Pencil Only, Please
By Kassia Oset
The work of history is founded upon archives, yet few understand what is involved in preserving them. Sturdy boxes of well-ordered files do not miraculously appear on the doorsteps of archival repositories with their revelations readily at our fingertips. Effort and expertise go into turning a mass of loosely sorted documents into a searchable, accessible system.
Archivists are trained to manage the buildup. Not every collection tells the story of the French Revolution or documents a scientific breakthrough, but each one is unique. Paper cuts and all, that is why I enjoy working on them. I am a student of library science, not a professional, but one day I hope to keep and maintain records for a living. This spring, I was lucky to create a finding aid for the Historic Santa Fe Foundation, which focused on properties formerly owned by the foundation. Like archives, these historic properties are all sui generis. A “finding aid” can encompass all kinds of resources, from a brief list of boxes to a lengthy description of each item. Ideally, it should be adapted to the needs of the organization and the community it serves. Whatever level of organization, hopefully the guide does what it claims to and helps researchers locate the information they are searching for.
In my experience, no two archivists process in the same way. For me, as an outsider, the first step was to understand the content of the collection. On the most basic level, I ask myself, “What is this?” HSFF’s collection is pleasant to browse, as it contains a rich variety of historical research, surveys, drawings, photographs, correspondence, and ephemera. As I work through the folders, I come across a filmed puppet show designed by Gustave Baumann and Marjorie Allen’s recipe for applesauce brownies. Even the most legalistic documents are wedged between letters that render their complicated wording legible.
After I understand the scope of the collection, I begin to physically rearrange the material. This phase requires perseverance, as one upends the existing scheme with the aim of creating a new, more functional one. Papers are released from worn folders; piles recombine; copies are reunited with their originals. For a moment, I wonder if the system I have imagined will withstand the weight of its components. But I keep working through the torrent of information, one letter- or legal-sized document at a time, until every item is joined with its natural companions. In my opinion, nothing is truly “miscellaneous.” When order emerges naturally from the material, everything has its own place. Once I determine the appropriate categories, I alphabetize and enfold them in fresh containers. To my eyes, these manila folders make a colorful bouquet.
Next it is time to enter the finer details into the computer, using language that both specialists and the public can understand. There is a risk of letting the documents impose their regime onto me rather than the other way around. Ten-word titles, I realize, can be better summarized in one or two words. Concision and specificity are both essential; sometimes, they work against each other. The goal is that any user will be able to understand how the document I am evaluating is different than every other document – without ever having to visit the archives in person.
There is a true sense of peace when all the folders are labeled (in pencil only, please) and nestled into their permanent homes in the filing cabinet. There they will safely remain, awaiting a future historian whose research topic has not yet occurred to them. Or perhaps they will only be seeking a recipe for applesauce brownies, which, the finding aid tells me, can be found in Folder 23 of Subseries 9.
