A Place for Shimizu

This week, I had the pleasure of digging through the fonds of Kosaburo Shimizu (1892-1962). I’d like to start off with a brief biography of his life because I think it will be pertinent to the topic of my blog post. Shimizu was a Japanese émigré born in the village of Tsuchida in Japan. He came to BC in 1907 to live with his eldest sister after the death of his father. After graduating from Royal City High School, Shimizu taught English at the New Westminster Methodist Church. Against his family wishes, Shimizu decided to pursue his dreams for higher education and went on to study at the newly-established UBC in 1915 and obtained his MA in English Literature from Harvard. He was ordained into the United Church in 1924 and pastored several congregations in Vancouver. During the interwar period, Shimizu was an active participant in peacemaking efforts to resolve growing racial tensions between Japanese and White Canadians. During WWII, however, Shimizu was labeled as an “undesirable person” and deported to an internment camp in Kaslo, BC. After the war, he relocated to Toronto, where he lived with his family until his death in 1962.

In “Autonomous Archives,” Moore and Pell examine the autonomous archives of the Union of British Columbia Indian Chiefs, Hope in Shadows, and Friends of the Woodward’s Squat Archive as “oppositional spaces in which marginalised groups construct collective identities and discourses apart from dominating groups” (256). Intrinsic to the notion of marginalization is the idea of displacement. They write, “The intimate connections between these publics and their environments call attention to the significance of place for communities, and by extension for their archives. By connecting stories of past experiences to present localities, public histories give places meaning.” Autonomous archives, then, are places which document dis-placement.

One of the first things that caught my eye about Shimizu’s life was how well-traveled he was for a “foreigner” in the early 20th century. Yet many of his outings were not by choice. Displaced by the death of a parent, by war, and by discrimination, Shimizu never had a permanent “place” to call home or substantiate his history. It is sadly ironic but perhaps fitting that the 13 diaries that travelled with him to all these places found their final resting place in the institutional archive of a patriarchal society that never quite accepted him in the first place.


 

After reading about radical archives this week, it seemed mightily ironic that I would be attempting to draw conclusions about autonomous archives from works found in an institutional archive. In fact, it seemed quite the impossible feat. Yet, as I spent time with Shimizu’s fonds, it seemed to me that it was asserting its own autonomy and resistance against the archoviolific archive that housed it.

Today, I’d like to compare two of Shimizu’s journals. The first comes from his 1909 diary (RBSC-ARC-1500-01-01). It’s quite unruly (literally) and written mostly in Japanese, as be fits someone who had only recently begun learning English. Snippets of English such as “Ms Hill (presumably a school teacher)… arithmetic” or “Ms Hill… Tennyson” suggests that much of his discussions center on learning. Above all, Shimizu seemed to have a vested interest in geography—place names like Strathcona, measurements of the Fraser River—stand out from amidst the jumble of Hanzi characters. Shimizu’s diary seems to reflect a newly-immigrated 16-year old’s attempt to locate himself through linguistic and geographical markers, yet jumping back and forth between languages, he never does quite find a place of rest.

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Shimizu’s later journals, like the one pictured above from 1916 (RBSC-ARC-1500-01-03), are much more organized and defined. What immediately strikes the eye is the segregation of Japanese and English on the page, highlighted by difference in ink colour. Each day is marked by choice words from the bedrock of the Western canon: Aristotle, Emerson, St. Paul, but Shimizu’s personal reflections, his moments of introspection, were hidden from me.

In “The Making of Memory,” Shwartz and Cook write that, “Like archives collectively, the individual document is not just a bearer of historical content, but also a reflection of the needs and desires of its creator…” (3). “Reading” Shimizu’s diaries, or rather, admiring the columns upon columns of beautiful Japanese script I could not decipher, I began to wonder whether or how these two passages related. Did the English quotations summarize his day? Encourage? Remind? Chastise? Or perhaps they were juxtaposed altogether arbitrarily. The archival descriptions did little to clear the enigma, as the curator obviously did not read Japanese either. Although indeed, UBC’s Rare Books and Special Collections has made Shimizu’s diary public, his decision to write in Japanese continued to assert his privacy and right to self-representation. The very fact that all these English words were boxed into a little square on his page seem reflective of someone compartmentalizing opposing cultural identities. Although, as a literature scholar, Shimizu undoubtedly held the Western canon in high respect, perhaps, we can go so far to say that the diary itself is resisting its inclusion in the institutional by counteractively placing hegemonic discourse in solitary confinement. Thus, while Shimizu’s fonds remain housed in a public archive, I believe that they function as an autonomous voice, one which too can “point to the intersecting concerns of social identity, claims to place, and the political stakes of representation within heterogenous and unequal publics” (Moore & Pell 255).

Note: Wondering how an autonomous archive for the Japanese-Canadian experience would look like? Last summer, my family visited the lovely town of Greenwood in interior BC and were surprised to learn at their local museum (run by two Japanese ladies) that many of their Japanese “interns” came from no other than our hometown, Richmond! Shimizu’s fonds were transferred to RBSC from Steveston United Church, which still stands as a historic site in Steveston Village.


 

Works Cited:

Moore, Shaunna and Susan Pell. “Autonomous archives.” International Journal of Heritage Studies 16.4 (2010): 255-268.

Schwartz, Joan and Terry Cook. “Archives, Records, and Power: the Making of Modern Memory.” Archival Science 2 (2002): 1-19.

Dropping into the “Preserving Liquid Communication” Symposium

On February 11th, I had the pleasure of attending the Preserving Liquid Communication symposium held by the Association of Canadian Archivists chapter at UBC. Here is a summary of Panel 4, titled, “Liquid Communication in Archives: Theoretical Considerations, Tools, Strategies, and Tips from Work in the Field” with panelists Babak Haidzadeh, Patricia Klambauer, and Erin O’Meara.

Patricia Klambauer oversees the tech department at Library and Archives Canada. Her projects involve documenting the 2010 Olympics and federal campaigns. To date, her team has currently harvested 28 terabytes worth of data in website and social media content.

Babak Haidzadeh is a computer engineer and professor at the University of Maryland. His role entails transferring Twitter content to the Library of Congress and devising methods of categorization. Due to the sheer volume of tweets sent out each day (upwards of 500 million), his team focuses on three areas

  1. Conflict (tweets concerning wars, tracking terrorist activity i.e. studying posts from ISIS)
  2. Labour (tweets sent by unions, public relations of corporations)
  3. Mass Media (tweets as a medium for broadcasting news or advertisements)

Erin O’Meara is manager at a private archives for the (Bill) Gates family, philanthropic foundation, and related companies (minus Microsoft).

Many good points were raised by the panel. However, due to the nature of the discussion, the conversation turned very technical at times (there were some very specific terms about computer coding) and became difficult to follow. Here are the key points I’ve gleaned from the dialogue:

  1. Project management strategies

Before beginning any project, always present ideas as a business case. Questions that should be asked include, “Why should we harvest this content? What is the cost? Can we justify the cost? What is the impact of not collecting this?”

  1. Common harvesting tools, and their successes or limitations

Bagger is a software application developed by the Library of Congress that bundles sets of collected files together. However, it can only organize them at the bit and file level—it’s not content or semantic level specific. At Library and Archives Canada, Twark is used to capture databases of tweets, while Offline Explorer Pro is a desktop tool which records live streamed content.

Curating social media content is vastly different from dealing with websites. Each digital object (a tweet, a facebook post) has a completely different code, and it is impossible to create a generate software. There is no “one size fits all” solution and that is what makes the digital archiving so daunting and costly.

  1. The translation of traditional archival practises to a digital environment

Appraisal continues to be an important element of digital archiving. It is vital to identify which level of content archivists are looking for and to set “crawl” parameters. For example, conversations in the form of comments can continue for months and are often very intermittent. Tweets can be retweeted. Archivists now face the challenge of setting boundaries to these ongoing conversations and forging connections between sets of data collected at different times.

  1. Opportunities offered by a liquid archives

The beauty of online content is that each tweet or comment has a digital footprint. Thus, unlike a physical letter, it is almost always possible to trace its path back to its point of origin.

Due to sheer volume of content available, automation has become inevitable, yet it cannot be forgotten that the archives is all about the human. Online archives present a great opportunity for archival organizations to work together strategically and gain wider coverage of materials.

Diagnosing Sandwyk

This week, I had the pleasure of digging through the fonds of internationally-renowned artist and author Charles van Sandwyk. Since the 1980’s, UBC’s Rare Book and Special Collections has been collecting his works, which include printmaking, watercolor and calligraphy. Sandwyk produces small-press publications as well as original works of art. A native of South Africa, Charles divides his time between Deep Cove, North Vancouver and the islands of Fiji.

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Print (RBSC-ARC-1713-2-2)

Box 2 (RBSC-ARC-1713-2) stood out particularly because its odd shape promised to hold some unconventional contents. I was not disappointed. Though rather large and cumbersome, the beautiful hand-drawn prints within were well worth all the unwrapping and rewrapping. More importantly, from my digs, I found traces in Sandwyk’s work which both speak to and against Jacque Derrida’s ground- breaking essay “Archive Fever.”

In File 2, Sandwyk recounts the origins of Savuti Press, a private press he formed with Waisiki Doughty. Savuti is named after one of their favourite hideouts in Fiji. He fondly recalls Jack Savuti’s house, a colonial sugar planter’s cottage itself originally built on the island of Suva that was taken apart and moved to Navuti, then finally “dragged piece by piece” and reassembled in Savuti by Jack’s sister Lucy. Like Derrida, for Sandwyk, this house is a metaphor for memory—the psychological archive. He writes (of this new press), “… we would like to try our hand at cobbling together some reminiscences from the nearly forgotten early years of south sea island life” (boldface added). In his essay, Derrida describes archive fever as the “compulsive, repetitive, and nostalgic desire… to return to the origin, a homesickness, a nostalgia for return to the most archaic place of absolute commencement” (91). Sandwyk, in his desire to “cobble together” memory, shows telltale symptoms of this disease.

Savuti Point via Getty Images

Savuti Point via Getty Images

Yet, perhaps this is too simplistic a reading, for the way in which Sandwyk’s house exemplifies Derrida’s assertions prove uncanny. Jack Savuti’s repeatedly re-constructed shack neatly illustrates how entwined in the desire to archive is a cyclical force: the archive is the retention of a specific origin through repetition. Furthermore, the colonial history of the hut also gesture to what Derrida identifies as the originary violence of the “patriarchontic” archive as an institutional and ideological site: Law and authority has inscribed itself into nature from the start. Finally, the decrepit nature of this shack speaks to the distortion enacted by the archviolithic archive. Derrida brilliantly demonstrates that every hypomnesic memory (unconscious memory or archival memory) is not only a reminding memory but a distorted one, since according to Freud, we can only understand violence and trauma in its distorted form. These three factors taken into consideration, if we pursue a physiognomical reading of this house, then the ‘historical foundation’ of this press itself seems very much cognizant of archive fever.

Sandwyk continues, “We began this venture with the hopes of printing our artistic endeavours and philosophical wanderings on exquisite papers, and in small editions. Like the spit of land the press is named for, this is where our cultural tides converge, and where we mix the familiar with the new.” By recognizing the intertwining of familiar and foreign, of memory and philosophy, the founders confirm Derrida’s assertion that the archive cannot remain outside what it memorializes. Also included in this notion is that the relationship between the archive and what it archives is fluid. Derrida writes, “the technical structure of the archiving archive [which] also determines the structure of the archivable content even in its very coming into existence and in its relationship to the future. The archivization produces as much as it records the event” (17).

Although Sandwyk and Doughty began publishing to establish an archive of their memories, they also recognized the potential and the inherent nature of the archiving technology to create, produce, and inspire new memories. Even in succumbing to archive fever, Sandwyk continues to resist it.