Choreography of the Archive

The role of archives as repositories and producers of knowledge, as well as independent actors actively participating in these processes, is a long-established truth. This understanding has inspired numerous studies unified under the general historiographical trend of the archival turn¹ 1 Some of the seminal works of this historiographical trend include: Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton University Press, 2009), Richard Thomas, The Imperial Archive: Knowledge and the Fantasy of Empire (New York: Verso, 1993), and others. .¹ 1 Some of the seminal works of this historiographical trend include: Ann Laura Stoler, Along the Archival Grain: Epistemic Anxieties and Colonial Common Sense (Princeton University Press, 2009), Richard Thomas, The Imperial Archive: Knowledge and the Fantasy of Empire (New York: Verso, 1993), and others. Since then, approaching the archive as a given – without critically examining the history and conditions of its emergence – seems absurd.  In this short essay, I would prefer not to repeat the familiar critiques, which often fall into equally absurd generalisations. Instead, I would like to turn to the unnoticed ordinariness of everyday archival work. I wish to reflect on just one of its aspects: the performative dimension of archival work.  

Putting archival work practices that differ across time and space in a historical context, I conceive of them as a distinct intermediary link within the broader infrastructure of knowledge production. After working in archives for many years, one begins to reflect on how the conditions of archival labour and its archival rules influence the resulting research. It is not only about the composition of the documents stored there, the voices represented and the themes illuminated – what exists is what we work with! – but also about how the surrounding environment, the building, the people, the rules and the practices function on their own and how they compel the user to function.

Thus, drawing simultaneously from two theoretical fields – archival studies and performance studies – and intersecting them, as well as relying on observations of my own research activities and conversations with colleagues and archive workers, I aim to reflect not on the products of labour but on the conditions of their emergence – social, emotional, and bodily – and their impact on those products. My experience, like any experience, is limited; I draw on observations accumulated during my work primarily in the archives of Uzbekistan and beyond. Moreover, the discussion will focus specifically on state-institutionalised archives, leaving aside other archival practices.

My reflections began with reading two works that interconnect the archive and performance. The first is Rebecca Schneider’s article ‘Archives: Performance Remains’ (2001)³ 3 Rebecca Schneider, ‘Archive: Performance Remains,’ Performance Research 6 (2), 2001: 100–108. doi:10.1080/13528165.2001.10871792. . The central conflict it explores is the (im)possibility of archiving performance as an artistic medium that unfolds in the here and now. In analysing the definition of performance, which seemingly carries within it the notion of ‘disappearance’ (if we consider performance as ‘of’ disappearance, if we think of ephemerality as ‘vanishing,’ and if we think of performance as the antithesis of ‘saving’), the author concludes that performance itself is also a valid form of preserving memory and knowledge. The ‘problem,’ she argues, lies more in the archive, which, due to its inherent settings, privileges certain types of knowledge and documents while ignoring others:⁴ 4 Ibid., 100-104.

In short, according to the author, the archive does not exist at the rupture between documents that have been preserved and those that have disappeared; rather, it is the archive itself that produces this rupture. Memory, however, can be found not only in paper documents but also in the body. This perspective is hard to dispute, although the expansive interpretation of the term, ‘everything is an archive if it contains information’, in my view, does not entirely resolve the contradiction.

The second work is Diana Taylor’s book The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Memories in the Americas (2003), which is also built on the opposition between the ‘archive’ and the ‘repertoire.’ The latter is ascribed equal epistemological value as a system of learning, accumulating and transmitting knowledge, including in pre-literate cultures:⁵ 5 Diana Taylor, The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 19-20.

Taylor’s argument, in my view, oversimplifies reality. While it is true that it is technically impossible to ‘preserve’ performance in an archive, as Schneider also noted, completely excluding the performative layer of knowledge from written cultures seems misguided — both coexist and function together. Furthermore, the production of knowledge in the ‘archive,’ much like in the ‘repertoire,’ necessitates presence. This simplification likely stems from an idealised conception of the archive as a transparent container of documents, accessible, as Taylor describes, across time and space at any distance upon request. However, this perspective not only fails to reflect the practical realities of working in most archives – except in rare cases within certain Western institutions – but also neglects the archive’s role as an institutional subject and as a physical space imbued with its own materiality, social practices and rules. For researchers, documents are not simply ‘there for the taking.’ The production of knowledge requires interaction: with the state, the institution, its staff, and, ultimately, with the documents themselves. This false dichotomy between the ‘living, dynamic’ (the repertoire) and the ‘dead, static’ (the archive) allows me to invert the argument and assert that producing history in the archive also demands being there. The performative layer is intrinsic to archival work, inseparable from it, and constitutes a form of embodied knowledge at a meta-level. This knowledge is not tied to the information carriers per se but to how they are presented to us and how we engage with them.

Thus, Taylor’s call — ‘it is imperative to keep re-examining the relationships between embodied performance and the production of knowledge’ — finds an ideal setting in the archive itself, which serves as a rich site for such exploration.

In discussing performativity, I draw on the classic Butlerian interpretation of the concept as a cultural norm that, through repeated enactment, reinforces a set of socially established meanings. This daily ritualised form of repetition operates not only at a discursive level but also at a bodily one.⁶ 6 Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York and London: Routledge, 1990), and Judith Butler, Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of ‘Sex’ (New York and London: Routledge, 1993). The instructions that establish social order can be both explicit and implicit, with their maintenance ensured by the very repetition of practices.

Of course, the performative aspects of archival work have long attracted the attention of researchers. On one hand, these aspects are evident in how the archive is organised in both material and structural terms, as an act of separation and structuring in itself: from storage techniques, folders, boxes, and shelves considered collectively, and the procedures for accessioning or deaccessioning, to administrative elements and the classification systems employed.⁷ 7 On the history of the archival studies, see, for example: Markus Friedrich, The Birth of the Archive: A History of Knowledge (University of Michigan Press, 2018). This spectrum of practices embodies the authority of order, which determines what is deemed worthy of inclusion in the archive and what is not, how storage units should be described, and where they should be placed.⁸ 8 Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (New York: Harper & Row, 1976). On the other hand, I am interested in a broader dimension of performativity that encompasses the figure of the archive user — a person who engages with the archive as an institution with clearly defined rules of operation and begins their journey within it. This, in turn, involves the relationships and practices that emerge in the course of this encounter.

What are these rules, and how do they shape behaviour and work? The Foucauldian theme of control over the body and knowledge permeates every level of interaction with the archive. Like any disciplinary institution, the archive does not exist to facilitate access to its holdings but to restrict it. Therefore, it is important to note that in most archives with which one interacts, obtaining access is a complex process in itself, sometimes requiring months of preparation and special authorisation. An interesting doubling of ‘state prerogatives’ occurs here: on the one hand, broadly speaking, the state archives of Uzbekistan institutionally inherit their colonial predecessors and are often understood as repositories of only one type of document – those that reflect the will of the state apparatus, rather than that of its subjects (though this is a generalisation, as careful searching can uncover a variety of voices). On the other hand, archives as public institutions now operate within the framework of the modern state system, and in some ways, they also reflect the administrative will of the state. This is evident not only in such straightforward archival functions as issuing certificates of past employment upon request but also in determining who is allowed access to the reading room.

The high level of codification and control over actions that every newcomer encounters upon entering the archive can be initially overwhelming: filling out numerous forms, unfamiliar procedures and requests, undergoing security checks, adhering to operating hours, and restrictions on electronic devices. Most often, one learns the sequence of actions through personal experience or by observing the actions of others. The archive's greatest value – the artefacts – are carefully protected, and users are under constant surveillance. The building is equipped with cameras that capture real-time images, which are monitored by staff to prevent users from potentially stealing other images.

Some rules are seldom reviewed or adapted to contemporary realities and are maintained out of tradition. A good example is the confidentiality regime for certain documents, established during the Soviet era. The question of how these rules were set requires separate study, but most often, they stem from direct orders by senior government bodies. Nonetheless, they continue to determine access – or the lack thereof – to many historical documents that are important for research but remain inaccessible. The same applies to so-called temporary storage documents — those placed in the archive for a set period and, in theory, meant to be destroyed once that period expires. These rules, themselves products of archival practices from a specific time, now define the boundaries of what is possible in archival work. Thus, the question of access to certain information becomes not only a question about the composition and nature of archival collections (for example, those created by colonial administrations and therefore reflecting their operational logic) but also a question of management in the context of contemporary historical conditions.

Although the archive is, to some extent, an emanation of the state, it also contains another layer of internal life, one that is not externally regulated and not necessarily tied to discipline. These are various social practices, not universal but arising and disappearing, though often observed by me. One of the conventions dear to my heart is the invisible pact of mutual assistance in paleography that unfolds in the course of casual acquaintance between users. Differences in reading skills and familiarity with the languages of the documents in the collection prompt researchers to seek help from one another. A request to help decipher sloppy Russian handwriting from the late 19th century or rapid Uzbek in Arabic script from the early 20th century can save many minutes, even hours, of pondering.

Again, although from a distance the archive may seem like a sterile institution operating on the ‘receive-issue’ principle, few places rely as heavily on communication and relationships – especially with the staff, mostly women – than an archive, particularly when one has little experience. The custodians of the collections know exactly what they are storing and can guide you on where and what to search for, if only you know how to ask the right questions. They may casually provide the relevant inventory, recalling that it pertains to your topic. If we are to consider the production of knowledge here and now, the role of archivists and consultants is clearly undervalued — no one knows the contents of the archive better than they do, but this knowledge is dispensed in doses and requires flexibility.

Like in any activity, the archive has its own layer of embodied memory. These are repetitive actions carried out day after day: filling out forms, flipping through dry pages, typing or handwriting large volumes of text (once, personal computers were not allowed in the archive, though this is now possible with a formal request). The body is involved everywhere: carrying heavy files and card catalogue boxes, inhaling the dust of crumbling old pages, searching for orders lost among piles of volumes in small rooms, straining the eyes to decipher difficult handwriting and faded ink.

The technologies of searching and handling the discovered units of information are a key process in archival work and another performative lens through which the research will be filtered. Searching can be done in various ways. The availability of digitised archives with the ability to search by keywords in the descriptions of files is an incredible luxury. The reality of my research, however, often involves working without these tools, relying on analogue methods. The process typically goes as follows:

1. Hypothesise, by consulting the guides to the collections, which one might contain what is needed. This step already requires some knowledge, at the very least, of the institutional systems of the relevant era and their areas of responsibility.
2. Select the collections and study their inventories, looking through the titles of the files contained within. At this stage, there may be a fair amount of uncertainty, as file titles rarely provide a comprehensive description. What might seem like a trivial title such as ‘Reports’ or ‘Correspondence’ could hide anything — valuable for research or entirely useless. Among a couple of hundred pages of ‘reports,’ for example, there may be a few sheets from a personal diary that are not noted in the title.
3. Choose the titles of interest, order them, receive and read the files. If lucky, find something relevant to the research topic and make notes. Then, think about how to compile these notes into something resembling a story or narrative, considering the argument that these fragmented notes allow us to build upon the existing body of knowledge.

It turns out that the entire research process described here is surprisingly dependent on a very simple working technology: the method of sifting through inventories, index cards, and files. I wonder what our field, say, Central Asian Studies, would look like if this step were automated — so that most of the time could be dedicated to studying the documents rather than searching and guessing where the needed materials might be stored. On the other hand, I cannot deny that this part of the work is my favourite, even though it often comes with frustrations. Blind or inventive searching can also reward you unexpectedly, and in addition, it yields a different kind of reward — an intimate understanding of the historical context.

To more sensually convey the process described above, from the search for sources to the production of a statement, I have my own personal work story-metaphor, perhaps my first direct encounter with the craft of history. When I was in high school, our literature teacher suggested that anyone interested spend a couple of weeks in the summer working on an excavation. It was in Zvenigorod, just outside Moscow, where we were digging around the so-called Temple on Gorodok, built in the late 14th century within the territory of a fortified settlement (‘Gorodok’). We found ceramics, bones, and occasionally beads or crosses, working in shifts on the excavation site and on sifting the spoil heap. If anyone grew tired of the work, there was an alternative task. You could step aside to tables under a canopy and immerse yourself in the contemplation of hundreds of small pieces of broken plaster with faint traces of paint. The task, incredibly difficult, was to try to fit the pieces together, to assemble an image from them, like a puzzle. Let’s say that if you managed to fit at least two pieces together in a day, it was considered a big success. In general, after an hour at that table, you’d be eager to pick up the shovel again. What were these fragments? In the 15th century, the entire interior of the cathedral was covered with frescoes. It is believed that the authors, along with the authors of the altar icons, were Andrei Rublev and his disciples, a notion that remains either one of the greatest discoveries or a fabrication in the history of early Russian art in the 20th century.⁹ 9 Regarding the attribution of the frescoes and the icons found on the territory of the temple, referred to as the ‘Zvenigorod type,’ see: Igor' Grabar', ‘Andrei Rublev: Ocherk tvorchestva khudozhnika po dannym restavratsionnykh rabot 1918–1925 gg.,’ Voprosy restavratsii, I, Moskva, 1926. After several centuries, it was decided to renew the old frescoes. They were scraped off (although a few frescoes, which were apparently covered or inaccessible, survived) to clear the space for new painting, and were thrown into a pit dug within the temple grounds. Archaeologists discovered this pit not so long ago, retrieved all the pieces, washed them, and decided to attempt to reconstruct the frescoes from them.

The impressions from that work still seem to me a perfect metaphor for working in a state archive: for hours, days, and months, you look at uneven fragments. You try to assemble something whole — a picture, a statement, an image. But the pieces don’t fit well together, many have long disappeared or been destroyed. Most of the pieces are just ordinary pale, monochrome paint, hard to focus on. In rare cases, there is an interesting detail, like a stripe or a dot. Once, all the frescoes were taken down in a general order and thrown into a pit. Most likely, their position in the pit reflects the order of this clearing: the frescoes at the bottom of the pit were taken down earlier, those higher up were taken down later. It’s also possible to assume that the pieces in the same layer were likely closer to each other on the wall and formed one fragment. Of course, some pieces were lost or damaged along the way. Together, they once represented a whole, but having been torn from the wall, they lost the key element – their relationships with each other. It is the restorer’s job to restore this (the thought of digitisation and delegating this process also inevitably comes to mind). This is roughly what people do in an archive, and the more time they spend there, the better they get at absorbing memory and, consequently, the faster and more skillfully they manage to fit the pieces together.

This comparison leads me to three further observations. First, the fundamental incompleteness of any archive: it can never offer the full picture, not only because some pieces have scattered along the way, but also because the reconstruction of their relationships will always remain a hypothesis, based solely on what’s at hand. Second, the archive is far more chaotic internally than those who have never worked in one might think. There is space for unpredictability within it, and this is not an exception but a defining characteristic of any administrative work and how institutional archives are formed. And finally, third, the archive itself does not actively produce anything, even though it contains information arranged in a specific order, ready for potential use. But without the researcher, interacting with the institution and its holdings, it remains silent. This thought occurs to me every time I order an archival file and find myself as its first reader (it’s easy to tell, as every user must fill out a special form placed inside each file, writing their name, date, and purpose of use). It also occurs when I see familiar names on the form and feel as if I’m having a dialogue with colleagues across time and space: ‘Oh, you read this document in 2001; I was still in school then. I wonder what you thought back then, through what lens you read it. Did it help your work, or did you quickly flip through it and set it aside?’ How many files have never been ordered and perhaps never will? How many will you walk past, just barely missing, due to a misleading title or your own oversight? How many will be classified or missing from the shelves and never serve their role in the infamous process of history-writing?

Focusing on the performative, procedural aspect of archival work as a historically specific practice helps complicate our understanding of the relationship between the archive and ‘knowledge production,’ which is not as direct, one-dimensional, or straightforward as it may seem.¹⁰ 10 See, Paolo Sartori, ‘A Sound of Silence in the Archives: On Eighteenth-Century Russian Diplomacy and the Historical Episteme of Central Asian Hostility,’ Itinerario. 2020, 44(3): 552-571. doi:10.1017/S0165115320000340 Performativity and the high degree of codification in archival work serve as an internal lens, sometimes imprinting an unreflected influence on historical scholarship. The restriction and opening of access to certain documents, both written and unwritten rules of procedure, and the figures assisting in the research process — this entire complex choreography of the archive forms the backdrop and the conditions of work, and often directly serves as a tool for gaining knowledge about existing fonds, hidden storage locations, and internal features of classification systems and description language. Moreover, the more constrained the circumstances of archival work, the clearer the influence of these conditions on the produced knowledge. This backdrop is rarely mentioned in research texts; emphasizing the process seems almost immodest, and to an outsider, it may seem as though everything found for an article or book has simply always been neatly placed on the shelf, waiting for the reader. However, this intermediary layer consistently affects us and shapes how we write history. I wanted to show the constructed nature of the oppositions about the archive in performative studies and demonstrate that performance is not a ‘live’ antidote to the archive, but rather an integral part of it. The archive is just as ‘alive’ and requires the presence of the researcher to stage a performance on the production of history in our time.

What does this mean for practice? If the first step is analysing the conditions of work and the constraints and opportunities they offer, the second step would be reflecting on what can be done to circumvent or fill in these limitations. An obvious approach is supplementing sources from institutional archives with materials found in other systems. I also find it productive not only to work with access but to invent personal ways of stepping outside the common archival routines. This is possible through careful observation and immersion in the already existing mechanisms. One of my tactics is to carve out time for spontaneous exploration and play during my work hours in the archive — everything from ordering random files to chatting with the archivists about this and that, which often yields unexpected results.