Getting back to work...

 

Time is slipping away...

It's been a while since I've blogged, although I've been thinking about doing it a lot lately.  Some of that is down to having a series of house guests in fairly close succession, which means getting to be a tourist and going around with people and showing them fun stuff (and also four wonderful days in Alicante, which are probably worth several entries that they probably won't get).  Some of it is exhaustion after writing a lot quickly to try to finish a piece of fiction so I can get back to my thesis.  And some of it is (surprise!) actual thesis work -- which I've realized I can't put off any longer, since tomorrow marks the two month count-down to my return to New York (though I'll probably be back in Madrid over the summer, especially toward the end of July to finish up dealing with apartment stuff, as well as just enjoying being here without work, as always).  So this is a transitional entry, mentioning briefly a bunch of stuff that has happened, and acknowledging that I won't get all of it down, and hoping to do better going forward, in the very small amount of time that is left.

Adventures in reprografía

"Oh, my gosh, how are you going to read that?"

exclaimed the Complutense lecturer whose class I guest taught on Monday when I ran into him by the coffee machines on my way out of the BNE today, and showed him the fruits of my labors, namely the paper pictured below:

Page from Rafael Alberti's notebooks. Go ahead, enlarge it and try to read it. I dare you.

Yes, this is the page I found yesterday at the end of my day, that gave rise to yesterday's long entry, and yes, I have succeeded in printing relatively decent copies from the microfilm (with the help of the nice white-coated microfilm attendant who kindly shook the toner and switched me from one machine to the other so I could make copies that did not have streaks).

As to the answer to "how am I going to read it?" the answer is "with difficulty."

I have yet to go to the "servicio de bibliografía y búsqueda" where you can consult a librarian, but that is on the schedule.  I may take the copy and throw myself on the librarian's mercy and ask to look at the original instead of the microfilm.  (The staff in the Sala Cervantes greet me by name now when I show up, so perhaps they'll put in a good word.)

In the meantime, I have made a little progress today, in that I think I at least know what I'm looking at besides sketches of giant heads that Rafael Alberti should have used a clean page for.  (I bet in elementary school he got very bad marks for penmanship.  I did not properly appreciate Dorothy Peterson and Langston Hughes, never mind real copper-plate writers like Bunny Rucker properly until trying to decipher him.)

I'm sitting on the dock of the bay, wasting ti -- A NIBBLE! A NIBBLE!

It's probably nothing, and may slip off the line, but today's fishing expedition had a sudden tug at the fly....

Aside from fishing metaphors, I have to say that it is difficult to convey the feel of the detective work of doing research.  I can think of two works of fiction that have done it, the German film The Nasty Girl (Das schreckliche Madchen) and Javier Cercas' novel Soldados de Salamina.  (The film version of the latter fails signally at this.)  The moment when the main character in the film finally sees an opportunity to see papers in "the poison cabinet" is more exciting than all the firebombing and emotional turmoil that comes before and after.  And the moment when the main character in the novel says grimly "in alphabetical order" when he decides to call information about every nursing home in Lyons in among the laughter and groans there's a little quickened heartbeat.  But mostly it's hard to capture what it's like to look for something for a long time, and what it's like when you (maybe) find something which (maybe) is (close to) what you're looking for.

I have to say that most of the time when I'm going through archives I'm happily interested in all kinds of stuff that I know is completely irrelevant, and simply tell myself that it's all "background information" or that I'm "getting to know" the character of the person I'm researching.  But I've been getting a little bored and discouraged (my happy teaching day yesterday was also not a day at the BNE), and today I'll be honest and admit I was bored.  I decided to walk part of the way between the university and the BNE this afternoon after lunch, and ended up miscalculating the distance of the walk and walking for longer than I planned, so I arrived at the BNE late (around 5:00 in the evening, and I wanted to get to yoga by 7:30, or 7:45 at the latest).  I was tired, and not feeling particularly inspired, but determined to get back into the routine of research, because routine is what keeps you going through tough spots.  I was a little cheered by being greeted with smiles and nods of recognition by the security people and the librarians at the BNE, who all know me by now, since I come regularly (again, routine helps).  I requested the roll of microfilm I had been working my way through, threaded it into the machine like the expert I have become, and scrolled along to the place I had left off according to my notes.

Book hands vs. document hands

Paleography training comes in useful with the microfilms at the BNE

After sitting in on an exceptionally fun morning class about Ayala's story "El Inquisidor" (which I maintain is not really about the Inquisition at all, but rather about various unfortunate mid-twentieth century events that involved conversion and true believers), and hurrying to do a quick but happy yoga practice (I'm practicing going into headstands with one leg at a time straight instead of squeezing my knees into my chest first), I stopped for a quick salad for lunch, and then hit the BNE in the afternoon.  I was most shocked to find that there was an actual line to check in (only about four people, but still), and further startled to see that the statues of Isabel II and the statue on the right (who I can't remember but might Zorrilla or someone similarly modern) are under scaffolding at the moment.  Humph.

Although the BNE is usually pretty empty in the afternoons I was startled to find that the two "modern" microfilm machines were being used when my microfilm arrived (and not by the red bearded gentleman who had been using the other one all last week), so I was forced to use the "old" machines that don't print.  Not a problem.  What was a problem was that after fifteen minutes of plugging in machines and switching out parts the nice white-coated librarian (like a lab technician in her white coat) apologized and said none of the old machines were fully working, and I could either advanced the roll by hand, or go over to "revistas" and see if they had a free machine.  I elected to advance the machine by hand, and was rewarded after about two minutes by one of the new (e.g. working) machines becoming free.  I planted myself in front of it, and tried to not envy the guy next to me who was transcribing onto a laptop what looked to me like a ridiculously clear and easy to read text that looked like a drama of some sort.

Merluza and the Life of Brian - the BNE cafeteria

Research continues.  No breakthroughs.  But amusements.

I spent the better part of three hours transcribing María Teresa León's speech on the "Escuela Hispano-Americana" today, from its very light pencil in her very hurried handwriting.  (She wrote nicely for short stories she was planning to type.  These were more notes for a lecture, and were pretty scribbly.)  I did google it to make sure it wasn't completely wasted effort, and I think at least I've preserved the gist, although my paleography training came in handy in a few places, where I just left ... to signify words or letters I couldn't make out.

Unfortunately, it makes no direct reference to my authors, but it's interesting as a European's view of the Americas (or more specifically as a Spaniard's view of Argentina) in 1940.  It's an odd (but not at all unfamiliar to me) mix of arrogance and pleading.  The school, as far as I can tell from the speech, was designed to have European (Spanish exile) instructors for local children, and although the outline she scribbled for herself at the beginning is supposed to include an "elogio a America" it's mostly about how much the teachers have to offer, since they can explain not only books but also the lived experience of anti-fascist struggle.  What the children (and their families) have to offer is of course a living to the teachers.  All in all it's an odd sample of someone begging and hating to beg.  I also don't think I'm imagining it that the writing gets clearer in the sections where she's talking about the ways Europe has let her down and fallen apart than in the rather vague generalities about the promise of America.  When she writes "Cuando les dijimos del éxodo de Milagros y del martirio de Guernica nos apartaron con su desden enfadadas. Los franceses no quisieran oirnos." the words are nice and clear.  But most of the other sentences have words I can't make out.  It could be my faulty knowledge of Spanish or of her handwriting, but I like to imagine that she was pressing the pencil very hard when she got angry, and so her anger made her words last longer.

Parking, pencil, and "fondos reservados." More Adventures at the BNE

Sometimes the lack of progress is discouraging, but the process of rummaging in archives is always fun.

Yesterday I experimented with using the bike for transportation all day instead of the metro.  On balance (when I don't get lost), it's faster point to point on the downhills, about the same on flat ground, and slower on uphills.  So, overall, about the same speed.  And the uphills are pretty brutal.  I may be forced to return to the metro on days when I move around a lot.  (Unfortunately, yoga sits on very high ground, so getting there is a challenge.)

In any case, yesterday I headed from the university over the BNE by bike (essentially a west to east trajectory).  I arrived, and searched for parking where I could have sworn I had seen bike racks.  No bike racks.  I circled the large gracious sweep in front of the big library steps.  No bike racks.  Finally, desperate and not completely happy about the option, I prepared to lock my bike to a metal U that marked the spot of a garbage can in front of a car parking space.  I was just maneuvering the lock into position when an older lady, somewhat formally dressed, hailed me and said "¿Te han dicho que puedes aparcar allí?"  I was prepared to be huffy and annoyed, but I started out by being humble, and said that there was no other available place.  ("Es que no hay otro sitio.")  "Sí, que lo hay," she said, to my utter surprise.  "Está allí a la izquierda, un poco escondida."  At first I thought she was just trying to be rid of me, but then we walked around the one side of the building I had not explored because I hadn't thought it was worthwhile, and there indeed was a long, low, completely empty bicycle rack.  I thanked her profusely, and she smiled and said she was glad to help, and that locking my bike unofficially in the front was bad because it was "más a la vista" (more visible, presumably to thieves), and also of course vulnerable to being bumped by cars.  Lesson learned: never pre-judge formally dressed older ladies who you think are going to be disapproving.

Microfilm is an invention of the Devil

Will some clever inventor please figure out a way to print 3D reproductions of all the things that were put on microfilm in the 1970s and are now totally unsearchable?  Pretty please?

It's late, so this will be a short entry.

Things that went wrong today:

1. I forgot to set my alarm, and slept somewhat later than I planned (ok, about two hours later).
2. I forgot my goggles when I went to the pool in the morning, and had to swim without them.

3. The notebooks of Rafael Alberti that I requested at the BNE today in the "Sala Cervantes" (where all the cool rare manuscripts are) are "fondo reservado" and therefore unavailable, except they let you consult the microfilm.  Just like Schomburg's papers.  Oh joy.  So my poor chlorined eyes had to read microfilms of someone's private scribblings in a small notebook, and the machines are the old fashioned kind not like the computers at the Schomburg Center, so it's white on black instead of black on white unless you print stuff (which of course you have to pay for by the page).

Biblioteca Nacional Española - The Grand Ballroom of the dance of the archives

Ingredients of a classic library: custom, ceremony...and the greed of a kid in a candy store.

The gates of the BNE, surmounted by the royal shield of Spain: graceful, imposing...and with bike parking right inside.

On Wednesday I picked up my letter of introduction for the Biblioteca Nacional Española, hereafter the BNE, as it is universally known among researchers, to distinguish it from the BNF (Bibliotheque National Francaise) and probably other libraries.  (I imagine there's a BNB - Bibliotheque/Bibliotheek National/Nationaal de Belgique/Belgie - too.)  Thursday I went and brought my letter and my passport and my rental contract as proof of residence, and was directed up the imposing stairs (see photo after the jump) to an information desk, and from there into an echoing high-ceilinged room full of dark carved wood paneling and modern computers and printers, where a nice, friendly woman scanned my documents, filled out the computer application, and took my picture with the computer, before printing out my little plastic photo ID which I am now supposed to show to gain entry to the library.  I am an "investigadora" (researcher), not a mere lectora (reader), so I have access to collections from before 1958.  I feel special.