“Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

What’s to say about the past four months that hasn’t already been said? For one, I’ve had a conversation with plenty of friends about this idea of latching onto nostalgia to cope. Psychology Today published a piece by Hal McDonald entitled “Using Nostalgia to Cope With COVID. He closes the piece with the penultimate thought that nostalgia is a “temporary escape into an undeniably simpler past” (McDonald, 2020), appealing to a seemingly familiar wavelength that my circle and me have been wrestling with when we opine about “that one time” and “that one place” as if it were years ago (which it was).

It takes a lot to put one’s self out there too, especially in light of the drastic consequences one faces if they choose to be too close to someone, some place, or something they have been disconnected during this pandemic. It’s a risk adjustment, and professionally, how far is one willing to go? As a librarian and archivist, the physical space that encompasses living things exists in memory. Whether you agree or not, the physical space functions as that escape into a simpler past. No longer are we in the days of the sacred third space existing as the platitude for socialization and meta-cognition. Certainly a shift is occurring where the importance of safety outweighs access. And it’s a painful reality to know that one’s life is on the line, even if they might have spent their entire lives exploring the stacks and boxes as the guiding principle in their professional philosophy of information disseminator.

Nostalgia is very, very simple in this case of library and archives work. It’s being able to roam library shelves for something that might look completely out of the ordinary. What is there to explore when the stacks aren’t occupied by curious bookworms hiding in the corner, escaping reality for a moment to sail across the ocean toward some unknown destination in search of a grail. How about story time? How does on improvise with the flow of each page and image? What energy does the story teller have when their audience is 12 separate boxes on a screen? It was all so simple knowing that the power and presence of those around me allowed for the words to live larger than life. If I could be reading to the students right now, you must know that I would be the first one standing on the chair, flailing my arms, and pretending to breathe fire like a dragon in a picture book.

As for the archives, it’s the selling point to those that don’t understand exactly what it is to curate years of history in the form of fading physical forms. These forms are published by their respective creators as books, letters, sketches, clothing, or any physical object that started as the root of an idea. Knowing that these artifacts are beyond physical reach diminishes their livelihood. Their relevance in a social feed era was meant to provide an optional resource in a digital age. Surely, digital surrogates exist, but it’s not the same as seeing something in person. In my opinion, artifacts are the subversion to disrupt a digital age filled with mutable artifacts. Access (overused term but necessary) gives users a break to reflect on how far we’ve come. To interact with something created years ago and find meaning in its existence. It gives perspective and a detached sense of nostalgia – the kind that makes you imagine life without internet and how someone in the 19th century might have entertained themselves without streaming.

But who am I to say the digital objects are not as important? As far as I’m concerned, I sometimes see old photographs of moments on so-and-so’s page. I’m guilty of reveling in the possibility that others or I must have felt when the flash of a camera went off. These are the same photos, videos, and sounds that stop you from scrolling further down the rabbit hole. They give you pause. They let you breathe and realize that the past was a place where you may have existed. As a digital objects continue to float in their pixelated existence, they continue to deteriorate the more you click on them. They slowly lose their integrity. But you can’t help it – the moment becomes larger than life and lives inside a box in the corner of your mind that you kept guarded for a long time. When the moment and time comes, you replay it and each iteration looks different. Once you put it back, you scroll down the feed and look for the next thrill. Click and repeat.

Nostalgia takes place in this conversation, because it’s a very simple thing to express. I miss the ability to dig through boxes. I miss the chance to stumble on a tender line in a letter between old friends. I miss the challenge of making light of hundreds of voices hidden away in some storage facility, wondering if their legacy is bright enough to shine a light. But I accept that change is happening. There’s no time to dwell too long in how things used to be. The shift to imagine the physical space at libraries archives at this moment is to embrace the challenge of right now. What are we without our collections? What is our purpose? What is our deliverable? How do we reach out? What can we do better? And when will we reunite with our precious books and archives?

Unsurprisingly, questions are all I have. They’re the introduction into what answer we’re all searching for. Perhaps as a librarians and archivists, we’re the unsung heroes that are finally getting the moment to reflect. We’re finding our ways to heal. We’re repurposing our approach. And maybe we can finally imagine we’re on some riviera telling old stories to an audience that may have found our presence as charismatic as our dreams. But in the famous closing words uttered by Jake Barnes in The Sun Also Rises, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

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References

Hemingway, E. (2014). The Sun Also Rises. Scribner.

McDonald, H. (2020, April 11). Using Nostalgia to Cope With COVID. Psychology Today. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/time-travelling-apollo/202004/using-nostalgia-cope-covid