To those who need to wade through the digital and physical maze of archives, they can seem either entirely self-explanatory or hopelessly confusing. When I say maze, I’m not kidding: archives are measured in square feet. When an institution like the Getty Research Institute acquires an archive—typically a collection of papers of various kinds such as letters, documents, printed matter, and so on—it’s not all neatly organized and arranged, yet; that’s the institution’s job. It often takes years to properly sort through the ephemera that’s left on literal and digital desktops.
In conjunction with the Szeemann Digital Seminar, an international digital consortium focused around the recently acquired Harald Szeemann Archive, we’re chronicling the myriad of adventures had in the archives by people in different roles here at the Getty, including archivists (of course), scholars, art historians, curators, and beyond. From misinterpreting a finding aid to carefully planning how to catalogue a piece so that the right researcher can find it later, we hope these perspectives elucidate the mysteries behind archival work.
Nancy Enneking’s entry kicks us off, with more to follow (added to this post) in fall and winter 2017–18.
- Nancy Enneking on making sense of an institution through its records
- Anja Foerschner on permanent archives for impermanent art
- Maristella Casciato and Johnny Tran on excavating archives to tell stories
Strategies for Interpreting and Navigating Institutional Archives
Nancy Enneking, Getty Institutional Archivist
Any researcher walking into an archive is presented with collections that have been consciously selected for preservation. These materials have been deemed important enough to be worth the considerable costs of making them physically and digitally accessible: archival staff, time, space, and systems. Not everything can or should be saved, so what kind of considerations go into the selection process?
Since the Getty was founded, staff have produced tens of thousands of feet of paper records and, increasingly, petabytes of digital content. Only a small percentage is kept for the archives—it’s our job at the Getty’s Institutional Archives to decide what that is. Boiled down, what we do save is content that contributes to the narrative of: 1) the Getty as custodian of cultural heritage; 2) the Getty as a contributor to the ongoing practice of art history; and 3) the Getty as a functioning and evolving arts institution.
These are primary criteria for a few reasons. First, the Getty has physical custody of unique and irreplaceable cultural heritage material from around the world—much of which predates the organization and all of which will hopefully outlast it. Because we are responsible for the physical conservation of cultural heritage objects and sites, it’s profoundly important that we document what we’ve done. Next, we also need to document how we encourage and engage in contributing to the intellectual landscape surrounding this cultural heritage material through exhibition, publication, and instruction. Finally, we want to preserve information that will aid in the ongoing management and operations of the Getty itself.
But how do these tenets affect what the institutional archives look like and how they function? While they are the guiding principles that govern what we strive to document, the actual records are not created and organized this way and never will be; they are business records, organically created by departments and individuals, which only show pieces of the puzzle and are of varying quality. Choosing exactly how much, of what, and from whom, to keep of these materials is a constant challenge—and gamble. We work hard to select the best records we have (paper or digital) from the parts of the Getty that fulfill these tenets, but there is rarely one holistically explanatory document and X almost never marks the spot. For example, a topical word search might direct you to a seemingly comprehensive folder of records from an organization’s director, when the real gold mine of information you’re looking for may be in the records of someone who worked closely with the director, but did not hold a directorial position.
How does an archives user work around this complexity? Diversify your research strategies and keyword searches, instead of sticking to just one method. Think expansively, be sure to read descriptive guides, and to talk to the archives staff—because of their contextual knowledge of the archive and those involved with creating it, they can help direct your research in more accurate ways than you might have thought of on your own.
Reconstructing Ephemeral Art through Archives
Anja Foerschner, Art Historian
Accessing an archive provides scholars with primary-source, “unfiltered” information on an artist’s inner thoughts and external obstacles. Because an artist’s ephemera (things like their notes, diaries, sketches, correspondence, personal photographs, and research files) supplement, expand, and sometimes change our notion of a public figure or a work of art, working with an archive is an interesting, instructive, and—at times—irritating task for scholars. In the face of this amalgam of information, the scholar’s challenge is to select and vet the material useful for our purpose.
For scholars who specialize in performance art, like me, the archive presents an especially invaluable resource: it constitutes the only way by which an ephemeral event—a performance that took place at a unique time in a unique space in the past—can be studied. However, the value of archiving performance art remains highly debated in art historical scholarship. Many researchers argue against it on that grounds that it is potentially counterproductive to one of the main ideological tenets of performance art: to create art that negates art-market principles and commercial value. Still, archiving the tangible materials of intangible art is the only way this important, ephemeral art can be inscribed into art history.
Among the numerous, seminal performance archives in the Getty Research Institute’s Special Collections are the papers of California feminist artist Barbara T. Smith. Studying the physical artifacts of Smith’s performances reveals the elaborate thought processes behind them. For example, documents from “The Vigil/Incorporate,” a 1978 collaborative performance with fellow Californian artist Suzanne Lacy, contain countless handwritten notes, drawings, letters, and interviews with the artists. The performance, a two-part event, featured the artists dressed as an elderly woman and a little girl, respectively, sitting in beds in the gallery with their audience for an entire night. As the evening progressed, the artists approached each other, both physically and psychologically, by writing their inner monologue on the gallery walls until they met at 4am. Above them, suspended from the ceiling, hung a lamb carcass that they would cook and eat in the second part of the performance the next day. Without the archival material documenting this artwork, the impressive complexity of the performance—enriched by the artists’ thoughts and intellectual exchange—would be lost.
In addition, Smith’s documents (such as scripts for her performances, sketchbooks, and personal diaries) give us insight into her personal struggles. In particular, they detail her thoughts about what performance meant to her as she left her life as a wife and mother to become an artist. As she wrote in 1977 in her script for a performance entitled “Ordinary Life Pt. 2”: “…the performances had been responses to social situations relating to my place in the world….Though the impulses started earlier, my real performances began in the year when I got divorced and represented my way of finding a new beginning in life. To establish a sense of being and identity when I had none.”
Artists’ archives, especially those documenting time-sensitive works, present remarkable opportunities for researchers to find materials and information that will allow them to paint a more complete—and nuanced—picture of an artist and to ensure that ephemeral art has a lasting place in art history.
Using Exhibitions to Bring Archival Stories to Light
Maristella Casciato, Curator, and Johnny Tran, Curatorial Assistant
Archives are repositories. They secure perennity to evidence. They are the place where the origin of what could have been (and what may never have happened or what has disappeared) is recorded. Some archives are even kept sealed for very specific periods of time. Sealed or unsealed, when they’re not being poured over in reading rooms, archives live in vaults, secluded, far from daily light, treasured and protected—and at the same time forgotten.
For curators, opening an archive is like opening Pandora’s box. Lifting the lid can be risky. When we do lift it, we accept the consequences of those risks—all for the sake of making new stories discernable and discoverable.
The act of storytelling is key for curators to be able to make sense of—or to activate, as we say—the layers in daunting stacks of documents. Each layer in the stacks is the sedimentation of many stories, which have the potential to reveal truths about artists and art history. They are the embodiment of exchanges between artists, dealers, and loved ones. When these documents are dusted off, words, lines, and images bubble to the surface.
Consider the example of the German architect Erich Mendelsohn (1887–1953) and a young scholar who wanted to publish a book about his work, Mario Federico Roggero. The archives at the Getty Research Institute, which contain boxes of the full exchange between the two, reveal in great detail the nature of the two thinkers’ relationship. When Roggero’s book about Mendelsohn was eventually published in 1952, what remained invisible was its backstory: how the two actually collaborated. The archive, replete with multitudinous exchanges—notes, telegrams, and letters—brings to light more than half a century later how their relationship deepened as the book grew closer to completion. A folder of sketches found in another, but related, archive further corroborated this interpretation. Thanks to these documents, we now know that Mendelsohn had routinely sent to the young Roggero the layout of each page, including sketches of his buildings. Basically, the master had retraced his own career and offered a fresh view of his design approach in his correspondences with Roggero. Through the examination of these archives, the story of the fabrication of Roggero’s book has found new life in 2017.
For curators, re-telling well-known stories is just as important as completing the unfinished ones. One of the most utilized archives at the Research Institute is the Julius Shulman (1910–2009) Photography Archive. With over 500 linear feet of photography and other media, the images showcase Shulman’s distinct perspective on Los Angeles as a beacon of modernity and creativity. From as early as the 1930s, Shulman documented LA’s transformation into a modern metropolis as many architects experimented in designing housing, civic buildings, and commercial works. Without Shulman, LA would not be LA. And without LA, Shulman would not be Shulman. Because this archive elucidates this intimate relationship between the city and its photographer, numerous publications and exhibitions have been staged throughout the world featuring its materials, with two notable shows at the Getty featuring Shulman (Julius Shulman, Modernity and the Metropolis and Overdrive: LA Constructs the Future, 1940–1980).
For curators, archives are vital to both discovering and telling stories. Exhibitions allow us to share the stories we discover in the archive with a broader audience, beyond the walls of special collections.
Coming up next in Archive Adventures:
The Student | January 2018