The Art of Archives

UMass Boston || English 600 || Spring 2015 || Prof. Erin Anderson

Author: timothyconnors001 (page 2 of 2)

An Archive of Phantasmagorias

The subjects of The Arcades Project are easily discerned from Benjamin’s exposes and the titles of the convolutes. What is not easily discerned is Benjamin’s organization of the texts within each subject.

In The Arcades Project, Benjamin is interested in displaying the “phantasmagoria” that presents itself within the material culture emerging in Paris during the 19th century. That is, the history of this time can be represented by “an endless series of facts congealed in the form of things” (Benjamin, 14). In this case, the phantasmagoria is presented in the form of texts: either excerpts from texts written about Paris in the 19th century (either within or outside of the time period) or reflections from Benjamin.

This is what Benjamin aspires to do, but the simplicity of such a description becomes easily convoluted when we consider how Benjamin approaches each subject. Perhaps the subjects can act as a phantasmagoria: a sequence of ideas, influences, and characters that shaped the 19th century. But what about the contents of each subject?

The beginning to most of the convolute sections (Baudelaire is an exception: J, 228) begin with a reflection by Benjamin that frames the remaining contents of the convolute (can I drop the s?) For instance, opening up to the first page, we are greeted, after some poems about the arcades, by Benjamin’s explanation of the character of the arcades themselves: “[…]Lining both sides of these corridors, which get their light from above, are the most elegant shops, so that the arcade is a city, a world in miniature[…]” (Benjamin, 31).

As I read on I kept this passage in mind. Benjamin lays out excerpt upon excerpt of the contents of the arcades (magazines, specialties, architecture, etc.) and reflects as he goes (“Arcades as origin of department stores? Which of the magasins named above were located in arcades?” [Benjamin, 37]). I couldn’t help thinking that this convolute functioned like an arcade. There were all sorts of interesting texts to ponder and think about. It was as if I was walking along store fronts myself, reading these texts, while Benjamin walked beside me and commented.

 

 

 

Leeds-017

 

I thought that, maybe, every convolute would emulate the experience of the arcade. But this was not the case.

Each new convolute seems to present its subject as an archive in itself, experienced according to the subject.

In the Convolute, On the Theory of Knowledge, Theory of Progress we are given far more reflections by Benjamin and the convolute begins with a telling quote: “In the fields with which we are concerned knowledge comes only in lightning flashes. The text is the long roll of thunder that follows” (Benjamin, 456).

Here, we have another way of thinking about this collection. It is no longer a marketplace to pause over and peruse, but lightning flashes that illuminate.

download

In the convolute Dream City and Dream House, Dreams of the Future, Anthropological Nihilism, Jung, we have an archive that is collected in the form of “awakenings”.

“Awakening as a graduated process that goes on in the life of the individual as in the life of generations […] Whereas the education of earlier generations explained these dreams for them in terms of tradition, of religious doctrine, present-day education simply amounts to the distraction of children […] What follows here is an experiment in the technique of awakening. An attempt to become aware of the dialectical […] turn of remembrance” (Benjamin, 388).

These awakenings present in the form of sudden realizations, questions that oppose conventional thought, and inquiry that allows a dialectical process to engage with the past. This convolute not only depicts the “awakenings”, but also the psychological theories that would explain how these awakenings occur. I thought of Paris lying on a couch while a Freudian or Jungian figure took down notes describing their dream pathology.

(couldn’t get image on here, but here’s a link)

 

As I read over this, it feels like I’m reaching. These metaphors could simply be different ways of describing the same process. I haven’t read the entire book. Maybe I’m creating more than I’m interpreting.

But, if you follow me, The Arcades Project, then, is not only an archive of subjects influencing the culture of Paris in the 19th century, but also an archive of archives; an archive on archiving a historical period; an archive of the different ways of depicting Benjamin’s “phantasmagoria”.

I’m probably barely grasping this concept, but I’ll ask some questions anyway…why do this? Why depict the variety of ways that history, even the phantasmagorical representation of history, can be archived? Does this complicate any conventional definition of history and archives? How does a partial reading affect our interpretation of this archive’s methods? Would I be as hesitant about my conclusion if I could somehow read the text in its totality? Can this be read in its totality?

Could each convolute be a representation of a different ideological perspective?

The Archive on Location

I was visiting my grandparents in Deep River, CT this past weekend and since I had no time to visit an archive during the week, I asked my grandfather–a former high school history teacher–to take me to the archives of the Deep River historical society.

I had a particular subject in mind. One day, when I was driving, I listened to a radio story about the ivory trade’s route to America. Surprise, surprise, Deep River–a small town of less than 5,000 residents–was a prime destination for ivory processing in the 1800s.

When I asked my grandfather, he told me about the piano-key factory run by Pratt, Read, & Co. that was situated in Deep River until 1936.

I wanted to see their archives. I had visions of deciphering decaying financial statements and company correspondence, discovering the slimy details to what I (and, I think, most others) consider to be an evil operation.

But , of course, I had already fallen into an archival trap that Arlette Farge describes as “the imperceptible, yet very real , way in which a historian is only drawn to things that will reinforce the working hypotheses [he] has settled on” (Farge, 71).

The historical society’s Stone House was composed mostly of museum exhibits. But, thanks to my grandfather, I was allowed to see an office on the second floor where the archives  of Deep River (or at least, the majority of them) resided. It was small: there was the office and a walk-in-closet sized room adjacent to it. The walk-in-closet portion contained shelves of accordioned, bound, and stacked file folders of various sizes. These archives are not listed on the historical society’s website.

20150207_14272320150207_142732

Jittery from excitement and coffee, I asked for the Pratt, Read, & Co. financial statements and company correspondence. Kathy, the volunteer archivist nice enough to let us enter her domain on a Saturday and shuffle through her documents, crooked her head in thought. She had gray hair and wore a sweatshirt with a Pomeranian running across the front. She told me matter-of-factly: “no, and I’ll tell you why. As soon as the factory closed down a man from the Smithsonian came and asked for everything from Pratt, Read, & Co, so, unfortunately, you’ll have to go there to see them”.

Damn. The archives I craved were in either New York or D. C. I never asked which.

I settled for the bound folders that contained mostly pictures and news articles about Pratt, Read, & Co. The grainy black and whites and sepia photographs were mostly like the one shown below.

 

20150207_133202

There were white males lounging on piles and piles of tusks while Africans posed around the treasure; a lone man driving a mule with a cart of tusks dragging behind; and factory workers cutting, shaping, and smoothing the tusks into combs, pendants, canes, curios, and especially, piano keys.

Maybe if I had read The Allure of the Archives before looking through these photos, I would have kept my expectations distant from the pictures themselves. Maybe I would have been able to discern some key and unique detail that would reveal something new locked within this black and white world.

But I could see only evil. I saw colonialism, I saw slavery, I saw greed, and I saw rampant animal cruelty.

The archives that Arlette Farge refers to in her book are written archives. She does not write about pictures. Images operate much differently from accounting records or correspondence letters. Without words, a narrative can be composed according to the viewer’s expectations and subjective interpretations. There is no text to corroborate or defy their hypotheses. What I worry about here is the specter of “revisionist history” that Farge describes on page 98. In this case, there is not a purposeful revision, but without descriptive archives located in the Deep River area,  the pictures can  contort the “truth” about the ivory trade. The absence of words may remove some realities that should be remembered.

Deep River acknowledges that they profited greatly from the ivory trade. Its records, though, depict not the spoils of a cruel trade, but the wonders that allowed the town to grow: there were pictures, architectural news clippings , bronze commemorative elephant statues, and company magazines that included the then current club softball standings.

Everything except the actual records of the ivory trade.

This is not to villianize the townspeople or the historical society. In such a small town, volunteers do all of the work. They are understaffed, under-resourced, and underpaid, but they are incredibly knowledgeable and they care deeply for their community’s history. And anyway, how can they refuse the Smithsonian?

The question then is about the proper geographical placement of archives, if there is any. There are many who never visit the Smithsonian. Heck, there are people living in Deep River who have never left the town! What does the loss of archival information mean for them? Does it have the power to alter Deep River’s historical narrative? How?

An easier way to ask this is: where do archives belong? Where they originated? Or where they are desired? And how much are these questions impacted by the resources and desire of the town?

In the Summer I’m going to visit again. I’ve been promised that their archives will be in better shape  and I have promised to approach the archives with a new eye and a distant perspective. It’s impossible after all to read all of the archives, even those from a small town.

 

 

 

 

Netflix Data Collection and the Creative Archive

With the newly dropped mounds of snow that have accumulated,I thought it would be appropriate to explore a collection that has seen extensive use during this  retreat indoors: Netflix.

netflix pic

I think everyone knows about Netflix. You’re either a subscriber or you know a subscriber, if you don’t I have stock in Blockbuster I’d like to sell you.

Netflix is a movie/tv distribution service that moved movie/tv rentals online. Thousands of movies and television shows are available via streaming and snail mail. For my purposes, I’m going to be more interested in the streaming service as this carries the most subscribers (approximately 61 million according to their 2014 year end report).

The movie/tv shows are organized into genres and subgenres detailed and re-detailed here. According to this Atlantic article, there are a total of 76, 897 genre combinations with a relative formula of: region + adjectives + noun genre + based on… + set in… + from the… + about… + for age x to y. A different discussion may focus on the genre labels in movies generally and how that curtails movie possibilities [as in Foucault’s conception of the archive as a “general system of formation and transformation of statements” (Foucault, 130)].

What most interested me when I first started thinking about Netflix as a collection was how their movies and television shows were collected. Netflix is not a historical archive. Its goal is not to create a collection of movies/TV shows that preserve the past or characterize  movie/TV shows as a whole. Its goal is to make money. So how does a collection dictated by the marketplace collect?

Derrida’s notion that “the technical structure of the archiving archive also determines the structure of the archivable content” (Derrida, 17) is applicable here not only in the technical sense, but also in the  structure of the marketplace. The consumer structure that allows Netflix to exist also determines the content that is collected.  Movie licenses are chosen in a utilitarian manner. Kissmetric cites Netlfix’s former VP of Product Engineering, John Ciancutti, describing this process as efficient: “efficient here meaning content that will achieve the maximum happiness per dollar spent”. In other words they spend the least amount of money to buy the most appropriate content for the greatest majority of their consumers.

How do they know what their consumers like? Netflix collates copious amounts of data from their consumers’ viewing habits. Check out the Atlantic article cited above and here for more detailed information of Netflix users’ favorite genres (“A Sketch of the American Soul”).

When Netflix first began, they were the only game in town. Licenses were cheap and Netflix had a gigantic collection of movies streaming on their website. When companies like Hulu and Amazon got into the game, things changed. Licenses became more expensive. In order to compete, Netflix put their massive collection of data to work.

They started creating their own content. The Atlantic articles and Kissmetric articles that I’ve cited above both discuss this as a creative enterprise that Netflix saw as necessary to compete in the market. What I see is an archive, a collection, within the marketplace that has started to create itself. It’s now held together by the consumer AND the consumer’s data–an algorithmic conception of the consumer.

This process is democratic. The choices, after all, are made according to the majority of subscriber preferences. New content is created by what is deemed the desire of the majority of consumers. But, what if we imagine this action carried to its extreme? What if the majority of films/TV shows on Netflix were created content?  At what point does the created content become less of a reflection of consumer desire and more of an imposition of the status quo? At what point does a self-created archive reflect values of the past and neglect values of the present? How does this influence the outlook of the consumer?

Of course, no one needs to be a subscriber. You can cancel anytime. But I think the question when related to collections is still valid. I’m thinking here of Greetham, “all conservational decisions are contingent, temporary, and culturally self-referential, even self-lauatory: we want to preserve the best of ourselves for those who follow” (Greetham cited by Manoff, 20). Netflix, in the marketplace, is conserving the majority by creating and re-creating a conception of the majority and slowly effacing movies/TV shows that represent conceptions outside of this majority.

Does this matter? As the preferable medium for visual entertainment slowly moves from cable and TV to the internet, I think it matters a lot. This is what people will be watching in the future. We should ask how this creation of content will influence movies/TV shows and, more importantly, the people who watch.

 

 

 

Newer posts

© 2024 The Art of Archives

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑

Skip to toolbar