, or on what unfair forms of friendship, ownership, geographical proximity, the discoveries were based” (Kaplan, 104).[/note] If these texts are not concerned with actual practices in the archive or changes in its methodologies, what do they tell us?\r\n\r\nFirst, they suggest one reason for the perpetuation of myths about the archive. While Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are eager to show how archival materials do not conform to disciplinary distinctions—an enthusiasm related to other disruptive tendencies in late twentieth-century humanist scholarship –they seem less cognizant of a related phenomenon: the archive does not obey strict professional divisions, either. In Kaplan’s library-as-detective’s-office metaphor, the scholar is the detective, but does the “Eureka” moment belong only to the scholar who pieces together a narrative? What about the people who prepared those pieces? The archivist is still missing in action. Likewise, these essays do not dwell on missing boxes, illegible papers, neglected citations. There are no descriptions of archival slogging, no admissions that some materials failed to be relevant. And of course, there are no prescriptions for a different order. It is not the main aim of Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman to effect an evolution of practice; archival turnistas are not interested in disorder in order to re-order. But it is worth remembering that it is not in their professional interest as scholars to make their practices more transparent.\r\n\r\nSecondly, along the same lines, these texts inform us of the duplicity of speculative practices that reveal but cannot live out the instability of their archival mandates. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are put into the position of saying, “Yes, the archive is biased, idiosyncratic and treacherous—but the observations I draw from it are flawless.” [note number=\'28\']Derrida, unlike Kaplan and Steedman, makes no claims to work inside an actual archive, unless we consider Yerushalmi’s book as a kind of archive. But the fact that the essay was written self-consciously for presentation at the Freud Museum suggests that it was made out of an archive indirectly—in its construction, if not in its contents. [/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, these texts suggest why archival studies that attempt to be explicit about the messy nature of the archive have become instead “archive studies.” In more recent works like Refiguring the Archive (2002), Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions and the Writing of History (2005) and Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (2009), the archive appears as a subject in its own right. Although the archival scenarios that are put into play in each of these books incorporate different disciplines—art, history, anthropology, literature, post-colonial studies—they have essentially created a new discipline. “Archive studies” is something we might, in the taxonomy of disciplines, see as the love-child of cultural studies, history and archival methodology. Moreover, this new discipline has in common with other humanities disciplines a complete blindness about its professional investments; it does not register much awareness of the professional investments of librarians, archivists, curators and “non-specialists,” or invite insights from those perspectives. Perhaps this is inevitably what happens when academics must give legitimacy to something new, which in turn reflects the pressures of scholarly communication: a topic must be delineated in conventional terms in order to merit publication. [note number=\'29\']Perhaps this is also the moment to ask why we—I—have been using the term “archive” all along, with its statist resonances, rather than the term “collection,” which has institutional but also personal resonances. Does “archive” bring us closer to recognizably “serious scholarship”?[/note] But it is also true that in these more recent books, which openly investigate the archive’s power-politics, the disorderly drift of the archive and its hybrid corporeality have mostly been bent towards a particular narrative about the archive as an agent of history rather than as a set of ongoing practices. It is as if the historical archive has been assembled in ways that reflect and reiterate power relations, but the contemporary archive has not; it is as if the researcher’s own research travails remain a transparent layer over the body of work that it constructs. [note number=\'30\']Of course, this is precisely what Derrida meant about the “death drive” of the archival impulse. Archive Stories is something of an exception; researchers speak openly here about themselves as researchers. It is interesting, however, that this book—like Steedman’s—doesn’t cite Kaplan’s essay as a precursor text despite the clear titular link.[/note]\r\n\r\nPerhaps it would also be fair to note that, if archival studies are now being formulated as an interdisciplinary discipline called “archive studies,” this might be just another stage in the turn. It might be that what comes next reconfigures the premise of disciplinarity and the promise of disorder, with a different approach to the human/non-human interactions that the archive documents and realizes: a more diffuse and multi-vocal set of practices in place of a new field. One way to imagine this approach would be to fully embrace Kaplan’s idea of the archive story as an account of what one hoped for, looked for and found, what one did and did not do, in the archive—an account loosed from the quarantine she advocates. Some very basic genre precedents for the archive story do exist; the bibliographic essay and the methodology statement, for example, have played an important role in many disciplines in the past and still do in some. Instead of a para-textual nod towards that archive story (in Kaplan’s sense), why not create a parallel text written collaboratively by the researcher(s) and the librarian(s), or by one person acting in both professional capacities, that runs alongside the official “results”? Or in a set of expanded notes that address not just the “what” and “where” but the “how” and “why” of sources, which are lifted from their small-type, bottom-of-page basement up into the light? Or—to add yet another layer—parallel texts that also offer room for exchange with other researchers, archivists and even interested “non specialists,” like collectors, bibliophiles and fans?\r\n\r\nIf it is hasn’t been clear already that I have scrupulously avoided so far the other kind of archive, the digital archive, it will be now. What I am imagining would be far too complicated to produce or consult in print, but would not be at all difficult to organize as a digital object—as an archive in its own right. By avoiding the digital archive up to this point, I have also finessed the fact that our current archival research methods are completely reliant on the digital archive, along with the development of online research tools and electronic instruments of data discovery and organization. Those conditions probably bear the most responsibility for making the archive visible as something that warranted a “turn” in the first place. Even Derrida refers in each version of Archive Fever to the computer on which he is currently composing, predicting that email will not only totally transform the archive as he knows it, but will make his own essay obsolete.\r\n\r\nIn short, we already have in place both the theory and the media that will make it possible to enact a radical new archival practice. We have in place what we need to integrate the archive story into the archive itself, while making it visible as a new form of “results.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>II. The library doubles as a librarian’s office.</strong>\r\n\r\nI could end here, with a triumphant firing of the starter pistol and a rousing cheer. But that would be a bit disingenuous, given that the starter pistol for both the archival turn and the academic use of the internet actually went off decades ago. So the question remains, what stands in the way of the practical enactment of the archival turn’s speculative insights? I’d like to engage this question by following Kaplan’s example (but not her main claim): through some archive story-telling about the George Peabody Library. These three vignettes, identified as “typical” through conversations with my colleague Paul Espinosa, illustrate the intractable formations that present-day archival encounters come up against.\r\n\r\n<strong>1. The Perils of Description.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A group of Russian speakers visits the Peabody Library. The dozen men and women sit down around the screen that Paul has set up. He narrates a brief slide-show about the Peabody’s history, then leads them to a table where a dozen books from the collection have been laid out in cradles. He tells them about each book: what it is, why it is interesting. Each phrase of his presentation is painstakingly translated by the group’s leader into Russian.</blockquote>\r\nWhen academic and community groups visit the Peabody, my colleagues and I draw upon a standard tour-guide’s repertoire to describe it. We explain that George Peabody was a tradesman cum financier cum philanthropist who decided in 1857 that Baltimore needed a cultural institution to support the arts and learning. We talk about the evolution of the Peabody Institute, the four-part athenaeum that resulted, with its art gallery, lecture series, conservatory and free, public, non-circulating library. We discuss the model of philanthropy that George Peabody initiated and its wide-ranging influence. We point out the signal features of the awe-inspiring architecture of the current library, built to accommodate a rapidly growing collection in 1878. But when it comes to the library itself, as a collection, it is hard to know what to say. How to accurately translate the library’s holdings into a succinct and memorable statement that conveys an appropriate level of detail to different audiences? While it poses specific challenges, the Peabody also exemplifies more general problems of collection description.\r\n\r\nWe do not lack evidence for the evolving contents of the Peabody. We have the two-volume printed list of “desiderata” drawn up by the Peabody’s first librarian, John G. Morris. [note number=\'31\']Alphabetical Catalogue of Books to be Purchased for the Library of the Peabody Institute, Baltimore, Vols. 1 and 2 (Baltimore: John D. Toy, 1861, 1863).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'6\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-6-alpha-index-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-395\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-395\" title=\"fig 6 alpha index\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-6-alpha-index1-336x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"484\" /></a>Alphabetical index from Alphabetical Catalouge (“desiderata”).[/note] We have the collections register for several decades’-worth of acquisitions, recording bibliographic information and accession numbers that can still be found on the inside front end papers of many of the books in the collection. We have the librarians’ annual reports to the library trustees. [note number=\'32\']The Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore: The Founder’s Letters and the Papers Relating to its Dedication and History, Up to the 1st January, 1868 (Baltimore: William K. Boyle, 1868); and subsequent Annual Reports, 1869, etc.[/note] We have the library’s first printed catalogue, an unsurpassed achievement when first published in 1883, which listed 100,000 volumes by author and title. [note number=\'33\']Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Vols. 1-5 (Baltimore: Isaac Friedenwald, 1883; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, [1961?]; also on googlebooks), and Second Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Including the Additions Made Since 1882, Vols. 1-8 (Baltimore: Deutsch Lithographic and Printing, 1896; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, 1961).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'7\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-7-print-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-396\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-396\" title=\"fig 7 print cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-7-print-cat-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Reprinted volumes of the Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute (1883).[/note] We have the cards from the Dewey decimal system card catalogue, which replaced the printed catalogue in the 1910s. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'8\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-8-card-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-397\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-397\" title=\"fig 8 card cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-8-card-cat.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>One of two card catalogues in the Peabody.[/note] Now, of course, the library’s collections are represented in an online catalogue that integrates them with other collections in the Hopkins library system.\r\n\r\nThese markers of the collection, however, fail to satisfy some contemporary research queries for reasons that are both practical and philosophical. The transfer of the printed index, organized by author, to the Dewey decimal system, organized by topic, represented a major epistemological shift that facilitated browsing by subject category. But of course, those categories are embedded in historically-bound notions about the subjects and structures of knowledge: Dewey was invented in the 1870s, and the 22 revisions it has undergone since then cannot overcome its essential organizational distortions. For example, the literature range—the 800s—offers only 10% of its categorical space to literatures in languages other than English, Germanic and Romance languages, Greek and Latin.\r\n\r\nIn the case of the Peabody, the Dewey arrangements overlay even older systems of knowledge hierarchy. Should we continue to offer, for example, a description of the Peabody’s “voyages and travels” books? This category represents a Renaissance schematic that was still in service in the mid-nineteenth century; while actual “voyages and travels” were extended by colonial ventures, the category was eventually disbanded. Dewey combined it with geography to make a sub-category of “history.” In keeping active the old-fashioned phrase “voyages and travels,” we are participating in a centuries-long project of euphemism about the material aims and actual activities of colonialism; we are privileging an early phase of the Peabody’s evolution over later phases; we may even be confusing modern researchers. And yet, as one of the topics in Morris’s “desiderata,” a considerable portion of the Peabody’s collection was acquired with the aim of fleshing out that descriptor. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'9\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-9-index-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-398\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-398\" title=\"fig 9 index detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-9-index-detail-336x274.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"274\" /></a>Detail of subject index from Alphabetical Catalouge No. 2 (“desiderata”).[/note]\r\n\r\nYet another classificatory dilemma is expressed by George Peabody’s original statement of the library’s purpose: that it “be furnished in every department of knowledge, with the most approved literature… It should consist on the best works on every subject… to satisfy the researches of students who may be engaged in the pursuit of knowledge not ordinarily attainable in the private libraries of the country.” [note number=\'34\']“Letters from George Peabody, Esq.: Baltimore, February 12th, 1857,” in Founder’s Letters, 7.[/note] The Peabody was founded as a cultural institution for the people of Baltimore, but from the first, this democratic ambition was in conflict with the intellectual aspirations of the first librarians and their desire to facilitate civic “self-improvement.” Morris (a doctor of divinity), his successor Nathaniel Holmes Morison (a schoolmaster and poet), and Morison’s assistant and successor Philip Uhler (who had trained as an entomologist) were all devoted to the nineteenth-century idea of the scholar-librarian. Morison wrote in one annual report that “Education always proceeds from the above downward, from the best to the common minds, from the leaders of the people to the people themselves. Furnish... the foundations of intelligence and thought, and they will... stimulate and improve the whole community.\" [note number=\'35\']Qtd. in Franklin Parker and Betty J. Parker, “PIB Ref. Library. 8-Morison\'s Philosophy of Excellence,” in George Peabody (1795-1869): A-Z Handbook of the Massachusetts-Born Merchant in the South, London-Based Banker, and Philanthropist\'s Life, Influence, and Related People, Places, Events, and Institutions. . 11 Mar. 2011.[/note] When the Johns Hopkins University was founded in 1876 in close proximity to the Peabody—in large part to take advantage of the library—the tendency of the librarians to address scholarly needs and “approved literature” over popular desires was given additional momentum. In keeping with these ideas, the Peabody’s librarians kept careful track of their readers’ choices, noting with special caution the numbers of novels that were requested. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'10\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-10-annual-report-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-399\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-399\" title=\"fig 10 annual report detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-10-annual-report-detail-336x452.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"452\" /></a>Detail from First Annual Report showing chart of books read, with special mention of fiction.[/note] This schism at the heart of the library’s collecting paradigm was not unique to the Peabody; the question of reading matter—should it offer leisure for the masses or the means of social uplift?—was central to the public library movement of the second half of the nineteenth century. [note number=\'36\']See, for example, Alexis McCrossen, “’One Cathedral More’ or ‘Mere Lounging Places for Bummers’? The Cultural Politics of Leisure and the Public Library in Gilded Age America,” Libraries &amp; Culture 41.2 (2006): 169-188; Paul Sturges, “The Public Library and Reading by the Masses: Historical Perspectives on the USA and Britain 1850-1900,” ; Trustees of the Public Library of the City of Boston, Upon the Objects to be Attained by the Establishment of a Public Library, 12 Dec. 2010.[/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, the Peabody’s “desiderata” acquisitions and librarians’ selections were supplemented by book donations from local elites—bibliophiles with extensive private collections that included incunabula, classical authors in Renaissance editions, expensive illustrated atlases. At the same time, book donations came in from more plebian sources. The Peabody’s growth overlapped with the decline of the local social libraries, and it eventually absorbed some of the books from the Library Company of Baltimore, Robinson’s Circulating Library and several small professional and mechanics’ libraries. And I haven’t even touched on the Peabody’s twentieth-century fate.\r\n\r\nThe variety of philanthropic impulses, resource streams and classification philosophies that have fed the Peabody over the 150 years of its existence has led to a collection that does not so much map the nineteenth-century mind as signal its odd amalgam of popular and scholarly investments. The Peabody’s collection effectively evades succinct description—at least, any kind of description that pretends to be coherent, that is not perforated by its stakes in local history, library history, book history. But more importantly, it suggests the degree to which accident and opportunity and prejudice and wealth and the changing winds of cataloguing rules shape any archive. Description, which should be the most fundamental tool of communication between librarians and researchers, turns out to be utterly elusive. Yet we do not know what to replace them with, these inadequate descriptions, these exercises in stilted and partial translation.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>2. The Researcher’s Progress.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>I am preparing for my class about women and nineteenth-century print culture, which meets in the Peabody; we have reached the part of the syllabus where we look at gift books and annuals. I want students to examine several examples of these literary miscellanies, offering some illustration of their variety, and I have a list of such items that I have used in the past. But since I also want to show the students new acquisitions, I need to refresh my list. I will start with “gift book” as a keyword in the online catalogue.</blockquote>\r\nIn place of perfect and commensurate description—not possible—what we have are cataloguing systems that indexically represent collections through data and metadata that are, as I have already suggested, historically marked and inevitably inconsistent. In the case of the Peabody, these records are further compromised: Dewey cards developed from a nineteenth-century print index do not offer Library of Congress subject terms or detailed tables of contents; they also frequently lack other kinds of information. [note number=\'37\']Many of the electronic records for Peabody books have been copy-cataloged, that is, developed from records for identical books in other libraries. But these records might also be incomplete or inconsistent, given that many are quite old. The expense of original cataloging prevents our staff from creating full, new records for every item in the Peabody’s collection of over 300,000 titles.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'11\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-11-ddc-cards/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-400\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-400\" title=\"fig 11 ddc cards\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-11-ddc-cards-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Dewey cards for “gift books.”[/note] My search for “gift book” will turn up bequests—the term “gift book” is often attached to these donations—and it will miss many of the nineteenth-century gift books and annuals in our collection whose records lack subject classifications, or whose subject classifications reference the book’s contents, not its format. For example, the 1848 Rough and Ready Annual: or, Military Souvenir published by Appleton’s has been assigned the subject “Mexican War, 1846-1848—Anecdotes.” [note number=\'38\']Rough and Ready Annual (New York: D. Appleton; Philadelphia: G.S. Appleton, 1848).[/note]\r\n\r\nThe problem of finding is perhaps only a sub-set of the problem of description, but I want to give it special attention because it introduces another variable: the physical space of the object. My search for gift books in the Peabody also entails the privilege of retrieving the books from the stacks. There are two search processes, the intellectual and the physical, that I must navigate. The intellectual search in this case requires a variety of keyword/date range combinations, and ultimately, recourse to my prepared bibliography—a holdover from pre-catalogue research methods. Now the second search begins.\r\n\r\nThe Rough and Ready Annual is at 973.62 A5121, in the “general history of North America; United States” category. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'12\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-12-rr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-401\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-401\" title=\"fig 12 r&amp;r\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-12-rr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Rough and Ready Annual in the stacks.[/note] This call number range is on the second floor, west side. Other items on my list are in very different parts of the library. Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them, edited by the temperance writer T. S. Arthur and published in London, has been given the call number 813 A7910 duodecimo—fourth floor east, in the “American literature in English, fiction” section. [note number=\'39\']Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them (London: Knight &amp; Co., [1857]). This title does not appear in at least one Arthur bibliography; see Donald A Koch, \"Timothy Shay Arthur,\" Antebellum Writers in New York and the South, ed. Joel Myerson (Detroit: Gale Research, 1979), from Literature Resource Center. Web. 19 Feb. 2011. To check on this, I need Mitchell Sharpe Jr.’s A Bibliography of the Published Books of Timothy Shay Arthur (Atlanta: Emory University, 1954), a typewritten quarto at 012 A791S, but it seems to be missing.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'13\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-13-orange/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-402\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-402\" title=\"fig 13 orange\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-13-orange-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Orange Blossoms in the stacks.[/note] Arthur shows up again as co-editor of The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present, which has received more extensive description as it contains the first printing of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “Siope.” [note number=\'40\']The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present (Baltimore: Bayly and Burns, [1838]).[/note] We have two copies of this very genteel little gift book, one at 808.83 B2175 (rhetoric &amp; collections of literature), and one at 810.8 C297 (American literature in English). The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons is in the rare book room at the south end of the third floor. [note number=\'41\']The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons (London: The Religious Tract Society, ca. 1850).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'14\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-14-rbr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-403\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-403\" title=\"fig 14 rbr\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-14-rbr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The rare book room.[/note] In this case, the book’s rarity has to do with a lovely fore-edge painting. It has been assigned to 820.8 N42017 (general books about literature). On the other end of the “rare” continuum is The Family Circle and Parlor Annual, volume 5 in a series, which is shelved up on the sixth floor with the periodicals at 051 F198 (serials in American English). [note number=\'42\']The Family Circle and Parlor Annual (New York: Comstock, 1847).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'15\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-15-parlor/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-404\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-404\" title=\"fig 15 parlor\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-15-parlor-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Parlor Annual in the stacks.[/note]\r\n\r\nI’ll fill out call slips for each book, stick the slips into red flags, and put the flags in an order that will help me chart a logical course through the stacks. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'16\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-16-slips/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-405\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-405\" title=\"fig 16 slips\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-16-slips-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Call slips and flags.[/note] It’s easiest to start on the sixth floor and work one’s way down, picking up books along the way. Usually I find other interesting items as I go, so I carry a batch of blank call slips and extra flags. (On this occasion, for example, I find The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse; published in 1813 and inscribed by its owner in 1817, it pre-dates by several years the official beginning of the gift book phenomenon. It might be more of a “literary almanac.” [note number=\'43\']The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse (Philadelphia: David Hogan, 1813).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'17\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-17-new-reader/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-406\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-406\" title=\"fig 17 new reader\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-17-new-reader-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Inscription in The New American Reader.[/note]) Usually I am also unable to locate at least one of the books I have set out to find. Most likely the book has been misshelved, so I’ll check the quartos and folios, which are shelved separately; then I’ll check the rare book room’s octavo, duodecimo and quarto shelving areas. It used to astonish me that books were still shelved by format in the Peabody, but it does save space. At the same time, this shelving system—along with the multiple distinct areas within the library where books may reside, eg the rare book room, the reference section, the genealogy books, the Limited Editions Club, and several discrete named collections—means that retrieving a few books can take quite a long time, as I traipse up and down the six floors of the library, thread through stacks, open secured doors with multiple keys, turn lights on and off, and maneuver a book truck in and out of a tiny service elevator built in the 1920s. By the end of the journey, the library and I will have exchanged dust; I’ll take on a few streaks of red rot, and the library will have taken in particles from my body as well.\r\n\r\nWhile the Peabody is unique, these conditions are not in the end very unusual. In terms of the intellectual search, the absence of “gift book” from many of the catalogue records is no less egregious than the absence of other information—the names of all the contributors; the subjects of the illustrations. The metadata is potentially infinite. The “gift book” only exists as a category because of scholars who teased out this cultural phenomenon; it would be very difficult to define its absolute borders. In terms of the physical search, the Peabody might be messier than, say, a rare book library that has assigned current LC call numbers to all its contents and houses them in compact shelving, but it exemplifies the general on-the-ground situation. As I wind my way through the Peabody stacks, I remember how much more difficult it is to gather research materials from several different institutions.\r\n\r\nThe fact is, for scholars who rely on archives, research is something you do only after you have already undertaken a rigorous search. It is the search that provides you with the foundational sense of your subject. But the search is rarely acknowledged or accredited; even the foot-soldier craft of bibliography, the link between “librarianship” and “scholarship,” has largely lost its scholarly status.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>3. An Architecture of Disctinction.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A non-affiliate researcher contacts the Peabody about our H. L. Mencken collections. Since she will bring a couple of graduate students with her, I set up a group work space in one of the library alcoves where the three of them can share materials and talk without disturbing other readers. I pull the requested volumes with the help of some students and set the cart up within easy reach of the alcove. When the researchers arrive, I show them the Mencken collections on the ground floor. Then I lead them to their group work space and leave them, returning to the glassed-in office behind the reading room, the vantage point that allows me to monitor the otherwise empty reading room.</blockquote>\r\nIn “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” a team of Dutch sociologists investigates the library as a space that is strongly marked by situational norms—“knowledge-based beliefs about how to behave in particular situations that are shaped by social influence.” [note number=\'44\']Henk Aarts and Ap Dijksterhuis, “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 84.1 (2003), 19.[/note] Their research leads them to argue, however, that such norms do not require direct social influences to be triggered; in fact, “the situation can activate mental representations of normative behaviors automatically. And once activated, these representations provide the knowledge necessary for guiding one’s own situationally appropriate behavior.” [note number=\'45\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 19.[/note] Physical environments do not necessarily prompt these behaviors; rather, the behavior “depend[s] on whether the environment is of immediate behavioral relevance.” [note number=\'46\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 20.[/note] Talking in a quiet voice in the library, a normative behavior, is only activated for those who plan to visit the library.\r\n\r\nTen years ago, when the research for this article was conducted, the “silence of the library” was still a widespread norm. While the situation is now often reversed—in our main campus library, we must designate specific quiet areas because otherwise a sociable undergraduate din would take over—the norm of silence does continue to preside at the Peabody. Because it is off campus, the Peabody is often attractively under-populated compared to the crowded main library; it is mostly used by advanced researchers and those who seek a quiet place to study. The large central open area catches and amplifies even the smallest noises. The shelf-lined alcoves on either side of this central area offer the appearance of privacy, but in fact are little echo chambers. Visitors immediately detect these acoustics, and—except for the periodic tour groups—most spend their time in the Peabody in silence. But it is not just the physics of sound that shape behaviors here, as the Dutch researchers show; the social expectations of the space prefigure those behaviors.\r\n\r\nIn setting up a group work space for the Mencken researchers, I have quite deliberately contravened the usual norm of silence. Clearly, I am not inviting them to shout, and by putting them in an alcove in back, I have taken measures to protect any quiet-seeking visitors who might arrive. But in accordance with new ideas about the use of library space, my colleagues and I have decided that we must accommodate group study even if it might occasionally disrupt the silence desired by others. As it happens, the Mencken researchers’ conversation is eventually interrupted by a tour group, and the two activities play out side by side.\r\n\r\nI must admit that at moments I have mixed feelings about the tour groups and even the study cohorts. While my pedagogical instincts tend towards cheerful hub-bub, there is a part of me that is still in awe of the sanctuary-like atmosphere of the Peabody. John Morris called the library a “cathedral of books,” and clearly that’s what architect Edmund G. Lind had in mind. The central area with its grand skylight and the alcoves on its sides is like a nave bordered with chapels. Lind didn’t need a psychological study of environment-based situational norms to tell him that he might activate different behaviors within his building. The great central space inspires reverence—your eye is drawn to the skylight the way it would be drawn to the rose windows of Chartres, and on its way up catches row upon solemn row of books stowed behind gilded railings, a testament to the accumulated wisdom of the ages. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'18\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-18-skylight/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-407\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-407\" title=\"fig 18 skylight\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-18-skylight.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>The skylight in the George Peabody Library.[/note] But step into an alcove, especially on the ground floor where each is filled with an immense wooden table, and you instantly feel something else, something no less grand but more human. The alcoves are study-sized, and once you sit down at one of those dark, gleaming, broad tables, it is like you are the master of your own private library. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'19\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-19-alcove/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-408\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-408\" title=\"fig 19 alcove\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-19-alcove-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Alcove in the George Peabody Library.[/note]\r\n\r\nIronically, the Peabody’s architecture was out-dated by the time it was completed. With the professionalization of librarianship and the evolution of library science in the late nineteenth century, librarians like William Frederick Poole advocated for a functional rather than decorative design of interior library space. [note number=\'47\']See William Frederick Poole, Remarks on Library Construction (Chicago: Jansen, McClurg, 1884).[/note] Moreover, the actual use of space in the Peabody in the late nineteenth century was at odds with its symbolic appeal. The main library was known as the “stack room”; readers were seated in a comparatively plain reading room on the other side of the main doors. In this arrangement, the librarians reigned inside the gorgeous “cathedral of books,” but the building’s potential to civilize the masses was lost.\r\n\r\nNow, of course, we do not send readers outside. Inside the “stack room,” we explicitly call visitors’ attention to its beauty to explain the connections between the library’s architecture and its collections—how both speak eloquently of Victorian values. At the same time, we who staff the library have relegated ourselves to its periphery. We work in the glassed-in room at one end that serves as a monitoring point and occasional classroom; the official “librarian’s office” in one corner—its luxurious proportions suggesting something like a sacristy and something like a robber baron’s lair—is now shared work-space stuffed with several desks and laden book trucks. There is another monitoring station near the main doors. I often do my work at the photography station, in the back of one of the alcoves [note type=\'figure\' number=\'20\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-20-station/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-409\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-409\" title=\"fig 20 station\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-20-station-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photography station in the George Peabody Library.[/note]. It offers some privacy but is close enough to the central reading tables to be accessible to readers.\r\n\r\nThe space of the Peabody initiates other situational behaviors besides the norm of silence, and our work-station arrangements testify to this. The spatial re-centralizing of readers and marginalization of staff is not merely practical; it is a reflection of the modern office of librarianship. We are there to be of service, in a para-textual position. Consequently, our work should be out of sight; it should be separate from and secondary to the work that readers do. Our locations call upon us, in other words, to support the scholar’s effort to hide the “seams of [her] findings” by hiding the ways we contribute to that work—by the ways we sometimes do that work.\r\n\r\nI think about these complications as I escort the Mencken researchers to their table and walk back to the glassed-in office, where there is nothing pressing for me to do. I’d rather spend more time talking with them. I’d like to learn about their research and introduce them to some underappreciated parts of the collection. I’d like to share with them what I learned curating an exhibition of Mencken-related magazines and writing about one of those magazines. But I don’t want to get in their way; it’s likely that they are ready to get on with work that they don’t see as connected to mine. The professional norms of the archive are strong, and although I know how to talk about my research in many contexts—in presentations, interviews, hotel elevators—I haven’t figured out how to mix my scholarly role with the curatorial role I am supposed to play here, in the Peabody. In the end, I say nothing. Professional segregation is another kind of silence in the library.\r\n\r\nWe cannot change the archaeological record beneath our feet, but we can rearrange the fossils we dig up to create new narratives. We can tell different kinds of archive stories, including the story of what research in the archive was and is. Is it too idealistic to expect that dissolving the entrenched fantasies about archival research will make room for new methods? Is it naïve to imagine a space that, in putting into practice the archival turn’s preliminary insights about disciplinary and disorder, can support experimentation, facilitate connection across professions and disciplines, and enable new discoveries?','Disciplinarity and Disorder','','inherit','open','open','','2199-revision-33','','','2012-11-14 01:21:49','2012-11-14 01:21:49','',2199,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/2199-revision-33/',0,'revision','',0),(3572,19,'2012-11-15 04:33:00','2012-11-15 04:33:00','<h3>Undergraduates in the Archives: Student Project Case Studies</h3>\r\n“So, how do we bring students to our table?” That was the question a special collections librarian asked in 1999. <sup><a id=\"ref1\" href=\"#fn1\">[1]</a></sup> Now, in 2012, the question is no longer how: “Teaching with primary source materials is unquestionably ‘hot’ in higher education [as] authentic rare books, manuscripts, or archival documents\" appear in many undergraduate classrooms. <sup><a id=\"ref2\" href=\"#fn2\">[2]</a></sup>\r\n\r\nThe table is full; the effort to bring undergraduates into special collections and archives has been enormously successful. What matters now is how to turn these encounters to account. What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? How do librarians, curators, archivists, instructors, and technology specialists collaborate to get such projects off the ground? How do we make use of these encounters to develop research and interpretive skills, showcase students’ findings, and learn from their discoveries? What do students report that they have gained through their archival experiences?\r\n\r\nIn this issue of “Archives, Remixed,” we present six case studies illustrating inventive solutions to these dilemmas of success. The parameters and formats of these projects demonstrate the diversity of ways to teach with primary source materials: not all of the projects take place in a classroom context (although some do); not all the student work is authored singly (although some is). Some projects involve one institution, while others involve partnerships with local organizations or other universities or colleges; some projects are more analog, others more digital; and some end when the student’s work is complete, while others continue. The projects all have historical claims, but the array of objects under consideration—architectural drawings, photographs, ancient statuary, newspaper clippings, rare books, personal mementos—speaks to many disciplines. The academic institutions where these projects originate, from a community college to liberal arts colleges to a research university, vary as much as the projects themselves.\r\n\r\nEach case study focuses on the work students produce in these archival encounters. On each case-study page, you will find a sample of student work accompanied by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who structured the projects and guided students through them; as well as links to related or additional resources.\r\n\r\nWe invite you to explore, to comment, and to use these case studies as fodder for your own research and teaching projects.\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[1]</sup>Allen, Susan M. “Rare Books and the College Library: Current Practices in Marrying Undergraduates to Special Collections.” Rare Books &amp; Manuscripts Librarianship 13.2 (Spring 1999): 110-19.</div>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[2]</sup> Bahde, Anne. “Taking the Show on the Road: Special Collections Instruction in the Campus Classroom.” RBM: A Journal of Rare Books, Manuscripts, &amp; Cultural Heritage 12.2 (Fall 2011): 75.</div>','Student Project Case Studies','What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? These six case studies answer this question by showcasing student work that emerges from hands-on archival work, including course papers, robots, digitized images, documentary film, and more.  Each case study features the student work, accompanied and contextualized by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); and commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who worked with the students.','inherit','open','open','','1711-revision-47','','','2012-11-15 04:33:00','2012-11-15 04:33:00','',1711,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1711-revision-47/',0,'revision','',0),(3574,19,'2012-11-15 04:33:48','2012-11-15 04:33:48','“So, how do we bring students to our table?” That was the question a special collections librarian asked in 1999. <sup><a id=\"ref1\" href=\"#fn1\">[1]</a></sup> Now, in 2012, the question is no longer how: “Teaching with primary source materials is unquestionably ‘hot’ in higher education [as] authentic rare books, manuscripts, or archival documents\" appear in many undergraduate classrooms. <sup><a id=\"ref2\" href=\"#fn2\">[2]</a></sup>\r\n\r\nThe table is full; the effort to bring undergraduates into special collections and archives has been enormously successful. What matters now is how to turn these encounters to account. What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? How do librarians, curators, archivists, instructors, and technology specialists collaborate to get such projects off the ground? How do we make use of these encounters to develop research and interpretive skills, showcase students’ findings, and learn from their discoveries? What do students report that they have gained through their archival experiences?\r\n\r\nIn this issue of “Archives, Remixed,” we present six case studies illustrating inventive solutions to these dilemmas of success. The parameters and formats of these projects demonstrate the diversity of ways to teach with primary source materials: not all of the projects take place in a classroom context (although some do); not all the student work is authored singly (although some is). Some projects involve one institution, while others involve partnerships with local organizations or other universities or colleges; some projects are more analog, others more digital; and some end when the student’s work is complete, while others continue. The projects all have historical claims, but the array of objects under consideration—architectural drawings, photographs, ancient statuary, newspaper clippings, rare books, personal mementos—speaks to many disciplines. The academic institutions where these projects originate, from a community college to liberal arts colleges to a research university, vary as much as the projects themselves.\r\n\r\nEach case study focuses on the work students produce in these archival encounters. On each case-study page, you will find a sample of student work accompanied by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who structured the projects and guided students through them; as well as links to related or additional resources.\r\n\r\nWe invite you to explore, to comment, and to use these case studies as fodder for your own research and teaching projects.\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[1]</sup>Allen, Susan M. “Rare Books and the College Library: Current Practices in Marrying Undergraduates to Special Collections.” Rare Books &amp; Manuscripts Librarianship 13.2 (Spring 1999): 110-19.</div>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[2]</sup> Bahde, Anne. “Taking the Show on the Road: Special Collections Instruction in the Campus Classroom.” RBM: A Journal of Rare Books, Manuscripts, &amp; Cultural Heritage 12.2 (Fall 2011): 75.</div>','Student Project Case Studies','What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? These six case studies answer this question by showcasing student work that emerges from hands-on archival work, including course papers, robots, digitized images, documentary film, and more.  Each case study features the student work, accompanied and contextualized by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); and commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who worked with the students.','inherit','open','open','','1711-revision-48','','','2012-11-15 04:33:48','2012-11-15 04:33:48','',1711,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1711-revision-48/',0,'revision','',0),(3575,19,'2012-11-15 04:35:32','2012-11-15 04:35:32','The primal scene of archival research takes place in a dreary reading room. A researcher sits at her table, inert. An archivist enters, pushing a cart that bears a dozen dusty gray boxes. (Can we get a close-up of a box, please, to show the label with the long call number? [note type=\'figure\' number=\'1\'] <iframe src=\"http://www.youtube.com/embed/5ykY6moIaDE?rel=0\" frameborder=\"0\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\"></iframe> A staged archival encounter.[/note]) The archivist unhinges a box, removes a numbered file folder and, placing it at the researcher’s elbow, steps back. The researcher stirs, then sits upright with a mechanical jolt. She turns sharply in the direction of the folder, flips it open and cocks her head towards the flimsy leaves inside; now she is reading. (Zoom in on the eyes as they click into focus.) Now she is reading, and now she truly comes alive; she bends towards the papers, taps her forehead in thought. A sheaf of blank paper and a pencil appear on her table, and she begins taking notes. Her fingers fly—and soon, so do the pages she is writing upon. Caught up in eddies of excitement, they swoop to the ceiling and around the room and down to the floor, where they fall together into perfect piles. Bindings sprout from the outer strata; the pages sew themselves into bright, tight, hard-cover books. These the archivist gathers up and places on the shelves that line the room, next to other books and gray boxes.\r\n\r\nI may have it backwards: in other versions of the fantasy, it is the archive that is first animated by the presence of the researcher, a Dr. Coppelius who waves a pencil and sets the dusty boxes to dancing. But either way, the archival imaginary posits a symbiotic relationship between researcher and source, a photogenic pas de deux that leads to a finished scholarly product. This work, in turn, enters the archive for the next generation of researchers; it might even be taken apart again so that its secret ingredients (notes, drafts, letters) can themselves be served up in a series of boxes. Such a strangely private form of publication it creates, the coupling of researcher and source.\r\n\r\nWhat Freudian trauma results from witnessing this sight? Only the harm that myth inflicts. This primal scene is a fiction, a dream of perfect union between researcher and source that ignores, first of all, the full cast of characters. What about the archivist, who is rendered invisible? What about all those within and without the archive, upon whose labor—acquiring, preserving, organizing, reading, cataloging, describing, interpreting, analyzing, debating, teaching, writing, editing, digitizing, referencing and publishing—the current project depends? More a barn dance than a pas de deux: an archival encounter is an enactment of social authorship long before the researcher enters the room. [note number=\'1\']See Jerome McGann, A Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1983) on the idea of social authorship, which could be described as “the dialectic between the historically located individual author and the historically developed institutions of literary production” that help create a work, eg, printers, publishers, editors and readers (81).[/note]\r\n\r\nBut even a barn dance is much too mannered a metaphor. The sketch above misleads us more generally about the experience on the ground. Doing time in an archive is often tedious, uncomfortable and bewildering. For librarians, there is the struggle to promote and simultaneously protect what you have; the difficulty of fitting unruly materials into arrangements and workflows; and worries about space and time—where to put it all, how to address your backlog. For researchers, there is the struggle to locate the archives you need and what matters to you inside them; the uncertainty created by unruly data; and worries about time and space— how to access what you need during your research trip, how to record and organize the information you gather. At both ends, the archival encounter is counter-cinematic and erratic, days of monotonous sifting and dead-ends punctuated by one or two, or maybe zero, hidden moments of vivid, peculiar joy.\r\n\r\nSo archival research does not fulfill its ideal outline. So what? Who cares? Why dredge up the fantasy? Because the fantasy continues to structure our archival encounters—what we expect and undertake in the reading room, what we allow it to mean. Twenty years ago, Alice Kaplan observed that “conventional academic discourse requires that when you write up the results of your archival work, you tell a story about what you found, but not about how you found it. The less the seams of your findings show, the better your discoveries lend themselves to use by others… tell[ing] these stories breaks their spell and violates the spirit of the archives.” [note number=\'2\']Alice Yaeger Kaplan, “Working in the Archives,” Yale French Studies 77 (1990): 103-116; 103, 107.[/note] With a few word changes, the same could be said about what counts as professional archivist discourse: the impersonal, neutral genre of the finding aid, for example, should say what is in a collection, but should not discuss what is confusing or missing in it, or the problems it posed in processing. [note number=\'3\']See, for example, James M. O’Toole and Richard J. Cox, Understanding Archives and Manuscripts (Chicago: Society of American Archivists, 2006).[/note] Despite the growing recognition that this sequestration is never completely possible—that the material conditions and social relations of the archive shape the work we do in it—that work continues to be represented in professional and scholarly publications as if it is. Despite the recent call to move to the fore “the backstage of the archives—how they are constructed, policed, experienced, and manipulated” in order to support historiography “not merely [as] a project of fact-retrieval” but as “a set of complex processes of selection, interpretation, and even creative invention,” the “backstage” stays in the background. [note number=\'4\']Antoinette Burton, “Introduction: Archive Fever, Archive Stories,” Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History, ed. Burton (Durham: Duke University Press, 2005), 7-8.[/note] Antoinette Burton may be correct that “many if not most historians operate under the assumption that history is a highly interpretive act,” but this belief is not yet reflected in the archival encounter: the ways that researchers (not just historians) and librarians report their experiences with primary sources; the ways that librarians and researchers work together; the ways librarians and researchers regard the involvement of “non specialists.” [note number=\'5\']Burton, 8. Burton notes that “whether historians concede or fully countenance the impact of such contingencies on their work is another question. They rarely speak of them, and even more rarely do they do so in print” (8). Her books recuperates some of those archive stories but this effort, I’ll suggest below, is hampered by other kinds of obligations.[/note] While the advent of digitization and electronic resource sharing has revolutionized the research landscape, making primary sources public in unprecedented ways, there remains in the archive a habitus of secret knowledge—the “spell” that Kaplan is loathe to break. This is not necessarily intentional. It is rather the effect of layering recent shifts in technology, theory and professional definition onto older foundations: petrified conditions, relations, expectations and systems that continue to operate in part through the enduring power of fantasies about research. What we have in the archive is a stratified groundwork that still governs our archival encounters.\r\n\r\nBut, you will object, the archive has already changed. Now we have the “archival turn”—the scholarly interest in the archive not just as a source of evidence but as an epistemological mode. Surely, this attention to the constructedness of the archive has led to a revealing reconsideration of what actually goes on inside an archive; surely, as a result, those archaic fantasies have diminished. Have they? In what follows, I begin by unearthing one stratum of the archival turn, the decade of the 1990s, as represented by three texts: Kaplan’s essay mentioned above, “Working in the Archives” (1990) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'2\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-369\" title=\"fig 2 kaplan\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-2-kaplan-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photocopy of Alice Yaeger Kaplan’s “Working in the Archives.”[/note]; Derrida’s Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression (1994/95) [note type=\'figure\' number=\'3\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-372\" title=\"fig 3 Derrida\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-3-Derrida-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Print out of Jacque Derrida’s “Archive Fever” from Diacritics.[/note]; and Carolyn Steedman’s Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (2001). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'4\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman.jpg\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-373\" title=\"fig 4 steedman\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-4-steedman-300x224.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Library copy of Carolyn Steedman’s Dust.[/note] [note number=\'6\']Jacques Derrida, “Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression,” Diacritics 25.2 (Summer 1995): 9-63. Web. 1 Dec. 2010. Carolyn Steedman, Dust: The Archive and Cultural History (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2001).[/note] A cross-examination of these three texts reveals a pattern of interests, a set of efforts to defy customary practices—but only, it turns out, “in theory.” While certain practices are challenged in these texts, they leave mostly intact the older strata of archival research fantasies and conventions. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman do not dislodge the forces that organize the actual archival encounter.\r\n\r\nHow does this happen? Why is practice so stubborn? We need another take on archival practice: not practice in theory, but practice in action; not the 1990s, but now; not in terms of textual patterns, but in terms that suit the subject: the terms of the archival encounter itself, and the eccentric, anachronistic and even monotonous experience it generates. My second look at practice will take the form of a series of vignettes about a real-life archive, the George Peabody Library in Baltimore. While this narrative structure may seem to recreate the division of labor between theory and practice, my hope is that—by giving practice the last word—we’ll be in a better position to synthesize the two.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>I. “The library doubles as a detective’s office.” [note number=\'7\']Kaplan, 114.[/note]</strong>\r\n\r\nThe archival turn could be dated to the founding of “scientific” history in the mid-nineteenth century, or to the development a century later of the quantitative methods of the Annales School, or to other evidence-based movements in the history of history, but what is generally meant by this phrase corresponds with the formation of cultural studies and the use of the archive as a conceptual category. That is, the archival turn has to do with the notion of the “figuration” of the archive, a parallel decline in its empirical authority and a related expansion of its relevance within domains that are not exclusively historiographic, like art, literary criticism, textual studies, media studies and information studies. [note number=\'8\']See the use of the term in, for example, Carolyn Hamilton et al, eds., Refiguring the Archive (Boston: Kluwer Academic Publishers, 2002), Cheryl Simon, ed., Following the Archival Turn: Photography, the Museum, and the Archive, special issue of Visual Resources: A Journal of Documentation 18.2 (June 2002), and Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009). This turn is partially construed as a “move from archive-as-source to archive-as-subject,” but also by the earlier metaphorical interest in “the archive” that goes back to the 1980s (Stoler, 44-45) and by Foucauldian descriptions of archives as “‘monuments to particular configurations of power” (Hamilton, qtd. in Burton, 6).[/note] But it is not irrelevant that a devotion to archival methods precedes by many decades contemporary theories of the archive; if the archival turn lacks a precise origin, this (we will see) is completely in keeping with its own preoccupations.\r\n\r\nKaplan therefore represents in some ways an arbitrary beginning for this cross-examination—clearly the archive as a conceptual category predates 1990—but her article does initiate something new: the recognition that there is something called an “archive story” that must remain hidden in order for the official “results” to function authoritatively. In admitting this bit of professional legerdemain, and in telling her own archive story in a prestigious scholarly journal, Kaplan not only commits the violation she prohibits but also contradicts it. Through its publication, Kaplan’s own archive story is elevated to the status of “results”—a kind of research that shadows conventional academic discourse. Indeed, Kaplan notes, such “fables” of research “can be analyzed like a text,” a “mixed up genre” that combines the “redemptive detective fiction” with the epic and the dime novel. [note number=\'9\']Kaplan, 106, 107.[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan’s archive story thus marks a distinctive moment in the archival turn—one which gained its most prominent authorization in 1994, with a paper that Jacques Derrida delivered (in English) to a conference sponsored by the Freud Museum, the Courtauld Institute and the Société International d’Histoire de la Psychiatrie et de la Psychoanalyse. Called initially “The Concept of the Archive: A Freudian Impression,” the lecture was revised and published in 1995 as Mal d’archive: une impression freudienne in French; the published English version echoed the French publication with its 1995 title Archive Fever. As Carolyn Steedman points out in Dust: The Archive and Cultural History, however, this work that has been assigned a seminal status in archival studies “for the main part… is not about archives at all, but is rather a sustained contemplation of a work of history, of Yosef Hayim Yerushalmi’s Freud’s Moses: Judaism Terminable and Interminable (1991),” itself a sustained contemplation of Moses and Monotheism—which (according to Steedman) Yerushalmi examines through Freud’s description of the work as a “‘historical novel,’ or a kind of historical story,” undertaken “in order to understand the period of baroque anti-semitism through which he was living.” [note number=\'10\']Steedman, 3.[/note]\r\n\r\nDizzy yet? Let’s undertake a more careful reading of this splatter pattern of intra-references—or, to stick with the archaeological metaphor, let’s call them groups of potsherds buried in the 1990s layer of the “archival turn.” Digging down to reassemble them reveals a set of interests with special implications for archival practice.\r\n\r\nThe most prominent group of sherds to note are the fragments of disciplinarity: the inter-, multi- or perhaps simply anti-disciplinarity of the texts, authors and audiences caught up in these three archival addresses. Kaplan, an American scholar of French literature, calls the post-theory exchange between literature and history a “cross-pollination of desire between historians and literary critics” undertaken “with the curiosity and energetic passion of collectors.” [note number=\'11\']Kaplan, 107-108.[/note] Steedman, a British historian, performs this cross-pollinating process without comment: her epigraph to Dust is from Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, one chapter treats George Eliot’s Middlemarch in depth… in fact, almost every chapter depends on a literary text. [note number=\'12\']Another chapter invokes Elizabeth Gaskell’s 1848 novel Mary Barton, a third is anchored by W. H. Auden’s poem “Homage to Clio,” and a fourth finds its most eloquent examples in Charles Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend.[/note] Derrida, a French philosopher, produced a work that has been exceptionally mobile across disciplines, forms, languages and professional domains. He gave his initial talk to an audience drawing on three different kinds of institutions; Mal d’Archive was published in book form in both French and English, but also made an intermediate appearance as an essay in the journal diacritics. All of these texts, it seems, respond to the provocations of the archive—to the materials and circumstances of discovery—rather than to the disciplinary distinctions that arguably divide the archive from itself.\r\n\r\nArchive Fever has become a founding document even though, as Steedman notes in the very beginning of her book, many in Derrida’s audience “knew the ‘archival turn’ to be [already] well underway” at the time of his talk. [note number=\'13\']Steedman, 2.[/note] As it happens—and this is the second group of sherds I see—these three essays have in common an investment in or a problem with origins, especially with the failure of origins. Derrida, for example, defines archive fever as a kind of Freudian death drive—a drive to fix and preserve which at the same time “works to destroy the archive: on the condition of effacing but also with a view to effacing its own ‘proper’ traces… [it] is above all anarchivic, one could say, or archiviolithic… the archive always works, and a priori, against itself.” [note number=\'14\']Derrida, 14. [/note] If the archival impulse is driven to destroy its own work, then the question of origins ultimately point to the larger question of disorder. [note number=\'15\']The disorder of origins makes frequent appearances in the essay but one example will make the point—in the “Preamble” where he recounts how he titled the talk that he had not yet written and was to give at the Freud Museum. The “Preamble” starts with his reflections on the word “impression,” which has several simultaneous registers of meaning for him. One of these is the “scriptural or typographic” register: that of the graphic impression that marks a substrate. In English, “impression” is phonetically related to “repression” and “suppression,” key words in the Freudian vocabulary, translated respectively from the German Verdrängung and Unterdrückung. English, that is, retains the rhyming relationship of the two German terms, and “impression” in this company comes to have a vaguely Freudian meaning as well. But in French, Verdrängung is “refoulement,” which means something more like expulsion, a driving away. The Freudian sense of the French word “répression” has been reserved for Unterdrückung. So English “repression” defines a phenomenon that must be distinguished from the French “répression.” These translational shifts “directly concern the structures of archivization,” Derrida says, “because they touch on the topic differences and thus on the location of the substrates of traces\" (Derrida, 23). In other words, how do you classify concepts whose meanings shift across languages? Where do you store them in a disciplinary grammar—or in an archive? How do these asymmetrical linguistic structures shape the establishment and extension of a new science? For Derrida, the difference between “repression” and “répression” is “enough to disrupt the tranquil landscape of all historical knowledge, of all historiography, and even of all self-consistent ‘scholarship’” (Derrida, 23).[/note]\r\n\r\nOrigin failure appears both as deliberate performance and as unintentional oversight in these essays. Derrida stages his own inability to get past “go”; with an introductory section, and subsequent sections sub-titled “Exergue,” “Preamble,” “Foreword,” his essay functions, Steedman notes, like a “primer offering instruction in the principle of deferral.” [note number=\'16\']A short notice called “Priere d’inserer,” published only in the French book version, carried the bulk of an argument for which there was no room in the lecture. Steedman, 7.[/note] For all her insight into Derrida’s titling adventures, however, Steedman’s title is marked by its own origin aporia. While her first chapter is devoted to Archive Fever—a “let’s begin at the beginning” homage to the seminal text—her book’s title, Dust, seems more indebted to the last sentence of Kaplan’s essay, published five years before Derrida’s: “Usually there is no mother lode, no original manuscript to be retrieved—the gold is all in the dust.” [note number=\'17\']Kaplan, 116.[/note] Kaplan, however, is never mentioned. [note number=\'18\']Kaplan also begins her essay with a brief consideration of the “arche,” the Greek and Latin term for the public records office, which is a major starting point for Derrida. Is he borrowing from her, or is she borrowing from him, given that this sort of etymological investigation was an established signature of Deconstruction?[/note]\r\n\r\nKaplan, for her part, unravels her own archive story. She gives us a kind of “whodunit”—her search for the ephemeral sources of Louis-Ferdinand Céline’s anti-semitic pamphlet Bagatelles pour un massacre (1937). She uses this account to exemplify her effort to “move through the archival process and recover some of the stories that get deleted in the final scholarly form.” [note number=\'19\']Kaplan, 104. For this reason, perhaps, Kaplan never reveals what she ultimately discovers in her successful search for Celine’s sources. In fact, it’s not entirely clear whether her pre-emptive and truncated treatment of her archive story is deliberate or not. Is this treatment meant to indirectly support her official claim about “results”? Or does the presence of the archive story suggest that telling it is an impulse she can’t quite control? Thanks, Lauren Coats, for helping tease this problem out.[/note] These beginnings are preemptively struck out, however, by what seems to be her main claim: “the passion of the archives must finally be used to eradicate all personal stories in the interests of the dry archival report, fit for a public.” [note number=\'20\']Kaplan, 103.[/note] Only in the “para-text”—a preface, for example—can the archive story appear without “interrupt[ing] or complicat[ing] the narrative so much that no results could ever be understood or perceived.” [note number=\'21\']Kaplan, 104.[/note] Despite this unequivocal assertion, the personal “whodunit” prevails in her essay, especially in the final section set in the Centre du documentation juive contemporain (CDJC). [note type=\'figure\' number=\'5\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-5-cdjc-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-423\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-423\" title=\"fig 5 cdjc\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-5-cdjc1-333x250.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Website for the Centre de documentation juive contemporain.[/note] It is this library, where Kaplan solves the mystery of Céline’s sources, that “doubles as a detective’s office.”\r\n\r\nWhile Kaplan’s research mystery resolves neatly, the truth about archives is that they are full of gaps, mistakes and excesses: in the words of one of the CDJC librarians, “‘ici on trouve tout’—there’s some of everything here”—but not, one could add, all of anything. [note number=\'22\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] Kaplan’s essay ends by nullifying both her detective story success and her “dry archival report,” by recognizing the disorder on which both of these narratives are unsteadily perched: “The archive is constituted by these errors, these pieces out of place, which are then reintegrated into a story of some kind.” [note number=\'23\']Kaplan, 115.[/note] “A story of some kind”? So much for “results.”\r\n\r\nKaplan sets us up to perceive one final potsherd pattern common to these three essays. If origin-less disorder is the order of the archive, it is a disorder that is generated out of human loss—a disorder that joins the body and the material world. The archive is always predicated on historical violence of some sort, whatever is censored, erased, excluded, trumped up, used up, misplaced, conquered, killed. Moreover, the archival categories that mark both the visible victories and hidden defeats do not stay within their walls; the archive is both a repository of existing schemas and a means of perpetuating them in the world beyond. While we might usually think of this disciplinary activity as a pact between the archive and its political authors, Steedman makes it clear that the dilemmas of order shape the archival body in many ways. For example, she takes literally the provocation of Derrida’s title Archive Fever to investigate the illness that researchers contract on the penultimate day of their trip to the archive: prompted by the anxiety of the task that remains unfinished, they end their research with night-sweats and head-aches. But what seems like a strangely specific malady is transformed by Steedman into a far-reaching social symptom: by relating the researcher’s “archive fever” to the terrible diseases suffered by tanners, skinners and other workers in the trades associated with paper and leather, Steedman expands our sense of who is in the archive—the bodies whose specialized labors populate our libraries with books, the many kinds of expertise the archive consumes.\r\n\r\nFor Derrida, the relation between the material archive and its human architects focuses on one kind of “graphic mark,” a particular “private inscription”: circumcision as the archival signature that is also the signature of patrimoine, with Freud’s relationship to his father as his main example. [note number=\'24\']Derrida, 19.[/note] It is perhaps not a coincidence that the body in question in both Kaplan’s and Derrida’s archive is Jewish, for that is a body that has come to symbolize the destructive power of classificatory regimes. Despite her contention that the private passions motivating research must be kept secret, Kaplan is fascinated by the “missing person stories” at the CDJC: by the “quantity of people who are there for personal reasons,” the survivors of occupation or deportation or camps, or their descendants, quietly looking up their lost ones or noisily dropping off their memoirs. [note number=\'25\']Kaplan, 113.[/note] This disorganized crowd of dead and living bodies tries to meet up with an equally disorganized crowd of materials—individual letters, trial transcripts, pamphlets, newspapers, first-person accounts, books, photographs, lists. The monumental task of match-making, the librarians’ work, is never complete. More papers are always generated or declassified or discovered, different human questions and needs emerge. The tidy choreography of the research fantasy, where the detective always finds her man, is not so much in evidence; what we have instead is corpora in excess of existing categories.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\nKaplan, Derrida and Steedman open up the archival body. They show us how paper meets the press of flesh; they make us feel just how intimate it is. [note number=\'26\']This interest in the corporeal dimensions and effects of order, its human and non-human components, has in common with their other gestures—an experimental attitude towards conventional disciplinarity and attention to the priority of disorder—the circumstances of the academic humanities in the 1990s. Since the archival turn came out of the ascent of cultural studies and allied intrigues in the 1970s and ‘80s, the circles in the Venn diagram of these ventures will necessarily overlap. We could also say that the archive took off when it did precisely because it made a clever new container for these preoccupations, thick in the humanities atmosphere at the time, where they were distilled and united. [/note] But for all their revelations about the limits of discipline and the multiplicities of disorder in the archive, these texts do not disclose the specific methods of engagement that led to their existence. While Kaplan offers up her own archival victory and outlines several other such stories, she still insists on their marginalization. [note number=\'27\']“Were the story of how you got the story really to be told inside the book, it would interrupt or complicate the narrative so much that no results could be understood or even perceived. Every story of success in the archives is emotionally charged, for only the most extreme emotions can drive people to the drudgery, to the discomfort, of sitting and sifting through dog-eared documents, manuscripts, microfilms. To reveal those emotions would not only gum up the narrative, it would threaten its credibility, by showing on what thin strands of coincidence, accident, or on what unfair forms of friendship, ownership, geographical proximity, the discoveries were based” (Kaplan, 104).[/note] If these texts are not concerned with actual practices in the archive or changes in its methodologies, what do they tell us?\r\n\r\nFirst, they suggest one reason for the perpetuation of myths about the archive. While Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are eager to show how archival materials do not conform to disciplinary distinctions—an enthusiasm related to other disruptive tendencies in late twentieth-century humanist scholarship –they seem less cognizant of a related phenomenon: the archive does not obey strict professional divisions, either. In Kaplan’s library-as-detective’s-office metaphor, the scholar is the detective, but does the “Eureka” moment belong only to the scholar who pieces together a narrative? What about the people who prepared those pieces? The archivist is still missing in action. Likewise, these essays do not dwell on missing boxes, illegible papers, neglected citations. There are no descriptions of archival slogging, no admissions that some materials failed to be relevant. And of course, there are no prescriptions for a different order. It is not the main aim of Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman to effect an evolution of practice; archival turnistas are not interested in disorder in order to re-order. But it is worth remembering that it is not in their professional interest as scholars to make their practices more transparent.\r\n\r\nSecondly, along the same lines, these texts inform us of the duplicity of speculative practices that reveal but cannot live out the instability of their archival mandates. Kaplan, Derrida and Steedman are put into the position of saying, “Yes, the archive is biased, idiosyncratic and treacherous—but the observations I draw from it are flawless.” [note number=\'28\']Derrida, unlike Kaplan and Steedman, makes no claims to work inside an actual archive, unless we consider Yerushalmi’s book as a kind of archive. But the fact that the essay was written self-consciously for presentation at the Freud Museum suggests that it was made out of an archive indirectly—in its construction, if not in its contents. [/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, these texts suggest why archival studies that attempt to be explicit about the messy nature of the archive have become instead “archive studies.” In more recent works like Refiguring the Archive (2002), Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions and the Writing of History (2005) and Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (2009), the archive appears as a subject in its own right. Although the archival scenarios that are put into play in each of these books incorporate different disciplines—art, history, anthropology, literature, post-colonial studies—they have essentially created a new discipline. “Archive studies” is something we might, in the taxonomy of disciplines, see as the love-child of cultural studies, history and archival methodology. Moreover, this new discipline has in common with other humanities disciplines a complete blindness about its professional investments; it does not register much awareness of the professional investments of librarians, archivists, curators and “non-specialists,” or invite insights from those perspectives. Perhaps this is inevitably what happens when academics must give legitimacy to something new, which in turn reflects the pressures of scholarly communication: a topic must be delineated in conventional terms in order to merit publication. [note number=\'29\']Perhaps this is also the moment to ask why we—I—have been using the term “archive” all along, with its statist resonances, rather than the term “collection,” which has institutional but also personal resonances. Does “archive” bring us closer to recognizably “serious scholarship”?[/note] But it is also true that in these more recent books, which openly investigate the archive’s power-politics, the disorderly drift of the archive and its hybrid corporeality have mostly been bent towards a particular narrative about the archive as an agent of history rather than as a set of ongoing practices. It is as if the historical archive has been assembled in ways that reflect and reiterate power relations, but the contemporary archive has not; it is as if the researcher’s own research travails remain a transparent layer over the body of work that it constructs. [note number=\'30\']Of course, this is precisely what Derrida meant about the “death drive” of the archival impulse. Archive Stories is something of an exception; researchers speak openly here about themselves as researchers. It is interesting, however, that this book—like Steedman’s—doesn’t cite Kaplan’s essay as a precursor text despite the clear titular link.[/note]\r\n\r\nPerhaps it would also be fair to note that, if archival studies are now being formulated as an interdisciplinary discipline called “archive studies,” this might be just another stage in the turn. It might be that what comes next reconfigures the premise of disciplinarity and the promise of disorder, with a different approach to the human/non-human interactions that the archive documents and realizes: a more diffuse and multi-vocal set of practices in place of a new field. One way to imagine this approach would be to fully embrace Kaplan’s idea of the archive story as an account of what one hoped for, looked for and found, what one did and did not do, in the archive—an account loosed from the quarantine she advocates. Some very basic genre precedents for the archive story do exist; the bibliographic essay and the methodology statement, for example, have played an important role in many disciplines in the past and still do in some. Instead of a para-textual nod towards that archive story (in Kaplan’s sense), why not create a parallel text written collaboratively by the researcher(s) and the librarian(s), or by one person acting in both professional capacities, that runs alongside the official “results”? Or in a set of expanded notes that address not just the “what” and “where” but the “how” and “why” of sources, which are lifted from their small-type, bottom-of-page basement up into the light? Or—to add yet another layer—parallel texts that also offer room for exchange with other researchers, archivists and even interested “non specialists,” like collectors, bibliophiles and fans?\r\n\r\nIf it is hasn’t been clear already that I have scrupulously avoided so far the other kind of archive, the digital archive, it will be now. What I am imagining would be far too complicated to produce or consult in print, but would not be at all difficult to organize as a digital object—as an archive in its own right. By avoiding the digital archive up to this point, I have also finessed the fact that our current archival research methods are completely reliant on the digital archive, along with the development of online research tools and electronic instruments of data discovery and organization. Those conditions probably bear the most responsibility for making the archive visible as something that warranted a “turn” in the first place. Even Derrida refers in each version of Archive Fever to the computer on which he is currently composing, predicting that email will not only totally transform the archive as he knows it, but will make his own essay obsolete.\r\n\r\nIn short, we already have in place both the theory and the media that will make it possible to enact a radical new archival practice. We have in place what we need to integrate the archive story into the archive itself, while making it visible as a new form of “results.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>II. The library doubles as a librarian’s office.</strong>\r\n\r\nI could end here, with a triumphant firing of the starter pistol and a rousing cheer. But that would be a bit disingenuous, given that the starter pistol for both the archival turn and the academic use of the internet actually went off decades ago. So the question remains, what stands in the way of the practical enactment of the archival turn’s speculative insights? I’d like to engage this question by following Kaplan’s example (but not her main claim): through some archive story-telling about the George Peabody Library. These three vignettes, identified as “typical” through conversations with my colleague Paul Espinosa, illustrate the intractable formations that present-day archival encounters come up against.\r\n\r\n<strong>1. The Perils of Description.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A group of Russian speakers visits the Peabody Library. The dozen men and women sit down around the screen that Paul has set up. He narrates a brief slide-show about the Peabody’s history, then leads them to a table where a dozen books from the collection have been laid out in cradles. He tells them about each book: what it is, why it is interesting. Each phrase of his presentation is painstakingly translated by the group’s leader into Russian.</blockquote>\r\nWhen academic and community groups visit the Peabody, my colleagues and I draw upon a standard tour-guide’s repertoire to describe it. We explain that George Peabody was a tradesman cum financier cum philanthropist who decided in 1857 that Baltimore needed a cultural institution to support the arts and learning. We talk about the evolution of the Peabody Institute, the four-part athenaeum that resulted, with its art gallery, lecture series, conservatory and free, public, non-circulating library. We discuss the model of philanthropy that George Peabody initiated and its wide-ranging influence. We point out the signal features of the awe-inspiring architecture of the current library, built to accommodate a rapidly growing collection in 1878. But when it comes to the library itself, as a collection, it is hard to know what to say. How to accurately translate the library’s holdings into a succinct and memorable statement that conveys an appropriate level of detail to different audiences? While it poses specific challenges, the Peabody also exemplifies more general problems of collection description.\r\n\r\nWe do not lack evidence for the evolving contents of the Peabody. We have the two-volume printed list of “desiderata” drawn up by the Peabody’s first librarian, John G. Morris. [note number=\'31\']Alphabetical Catalogue of Books to be Purchased for the Library of the Peabody Institute, Baltimore, Vols. 1 and 2 (Baltimore: John D. Toy, 1861, 1863).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'6\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-6-alpha-index-2/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-395\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-395\" title=\"fig 6 alpha index\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-6-alpha-index1-336x484.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"484\" /></a>Alphabetical index from Alphabetical Catalouge (“desiderata”).[/note] We have the collections register for several decades’-worth of acquisitions, recording bibliographic information and accession numbers that can still be found on the inside front end papers of many of the books in the collection. We have the librarians’ annual reports to the library trustees. [note number=\'32\']The Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore: The Founder’s Letters and the Papers Relating to its Dedication and History, Up to the 1st January, 1868 (Baltimore: William K. Boyle, 1868); and subsequent Annual Reports, 1869, etc.[/note] We have the library’s first printed catalogue, an unsurpassed achievement when first published in 1883, which listed 100,000 volumes by author and title. [note number=\'33\']Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Vols. 1-5 (Baltimore: Isaac Friedenwald, 1883; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, [1961?]; also on googlebooks), and Second Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute of the City of Baltimore, Including the Additions Made Since 1882, Vols. 1-8 (Baltimore: Deutsch Lithographic and Printing, 1896; reprinted Boston: G. K. Hall, 1961).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'7\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-7-print-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-396\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-396\" title=\"fig 7 print cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-7-print-cat-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Reprinted volumes of the Catalogue of the Library of the Peabody Institute (1883).[/note] We have the cards from the Dewey decimal system card catalogue, which replaced the printed catalogue in the 1910s. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'8\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-8-card-cat/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-397\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-397\" title=\"fig 8 card cat\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-8-card-cat.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>One of two card catalogues in the Peabody.[/note] Now, of course, the library’s collections are represented in an online catalogue that integrates them with other collections in the Hopkins library system.\r\n\r\nThese markers of the collection, however, fail to satisfy some contemporary research queries for reasons that are both practical and philosophical. The transfer of the printed index, organized by author, to the Dewey decimal system, organized by topic, represented a major epistemological shift that facilitated browsing by subject category. But of course, those categories are embedded in historically-bound notions about the subjects and structures of knowledge: Dewey was invented in the 1870s, and the 22 revisions it has undergone since then cannot overcome its essential organizational distortions. For example, the literature range—the 800s—offers only 10% of its categorical space to literatures in languages other than English, Germanic and Romance languages, Greek and Latin.\r\n\r\nIn the case of the Peabody, the Dewey arrangements overlay even older systems of knowledge hierarchy. Should we continue to offer, for example, a description of the Peabody’s “voyages and travels” books? This category represents a Renaissance schematic that was still in service in the mid-nineteenth century; while actual “voyages and travels” were extended by colonial ventures, the category was eventually disbanded. Dewey combined it with geography to make a sub-category of “history.” In keeping active the old-fashioned phrase “voyages and travels,” we are participating in a centuries-long project of euphemism about the material aims and actual activities of colonialism; we are privileging an early phase of the Peabody’s evolution over later phases; we may even be confusing modern researchers. And yet, as one of the topics in Morris’s “desiderata,” a considerable portion of the Peabody’s collection was acquired with the aim of fleshing out that descriptor. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'9\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-9-index-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-398\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-398\" title=\"fig 9 index detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-9-index-detail-336x274.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"274\" /></a>Detail of subject index from Alphabetical Catalouge No. 2 (“desiderata”).[/note]\r\n\r\nYet another classificatory dilemma is expressed by George Peabody’s original statement of the library’s purpose: that it “be furnished in every department of knowledge, with the most approved literature… It should consist on the best works on every subject… to satisfy the researches of students who may be engaged in the pursuit of knowledge not ordinarily attainable in the private libraries of the country.” [note number=\'34\']“Letters from George Peabody, Esq.: Baltimore, February 12th, 1857,” in Founder’s Letters, 7.[/note] The Peabody was founded as a cultural institution for the people of Baltimore, but from the first, this democratic ambition was in conflict with the intellectual aspirations of the first librarians and their desire to facilitate civic “self-improvement.” Morris (a doctor of divinity), his successor Nathaniel Holmes Morison (a schoolmaster and poet), and Morison’s assistant and successor Philip Uhler (who had trained as an entomologist) were all devoted to the nineteenth-century idea of the scholar-librarian. Morison wrote in one annual report that “Education always proceeds from the above downward, from the best to the common minds, from the leaders of the people to the people themselves. Furnish... the foundations of intelligence and thought, and they will... stimulate and improve the whole community.\" [note number=\'35\']Qtd. in Franklin Parker and Betty J. Parker, “PIB Ref. Library. 8-Morison\'s Philosophy of Excellence,” in George Peabody (1795-1869): A-Z Handbook of the Massachusetts-Born Merchant in the South, London-Based Banker, and Philanthropist\'s Life, Influence, and Related People, Places, Events, and Institutions. . 11 Mar. 2011.[/note] When the Johns Hopkins University was founded in 1876 in close proximity to the Peabody—in large part to take advantage of the library—the tendency of the librarians to address scholarly needs and “approved literature” over popular desires was given additional momentum. In keeping with these ideas, the Peabody’s librarians kept careful track of their readers’ choices, noting with special caution the numbers of novels that were requested. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'10\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-10-annual-report-detail/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-399\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-399\" title=\"fig 10 annual report detail\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-10-annual-report-detail-336x452.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"452\" /></a>Detail from First Annual Report showing chart of books read, with special mention of fiction.[/note] This schism at the heart of the library’s collecting paradigm was not unique to the Peabody; the question of reading matter—should it offer leisure for the masses or the means of social uplift?—was central to the public library movement of the second half of the nineteenth century. [note number=\'36\']See, for example, Alexis McCrossen, “’One Cathedral More’ or ‘Mere Lounging Places for Bummers’? The Cultural Politics of Leisure and the Public Library in Gilded Age America,” Libraries &amp; Culture 41.2 (2006): 169-188; Paul Sturges, “The Public Library and Reading by the Masses: Historical Perspectives on the USA and Britain 1850-1900,” ; Trustees of the Public Library of the City of Boston, Upon the Objects to be Attained by the Establishment of a Public Library, 12 Dec. 2010.[/note]\r\n\r\nFinally, the Peabody’s “desiderata” acquisitions and librarians’ selections were supplemented by book donations from local elites—bibliophiles with extensive private collections that included incunabula, classical authors in Renaissance editions, expensive illustrated atlases. At the same time, book donations came in from more plebian sources. The Peabody’s growth overlapped with the decline of the local social libraries, and it eventually absorbed some of the books from the Library Company of Baltimore, Robinson’s Circulating Library and several small professional and mechanics’ libraries. And I haven’t even touched on the Peabody’s twentieth-century fate.\r\n\r\nThe variety of philanthropic impulses, resource streams and classification philosophies that have fed the Peabody over the 150 years of its existence has led to a collection that does not so much map the nineteenth-century mind as signal its odd amalgam of popular and scholarly investments. The Peabody’s collection effectively evades succinct description—at least, any kind of description that pretends to be coherent, that is not perforated by its stakes in local history, library history, book history. But more importantly, it suggests the degree to which accident and opportunity and prejudice and wealth and the changing winds of cataloguing rules shape any archive. Description, which should be the most fundamental tool of communication between librarians and researchers, turns out to be utterly elusive. Yet we do not know what to replace them with, these inadequate descriptions, these exercises in stilted and partial translation.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>2. The Researcher’s Progress.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>I am preparing for my class about women and nineteenth-century print culture, which meets in the Peabody; we have reached the part of the syllabus where we look at gift books and annuals. I want students to examine several examples of these literary miscellanies, offering some illustration of their variety, and I have a list of such items that I have used in the past. But since I also want to show the students new acquisitions, I need to refresh my list. I will start with “gift book” as a keyword in the online catalogue.</blockquote>\r\nIn place of perfect and commensurate description—not possible—what we have are cataloguing systems that indexically represent collections through data and metadata that are, as I have already suggested, historically marked and inevitably inconsistent. In the case of the Peabody, these records are further compromised: Dewey cards developed from a nineteenth-century print index do not offer Library of Congress subject terms or detailed tables of contents; they also frequently lack other kinds of information. [note number=\'37\']Many of the electronic records for Peabody books have been copy-cataloged, that is, developed from records for identical books in other libraries. But these records might also be incomplete or inconsistent, given that many are quite old. The expense of original cataloging prevents our staff from creating full, new records for every item in the Peabody’s collection of over 300,000 titles.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'11\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-11-ddc-cards/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-400\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-400\" title=\"fig 11 ddc cards\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-11-ddc-cards-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Dewey cards for “gift books.”[/note] My search for “gift book” will turn up bequests—the term “gift book” is often attached to these donations—and it will miss many of the nineteenth-century gift books and annuals in our collection whose records lack subject classifications, or whose subject classifications reference the book’s contents, not its format. For example, the 1848 Rough and Ready Annual: or, Military Souvenir published by Appleton’s has been assigned the subject “Mexican War, 1846-1848—Anecdotes.” [note number=\'38\']Rough and Ready Annual (New York: D. Appleton; Philadelphia: G.S. Appleton, 1848).[/note]\r\n\r\nThe problem of finding is perhaps only a sub-set of the problem of description, but I want to give it special attention because it introduces another variable: the physical space of the object. My search for gift books in the Peabody also entails the privilege of retrieving the books from the stacks. There are two search processes, the intellectual and the physical, that I must navigate. The intellectual search in this case requires a variety of keyword/date range combinations, and ultimately, recourse to my prepared bibliography—a holdover from pre-catalogue research methods. Now the second search begins.\r\n\r\nThe Rough and Ready Annual is at 973.62 A5121, in the “general history of North America; United States” category. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'12\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-12-rr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-401\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-401\" title=\"fig 12 r&amp;r\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-12-rr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Rough and Ready Annual in the stacks.[/note] This call number range is on the second floor, west side. Other items on my list are in very different parts of the library. Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them, edited by the temperance writer T. S. Arthur and published in London, has been given the call number 813 A7910 duodecimo—fourth floor east, in the “American literature in English, fiction” section. [note number=\'39\']Orange Blossoms: A Gift Book for All Who Have Worn, Are Wearing, Or are Likely to Wear Them (London: Knight &amp; Co., [1857]). This title does not appear in at least one Arthur bibliography; see Donald A Koch, \"Timothy Shay Arthur,\" Antebellum Writers in New York and the South, ed. Joel Myerson (Detroit: Gale Research, 1979), from Literature Resource Center. Web. 19 Feb. 2011. To check on this, I need Mitchell Sharpe Jr.’s A Bibliography of the Published Books of Timothy Shay Arthur (Atlanta: Emory University, 1954), a typewritten quarto at 012 A791S, but it seems to be missing.[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'13\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-13-orange/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-402\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-402\" title=\"fig 13 orange\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-13-orange-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Orange Blossoms in the stacks.[/note] Arthur shows up again as co-editor of The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present, which has received more extensive description as it contains the first printing of Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “Siope.” [note number=\'40\']The Baltimore Book: A Christmas and New-Year\'s Present (Baltimore: Bayly and Burns, [1838]).[/note] We have two copies of this very genteel little gift book, one at 808.83 B2175 (rhetoric &amp; collections of literature), and one at 810.8 C297 (American literature in English). The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons is in the rare book room at the south end of the third floor. [note number=\'41\']The New Casket: A Gift Book for All Seasons (London: The Religious Tract Society, ca. 1850).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'14\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-14-rbr/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-403\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-403\" title=\"fig 14 rbr\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-14-rbr-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The rare book room.[/note] In this case, the book’s rarity has to do with a lovely fore-edge painting. It has been assigned to 820.8 N42017 (general books about literature). On the other end of the “rare” continuum is The Family Circle and Parlor Annual, volume 5 in a series, which is shelved up on the sixth floor with the periodicals at 051 F198 (serials in American English). [note number=\'42\']The Family Circle and Parlor Annual (New York: Comstock, 1847).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'15\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-15-parlor/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-404\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-404\" title=\"fig 15 parlor\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-15-parlor-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>The Parlor Annual in the stacks.[/note]\r\n\r\nI’ll fill out call slips for each book, stick the slips into red flags, and put the flags in an order that will help me chart a logical course through the stacks. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'16\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-16-slips/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-405\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-405\" title=\"fig 16 slips\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-16-slips-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Call slips and flags.[/note] It’s easiest to start on the sixth floor and work one’s way down, picking up books along the way. Usually I find other interesting items as I go, so I carry a batch of blank call slips and extra flags. (On this occasion, for example, I find The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse; published in 1813 and inscribed by its owner in 1817, it pre-dates by several years the official beginning of the gift book phenomenon. It might be more of a “literary almanac.” [note number=\'43\']The New American Reader: Containing Choice Pieces, in Prose and Verse (Philadelphia: David Hogan, 1813).[/note] [note type=\'figure\' number=\'17\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-17-new-reader/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-406\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-406\" title=\"fig 17 new reader\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-17-new-reader-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Inscription in The New American Reader.[/note]) Usually I am also unable to locate at least one of the books I have set out to find. Most likely the book has been misshelved, so I’ll check the quartos and folios, which are shelved separately; then I’ll check the rare book room’s octavo, duodecimo and quarto shelving areas. It used to astonish me that books were still shelved by format in the Peabody, but it does save space. At the same time, this shelving system—along with the multiple distinct areas within the library where books may reside, eg the rare book room, the reference section, the genealogy books, the Limited Editions Club, and several discrete named collections—means that retrieving a few books can take quite a long time, as I traipse up and down the six floors of the library, thread through stacks, open secured doors with multiple keys, turn lights on and off, and maneuver a book truck in and out of a tiny service elevator built in the 1920s. By the end of the journey, the library and I will have exchanged dust; I’ll take on a few streaks of red rot, and the library will have taken in particles from my body as well.\r\n\r\nWhile the Peabody is unique, these conditions are not in the end very unusual. In terms of the intellectual search, the absence of “gift book” from many of the catalogue records is no less egregious than the absence of other information—the names of all the contributors; the subjects of the illustrations. The metadata is potentially infinite. The “gift book” only exists as a category because of scholars who teased out this cultural phenomenon; it would be very difficult to define its absolute borders. In terms of the physical search, the Peabody might be messier than, say, a rare book library that has assigned current LC call numbers to all its contents and houses them in compact shelving, but it exemplifies the general on-the-ground situation. As I wind my way through the Peabody stacks, I remember how much more difficult it is to gather research materials from several different institutions.\r\n\r\nThe fact is, for scholars who rely on archives, research is something you do only after you have already undertaken a rigorous search. It is the search that provides you with the foundational sense of your subject. But the search is rarely acknowledged or accredited; even the foot-soldier craft of bibliography, the link between “librarianship” and “scholarship,” has largely lost its scholarly status.\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n\r\n<strong>3. An Architecture of Disctinction.</strong>\r\n<blockquote>A non-affiliate researcher contacts the Peabody about our H. L. Mencken collections. Since she will bring a couple of graduate students with her, I set up a group work space in one of the library alcoves where the three of them can share materials and talk without disturbing other readers. I pull the requested volumes with the help of some students and set the cart up within easy reach of the alcove. When the researchers arrive, I show them the Mencken collections on the ground floor. Then I lead them to their group work space and leave them, returning to the glassed-in office behind the reading room, the vantage point that allows me to monitor the otherwise empty reading room.</blockquote>\r\nIn “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” a team of Dutch sociologists investigates the library as a space that is strongly marked by situational norms—“knowledge-based beliefs about how to behave in particular situations that are shaped by social influence.” [note number=\'44\']Henk Aarts and Ap Dijksterhuis, “The Silence of the Library: Environment, Situational Norm, and Social Behavior,” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 84.1 (2003), 19.[/note] Their research leads them to argue, however, that such norms do not require direct social influences to be triggered; in fact, “the situation can activate mental representations of normative behaviors automatically. And once activated, these representations provide the knowledge necessary for guiding one’s own situationally appropriate behavior.” [note number=\'45\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 19.[/note] Physical environments do not necessarily prompt these behaviors; rather, the behavior “depend[s] on whether the environment is of immediate behavioral relevance.” [note number=\'46\']Aarts and Dijksterhuis, 20.[/note] Talking in a quiet voice in the library, a normative behavior, is only activated for those who plan to visit the library.\r\n\r\nTen years ago, when the research for this article was conducted, the “silence of the library” was still a widespread norm. While the situation is now often reversed—in our main campus library, we must designate specific quiet areas because otherwise a sociable undergraduate din would take over—the norm of silence does continue to preside at the Peabody. Because it is off campus, the Peabody is often attractively under-populated compared to the crowded main library; it is mostly used by advanced researchers and those who seek a quiet place to study. The large central open area catches and amplifies even the smallest noises. The shelf-lined alcoves on either side of this central area offer the appearance of privacy, but in fact are little echo chambers. Visitors immediately detect these acoustics, and—except for the periodic tour groups—most spend their time in the Peabody in silence. But it is not just the physics of sound that shape behaviors here, as the Dutch researchers show; the social expectations of the space prefigure those behaviors.\r\n\r\nIn setting up a group work space for the Mencken researchers, I have quite deliberately contravened the usual norm of silence. Clearly, I am not inviting them to shout, and by putting them in an alcove in back, I have taken measures to protect any quiet-seeking visitors who might arrive. But in accordance with new ideas about the use of library space, my colleagues and I have decided that we must accommodate group study even if it might occasionally disrupt the silence desired by others. As it happens, the Mencken researchers’ conversation is eventually interrupted by a tour group, and the two activities play out side by side.\r\n\r\nI must admit that at moments I have mixed feelings about the tour groups and even the study cohorts. While my pedagogical instincts tend towards cheerful hub-bub, there is a part of me that is still in awe of the sanctuary-like atmosphere of the Peabody. John Morris called the library a “cathedral of books,” and clearly that’s what architect Edmund G. Lind had in mind. The central area with its grand skylight and the alcoves on its sides is like a nave bordered with chapels. Lind didn’t need a psychological study of environment-based situational norms to tell him that he might activate different behaviors within his building. The great central space inspires reverence—your eye is drawn to the skylight the way it would be drawn to the rose windows of Chartres, and on its way up catches row upon solemn row of books stowed behind gilded railings, a testament to the accumulated wisdom of the ages. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'18\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-18-skylight/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-407\"><img class=\"alignnone size-full wp-image-407\" title=\"fig 18 skylight\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-18-skylight.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"448\" /></a>The skylight in the George Peabody Library.[/note] But step into an alcove, especially on the ground floor where each is filled with an immense wooden table, and you instantly feel something else, something no less grand but more human. The alcoves are study-sized, and once you sit down at one of those dark, gleaming, broad tables, it is like you are the master of your own private library. [note type=\'figure\' number=\'19\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-19-alcove/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-408\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-408\" title=\"fig 19 alcove\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-19-alcove-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Alcove in the George Peabody Library.[/note]\r\n\r\nIronically, the Peabody’s architecture was out-dated by the time it was completed. With the professionalization of librarianship and the evolution of library science in the late nineteenth century, librarians like William Frederick Poole advocated for a functional rather than decorative design of interior library space. [note number=\'47\']See William Frederick Poole, Remarks on Library Construction (Chicago: Jansen, McClurg, 1884).[/note] Moreover, the actual use of space in the Peabody in the late nineteenth century was at odds with its symbolic appeal. The main library was known as the “stack room”; readers were seated in a comparatively plain reading room on the other side of the main doors. In this arrangement, the librarians reigned inside the gorgeous “cathedral of books,” but the building’s potential to civilize the masses was lost.\r\n\r\nNow, of course, we do not send readers outside. Inside the “stack room,” we explicitly call visitors’ attention to its beauty to explain the connections between the library’s architecture and its collections—how both speak eloquently of Victorian values. At the same time, we who staff the library have relegated ourselves to its periphery. We work in the glassed-in room at one end that serves as a monitoring point and occasional classroom; the official “librarian’s office” in one corner—its luxurious proportions suggesting something like a sacristy and something like a robber baron’s lair—is now shared work-space stuffed with several desks and laden book trucks. There is another monitoring station near the main doors. I often do my work at the photography station, in the back of one of the alcoves [note type=\'figure\' number=\'20\']<a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/2011/04/archeology-of-archival-practice/fig-20-station/\" rel=\"attachment wp-att-409\"><img class=\"alignnone size-medium wp-image-409\" title=\"fig 20 station\" src=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/fig-20-station-336x252.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"333\" height=\"250\" /></a>Photography station in the George Peabody Library.[/note]. It offers some privacy but is close enough to the central reading tables to be accessible to readers.\r\n\r\nThe space of the Peabody initiates other situational behaviors besides the norm of silence, and our work-station arrangements testify to this. The spatial re-centralizing of readers and marginalization of staff is not merely practical; it is a reflection of the modern office of librarianship. We are there to be of service, in a para-textual position. Consequently, our work should be out of sight; it should be separate from and secondary to the work that readers do. Our locations call upon us, in other words, to support the scholar’s effort to hide the “seams of [her] findings” by hiding the ways we contribute to that work—by the ways we sometimes do that work.\r\n\r\nI think about these complications as I escort the Mencken researchers to their table and walk back to the glassed-in office, where there is nothing pressing for me to do. I’d rather spend more time talking with them. I’d like to learn about their research and introduce them to some underappreciated parts of the collection. I’d like to share with them what I learned curating an exhibition of Mencken-related magazines and writing about one of those magazines. But I don’t want to get in their way; it’s likely that they are ready to get on with work that they don’t see as connected to mine. The professional norms of the archive are strong, and although I know how to talk about my research in many contexts—in presentations, interviews, hotel elevators—I haven’t figured out how to mix my scholarly role with the curatorial role I am supposed to play here, in the Peabody. In the end, I say nothing. Professional segregation is another kind of silence in the library.\r\n\r\nWe cannot change the archaeological record beneath our feet, but we can rearrange the fossils we dig up to create new narratives. We can tell different kinds of archive stories, including the story of what research in the archive was and is. Is it too idealistic to expect that dissolving the entrenched fantasies about archival research will make room for new methods? Is it naïve to imagine a space that, in putting into practice the archival turn’s preliminary insights about disciplinary and disorder, can support experimentation, facilitate connection across professions and disciplines, and enable new discoveries?','Disciplinarity and Disorder','','inherit','open','open','','2199-revision-34','','','2012-11-15 04:35:32','2012-11-15 04:35:32','',2199,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/2199-revision-34/',0,'revision','',0),(3576,10,'2011-02-11 21:27:14','2011-02-11 21:27:14','test of subpage','Submit to Archive','','inherit','open','open','','27-revision-6','','','2011-02-11 21:27:14','2011-02-11 21:27:14','',27,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/27-revision-6/',0,'revision','',0),(3577,10,'2012-11-15 06:47:56','2012-11-15 06:47:56','Please contact the editor Lauren Coats if you have materials for or questions about submitting to <em>Archive Journal</em>: <a href=\"mailto:contact@archivejournal.net\">contact@archivejournal.net</a>.\r\n\r\nWe are now accepting proposals for Issue 3, a special issue on data curation.  Details and instructions below in the CFP, also available as a <a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/archive-journal_issue3_cfp.pdf\">pdf</a>.\r\n\r\n<strong>Call for Proposals for Archive Journal Special Issue</strong>\r\n\r\nThe editorial board of <em>Archive Journal</em> is pleased to announce an upcoming issue, “Curating the Digital,  Curating the Analog,” which will explore how data curation shapes and  informs library, archival, scholarly, and pedagogical practices.\r\n<blockquote>Understood  as the “active and ongoing management of data through its life cycle of  interest and usefulness to scholarly and educational activities” (<a href=\"http://cirss.lis.illinois.edu/CollMeta/dcep.html\">Data  Curation Education Program</a>),  data curation encompasses a range of activities: selection and  appraisal, description and representation, preservation, and the work of  making a resource usable and repurposable. How  we store, represent, and provide access to data affects not only those  in the world of libraries, archives, and museums, but also scholars,  faculty, students, and artists across the disciplines. What role does  data play in fields such as the digital humanities, or media studies?  How does data curation involve or affect scholarly production, or  approaches to pedagogy?\r\n\r\nGuest  editors, Patricia Hswe and Erin O’Meara, invite submissions on data  curation that address new practitioner roles, new types of scholarship,  new storage needs, and new stories that are fast emerging. Possible  topics for contributions include - but are not limited to - the  following:\r\n<blockquote>\r\n<ul>\r\n	<li>Data and archives</li>\r\n	<li>Data curation practices and challenges</li>\r\n	<li>Curation of born-digital materials</li>\r\n	<li>Humanities data curation issues and practices (including management of data for humanities projects)</li>\r\n	<li>Data curation program development</li>\r\n	<li>Legacy data</li>\r\n	<li>Digital forensics</li>\r\n	<li>Curating a mixed media collection (e.g., print and digital)</li>\r\n	<li>Donors and digital donations</li>\r\n	<li>Ethnographic methods and data curation</li>\r\n	<li>Creator attitudes toward, or perceptions of, data curation</li>\r\n	<li>New roles for librarians, archivists, curators, and researchers</li>\r\n	<li>Description methods and data models (e.g., metadata, finding aids, ontologies, etc.)</li>\r\n	<li>Tools, applications, platforms</li>\r\n</ul>\r\n</blockquote>\r\n</blockquote>\r\nWe  invite proposals for contributions of 5000-7000 words; shorter essays  (2000-4000 words) about new tools or services are also welcome. We  encourage proposals that include multimedia components (video, image, or  sounds in standard formats), as well as multi-modal or experimental  formats; please email the editors with any questions about submissions  in alternative formats. An <a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/home/about/#review\">open access, peer-reviewed journal</a>, <em>Archive Journal</em> seeks content that speaks to its diverse audience of librarians, scholars, archivists, and technologists.\r\n\r\nAuthors interested in submitting to this special issue of <em>Archive Journal</em> should send a 250-word abstract about their contribution and a 1-page  CV to Patricia Hswe (Digital Collections Curator, Penn State University  Libraries) at <a href=\"mailto:patricia.hswe@gmail.com\">patricia.hswe@gmail.com</a> and to Erin O’Meara (Archivist, Gates Archive) at <a href=\"mailto:omeara.erin@gmail.com\">omeara.erin@gmail.com</a> by Monday, July 30.\r\n\r\nThe deadline for completed submissions (developed from accepted proposals) is Wednesday, October 10.','Submit to Archive','','inherit','open','open','','27-revision-7','','','2012-11-15 06:47:56','2012-11-15 06:47:56','',27,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/27-revision-7/',0,'revision','',0),(3578,19,'2012-11-09 04:49:00','2012-11-09 04:49:00','','Hands-On Research with Rare Books and Ephemera ','This case study features work that two students completed in an English class at Goucher College. The course, The Archeology of Text, offers students an understanding of the social and historical frameworks for the production and consumption of text, beginning with the digital age and moving backwards in time. Students are also trained in bibliographic research skills, which they apply to objects in Goucher’s Special Collections library. These objects then become the subjects of a research paper that serves as the final course project.','inherit','open','open','','1047-revision-39','','','2012-11-09 04:49:00','2012-11-09 04:49:00','',1047,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1047-revision-39/',0,'revision','',0),(3579,19,'2012-11-16 05:26:15','2012-11-16 05:26:15','','Submit','','publish','open','open','','submit-2','','','2012-11-16 05:26:15','2012-11-16 05:26:15','',539,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/?p=3579',4,'nav_menu_item','',0),(3581,19,'2012-10-15 23:06:50','2012-10-15 23:06:50','The George Peabody Library is a remarkable research library housed in a remarkable building. The goal of the Peabody Library’s first librarian was to build a library that contained the best and latest literature in all branches of knowledge except law and medicine.</p>\r\n<p>Begun in 1860, the library collection contains over 300,000 volumes largely from the 18th and 19th centuries. Notable collection strengths are archaeology, British art and architecture, British and American history, biography, English and American literature, Romance languages and literature, Greek and Latin classics, history of science, geography, and exploration and travel including a large map collection.  The collection also includes some bound manuscripts.  View more information on the history of the Peabody Library.</p>\r\n<p>The George Peabody Library is part of the Sheridan Libraries Special Collections. A portion of the collection is represented on-line in the JHU Catalog. The most complete access to the collection is contained in the library’s pioneering printed catalog, Catalog of the Library of the Peabody Institute. Issued in 1883 and 1896, these detailed dictionary catalogs described books as well as articles within journals held by the library. Copies are available on site and in many research libraries.  An overview of the Peabody Library strengths is contained in the Collections and Holdings page.','George Peabody Library','','inherit','open','open','','810-revision-27','','','2012-10-15 23:06:50','2012-10-15 23:06:50','',810,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/810-revision-27/',0,'revision','',0),(3582,19,'2012-10-15 23:06:50','2012-10-15 23:06:50','Very strong in American literature and history collections.','Harry Ransom Center','','inherit','open','open','','812-revision-9','','','2012-10-15 23:06:50','2012-10-15 23:06:50','',812,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/812-revision-9/',0,'revision','',0),(3584,19,'2012-11-16 05:43:19','2012-11-16 05:43:19','<a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/castle-book1.png\"><img class=\"size-full wp-image-2008 clear\" title=\"Castle Book\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/castle-book1.png\" alt=\"Castle Book\" width=\"526\" height=\"357\" /></a><span class=\"caption\">Castle Book of Hours #2, use of Rouen. Manuscript, written and illustrated in Rouen, France, mid-15th century. Bryn Mawr College Library.</span>\r\n\r\nThe encounter of the person with the object: that is the object of this journal and the focus of this first issue.   This particular object, the <em>Castle Book of Hours #2</em>, a gift to the Bryn Mawr College Library, has been in my hands several times and is now part of an exhibition of objects from the College’s Special Collections.  All of the objects in the exhibition have been in the hands of students and faculty over the years, encountered in classrooms, used in assignments, touched.\r\n\r\nHow do people encounter the <em>Castle Book of Hours #2</em>? We get some answer to this question in <a href=\"http://www.brynmawr.edu/library/exhibitions.html\" target=\"_blank\">“Worlds to Discover”</a>, an exhibit in honor of the 125<sup>th</sup> anniversary of Bryn Mawr College. The exhibit features objects that are set off by statements from students and faculty about how the object matters.  With this <em>Book of Hours</em>, faculty member Martha Easton remarks that instead of one page – out of context – when one has this manuscript in one’s hands, one gets a better sense of how this object “might have been used and consumed.” The encounters for Anne Harding, a student at Bryn Mawr, seem to be moving her towards a career that will keep her in touch with objects like these.\r\n\r\n<!--[if IE]><object width=\"545\" height=\"349\" id=\"viddlerOuter-ab2b7739\" classid=\"clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"//www.viddler.com/player/ab2b7739/0/\"><param name=\"allowScriptAccess\" value=\"always\"><param name=\"allowNetworking\" value=\"all\"><param name=\"allowFullScreen\" value=\"true\"><param name=\"flashVars\" value=\"f=1&#038;autoplay=f&#038;disablebranding=f\"><object id=\"viddlerInner-ab2b7739\"><video id=\"viddlerVideo-ab2b7739\" src=\"//www.viddler.com/file/ab2b7739/html5mobile/\" type=\"video/mp4\" width=\"545\" height=\"307\" poster=\"//www.viddler.com/thumbnail/ab2b7739/\" controls=\"controls\" x-webkit-airplay=\"allow\"></video></object></object><![endif]--> <!--[if !IE]> <!--> <object id=\"viddlerOuter-ab2b7739\" width=\"545\" height=\"349\" classid=\"clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000\" codebase=\"http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0\"><param name=\"allowScriptAccess\" value=\"always\" /><param name=\"allowNetworking\" value=\"all\" /><param name=\"allowFullScreen\" value=\"true\" /><param name=\"flashVars\" value=\"f=1&amp;autoplay=f&amp;disablebranding=f\" /><param name=\"src\" value=\"//www.viddler.com/player/ab2b7739/0/\" /><embed id=\"viddlerOuter-ab2b7739\" width=\"545\" height=\"349\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" src=\"//www.viddler.com/player/ab2b7739/0/\" allowScriptAccess=\"always\" allowNetworking=\"all\" allowFullScreen=\"true\" flashVars=\"f=1&amp;autoplay=f&amp;disablebranding=f\" /><img src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-includes/js/tinymce/themes/advanced/img/trans.gif\" id=\"viddlerInner-ab2b7739\" class=\"mceItemMedia mceItemFlash\" width=\"320\" height=\"240\" data-mce-json=\"{\'video\':{},\'params\':{\'src\':null},\'name\':null,\'object_html\':\'&lt;video id=\\&quot;viddlerVideo-ab2b7739\\&quot; src=\\&quot;//www.viddler.com/file/ab2b7739/html5mobile/\\&quot; type=\\&quot;video/mp4\\&quot; width=\\&quot;545\\&quot; height=\\&quot;307\\&quot; poster=\\&quot;//www.viddler.com/thumbnail/ab2b7739/\\&quot; controls=\\&quot;controls\\&quot; x-webkit-airplay=\\&quot;allow\\&quot;&gt;&lt;/video&gt;\',\'hspace\':null,\'vspace\':null,\'align\':null,\'bgcolor\':null}\"></img></object> <!--<![endif]-->\r\n\r\nI want to point to another encounter with this same object.  The teacher of a fifth grade art class, teaching the students to create their own illuminated manuscripts, asked that I bring in examples of illuminated manuscripts, and this was one of two that I brought along.  The fascination to the students was two-fold:  one, was the value of the object – how much was it worth?  This is something that college students ask too, so I say something like – well, as much as maybe a house is worth.  But that fascination was replaced quickly by the issue at hand:  the students had work to do; they were creating their own illumination and they wanted to use and consume this manuscript themselves.  Each of them had an initial letter, the first letter in their first name, to create for their own manuscript.  So the hunt was on, and luckily for them and for me, each of those letters could be found in the pages of this manuscript. Unlike Easton and Harding, the fifth graders themselves consumed the manuscripts, as opposed to getting the sense of how the manuscript was consumed.  They served as a reminder of the many ways that objects now in special collections speak to those who encounter them, from the first users of the Castle Book of Hours #2 to 21st-century students of all ages.','Same Object, Different Audiences','The encounter of the person with the object: that is the object of this journal and the focus of this first issue.   This particular object, the Castle Book of Hours #2, a gift to the Bryn Mawr College Library, has been in my hands several times and is now part of an exhibition of objects from the College’s Special Collections.  All of the objects in the exhibition have been in the hands of students and faculty over the years, encountered in classrooms, used in assignments, touched.','inherit','open','open','','222-revision-49','','','2012-11-16 05:43:19','2012-11-16 05:43:19','',222,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/222-revision-49/',0,'revision','',0),(3587,2,'2012-11-16 06:52:09','2012-11-16 06:52:09','Please contact the editor Lauren Coats if you have materials for or questions about submitting to <em>Archive Journal</em>: <a href=\"mailto:contact@archivejournal.net\">contact@archivejournal.net</a>.\r\n\r\n&nbsp;\r\n\r\nThe submission window has closed for Issue 3, a special issue on data curation.   We will soon be accepting proposal for Issue 4; check back for more details. <strong></strong>\r\n\r\n&nbsp;\r\n\r\n<span style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"><strong>Call for Proposals for Archive Journal Special Issue on Data Curation</strong></span>\r\n\r\nThe editorial board of <em>Archive Journal</em> is pleased to announce an upcoming issue, “Curating the Digital, Curating the Analog,” which will explore how data curation shapes and informs library, archival, scholarly, and pedagogical practices.\r\n<blockquote>Understood as the “active and ongoing management of data through its life cycle of interest and usefulness to scholarly and educational activities” (<a href=\"http://cirss.lis.illinois.edu/CollMeta/dcep.html\">Data Curation Education Program</a>), data curation encompasses a range of activities: selection and appraisal, description and representation, preservation, and the work of making a resource usable and repurposable. How we store, represent, and provide access to data affects not only those in the world of libraries, archives, and museums, but also scholars, faculty, students, and artists across the disciplines. What role does data play in fields such as the digital humanities, or media studies? How does data curation involve or affect scholarly production, or approaches to pedagogy?\r\n\r\nGuest editors, Patricia Hswe and Erin O’Meara, invite submissions on data curation that address new practitioner roles, new types of scholarship, new storage needs, and new stories that are fast emerging. Possible topics for contributions include - but are not limited to - the following:\r\n<blockquote>\r\n<ul>\r\n	<li>Data and archives</li>\r\n	<li>Data curation practices and challenges</li>\r\n	<li>Curation of born-digital materials</li>\r\n	<li>Humanities data curation issues and practices (including management of data for humanities projects)</li>\r\n	<li>Data curation program development</li>\r\n	<li>Legacy data</li>\r\n	<li>Digital forensics</li>\r\n	<li>Curating a mixed media collection (e.g., print and digital)</li>\r\n	<li>Donors and digital donations</li>\r\n	<li>Ethnographic methods and data curation</li>\r\n	<li>Creator attitudes toward, or perceptions of, data curation</li>\r\n	<li>New roles for librarians, archivists, curators, and researchers</li>\r\n	<li>Description methods and data models (e.g., metadata, finding aids, ontologies, etc.)</li>\r\n	<li>Tools, applications, platforms</li>\r\n</ul>\r\n</blockquote>\r\n</blockquote>\r\nWe invite proposals for contributions of 5000-7000 words; shorter essays (2000-4000 words) about new tools or services are also welcome. We encourage proposals that include multimedia components (video, image, or sounds in standard formats), as well as multi-modal or experimental formats; please email the editors with any questions about submissions in alternative formats. An <a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/home/about/#review\">open access, peer-reviewed journal</a>, <em>Archive Journal</em> seeks content that speaks to its diverse audience of librarians, scholars, archivists, and technologists.\r\n\r\nAuthors interested in submitting to this special issue of <em>Archive Journal</em> should send a 250-word abstract about their contribution and a 1-page CV to Patricia Hswe (Digital Collections Curator, Penn State University Libraries) at <a href=\"mailto:patricia.hswe@gmail.com\">patricia.hswe@gmail.com</a> and to Erin O’Meara (Archivist, Gates Archive) at <a href=\"mailto:omeara.erin@gmail.com\">omeara.erin@gmail.com</a> by Monday, July 30.\r\n\r\nThe deadline for completed submissions (developed from accepted proposals) is Wednesday, October 10.','Submit to Archive','','inherit','open','open','','27-revision-10','','','2012-11-16 06:52:09','2012-11-16 06:52:09','',27,'http://stage.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/27-revision-10/',0,'revision','',0),(3592,2,'2012-11-16 06:53:11','2012-11-16 06:53:11','Please contact the editor Lauren Coats if you have materials for or questions about submitting to <em>Archive Journal</em>: <a href=\"mailto:contact@archivejournal.net\">contact@archivejournal.net</a>.\r\n\r\n&nbsp;\r\n\r\nThe submission window has closed for Issue 3, a special issue on data curation.   We will soon be accepting proposal for Issue 4; check back for more details. <strong></strong>\r\n\r\n&nbsp;\r\n\r\n<span style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"><strong>Call for Proposals for Archive Journal Special Issue on Data Curation</strong></span>\r\n\r\nThe editorial board of <em>Archive Journal</em> is pleased to announce an upcoming issue, “Curating the Digital, Curating the Analog,” which will explore how data curation shapes and informs library, archival, scholarly, and pedagogical practices.\r\n<blockquote>Understood as the “active and ongoing management of data through its life cycle of interest and usefulness to scholarly and educational activities” (<a href=\"http://cirss.lis.illinois.edu/CollMeta/dcep.html\">Data Curation Education Program</a>), data curation encompasses a range of activities: selection and appraisal, description and representation, preservation, and the work of making a resource usable and repurposable. How we store, represent, and provide access to data affects not only those in the world of libraries, archives, and museums, but also scholars, faculty, students, and artists across the disciplines. What role does data play in fields such as the digital humanities, or media studies? How does data curation involve or affect scholarly production, or approaches to pedagogy?\r\n\r\nGuest editors, Patricia Hswe and Erin O’Meara, invite submissions on data curation that address new practitioner roles, new types of scholarship, new storage needs, and new stories that are fast emerging. Possible topics for contributions include - but are not limited to - the following:\r\n<blockquote>\r\n<ul>\r\n	<li>Data and archives</li>\r\n	<li>Data curation practices and challenges</li>\r\n	<li>Curation of born-digital materials</li>\r\n	<li>Humanities data curation issues and practices (including management of data for humanities projects)</li>\r\n	<li>Data curation program development</li>\r\n	<li>Legacy data</li>\r\n	<li>Digital forensics</li>\r\n	<li>Curating a mixed media collection (e.g., print and digital)</li>\r\n	<li>Donors and digital donations</li>\r\n	<li>Ethnographic methods and data curation</li>\r\n	<li>Creator attitudes toward, or perceptions of, data curation</li>\r\n	<li>New roles for librarians, archivists, curators, and researchers</li>\r\n	<li>Description methods and data models (e.g., metadata, finding aids, ontologies, etc.)</li>\r\n	<li>Tools, applications, platforms</li>\r\n</ul>\r\n</blockquote>\r\n</blockquote>\r\nWe invite proposals for contributions of 5000-7000 words; shorter essays (2000-4000 words) about new tools or services are also welcome. We encourage proposals that include multimedia components (video, image, or sounds in standard formats), as well as multi-modal or experimental formats; please email the editors with any questions about submissions in alternative formats. An <a href=\"http://archivejournal.net/journal/home/about/#review\">open access, peer-reviewed journal</a>, <em>Archive Journal</em> seeks content that speaks to its diverse audience of librarians, scholars, archivists, and technologists.\r\n\r\nAuthors interested in submitting to this special issue of <em>Archive Journal</em> should send a 250-word abstract about their contribution and a 1-page CV to Patricia Hswe (Digital Collections Curator, Penn State University Libraries) at <a href=\"mailto:patricia.hswe@gmail.com\">patricia.hswe@gmail.com</a> and to Erin O’Meara (Archivist, Gates Archive) at <a href=\"mailto:omeara.erin@gmail.com\">omeara.erin@gmail.com</a> by Monday, July 30.\r\n\r\nThe deadline for completed submissions (developed from accepted proposals) is Wednesday, October 10.','Submit to Archive','','inherit','open','open','','27-revision-11','','','2012-11-16 06:53:11','2012-11-16 06:53:11','',27,'http://www.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/27-revision-11/',0,'revision','',0),(3593,2,'2012-10-29 22:59:52','2012-10-29 22:59:52','Engagement is a clear benefit.  Many students are visibly excited, even awed, by their first visit to our Davison Rare Book Room, where the class sessions take place.  The room is itself beautiful, echoing an 18<sup>th</sup> century English gentleman’s library with glass fronted bookcases and walnut paneling.  The setting, combined with the intriguing materials presented, often inspires students to focus especially closely on the objects on display.  The “wow” factor helps to make the experience memorable.  While the visit to SC&amp;A and attendant procedures (such as signing in, using pencils only, stowing bags, etc.) could easily be intimidating for some students, we work hard to ensure that the department is welcoming and friendly so that students feel encouraged to return on their own.\r\n\r\nPedagogically and intellectually, first hand encounters with special collections and archives facilitate students’ thinking outside the box as they identify and pursue research topics.  Direct contact with primary sources can fuel students’ interests, and many students find captivating the detective work involved in teasing out meanings from unedited and unglossed documents.  Learning about the history and technology of the book opens students’ eyes to aspects of texts that can be far less evident with the ubiquitous electronic sources and secondary readings that fuel so much of their research.  Through studying rare books and other special collections, students begin to understand that marginalia, provenance, typography, design, binding, illustrations—all the physical aspects of specific copies of a book—offer avenues for viewing the book in the context of its own time.  They begin to appreciate the many people beside the author who helped create the physical book.  Often the study of these aspects of books help to frame the text in such a way that students can step outside themselves to evaluate it and analyze it not just from a 21<sup>st</sup> century point of view, but within the intellectual and historical context of its own time.\r\n\r\nOf course the active use of Special Collections &amp; Archives by undergraduates benefits the department and the library as well.  The deep integration of SC&amp;A into Wesleyan’s curriculum helps to ensure that we are not marginalized, that we are truly part of the University’s academic community, and that are materials are well (albeit carefully) used.  As circulating collections and electronic resources in academic libraries become more homogenous, the strengths of archives and special collections holdings are often what distinguish an academic library from its peers at other institutions.','Undergraduates in the Archives - Taraba 2','','inherit','open','open','','1562-revision-18','','','2012-10-29 22:59:52','2012-10-29 22:59:52','',1562,'http://www.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1562-revision-18/',0,'revision','',0),(3594,2,'2012-11-18 04:23:02','2012-11-18 04:23:02','Engagement is a clear benefit.  Many students are visibly excited, even awed, by their first visit to our Davison Rare Book Room, where the class sessions take place.  The room is itself beautiful, echoing an 18<sup>th</sup> century English gentleman’s library with glass fronted bookcases and walnut paneling.  The setting, combined with the intriguing materials presented, often inspires students to focus especially closely on the objects on display.  The “wow” factor helps to make the experience memorable.  While the visit to SC&amp;A and attendant procedures (such as signing in, using pencils only, stowing bags, etc.) could easily be intimidating for some students, we work hard to ensure that the department is welcoming and friendly so that students feel encouraged to return on their own.\r\n\r\nPedagogically and intellectually, first hand encounters with special collections and archives facilitate students’ thinking outside the box as they identify and pursue research topics.  Direct contact with primary sources can fuel students’ interests, and many students find captivating the detective work involved in teasing out meanings from unedited and unglossed documents.  Learning about the history and technology of the book opens students’ eyes to aspects of texts that can be far less evident with the ubiquitous electronic sources and secondary readings that fuel so much of their research.  Through studying rare books and other special collections, students begin to understand that marginalia, provenance, typography, design, binding, illustrations—all the physical aspects of specific copies of a book—offer avenues for viewing the book in the context of its own time.  They begin to appreciate the many people beside the author who helped create the physical book.  Often the study of these aspects of books help to frame the text in such a way that students can step outside themselves to evaluate it and analyze it not just from a 21<sup>st</sup> century point of view, but within the intellectual and historical context of its own time.\r\n\r\nOf course the active use of Special Collections &amp; Archives by undergraduates benefits the department and the library as well.  The deep integration of SC&amp;A into Wesleyan’s curriculum helps to ensure that we are not marginalized, that we are truly part of the University’s academic community, and that our materials are well (albeit carefully) used.  As circulating collections and electronic resources in academic libraries become more homogenous, the strengths of archives and special collections holdings are often what distinguish an academic library from its peers at other institutions.','Undergraduates in the Archives - Taraba 2','','inherit','open','open','','1562-revision-19','','','2012-11-18 04:23:02','2012-11-18 04:23:02','',1562,'http://www.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1562-revision-19/',0,'revision','',0),(3595,2,'2012-10-24 02:53:56','2012-10-24 02:53:56','The most obvious benefit to Penn students is an opportunity to work on a project designed to be used by Native American community members and to hear the voices of elders. Penn, unfortunately, has no Native American faculty working in the field of American Indian studies, and the state of Pennsylvania has no Indian reservations. As a result, students generally have no contact with the people they are studying. Because many have never met a Native American, they are prone to thinking of Indians as being extinct. By getting students to look at archival materials from an indigenous perspective, they learn to think about such basic terms as “American,” “history,” “literature,” “intelligence,” and “writing” in new ways. Even if the students do not major in American Indian studies, the intellectual experience of understanding a very different cultural epistemology and ontology is inherently valuable.\r\n\r\nFrom a pedagogical perspective, the students learn research skills in archives that will serve them well no matter what their chose careers. In my experience, most undergraduates do not have the opportunity to work with archival or museum collections. Many students seem to enjoy the courses more once they have been to the American Philosophical Society and seen Thomas Jefferson’s hand written draft of the Declaration of Independence or held a drum owned by Sitting Bull in their hands. It makes history and culture come alive in a way that textbooks rarely achieve. I find that it requires a lot of preliminary work—selecting and skimming documents, scanning photographs, etc.—to prepare a class for doing research in the archives. This semester my students will be going through hundreds of pages of oral history transcripts about an Ojibwe Medicine Man to try to match them to historical documents and photographs in order to make them more useful to the community where the recordings were originally made more than 75 years ago. I find that the students’ work is more thoughtful and more inspired when they realize that their work will be shared with community members, rather than writing a paper that will be read by one person. Me.','Undergraduates in the Archives - Powell 2','The most obvious benefit to Penn students is an opportunity to work on a project designed to be used by Native American community members and to hear the voices of elders. Penn, unfortunately, has no Native American faculty working in the field of American Indian studies, and the state of Pennsylvania has no Indian reservations. ','inherit','open','open','','1580-revision-19','','','2012-10-24 02:53:56','2012-10-24 02:53:56','',1580,'http://www.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1580-revision-19/',0,'revision','',0),(3596,2,'2012-11-18 04:24:27','2012-11-18 04:24:27','The most obvious benefit to Penn students is an opportunity to work on a project designed to be used by Native American community members and to hear the voices of elders. Penn, unfortunately, has no Native American faculty working in the field of American Indian studies, and the state of Pennsylvania has no Indian reservations. As a result, students generally have no contact with the people they are studying. Because many have never met a Native American, they are prone to thinking of Indians as being extinct. By getting students to look at archival materials from an indigenous perspective, they learn to think about such basic terms as “American,” “history,” “literature,” “intelligence,” and “writing” in new ways. Even if the students do not major in American Indian studies, the intellectual experience of understanding a very different cultural epistemology and ontology is inherently valuable.\r\n\r\nFrom a pedagogical perspective, the students learn research skills in archives that will serve them well no matter what their chosen careers. In my experience, most undergraduates do not have the opportunity to work with archival or museum collections. Many students seem to enjoy the courses more once they have been to the American Philosophical Society and seen Thomas Jefferson’s hand written draft of the Declaration of Independence or held a drum owned by Sitting Bull in their hands. It makes history and culture come alive in a way that textbooks rarely achieve. I find that it requires a lot of preliminary work—selecting and skimming documents, scanning photographs, etc.—to prepare a class for doing research in the archives. This semester my students will be going through hundreds of pages of oral history transcripts about an Ojibwe Medicine Man to try to match them to historical documents and photographs in order to make them more useful to the community where the recordings were originally made more than 75 years ago. I find that the students’ work is more thoughtful and more inspired when they realize that their work will be shared with community members, rather than writing a paper that will be read by one person. Me.','Undergraduates in the Archives - Powell 2','The most obvious benefit to Penn students is an opportunity to work on a project designed to be used by Native American community members and to hear the voices of elders. Penn, unfortunately, has no Native American faculty working in the field of American Indian studies, and the state of Pennsylvania has no Indian reservations. ','inherit','open','open','','1580-revision-20','','','2012-11-18 04:24:27','2012-11-18 04:24:27','',1580,'http://www.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1580-revision-20/',0,'revision','',0),(3597,2,'2012-11-16 05:41:45','2012-11-16 05:41:45','“So, how do we bring students to our table?” That was the question a special collections librarian asked in 1999. <sup><a id=\"ref1\" href=\"#fn1\">[1]</a></sup> Now, in 2012, the question is no longer how: “Teaching with primary source materials is unquestionably ‘hot’ in higher education [as] authentic rare books, manuscripts, or archival documents\" appear in many undergraduate classrooms. <sup><a id=\"ref2\" href=\"#fn2\">[2]</a></sup>\r\n\r\nThe table is full; the effort to bring undergraduates into special collections and archives has been enormously successful. What matters now is how to turn these encounters to account. What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? How do librarians, curators, archivists, instructors, and technology specialists collaborate to get such projects off the ground? How do we make use of these encounters to develop research and interpretive skills, showcase students’ findings, and learn from their discoveries? What do students report that they have gained through their archival experiences?\r\n\r\nIn this issue of “Archives, Remixed,” we present six case studies illustrating inventive solutions to these dilemmas of success. The parameters and formats of these projects demonstrate the diversity of ways to teach with primary source materials: not all of the projects take place in a classroom context (although some do); not all the student work is authored singly (although some is). Some projects involve one institution, while others involve partnerships with local organizations or other universities or colleges; some projects are more analog, others more digital; and some end when the student’s work is complete, while others continue. The projects all have historical claims, but the array of objects under consideration—architectural drawings, photographs, ancient statuary, newspaper clippings, rare books, personal mementos—speaks to many disciplines. The academic institutions where these projects originate, from a community college to liberal arts colleges to a research university, vary as much as the projects themselves.\r\n\r\nEach case study focuses on the work students produce in these archival encounters. On each case-study page, you will find a sample of student work accompanied by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who structured the projects and guided students through them; as well as links to related or additional resources.\r\n\r\nWe invite you to explore, to comment, and to use these case studies as fodder for your own research and teaching projects.\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[1]</sup>Allen, Susan M. “Rare Books and the College Library: Current Practices in Marrying Undergraduates to Special Collections.” Rare Books &amp; Manuscripts Librarianship 13.2 (Spring 1999): 110-19.</div>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\"><sup id=\"fn1\">[2]</sup> Bahde, Anne. “Taking the Show on the Road: Special Collections Instruction in the Campus Classroom.” RBM: A Journal of Rare Books, Manuscripts, &amp; Cultural Heritage 12.2 (Fall 2011): 75.</div>','Undergraduates in the Archives','What happens in the archival laboratory, a place where students are actively involved in research, stewardship, publication, and exhibits? These six case studies answer this question by showcasing student work that emerges from hands-on archival work, including course papers, robots, digitized images, documentary film, and more.  Each case study features the student work, accompanied and contextualized by a project description; commentary on the project by the student(s); and commentary from the teachers, librarians, and/or technologists who worked with the students.','inherit','open','open','','1711-revision-50','','','2012-11-16 05:41:45','2012-11-16 05:41:45','',1711,'http://www.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1711-revision-50/',0,'revision','',0),(3598,2,'2012-11-15 04:30:35','2012-11-15 04:30:35','Behind a low glass case in Goucher’s Special Collection Room sits a humble blue book box that holds the first American edition of Jane Austen’s <em>Emma</em>. Valued from nineteen to seventy-five thousand dollars on ABEBooks.com, the edition is unquestionably valuable. But how did this extremely rare copy end up in Goucher’s modest library? In a letter to David Gilson on August 5th, 1967 Alberta Burke revealed that she owned a copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma, which formerly belonged to Siegfried Sassoon. The two corresponded from 1967 to 1975 until Alberta fell ill. Throughout this time a steady thread of conversation exists about the Philadelphia Emma.\r\n\r\nAfter seeing the interest that both Alberta Burke and David Gilson had in the first American edition of Emma, perusing the pages and studying the tome in detail was essential to discover first hand the majesty of the volumes.\r\n\r\n<span id=\"attachment_1319\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"width: 281px;\"><a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image2_kendall.jpg\"><img class=\"size-medium wp-image-1319  \" title=\"goucher_student work image2_kendall\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image2_kendall-281x250.jpg\" alt=\"First Edition of Emma (1816)\" width=\"281\" height=\"250\" /></a> <span class=\"wp-caption-text\">Front pastedown and first flyleaf of the Burke Collection copy of the American first edition of Emma (1816), with the book plates of the Countess of Dalhousie, Frank J. Hogan, and Alberta H. Burke.</span></span>\r\n\r\nThe inside of the custom-made blue book box is coated with a light perimeter of oil damage. Nancy Magnuson, one of Goucher’s librarians and liaisons for the Special Collections, said that Alberta Burke felt so attached to the books and bindings in her collections that she oiled the leather twice a year, far more then necessary. The first volume’s brown leather is faded and has been repaired after cracking. On the inside cover are two pasted rectangular cutouts. The first, measuring 3.5cm tall and 8cm wide, reads “Countess of Dalhousie” in delicate black print. The mysterious figure of the Countess Dalhousie intrigued both David Gilson and Alberta Burke. In a letter dated August 15th 1967 Burke wrote, “The Countess of Dalhousie’s signature, but no date, is on the title page. I like to think, most romantically, but with no evidence that she purchased it in new york when she was in Canada with her husband who was governor-general there in 1819.”\r\n\r\nFive months later Burke and Gilson are still perplexed by the elusive Countess and her involvement with the edition. On January 12th, 1968 she writes to Gilson hoping to answer the questions he’d had about the 1816 Philadelphia Emma. She notes that over the first half of the page in volume I there is a note in pencil, “not I think in Sasoon’s writing, probably in that of Percy (Mathews) who was the agent who arranged the sale from Mr. Sasoon to Mr. Hogan.” The note, hand-written in pencil that has faded to the extent of being almost translucent, reads “Countess of D- wife to the 9th Earl (1770-1838). Who was Governor of Canada, Nova Scotia, etc 1819-1828- this explains her owning this edition, which was unknown to G. Keynes when he compiled his Bibliography of Jane Austen, 1929.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\nThese pieces of evidence show that after being published by M. Carey in Philadelphia, this edition left Chesnut Street and most likely traveled into the hands of Lady Dalhousie. “This copy,” Gilson writes in his bibliography of Jane Austen, “was in the present century found in Salisbury by Siegfried Sassoon.”\r\n\r\nIn the same letter dated August 15th, 1967 in which she writes to Gilson about her romantic notion that the Countess of Dalhousie purchased Emma when visiting New York, she alludes to another letter involving Siegfried Sassoon. “You may be amused at a sentence from Siegfried Sassoon’s letter to Mr. Percy Elkin Mathews (who arranged the sale of the other 1816 Emma to Mr. Hogan in 1941. G. Keynes will be livid with me, as he wrote saying he must collate it as he wants to write something bout it for the Times Lit Supplement- which is poaching on your preserves, isn’t it?” She writes specifically to Gilson that, “ this is not for quotation in any article, but solely for your own pleasure.” Alberta Burke must have known this would tickle David Gilson’s fancy. Since Gilson first intended to write his bibliography on Jane Austen as a revised edition Geoffrey Keynes’s 1929 bibliography, he would understand Muir’s frustration with people encroaching on his research topic.\r\n\r\nBetween the letters from Burke and Gilson and the evidence left behind inside Emma, the provenance of this edition is fairly clear. Emma travels from the Philadelphia publisher to the Countess to Siegfried Sassoon. Inside the first volume of the Emma being examined lays a piece of lavender stationary, measuring 17.6cm tall x 13cm wide, folded in half. Opening it reveals that at the top of the stationary is typed “Heytesbury House, Wiltshire” and at the end of the letter is the minute script signature of Siegfried Sassoon.\r\n\r\nThe letter, addressed to Muir, dated March 12th, 1941 is written in Sassoon’s light and witty style. He starts his letter with, “Emma returns to you in a twitter of excitement about going to California. She is sure that Mr. F. Hogan is a very nice man, though she intends to be a bit sharp with him until she gets to know him.” He then jokes with Muir at the expense of Keynes, writing how “G. Keynes will be livid with me, as he wrote saying he must collate it as he wants to write something about it for the Times Lit Supplement- which is poaching on your preserves, isn’t it?”\r\n\r\nIn 1941 Sassoon sold the edition through Elkin Mathews to Frank J. Hogan (Gilson, 100). Under the Countess of Dalhousie’s book label is the red leather label of Frank J. Hogan. Around the name in gold lettering it reads “the true university of these days is a collection of books.”\r\n\r\nIn addition to the lavender letter from Siegfried Sassoon, two additional correspondences hide between the inside cover and the title page. One letter was written to Mr. Hogan from Mr. Muir relating that the 1816 Philadelphia edition of Emma was on its way. The stationary was that of The Antiquarian Booksellers Association, shown by the stamp on the top right corner. Printed at the top is the name “Elkin Mathews LTD” followed by the director’s names: Greville Worthington, Ian L. Fleming, and P. H. Muir. Underneath the names describes the objects in which these men were interested in: “Rare Books, Manuscripts, Literary Portraits, Music.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\nLetters leading to other letters seems to be a theme when following this first American edition of Emma. In the letter to Mr. Hogan from Mr. Muir, Muir writes how he feels it is important that Mr. Hogan also get, along with the copy of Emma, the letter from Mr. Sassoon (the lavender letter found in the first volume.) “I think it is only right and proper that you should have with the book the letter that Sassoon sent me when sending the book to me. My own feeling is that one cannot have too much of this kind of thing in association with books.” The truth in Muir’s statement could not be more paramount as it relates to this particular edition of Emma. Burke and Gilson’s letter lead to examining the 1816 Philadelphia edition, which hold the additional correspondences from Sassoon and Muir. Being able to handle and analyze one of the three first American editions is a privilege in itself (Gilson, 100). Yet more than just handling the two volumes, I found the circuit of corresponding materials equally intriguing and helpful to track how the book came from Philadelphia, to the Countess Dalhousie, to Siegfried Sassoon to Frank J. Hogan and finally to Alberta Burke.\r\n\r\nThe last letter found inside the first volume relating to Emma’s provenance is from Mr. Muir to Alberta Burke. Muir writes to Alberta on different stationary then when writing to Mr. Hogan, perhaps to add a more personal touch. Typed on yellow paper with the green “Elkin Mathews Ltd” insignia printed at the top, the letter is typed and dated May 22nd, 1945. Mr. Muir writes that Mr. Hogan purchased the first American 1816 Philadelphia edition for Alberta for only 300 dollars. “I congratulate you,” he writes, “on getting it so cheaply. It is exceedingly rare.”\r\n\r\nThe last letter from Alberta Burke to David Gilson is dated February 4th, 1975. After this date the Austen letters continue between Alberta’s husband Henry Burke and David Gilson. After Alberta’s death on May 22nd, 1975 Goucher’s library received her Jane Austen collection. According to Goucher’s pamphlet “Twenty-Five Years of Jane Austen,” Alberta had always intended to donate the collection to Goucher. “From the time when my Jane Austen material first began to overflow the one-shelf bounds assigned to it, I have always intended that Goucher should be the ultimate recipient, and I have hoped that, sometime in the future, others would partake of the very great pleasure which they have given me for many years.”\r\n\r\nWhen David Gilson in 1982 published A Bibliography of Jane Austen he acknowledged his gratitude to Alberta and Henry Burke. Both Alberta Burke and David Gilson benefited from their letters to one another. Alberta Burke, with her deep seeded love and interest in all things Austen, was able to help David Gilson with his mission to track down Austen texts, study and describe them.\r\n<h5>Works Cited</h5>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\">Gilson, David. <em>A Bibliography of Jane Austen</em>. first. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982.</div>\r\n<div class=\"footnote\">Austen, Jane. <em>Emma</em>. First. Philadelphia: M.Carey, 1816.</div>\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Letters From Alberta Burke to David Gilson</h5>\r\n<ul>\r\n	<li>“Apartment Stationary” 18.8 cm tall x 25.9 cm wide, written section is 18.8cm tall x 13.1 cm wide, folded into four quarters for mailing, black ink, cream paper, red print of “Apartment 1318 116 West University Parkway Baltimore, Maryland 21210.” Gray and maroon thin stripe border.</li>\r\n	<li>“Blue Air Mail” 30.5 cm tall x 18.1cm wide, folded into a 9.7cm tall x 14.8cm wide envelope, black ink, written completely on first side and on first fourth and last fourth on other side.</li>\r\n	<li>“Gray Apartment Stationary” 18.8cm tall x 25.9cm wide, written section is 18.8 cm tall x 13.1 cm wide, folded into four quarters for mailing, black ink, cream paper, gray print of “Apartment 1318 116 West University Parkway Baltimore, Maryland 21210.” Gray thin stripe border.</li>\r\n	<li>“Small Note Card” 14cm tall x 8.4cm wide, thicker note-card type cream paper, written only on one side, addressed to “Mr. D.J Gilson, J1 Blenheim Drive Oxford OX2 8DL England” Airmail! is written above the address in red marker. “Burke 1318 Broadview Apts. 116 W. University Parkway Baltimore, Maryland 21210” is typed in upper left corner. Written in blue ink.</li>\r\n</ul>\r\n<strong>August 5, 1967\r\n</strong><em>Apartment Stationary\r\n</em>Tells Mr. Gilson that she has the Frank J. Hogan copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma, which formerly belonged to Siegfried Sassoon.\r\n\r\n<strong>August 15, 1967\r\n</strong><em>Apartment Stationary\r\n</em><em>Written in black fountain pen (script writing), fairly uniform line spacing\r\n</em>“You may be amused at a sentence from Siegfried Sassoon’s letter to Mr. Percy Elkin Mathews (who arranged the sale of the other 1816 Emma to Mr. Hogan in 1941. “G. Keynes will be livid with me, as he wrote saying he must collate it as he wants to write something bout it for the Times Lit Supplement—which is poaching on your preserves, isn’t it?” This is not for quotation in any article, but solely for your own pleasure.”\r\n\r\n“Since my copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma…her signature, but no date, is on the title page) I like to think, most romantically, but with no evidence, that she purchased it as a new work when she was in Canada with her husband who was governor-general there in 1819.”\r\n\r\n<strong>January 12, 1968\r\n</strong><em>Apartment Stationary\r\n</em>“I hope that I can answer your questions about the Philadelphia 1816 Emma satisfactorily. On inside cover of both volumes is a book place or visiting card (I don’t know which it is) bearing only the engraved words “Coweliers Dalhousie”…no device etc. In the first volume at the left and perpendicular to the lives of priutsey on the title pages is the signature “Cou C Dalhousie” (there is a bit of extra curlicue over the first letter.) However in volume two the signature…is plainly “C B Dalhousie” over the first preliminary half of volume I here is a note in pencil, not I think in Sassoon’s writing, probably in that of Percy (Mathews) who was the agent who arranged the sale from Mr. Sassoon to Mr. Hogan.”\r\n\r\n<strong>June 10, 1969\r\n</strong><em>Blue Air Mail\r\n</em>“Does Mr. C.B. Hogan’s copy of the 1st Am. E [Emma] conform to the Goodspeed, Boolm Cat. No 317, p.4, 1940 description: “Three vols. In 2…Published by M. Cary. 21 Chestnut St. ….Boston 1816.” I – not sure M. Hogan’s article so can’t collate my copy until his description of his E of my 1st edition is bound(?)”\r\n\r\n<strong>November 18, 1969\r\n</strong><em>Gray Apartment Stationary\r\n</em>“I was delighted to know of a 3rd (if imperfect copy of the Philadelphia E turning up. When I first read the description of it in Goodspeeds (I think) 1940 catalogue I thought it was some Bookshop.\r\n#16 went for $1300 to the same buyer\r\n#17 \" \" 550 \" \" \"\r\n#18 $40.00\r\n#19 $35.00\r\n#20 (The companion to the A--) was valued at $1250 00 by the estate and had a reserve price of $550 which was not reached so that the item was withdrawn.”\r\n\r\n<strong>March 11, 1973\r\n</strong><em>Small Note Card\r\n</em>“In looking for something else, I picked out a letter of Dr. R.W. Chapurace to me dated 13.10.51. In it he says “The 1816 Philadelphia Emma was the result of Scott’s Quarterly Review, I guess. One day I looked out [the word looks like “whatelup” but this is impossible!] 2 R 1826 and found that it is of a ‘New Edition’ N.A+P that lso is unrecorded.” I haven’t checked further to see if I, or any one else has these listed, and perhaps, I am first causing you unnecessary trouble or being commonly behind the fair.”\r\n\r\n<strong>December 16, 1973\r\n</strong><em>Gray Apartment Stationary\r\n</em>“The only first in boards which I have which has its labels intact (they match Keynes) is M.P. The E has had the backstrips repaired and the N.A.+P 2 packstrips have crumbled away completely + 2 are very cracked + missing the labels”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Letters from Gilson to Henry Burke (after Alberta falls ill)</h5>\r\n<ul>\r\n	<li>“Small White Paper” 17.9cm tall x 13.7cm wide, blue ink, almost transparent white paper, written on only one side.</li>\r\n	<li>“Blue Air Mail” 30.5 cm tall x 18.1cm wide, folded into a 9.7cm tall x 14.8cm wide envelope, black ink, written completely on first side and on first fourth and last fourth on other side.</li>\r\n</ul>\r\n<strong>June 14th, 1975\r\n</strong><em>Blue Air Mail\r\n</em>“I see that Sotheby’s are selling on 23rd of June “an autograph letter by Jane Austen to her publisher commenting on the review of her novel Emma by Sir Walter Scott”: presumably RWC 127, marked as ‘original not traced’. I suppose the Pierpont Morgan will be bidding for this!”\r\n\r\n<strong>August 3rd, 1975\r\n</strong><em>Small White Paper\r\n</em>“It would be very kind if you could give me the correct address of Goucher College, and also the name of the librarian whom I should contact with any query relating to Alberta’s books (there may be queries over some of the rarer items, especially the 1816 Philadelphia Emma.)”\r\n\r\n<strong>October 16th, 1976\r\n</strong><em>Small White Pape</em><em>r\r\n</em><em>Written on both sides.\r\n</em>“I spent a very interesting morning on 1st September at John Murray in Albemarte Street; they kindly allowed me to see their ledgers, giving the publication costs and other details of the first editions of Emma and Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.”\r\n\r\n<strong>December 26th, 1976\r\n</strong><em>Small White Paper.\r\n</em><em>Written on both sides.\r\n</em>“Miss Jones of Goucher College has very kindly sent me-free of charge- an excellent photograph of the title page of Vol.1 of Alberta’s copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma (my reproduction in the Autumn 1969 Book Collector was from a Xerox of Mr. Hogan’s copy; this photograph is much clearer).”\r\n\r\n<strong>March 20th, 1977\r\n</strong><em>Small White Paper\r\n</em><em>Written on both sides.\r\n</em>“Christie’s sold first editions of Emma and of Northanger Abbey and Persuasion on 2nd February- not particularly good copies (from the catalogue descriptions) although with the half-titles in each case; I don’t know who bought them, but they fetched 350 pounds and 230 pounds respectively. I have been given an extremely imperfect copy of the first-edition of Emma, consisting only of Vol.1 (lacking the half-title), and Vol.3 (lacking all before p.19.) It clearly has no commercial value, but still seems worth having.”\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Letters Found Inside First Volume of 1816 Philadelphia <em>Emma</em></h5>\r\n<strong>Letter 1\r\n</strong><em>17.6cm tall x 13cm wide, grayish blue stationary with “Heytesbury House, Wiltshire” printed on top, dated “12a.3.41,” hand written in script, black ink.</em>\r\n“Dear Muir,\r\n‘Emma’ returns to you in a twitter of excitement about ‘going to California.’ She is sure that Mr. F. Hogan is a very nice man though she intends to be a bit sharp with him until she has got to know him.\r\nSeriously- I am greatly obliged to you and --- agree to your 15% etc, and my wish you are making a bit more out of it. (G. Keynes will be livid with me, as he would say, he ---- collate it as he wants to write something about it for the ----- which his --- on your ---, isn’t it?) ….\r\nYours, SS (written on top of each other)\r\n\r\n<span id=\"attachment_1316\" style=\"width: 250px;\"><a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image3_kendall.jpg\"><img class=\"size-medium wp-image-1316\" title=\"goucher_student work image3_kendall\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image3_kendall-186x250.jpg\" alt=\"Siegfried Sassoon\'s letter to Percy Muir\" width=\"186\" height=\"250\" /></a> <span class=\"wp-caption-text\">Siegfried Sassoon\'s letter to Percy Muir, antiquarian book dealer, regarding Sassoon\'s sale of the American first edition of <em>Emma</em> (1816) to Frank J. Hogan (dated December 3, 1941). The letter was discovered inside the front cover of the Burke Collection copy.</span></span>\r\n\r\n<strong>Letter 2</strong>\r\n<em>“Antiquarian Booksellers Association” stamp on top left, written March 18, 1941 and received April 17, 1941 (received date written in pencil on top right corner,) stationary is of “Elkin Mathews LTD. Directors: Greville Worthington, Ian L. Fleming, and P.H. Muir,” underneath is typed “Rare Books, Manuscripts, Literary Portraits, Music.”</em>\r\n“Dear Mr. Hogan,\r\nThis is just a brief note formally to announce the fact that “Emma” left here today on her long journey to California. I think it only right and proper that you should have with the book the letter that Sassoon sent me when sending the book to me. My own feeling is that one cannot have too much of this kind of thing in association with books. I think Siegfried Sassoon a great writer and I would be glad to have this letter myself were I buying one of his books, and I have the feeling that you may think that way, too, so I enclose the letter. He was a great friend and admirer of Charlotte Mew’s, by the way, which may help to endear him to you.\r\nWith every good wish and kind regards,\r\nYours very sincerely,\r\nP. H. MuirHand\r\nwritten note (in same green ink as Muir’s signature) written below signature of “P.H Muir”:\r\n“Note the date on SS’s letter, evidently written on 131h”\r\n\r\n<strong>Letter 3</strong>\r\n<em>Yellow paper, green “Elkin Mathews Ltd,” dated May 22, 1945, typed in faded black ink.</em>\r\n“Dear Mrs. Burke,\r\nThank you very much indeed for your letter of May 6th. I congratulate you on getting the “Emma” so cheaply. It is exceedingly rare and Mr. Hogan as very glad to pay 300 dollars for it. I mention the price in dollars because at the time he bought it the 1-pound was below par and fluctuating, so that the price was actually quoted in dollars. I say that the price was set by Mr. Sassoon and not by me, but I saw no reason at the time to take exception to it.\r\nI always have you in mind for any interesting Jane Austen items, which turn up.\r\nYours very sincerely,\r\nP.H. Muir (signed in green ink)\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Emma (1st Edition Philadelphia 1816)</h5>\r\n18.3cm tall x 11.1cm (cover)\r\n\r\n<em>Inside Cover</em>\r\ncut and pasted paper of: COUNTESS OF DALHOUSIE, below: maroon and gold sticker of: Ex Libris Frank J. Hogan (around name says: the true university of these days is a collection of books”\r\n\r\n<em>Next Page</em>\r\nwritten by hand in faded pencil: ”Countess of d.- wife of the 9th Earl (1770-1838). Who was Governor of Canada, Nova Scotia, etc. 1819-1828- This explains her owning this edition, which was unknown to G. Keynes when he compiled his Bibliography of Jane Austen, 1929.”\r\nunder this is the paper square for the “Alberta H. Burke”\r\n\r\n<span id=\"attachment_1314\"><a href=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image1_kendall.jpg\"><img class=\"size-medium wp-image-1314\" title=\"goucher_student work image1_kendall\" src=\"http://stage.archivejournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/02/goucher_student-work-image1_kendall-147x250.jpg\" alt=\"American first edition of Jane Austen\'s Emma\" width=\"147\" height=\"250\" /></a> <span class=\"wp-caption-text\">Title page of the Burke Collection copy of the American first edition of Jane Austen\'s <em>Emma</em> (1816).</span></span>\r\n\r\n<em>Title Page</em>\r\nEMMA:\r\nA Novel\r\nHere Volumes in Two\r\n(written on side, vertically: A.B. Dallhousie)\r\nBy the Author of “Pride and Prejudice,”\r\n&amp;c. &amp;c.\r\nVol. 1\r\nPHILADELPHIA:\r\nPublished by M.Carey, No. 121 Chesnut Street\r\nAnd for Sale by Wells &amp; Lilly, Boston\r\n1816\r\n\r\n<em>Next Page</em>\r\nTo his Royal Highness\r\nThe Prince Regent, This Work Is, By his Royal Highness’s Permission, Most Respectfully Dedicated, By His Royal Highness’s Dutiful and Obedient Humble Servant, The Author.”\r\n\r\n<em>First Page of Text</em>\r\n18cm tall x 9.8cm wide\r\nA2 at bottom of first page – 8 pages later is “B” (vol.1), 4 pages later “B2”, 8 pages later “C” (vol.1.), 4 pages later “C2”, 8 pages later “D” (vol.1)\r\naverage full page text block: 12.5cm tall x 7.4cm wide\r\n\r\n<!--nextpage-->\r\n<h5>Letters Found Inside Second Volume</h5>\r\n<strong>Letter 1</strong>\r\n<em>21.5cm tall x13.9cm wide, typed: “Charles Sessler Inc.” Established 1882, Bookseller and Printseller 1308 Walnut Street Philadelphia, PA. 19107” stationary</em>\r\n<em> dated April 24, 1967</em>\r\n“Dear Mr. Burke:\r\nIn 1945 we purchased in New York at the sale of the Frank J. Hogan Library, item No. 7, a copy of EMMA, printed in Philadelphia by Carey in 1816.\r\nDo you still have this book and would you be willing to part with it?”\r\nYours Sincerely,\r\nMabel Zahn (signed in ink)\r\nZ.T. in bottom left corner, typed (?)\r\n\r\n<strong>Letter 2</strong>\r\n<em>Typed, same stationary as letter 1</em>\r\n<em> dated May 3, 1967</em>\r\n“Dear Mr. Burke:\r\nThank you so much for your letter of May 1st.\r\nI am glad that you still have the copy of EMMA. Our inquiry was for a bibliographic purpose. Someone who is working on the bibliography has asked us about the copy we sold you and naturally we followed through for him.\r\nWith best wishes,\r\nYours Sincerely,\r\nMabel Zahn\r\n-Z.T. in bottom left corner, typed (?)','How Emma Travels: by letters, hands and libraries','Behind a low glass case in Goucher’s Special Collection Room sits a humble blue book box that holds the first American edition of Jane Austen’s Emma. Valued from nineteen to seventy-five thousand dollars on ABEBooks.com, the edition is unquestionably valuable. But how did this extremely rare copy end up in Goucher’s modest library? In a letter to David Gilson on August 5th, 1967 Alberta Burke revealed that she owned a copy of the 1816 Philadelphia Emma, which formerly belonged to Siegfried Sassoon. The two corresponded from 1967 to 1975 until Alberta fell ill. Throughout this time a steady thread of conversation exists about the Philadelphia Emma.\r\n\r\nAfter seeing the interest that both Alberta Burke and David Gilson had in the first American edition of Emma, perusing the pages and studying the tome in detail was essential to discover first hand the majesty of the volumes.','inherit','open','open','','1300-revision-68','','','2012-11-15 04:30:35','2012-11-15 04:30:35','',1300,'http://www.archivejournal.net/issue/2/uncategorized/1300-revision-68/',0,'revision','',0),