An American in London, Episode 5: Her Maj and Archiving

What’s that you say? You want to know what I’ve been doing at the V&A? Oh, well, right then. I suppose that’s only fair.

Episode 5: Her Maj and Archiving, wherein our heroine goes through 44 boxes of paper

Now as many of you know I am in England earning a master’s degree in Museum and Artefact Studies. So it may surprise you that on my placement with the Theatre and Performance department of the V&A I’ve not worked with any objects. Instead I’ve been working with the archives. Now you may think, well what’s the real difference? Plenty.

Museum staff tends to catalogue every object in great detail (well that’s the desired goal in any case). Archivists on the other hand work to a hierarchy not unlike your typical monarchical society. Let’s take, hmmmmm, monarchies, monarchies….oh how about England? At the top is her Maj, Queen Liz II. She’s the top of the hierarchy and in archivist speak would be the fonds level. That’s the level where you would describe a particular collection you were cataloguing. I was working with three different collections but the main one was the Michael Benthall Archive. Michael Benthall was a director and producer in London during the forties through the sixties. He was famous for putting on the first folio of Shakespeare’s plays at the Old Vic and for working with stars like Katharine Hepburn and Vivien Leigh. So at H.M. Queen Liz’s level, or the fonds level, I described what the entire collection contains in general terms and how many boxes of material therein.

Queen Elizabeth = Fonds

Next in line to the throne is Prince Charlie. His equivalent in archival terms is the series level. A series is a broad heading of different categories of material. So for Michael Benthall I had nine series:  administrative documents, production files, touring files, scripts, musical scores, sound recordings, scrapbooks, photographs, and programmes.

Prince of Wales = Series

Next would be Prince William or the file level. Files are an even more specific heading of material and tend to be the lowest level archivists will go to. There must be over a hundred different files in the Michael Benthall collection. An example would be something like the Production file for As You Like It by William Shakespeare, 1950. In it would be documents relevant to that particular production.

Duke of Cambridge = File

If you really wanted to go crazy you could go down to the Prince George level or the item level. That would be something like a cast list, costume design, or a specific photograph. Thank goodness I didn’t need to catalogue to this level for Michael Benthall because there were 45 boxes of documents and photographs. I think I would have been there until next Easter sifting through each item. To be fair, I did have to go through each item in order to figure out how I wanted to organise the collection and to see if anything needed to be closed under the Data Protection Act. I’ll tell you two of the coolest things I came across. The first was Katharine Hepburn’s signature. Michael Benthall had worked with her many times and there it was, at the bottom of a note. The other cool thing I found was a cast list for a touring production which starred Vivien Leigh. Now that’s cool enough on its own but as I scanned through, at the very bottom where the minuscule parts were listed was Patrick Stewart. It must have been one of his first real gigs and it was so amazing to see his name there.

Prince George of Cambridge = Item

So most of what I did probably sounds a bit mundane and to be honest, it was. As they would say here, that’s work though, innit? I did get to shadow one of the assistant curators for a day down at the museum in South Kensington. That day they moved an enormous painting into the Theatre and Performance Gallery. It was quite fun and dramatic to watch the V&A team carry it up the stairs and through into the gallery. I also got to see a live puppet show performance as part of the festivities surrounding Shakespeare’s birthday and go on a tour of the gallery with another assistant curator. Mostly though, I was sifting through paper and cataloguing. My work should be going up on the V&A’s archival search engine though which is terribly exciting really.

So that’s it. That’s what it’s like to work in archives. Any questions?

An American in London, Episode 4: A Whole Ancient World

Did you realise that there is an entire world outside of London? I know it’s difficult to imagine but trust me there is. It’s a strange, magical sort of place that includes sites such as the countryside (ooh) and Stonehenge (aah).  

Episode 4: A Whole Ancient World, wherein our heroine sees some sarsens

Stonehenge. It’s where every tourist worth her salt goes when in England. How had I made it six months in this country without having gone to see it? It was a bit disgraceful really. I had been staying outside of London for three weeks now and all of my time had been taken up with work. When I wasn’t at the V&A, I was working on reports and helping my friends house hunt in the most expensive part of the country. By the third weekend we were all terribly stressed. When Camilla suggested we go to Stonehenge, I leapt at the opportunity, even if the kids groaned in the background.

My first glimpse of it came from the A303. There was a slight traffic jam caused by everyone slowing down to take pictures of the ancient stones brought seemingly for no other purpose than to confound passing motorists. It looked just like the pictures I had seen in books and on countless television programmes.

Stonehenge from the A303

We parked in the new car park and headed over to the brand new visitors centre. It had only been open since December. I managed to pass for a nineteen year old and we all boarded the coach which would drop us off near the stones. I was armed with an audio guide and my camera, ready to capture the moment and learn about why on earth these stones were brought here. It was chilly when I stepped off the coach. I shivered slightly even though the sun was brightly beaming onto the lichen covered stones.

There it was. There it was. I was finally seeing Stonehenge with my own eyes. The light rays were bouncing off of those stones and passing through my lenses onto my retinas. It was real. It was tangible. I had read the guide book during the car ride and now I listened to the voices of archaeologists and academics describing the differences in the stones. Sarsens are the large stones and they were quarried about 20km away. The smaller ones are the bluestones from Wales.

It hadn’t always looked like it did now. It started off as just a dug out ring in the earth. Then there were wooden posts. Burials took place here, and eventually stones were brought and arranged and rearranged. Thousands of years of sunrises and sunsets had passed over those stone sentinels. Thousands of years of human came and saw and wondered and dreamed. Thousands of years of stars had danced across the sky. And now I was standing there.

I slowly walked all the way around. Moving slowly, looking at every piece, at every barrow nearby, trying to capture the landscape in my mind so I could return there whenever I wished. I had forgotten the cold. I no longer felt it. Curiosity and wonder has a way of warming the human spirit.

It was time to leave the circle and I looked back once to fix it in my mind before boarding the coach and heading away from that most excellent of sites. 

An American in London, Episode 3: On a Stroll

Upon leaving my coffee shop every morning I embark upon a fifteen minute stroll through Hammersmith to finally reach my building. Along the way, I have found many remarkable things and discovered that even my thoughts found a certain routine during this walk.

Episode 3: On a Stroll, wherein our heroine walks to work

I discovered my particular walking route to Blythe House thanks to Google Maps. It claimed that this was the quickest, most direct route to my building. I think this is a dubious claim, but I fell in love with the journey and couldn’t bear not to walk it every morning.

I start out on Hammersmith Road, a busy main thoroughfare with noisy traffic. When I turn off on Rowan Road however, it is almost as if someone replaces a city sounds track with a sounds of nature track. Bird song dominates this area and the charming front gardens of the terraced houses seem to have their own stories which leap out from the tiled walkways and blooming tulips. I always look over to Lavender House and the house to let. Every time I walked past it I imagine renting it and what sort of life I could have in that house. (Probably a very impoverished one with rental prices as they are, but I dream nonetheless.)

Rowan Road ends at Brook Green, a park between two streets. The first time I saw it I felt as though I had been transported back to New York City. It reminded me so strongly of the neighbourhood I once lived it. I’m not sure why now that I think about it but it became my favourite part of my walk. It was even more my favourite after I discovered that the school I pass every morning was where Gustav Holst composed The Planets. After that, I always began humming “Mars” when I walked by, if one could really actually hum “Mars.” Across the park is Planetree Court. I suppose it is pronounced as plain-tree but for some reason I always think that it’s pronounced as a Cockney would say planetary. Odd how every time I pass it I think the same thing.

I cross through the narrow park and onto Girdlers Road. This is the last leg of my journey. It isn’t the most extraordinary part, especially since dog fouling is common on this stretch and you must constantly look down or run the risk of treading in it. At the end of the road the typical council flat blocks of the 1950s reach upwards with wash hanging from the balconies. This is Blythe Road and Blythe House is on the right.

Blythe House used to be home to the Royal Mail Service but now it’s where the V&A, British Museum, and Science Museum share off-site storage. It’s also where I work. It’s a lovely building constructed around the turn of the century (nineteenth to twentieth of course). It’s so lovely that several movies have been filmed there including Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and Thor 2. Anyway, my journey ends with a swipe of my ID card at the iron turnstile. 

An American in London, Episode 2: Finding Nero

An essential part of working in London is discovering your coffee shop. This is of the utmost importance. The coffee shop is that most magical of places, the neutral zone between home and work. It is where you steel your courage to face the day. Many Commuters will only spend a few minutes in their coffee shop, a quick cup of something to take away on the last leg of their journey. I have quite a different relationship with my coffee shop.

Today's episode: Finding Nero, wherein our heroine has her moment of Zen.

The first day I commuted into Hammersmith, I was left with a conundrum. I had an hour before I had to be at work but the walk from the station would only take ten minutes, fifteen if I dawdled. I peered through the crowds and traffic, trying to find some sort of place that I could waste the next forty-five minutes. I spotted a Caffé Nero through the stream of cars and vans and headed off. Caffé Nero is a chain coffee shop, like a Starbucks but, to my American sensibilities, different. For one thing, it has a different logo. Okay, so it’s like most chain coffee shops, baristas, teas, coffees with exotic sounding names, baked goods, a small selection of wrapped sandwiches, selections of classical music, and comfy chairs where denizens read their newspapers or books. I would have no trouble relaxing here for forty minutes.

That first breakfast in Hammersmith.

What began as a mere pit stop in my daily commute quickly turned into something else. For one thing, I discovered the most delightful of breakfast foods: honey yoghurt. It is as good as it sounds: Greek yoghurt with a hint of sweet, honey flavour. It is what I most look forward to when I wake up. I have also challenged myself to try all of the blends of tea on offer (save decaf, who the hell drinks that stuff anyway?). Thus far I have enjoyed Tea. Earl Grey. Hot, Chamomile, English Breakfast, Green Tea, and today’s blend was Raspberry and Ginseng. Monday will be Peppermint and then I can go back to my most favouritest of blends, Earl Grey. I have taken to writing during my morning stop at Caffé Nero as well (yes, I’m in Caffé Nero as I type these words). For forty-five minutes I slip into a delightful bubble, not quite a bubble, a haze more like. I can write, stare off into the distance, or contemplate the very odd things that frequently pop into my head. My moment of Zen.

It’s that moment where your busy morning slows down, the world outside the window of the shop continues on at warp speed, but inside everything is calm. Your easy chair wraps you up with its arms and you can watch the madness from its warm embrace. The classical music piped in from the speaker becomes foregrounded as the rest of the sounds of the world fade away. I have had lovely, odd thoughts in this state.

The one that visits me most frequently are the childhood dreams I had of becoming a ballerina. I blame this particular reverie on the canned music. It’s music that ballet teachers would play in class for bare work. (I am convinced that one track actually is one that I danced to at some point.) One morning I began to imagine what my life would have been if I had pursued dance as I had wanted to as a child. Zen set in and the thoughts danced around my head. What if I had come to England to study ballet? Maybe I would have been fifteen or sixteen wandering the streets of London, going to class for hours on end, the bleeding blisters, the beautiful costumes, the surge of adrenaline from the performances. I wondered if my ballerina-self would have had a coffee shop, too. For a second, I half expected my ballerina-self to come through the door and order a cup of tea. I blinked and the reverie was broken. I took another sip of tea.

This morning I got to Caffé Nero earlier than normal, ordered my Raspberry and Ginseng tea and honey yoghurt, and grabbed my preferred table. From my seat I can see through the door way into the front of the coffee shop and on through the large windows out into London. From here a dreamer can invent her own reality. I watch people walking by and invent stories about who they are and where they are going. That bloke with the gym shorts and backpack is training for the London marathon. He’s running for a gerbil charity to commemorate his childhood pet. That woman with the blackberry has an important presentation this morning. She has invented a product that will make anyone invisible for precisely 0.68 seconds. (It’s still in the development stage.) I stay in my chair long after my tea is gone dreaming and writing. At quarter to, it’s time to meander over to my building and begin the rest of my day. The moment of Zen is over and I join that stream of stories out of the window.

An American in London, Episode 1: The Commutation of the Commute

Two weeks working in London have flown by like an express train from Paddington Station. I am halfway through my work placement with the Theatre and Performance Archives at the V&A and spring has reached England’s green and pleasant land. I do apologise for failing to update last week but I found forming a new routine to be all consuming. It would take far more words than I have time to devote to explain every nuance of the past twelve days or so, so I will provide you, dear Reader, with just the broad strokes. They may seem rather mundane but things like finding your coffee shop, memorising the train schedule, and learning the walking route to and from places takes on such importance when you are starting a new job that they tend to overshadow the more monumental episodes like, oh, I don’t know, working at the V&A? Over the next few weeks I will devote some posts to various elements of my life in London, they will be short, but hopefully interesting.

Today’s episode: The Commutation of the Commute, wherein our heroine is transformed.

I am living outside of London in a village near Maidenhead. You may remember I stayed with friends before Christmas near Windsor. They graciously agreed to host me for the month of my work placement and I have been thrown into the family mix. I must admit that after the confines of my tiny study bedroom in Durham, having a real home to go to every evening has been beyond comforting. Living outside of London does have certain disadvantages though. For one thing, it’s outside of London. I have not, nor will I conceivably have time to see and do things in the city. I am that certain class of Londoner at the moment; not really a Londoner, a Commuter. Commuters are a special breed. They plant themselves outside of major cities in delightful suburbs and villages but always near a rail station. The rail station is to the Commuter what the migration routes are to wildebeests on the African plains. Every morning they are herded onto ridiculously crowded rail carriages and zipped into the city. I had to learn this routine in order to properly blend in with the species.

Commuters in their natural habitat. (Photo by Route79)

It started with a journey to one of those rail stations to obtain that most coveted of Commuter items: a monthly rail pass. This necessary rite of passage does have its costs. I left the station £370.00 lighter, but with the means to travel between Maidenhead and anywhere in London for a month. The next morning I would join the herd to begin my four week placement at the V&A. I was now ready to become a Commuter.

One of the main duties a Commuter has is to learn the railway time table. I had to determine the best trains to take in the morning and again in the evening. I needed to work out the nuances of the Tube and carefully sculpt my journey much like Michelangelo sculpting David. Do I take the District line to the Overground? Do I take the Hammersmith and City line and walk? Or do I take the District line to the Central line to the Overground? The patterns and complexities of the decision were enormously fun; it was like an artistic puzzle to be pondered.

The first decision though had to be which train from Maidenhead. An internet search provides an answer or of course there is an app for that. (Over the past two weeks I have graduated to a higher level of Commuter since I always search for my train’s platform number before I get to the station, saving me from the Junior Commuter mistake of having to actually look at those screens. Noobs). Determining the proper train is not straightforward. Later trains may in fact get you into Paddington earlier than early trains. I blame this seeming disruption in the spacetime continuum on wibbly wobbly timey wimeyness. (It is England after all.) For example, if you take the 17:42 from Paddington (yes, you need to get used to 24 hour time here, it’s used all over the place) you arrive in Maidenhead at 18:13. If you take the 17:49 from Paddington you arrive in Maidenhead at 18:07. (I also think the 17:49 is bigger on the inside.) Either way, both trains will get you to Maidenhead. A Commuter should always know at least two or three trains around the preferred train in case of unforeseen misfortune such as gasp delays!

London Paddington (Photo by El Scrapeo)

Once I had determined my preferred trains and memorised three trains round that one, I was ready. I must say that I have found a rather wonderful rhythm to my commute. I leave early enough to have breakfast in Hammersmith and a leisurely walk to the office and my reverse journey isn’t too taxing on my weary brain.

So there I am. I am Commuter. Ich bin ein Kommuter. (No that is so not the German word for commuter, but it totally should be.)The Cambridge Free Dictionary defines commute as “to change one thing into another.” (How I do love the English language!) I have sculpted my commute and it has in turn sculpted me.