The Necessity of Hands-On History’

Today was spent on an archival research road-trip to Edinburgh, which gave me plenty of time to think on the bus about what ‘hands-on’ means to me in the context of this transnational course, as well as in my larger pursuit and philosophy of history. Essentially, thinking about how historians handle and engage with their sources both literally and emotionally, and what effect this has in our writing.

My first reflection concerns how direct our interactions with primary sources are, in terms of ‘us’ as historians personally handling the documents or materials we analyze. Two years ago a French PhD friend of mine, Edern, complained bitterly to me about having to write his dissertation using only microfilmed sources; he kept repeating to me, “historians work with paper!”. At the time I didn’t understand, since the topic he’d chosen seemed highly engaging, he was clearly excited about it, and he had easy and access to the ample materials he needed while living in Paris. But for Edern, the thrill of the exhaustive historical treasure hunt came from touching the documents that real human beings he was studying had handled over three centuries ago, seeing where long-dead individuals had filled in legal claims, inventories, and other similar paperwork. This could be both dense and dry over weeks of study, but in the micro a particularly telling document, included note, or even marginalia made it worthwhile. On the microfilm register however, the information was there, but it was stale, frustratingly illuminated in negative. Similarly, while a lot of my (and probably your) research and reading comes via digitized museum collections, journal articles, and online books, today I found myself actually touching the genuine water-colored studies and paintings done by the Scottish painter David Allan (1744-1796) at the National Gallery of Scotland’s Prints and Drawings study room. Instead of copying and pasting defining appropriate search terms for hours, while distracted by petty routine, the material was faster to assess in person, I could ask questions directly to the attendants, the items themselves were thrilling to handle, and 6 images I found in particular from Allan’s Italian tour (1764-1777) may prove pertinent to my eventual argument! This same issue of direct contact and access is even more pressing for material sources (original artifacts), where the online images, if any, are rarely detailed enough for any serious study (larger institutions with high-resolution scans like the Rijksmueum, Museum of the American Revolution, or Metropolitan being exceptions to this rule). Obviously, being able to travel to one’s evidence is a luxury (particularly given the breadth of transnational study), and sometimes it’s far faster and simpler to work from a laptop, but I think there is certainly something lost in the process of research when it is limited to one sense only, sight, which happens only electronically. At the risk of nostalgia, I firmly believe this gap would be expressed in analytical writing on the materials later on, making it as one-dimensional as the research process itself.

My second though concerns how we engage emotionally, physically and personally with our topics. In my mind, a solid foundation of sources is not enough if you lack the empathy and perspective needed to connect yourself with your own analysis. As an example, I’d use an American friend who was finishing a costume studies degree under a woman believed to be ‘the expert’ on early modern women’s undergarments. Yet, though she had made it her life’s work, this woman had never actually taken the time or effort to wear the garments she had spent so long researching, and it made her unable to empathize with the reasons why women chose to wear these garments, or the practical function of them in use. Another example would be a show run in 2005 on BBC 2, ‘Tales from the Green Valley’, wherein  four historical specialists recreated daily  rural life on 1620s farm in Wales. Archaeologists were now building period structures, agricultural historians were plowing fields with heritage-breed oxen, cultural historians were doing laundry with traditional techniques, and all were immersed in this for nearly a full calendar year. In essence, historians with decades of experience in studying their respective topics finally had a chance to engage fully with the material, and to put what they’d read about into actual practice. This divide can also be bridged on more theoretical topics; for instance, studying changing perceptions of time with reference to the actual physicality of clock technology and the speed (or slowness) of pre-industrial travel, or environmental historians working on energy use who experiment with various types of historical fuels.  Clearly one can push this too far, and introduce significant bias, but I firmly believe anyone studying a historical topic should seek, as best they can, to experience it viscerally, to push outside of their comfort zones as an intellectual and experiential exercise.

How does this relate to my project? Clearly the study of clothing is one that is well suited to the material, and even requires it.  But above all, taking the time and effort to come to grips with one’s topic means one gains empathy for it, and with those human beings who did the same in the past. And I believe this is critical to any historical project, transnational or otherwise.