The Lost Workers: Process, Performance, and the Archive1

Peter Holland
Shakespeare Bulletin, Volume 28, Number 1, Spring 2010, pp. 7-18 (Article)

Published by The Johns Hopkins University Press DOI: 10.1353/shb.0.0138

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http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/shb/summary/v028/28.1.holland.html

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The Lost Workers: Process, Performance, and the Archive1

Peter Holland University of Notre Dame
Sweet Analitikes, tis thou hast rauisht me Marlowe, Dr Faustus (1616)

ometimes, just sometimes, one hears a voice that one has not recognized as a voice, a sound that speaks of a self where before there has only been a sound that denied selfhood, a sound that makes one stop to listen, to hope for further traces, to yearn to know the voices owner, that person who made one recognize that one was, in fact, hearing someone. If there is always a yearning to construct narratives from the archives, then the finding of voices, of tale-tellers, of events that manifest their performance of a response can be simply exhilarating. Trawling the RSCs website a while ago, delving in that archive of images drawn from the RSC Collection (but drawn by whom? who chose them? who enabled my moment of hearing in making that selection?), I was searching through the ones for Coriolanus, thinking again to myself about possible illustrations for my edition. There, among the production photos and costume shots, the token 19th-century playbill and the first page of the play in F1, is a series of images of pages from the promptbook for David Thackers 1994 production in the Swan, covering the sequence in 5.3 from the entry of the women of Rome to the end of the scene. I read them carefully, picking up moments of staging that the promptbook revealed in the way that only a promptbook can. On Coriolanuss line Aufidius and you Volsces, mark, for well / Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request? (923), there is both a move and a lighting cue: Coriolanus moves back to throne and sits, following, though the
Shakespeare Bulletin 28.1: 718 2010 The Johns Hopkins University Press.

Peter Holland

promptbook edition did not, Capells added stage-direction. But the lighting cue helps mark the moment and, helping me read the production, the promptbook-holder kindly leaves a trace by explaining what LXQ102 is: Increase of intensity of throne special, focusing the audiences attention on Coriolanus. I read on through to the climactic moment: at let us shame him with our knees Vol lies prostrate behind C Vol touches Cs boot / boy holds hands outstretched. Coriolanus must have moved away because then he Comes to V and takes her hand / C sinks to his knees and cries like a big girly. And I suddenly hear that voice in the wonderful choice of the last word. Whose voice? The DSM?2 A comment by the director or an actor or a member of the crew recorded by the DSM? Who knows? As I am LOL (laughing out loud), I wish I could say thank you to whoever came up with the phrase and/or wrote it in the promptbook. The dryness of the archive has changed into a world of mocking response. The unnatural scene has become doubly so: viewed within the plays fiction and viewed as its own performance. Crying like a big girly is perhaps the best possible description of what Toby Stephens was doing, though I must still check the archival video again to think further whether it is. But the gendering of this boy as girly is not, as I remember (oh, suspect phrase), quite what the production was doing. If anything the opposite would in fact be more accurate, for the production was manically high on testosterone. The promptbooks marking, C . . . cries like a big girly, is probably not accurate: it was not C but Stephens who could have been described as such, for Thacker did not seek to undercut Coriolanuss masculinity, only his maturity. But the single word in the promptbook is magnificently transforming: a big baby or big boy would have nothing like the same effect of mockery, irritation, doubt or whatever other feeling/thought the event of the writing is designed or undesigned to reflect. The object (the statement in the promptbook) has voiced its subjectivity, its originary authorship, in producing a reaction from me, just as the object of the rehearsal process or the theatrical event (depending on when the comment was written) produced its reaction from that writer and, in turn, the text produced a theatre event that could be reseen, revoiced along this chain. The reaction from the writer is directly contradictory to the emotion, tragic I suppose, that the theatre event (and Shakespeares text) were intended to generate. Even promptbooks and railway timetables have authors. The recorder has become reviewer and what we have far too often assumed to be able to be perceived as statement of fact, as a positivist representation of event at

the lost workers: Process, Performance, and tHe arcHive

one stage or a collection of stages of process and production now becomes part of a different process of spectatorship, the event writ true in the eyes/ ears of the spectator in the private space of creation, in the rehearsal room, during a performance, whenever it was that, with bit between the teeth, the crying was gendered by that theatre worker. We have, then, tended to deny the erasures of our readings of promptbooks, have ourselves erased the provisionality of the data, have lost sight, even at the very moment at which we were seeing the statement, of the modes of its inscription, of what exactlyor, more properly, what always inexactly, imprecisely and imperceptively (in, that is, the parameters of perception of that writer, in the recorders act of recording and/or willingness to record)was being written. It is an oddity of our creation, construction, mapping of a history of Shakespeare performance that we know much more about the identity and work of, say, Ralph Crane and Edward Knight, about a scribe and a book-keeper linked to the Kings Men, than about the writers of the materials in our contemporary archives, those archives in which many of us would like to be spending more of our time. I dont know who wrote most of that writing in the promptbook for the 1994 RSC Coriolanus. The nature of much recent work on archives, and especially, as I shall be briefly exploring, of the creation of the archive as art-work, has been to see the making of the archive or, in other more conventional contexts, the uncovering of the archives materials, as the process of finding, showing, making visible the invisible, the suppressed, the silent. If, after Foucault and Derrida, we recognize that the archive is a mark of power, then the activity of historians in the archives has often been to subvert that for which the archive stood. Derrida, in a famous passage of Archive Fever, perhaps over-simplistically traces the roots of archive to the arkhe in the - of the commandment, for its meaning, nomological sense, to the arkhe
its only meaning, comes to it from the Greek arkheion: initially a house, a domicile, an address, the residence of the superior magistrates, the archons, those who commanded . . . The archons are first of all the documents guardians. They do not only ensure the physical security of what is deposited and of the substrate. They are also accorded the hermeneutic right and competence. They have the power to interpret the archives. (Derrida, 2)

So the work both of the professional historian, sifting the dust in the archives as Carolyn Steedman has so brilliantly explored in Dust, and of the artist making archives that speak of others real and imagined, has been to subvert the authority of the archive. It is, to me at least, a pleasing fact

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that the dust of the archive can be literal: the files and scripts that were held in the Lord Chamberlains office as part of the offices responsibility for theatre censorship were, after the removal of its licensing power in 1968, moved to a coal cellar and, even after their cataloguing and accessioning at the British Library, many of the files still have coal dust on them, making their consultation dirty work, as Helen Freshwater reports (Freshwater 2003, 731 n.7). Freshwaters work has been anything but dirty, as she has traced the potential in the files for obscuring, the ways in which precisely the allure of the archive, the title of one of her articles, is what elides its limits, opening up the archival materials to a violence of interpretation. We participate in that process of fetishization of which the archaeologist Michael Shanks writes: Here is a passion a little too intimate with the past, a fetishism. Fetishism: here is a desire to hold, look, touch; captivation by the consecrated object . . . The wholeness of the past is lost in the melancholic holding of the [object] (quoted Freshwater 2003, 735). I shall come back shortly to the tension between performance and the archive and to the play of performance within the archive, the performativity of the archive itself. But the fascination with the object in the archive is what has engaged the work of a whole generation of artists. As Okwui Enwezor shows in his superb essay Archive Fever: Photography Between History and the Monument, the multiplicity of ways in which contemporary photography has played with and on the archive is a manifestation of the archival impulse, a term coined by Hal Foster (Enwezor 22). Enwezors analysis of photographers response to the possibility of their art as documentation connects with that death-drive which Derrida saw as opposing the archive. As Derrida writes, Freuds thinking about what he terms
sometimes death drive, sometimes aggression drive, sometimes destruction drive . . . works to destroy the archive . . . This drive . . . seems not only to be anarchic, anarchontic . . . :the death drive is above all anarchivic, one could say, or archiviolithic. (Derrida 10)

Characteristic and mildly annoying Derridean neologisms apart, there is a way in which the vital interconnection between the archive and memory (the archive as memory, the archive of memory and also the archive against memoryand indeed memory placed against the archive) makes the archive a site both of forgetfulness and of remembering, of the ways in which the death drive drives the creation of the archive as well as its opposition. As Enwezor phrases it,

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Against the tendency of contemporary forms of amnesia whereby the archive becomes a site of lost origins and memory is dispossessed, it is also within the archive that acts of remembering and regeneration occur, where a suture between the past and present is performed, in the indeterminate zone between event and image, document and monument. (Enwezor 47)

The work of documentation/archive artists has then been often about these forms of remembering, actual but also parodied, as, for example, in Zoe Leonards wonderful piece The Fae Richards Photo Archive (made in 19936), an archive for an African-American performer, erased, as it were, by the erasure of race but in fact a creation of a fiction, the photographs all beautifully staged, performed not only by those costumed to be photographed but in the materiality, the material reality of the paper, its aging and damage, its overwriting and deckling. In turn the fake archive gave rise also to a documentary about Fae Richards, a documentary film of a fiction who can be made visible, authenticated, through archivization (see Ewenzor 23053). It reminds me of a remarkable engraving I saw displayed at an exhibition at the Folger: an image of a sculpture by Domenico Trentacoste offered as a deathmask of Ophelia. At the opposite extreme from these spectacular imaginings of false archives is the work of Christian Boltanski who creates archives both about himself and about suppressed, lost others, as in Recherche et presentation de tout ce qui reste de mon enfance, 19441950 (1969) or Les Suisses morts (begun in 1990), derived from obituaries in Swiss newspapers. The Work People of Halifax 18771982, the spectacular piece Boltanski made in 1994 for Dean Clough, the disused carpet factory in Halifax, a site with (now) strong Shakespeare performance resonances as a central location for the work of Northern Broadsides, starts from a specific archival document, the ledger recording the names of workers in the factory, starting from both in the sense of the originary moment of the process of creation and in the sense of its being the first object encountered in the art-work. The sequence of rooms ranged from a vast maze of stacked rusty biscuit tins, each named for one of the workers in the ledger, a maze tall enough for the spectator to be lost in, to a vast open space covered with clothes from lost property offices, over which the visitor walked, trampling this detritus of the workersand generating controversy in its echoes of the Holocaust. The final room, named The Lost Workers, had cardboard boxes, each with the name of a prominent family among the Dean Clough employees, for the same surnames occur over and over again in the more than a century covered by the ledger. Boltanski invited

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surviving members of the families to place memorabilia in the boxes over a period of five years, creating their own archives and modifying them at will (Hobbs 136). Among the many ways in which we might want to deal with the relationship between Boltanskis installation and our own research projects, there are two I want to pursue. The first is that the installation proclaims its own instability and its continuity, not least in its fascinating offer of souvenir (and remember the souvenir is a commodified memory, a way of marketing the eventvisit, trip, momentas memory): instead of buying a catalogue, visitors could buy
a dossier of material including mass-produced clocking-in slips reproducing those used at Dean Clough and bearing the names of past Halifax workers. For a small financial outlay they could take an archive home. (Hobbs 136)

It is not too glib an analogy to see the experience of the visitors as analogous to theatre-goers who also take their archive, their souvenir, their remembrance of the performance home, so that the object can participate in that personal archive, that space of self most movingly, for me, apparent in Walter Benjamins archive (see Marx, Schwartz and Wizisla). Yet what is most striking in this work by Boltanski is the sense of archive as always in process. The original paper archives, the ones that Derrida saw as a product of homeit is thus, this domiciliation, in this house arrest, that archives take placeseem in fact to have been copies of stone monuments, a transfer into that house arrest of that which is public, static, marmorealized and memorialied in their stone-carved origins, something Derrida might have enjoyed, had he but known. But the creating of monuments continued in Rome (Derrida 2). In recent attempts by professional archivists, rather than historians, to make sense of the possibilities of post-modernism for the discipline of archivism, particularly in the work of Terry Cook, it has been precisely this sense of process that has been crucial. As Cook writes at the end of his manifesto-like statement on Archival science and postmodernism: new formulation for old concepts, published in 2001 in the first volume of a new journal, Archival Science:
Process rather than product, becoming rather than being, dynamic rather than static, context rather than text, reflecting time and place rather than universal absolutesthese have become the postmodern watchwords . . . They should likewise become the watchwords for archival science . . . and

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thus the foundation for a new conceptual paradigm for the profession. (Cook 24)

However simplified we might find his formulation of postmodernism, we can respect the attempt to envision a move away from a certain monumentality in archives, the very inverse of the institutionalization enshrined in the UKs renaming of its records, from the Public Record Office to The National Archives, from PRO to TNA. It is the concern with process that, of course, is apparent in the forms of promptbooks. For, though we usually treat the object as static, as indeed some thing that reveals its evidentiary status without question, the promptbook is anything but a piece of true writing. I offered as my epigraph a line from Dr Faustus because I wanted to be punning on it: analytics suggests the analysis of annals, as well as the anality of annals and of their analysis. The retentiveness of our holding on to the object for its evidentiary status is a sign of the continuing positivistic bias underpinning our analytics. Our annals become truthful because we fail to record the provisionality of their analysis, their always untrue a(n)nality. We are, in short, often embarrassingly poor historians and worse archivists, trusting the materiality of our evidence as if its historiography, its status as a writing of history, does not need questioning. But it does. Anyone who has handled a modern promptbook, let alone watched one being written, knows that they are fascinating not least as engaged signs, manifesting their own signification of process, written usually in pencil precisely so that they can be and are erased and rewritten over and over again, so that they can rerecord that which has changed, moving, not least, from the accumulation of data within the mutable world of the rehearsal space to the subsequent reaccumulation of new data within the marginally less mutable but still far from fixed world of the performance sequence. What the promptbook remembers is not an event but the movement towards and across events, always marking process. There are occasions, rare but striking, when the promptbook enforces our awareness of that metamorphic status. Patricia Tatspaugh notes, in her account of The Winters Tale in Stratford, that
Sometimes blocking is left open. The 1992 promptbook records that the blocking when Paulina enters to announce the death of Hermione is not set because Gemma Jones wants to try something different each time (Tatspaugh 17).

And promptbooks can be contradictory spaces. When Tatspaugh is fascinated by a 1984 cue at the abandoning of Perdita, spirit Paulina picks

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up the baby, she also notes that there is a cue for Antigonus to exit with the baby, the two cues mutually incompatible, each possible, probable, existing but impossible as a co-existence in the moment, signs of process, not of the singularity of a nights performance (Tatspaugh 17). Though she does not pursue the point, surely it tells us, forces our analysis of the promptbook as evidence for our annals, that, while both cannot be true in a single performance, both are true of the production, even if one or other never occurred in performance. If we listen to the voices who write our annals, particularly those who, following Boltanski, I want to dub the lost workers (see also Bradley), then we can not only engage with process but also map the extent of performance as event. It was Miriam Gilbert who first alerted me to the possibilities in the rehearsal calls, prop lists, stage-managers reports, and occasionally the deputy stage managers rehearsal notes, to quote from part of the list of resources she refers to in her account of The Merchant of Venice in Stratford (Gilbert 23). She also, incidentally, brilliantly identifies different states of programmes, thinks about overall cast size and comments beautifully on the structure of the rituals of curtain callsdoes Shylock appear last? Yes, usually. Or does Portia? Yes, when it was Judi Dench in 1971. Or both together? Yes, more recently (Gilbert 1567)all aspects of the performance of which we have taen / Too little care (KL, 3.4.323). If Gilberts work is less analytic than others, its thick description is based on constructing a wider sense of what is in the archives, what are our annals that we could be analyzing, than almost anyone else in our field. Here, for instance, also for Thackers 1994 Coriolanus are some of the comments in the 9-page rehearsal notes memo to various RSC departments from two of my lost workers, Sue Giligan and Roz Morgan-Jones, signs of the event that generate cultural meanings even as they speak of the practicalities of theatre, for these, too, are part of the truth of these annals:
[To Wardrobe] 1. All soldiers are interchangeable between sides, there will not be enough time to make costume changes for different armies . . . . 5. There will only be two children, Young Martius and a female Plebeian ... [To Wigs] 2. At the end of Part 2 Scene 9 Coriolanus needs to be drenched in blood again (for his death) . . .

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[To Design] 10. What sort of food is needed [for the scene in Aufidiuss house]? (Pigs on spits didnt seem a popular suggestion) 14. Are the Aediles militia or junior magistrates? If the latter would they still carry weapons?

And so on and on. As Molly Mahood taught us to care about bit-parts in Shakespeare, so our sense of the annals will change if we heed these other workers voices. Only Steven Adler hasand then to only a limited extenttried to explain at length what it means to be making theatre at the Royal Shakespeare Company. But, for a full-scale investigation of the effect, I urge watching Jon Elses exhilarating 1999 documentary film Sing FasterThe Stagehands Ring Cycle, an account of the San Francisco Operas 1995 production of Wagners Ring from the perspective of the stage-crews who narrate the action of the operas and deal with the inordinate complexities of the production. I suggested earlier a second route from Boltanskis work and that is towards the archive as a site of, embodiment of performance. This has been a central concern of the new archival science, using Judith Butlers concept of performativity and transgressive performance in Gender Trouble (1990) and Greg Denings thinking about history as performance in, for instance, his collection Performances, as explored in Terry Cook and Joan Schwartzs account of what the new archive might be like, with archival performance itself, with acting out the script of archival theory on the stage of archival practice (Cook and Schwartz 179). Inevitably, such concerns have been fundamental to the new performance, not of course of Shakespeare but of other forms in which the event not only is archived but in which the archiving is a form of its own performance. In this case making the annals has been as central to the performance as making the work that is performed. It has, for example, been a central interest of the journal Performance Research which has not only carried a section on archives in each issue but which has analyzed its annals in such groundbreaking work as Rebecca Schneiders article on Performance Remains in 2001, a piece recurrently looked back to in the special issue of the journal on Archives and Archiving in 2002 (see, for example, Kobialka; Freshwater 2002; Iball). Auslanders recent and already influential article on The Performativity of Performance Documentation has also engaged with this area of work, defining a separation between two categories of performance documentation, the first, the documentary, in which the documentation of the performance event

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provides both a record of it through which it can be reconstructed . . . and evidence that it actually occurred, while the second, the theatrical, are works staged solely to be photographed or filmed and had no meaningful prior existence as autonomous events presented to audiences (Auslander 12). The DSMs writing in the Coriolanus promptbook is, I would suggest, a performative event staged solely to be experienced outside the boundaries of, though always in connection with, that autonomous event that was being or was to be presented to audiences. Whatever audiences it was written for are not those of that event but of those who make the event and perhaps to those in many ages hence when this our lofty scene shall be pored over by scholars in the Shakespeare Centre Library, working In states unborn, and accents yet unknown (JC, 3.1.11113). Yet it is also something that seems to me to realize something of what Rebecca Schneider was trying to think through in Performance Remains, her attempt to answer her own question:
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, do we limit ourselves to an understanding of performance predetermined by a cultural habituation to the patrilineal, West-identified (arguably white-cultural) logic of the Archive? (Schneider 100)

As she goes on, in a passage that has become central to my own thinking about this topic,
Should we not think of the ways in which the archive depends upon performance, indeed ways in which the archive performs the equation of performance with disappearance, even as it performs the service of saving? (Schneider 1012)

In place of the anxiety of loss as something which the archive materializes in its lack as a sign of the fragmentation of the moment, we could instead see this as a positive creation of that fragmentariness, materializing lack as a site of the desire to know that lack. Something of this is also present in the remarkable installationor, as will be apparent in a moment, a kind of de-installationcreated by Michael Fehr in 1988 at a museum in the German town of Hagen. SILENCE, the title screaming its capitals, revealed the museum by, quite simply, removing all the exhibits so that nothing remained but the implements used to suspend the pictureswires, hooks, and railsfrom the bare walls (Spieker 176). As Fehr found, visitors . . . began, to the

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extent that they knew the building, to reconstruct the collection from memory, to talk about the works of art that I had taken away (quoted Spieker 176). As Sven Spieker suggests, Fehrs installation connects with Bernhard Dotzlers distinction between the museum gaze and the archival gaze, the former a historicized reconstruction of sequence, the latter, more dispersive, contradicts the sheen of presentable reconstruction so that the visitors allow the archive to question the museum (Spieker 1768). Our museum is always empty. The performance is always already ended. The archive is both a reflection of that possibility and a memory of what it cannot be, of why that sheen of presentable reconstruction is never there for us, of why and how we always question the museum. Our analysis of annals needs to be always questioning and in question, in the knowledge that our annals can never be writ true.
Notes As so often, writing this would have been impossible without the help of Barbara Hodgdon whose limitless generosity models so perfectly what academic communities should always be like. 2 At the RSC, as Carol Chillington Rutter informs me, it is usually the Deputy State Manager (DSM) who creates the prompt-book both in rehearsal and during the runand annotations can continue to be added at any point in the process. In other companies a different member of the Stage Managers crew can have this responsibility.
1

Works Cited Adler, Steven. Rough Magic. Making Theatre at the Royal Shakespeare Company. Carbondale and Edwardsville: Southern Illinois University Press, 2001. Auslander, Philip. The Performativity of Performance Documentation. PAJ 84 (2006):110. Beil, Ralf, ed. Boltanski: Time. Ostfildern: Hatje Cantz. 2006. Bradley, Harriet. The seductions of the archive: voices lost and found. History of the Human Sciences 12.2 (1999): 10722. Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York and London: Routledge, 1990. Cook, Terry. Archival science and postmodernism: new formulations for old concepts. Archival Science 1 (2001): 324. Cook, Terry and Joan M. Schwartz. Archives, Records, and Power: From (Postmodern) Theory to (Archival) Performance. Archival Science 2 (2002): 17185. Dening, Greg. Performances. Victoria, Australia: Melbourne University Press. 1996.

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Derrida, Jacques. Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression. Translated by Eric Prenowitz. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1995. Enwezor, Okwui. Archive Fever: Uses of the Document in Contemporary Art. New York: International Center of Photography, 2008. Freshwater, Helen. Anti-theatrical Prejudice and the Persistence of Performance. Performance Research 7.4 (2002): 508. Freshwater, Helen. The Allure of the Archive. Poetics Today 24 (2003): 729 58. Gilbert, Miriam. The Merchant of Venice. Shakespeare at Stratford. London: The Arden Shakespeare, 2002. Hobbs, Richard. Boltanskis visual archives. History of the Human Sciences 11.4 (1998): 12240. Iball, Helen. Dusting Ourselves Down. Performance Research 7.4 (2002): 59 63. Kobialka, Michael. Historical Archives, Events and Facts. Performance Research 7.4 (2002): 311. Mahood, M.M. Bit Parts in Shakespeares Plays. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 1992. Marx, Ursula, Gudrun Schwartz, Michael Schwartz and Erdmut Wizisla, eds. Walter Benjamins Archive: Image, Texts, Signs. Trans. Esther Leslie. London: Verso, 2007. Measure for Measure. By William Shakespeare. Dir. David Thacker. Royal Shakespeare Company, Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 1994. Promptbook: Rehearsal Notes No 2. 20 March 2009. <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6177>, <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6178>, <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6179>. Act 5, scene 3. 20 March 2009. <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6180>, <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6181>, <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6182>, <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6183>, <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6184>, <http://www.rsc.org.uk/searcharchives/item/item_main.jsp?item_id=6186>. Schneider, Rebecca. Performance Remains. Performance Research 6.2 (2001): 1008. Semin, Didier, Tamar Garb and Donald Kuspit, eds. Christian Boltanski. London: Phaidon Press Ltd. 1997. Spieker, Sven. The Big Archive: Art from Bureaucracy. Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. 2008. Steedman, Carolyn. Dust: The Archival and Cultual History. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001. Tatspaugh, Patricia. The Winters Tale. Shakespeare at Stratford. London: The Arden Shakespeare, 2002.