Author: Shivani Ishwar

I'm a data analyst, visual designer, and web developer. I specialize in communicating complicated ideas in visually appealing, broadly accessible ways.

Event Review: The Evolution of the Black Queer Archive

On Thursday, October 17th, I attended several panels for the three-day conference Black Portraiture[s] V: Memory and the Archive Past. Present. Future. The stated purpose of the conference was to “explore the making of visual archives, the narratives they tell, and the parameters that define them as objects of study.” I listened to presentations and discussions about the particular difficulties of archiving when it comes to the records and materials of populations that have been historically oppressed, marginalized, and excluded from official archives.

I was especially interested in the panel I went to titled “Representation Matters — The Evolving Black LGBTQ Archive,” featuring speakers Jennifer DeVere Brody, Thomas Allen Harris, and Steven Fullwood, with moderator Katina Parker. All black, queer professionals with backgrounds in the arts, their particular experiences and expertises lent to a vibrant discussion about intersectionality and the importance of identity in archiving.

Identification badge with event information and logo on one side and a photograph of a black woman taken by Adama Delphine Fawundu on the other side.
The identification badge allowing access to Black Portraiture[s] V: Memory and the Archive Past. Present. Future. Photo taken by Shivani Ishwar. The photo on the back of the ID badge is “Pecola’s Blues #2: Blue Eyes, Cocoa Brown,” taken by Adama Delphine Fawundu in 2012.

Throughout their presentations, the speakers each emphasized the importance of maintaining a personal archive. When belonging to a community that has been suppressed from the “official” archive, especially when that community is a doubly-disadvantaged one like the black queer community, personal and “informal” archives are often the only way to preserve information about those communities. Something as simple as a family photo album can be a valuable resource in learning about the history of black queer people and communities, because when no one else is invested in the preservation and retelling of black queer stories, people in that community have to take charge of that preservation themselves.

The speakers presented many different examples of the way black queer people have been erased or understated in official histories: like Edmonia Lewis, a 19th-century sculptor brought up during Brody’s talk, “Out of the Future: A Black Queer-Femme Archive.” Lewis’ well-known aversion to dresses and probable affairs with women lead many to label her as a queer figure; but Wikipedia calls no attention to her preferred style of clothing, and simply describes her as having “never married.”

History is rife with these sorts of discrepancies, situations in which people’s identities aren’t fully acknowledged by formal archives. For people at the intersection of multiple marginalized identities—in this case race, sexuality, and sometimes gender—often the narrative prioritizes one identity over another. One might be a black historical figure, or a queer one, but rarely both. It’s in situations like these, Harris argued, that personal archives are most important. His presentation, “Queering the Family Album,” discussed how personal archives can be a powerful tool for families to better understand their pasts.

In black households in the U.S., Harris noted, homophobia and transphobia are common sentiments. But many family photo albums contain evidence of queer ancestors: an aunt who dressed like a man, a cousin in drag, a great-uncle who never married. These stories are suppressed on one level, but the physical evidence of a photograph is difficult to refute. In this way, personal, informal archives can provide an important link between the present generation and past ones; and, by extension, between future generations and the current one.

Harris’ discussion of the intersection of black and queer identity reminded me strongly of Sasha Costanza-Chock’s article “Design Justice” (2018). The importance of intersectionality is discussed in depth in Costanza-Chock’s article, where they argue that especially for people whose identities are marginalized on multiple levels, like those of race, gender, and sexuality, it’s important to recognize all of those identities as interlocking parts of the person. Without acknowledging the way that different identities interact with each other, one is left with an incomplete picture of an individual.  

Steven Fullwood presents black queer historical figures Joseph Beam, Raven Chanticleer, and Stormé DeLarverie.
Steven Fullwood’s presentation, “Notes on Archival Visual Representations of Black LGBTQ Life.” Photo taken by Shivani Ishwar.

Personal archives, though, are often difficult to access specifically because they’re so informal. Fullwood’s talk, “Notes on Archival Visual Representations of Black LGBTQ Life,” touched on this challenge, discussing the way that so many personal archives are “collections doomed to the waste bin of history.” Whether it’s the destruction of records, an incomprehensible system of organization, or the inevitable damages of time, these personal archives are more often lost than they are preserved.

The themes of Fullwood’s presentation reminded me of several readings, including Michelle Caswell’s “‘The Archive’ is not an Archives” (2016) and Marcia J. Bates’ “Fundamental Forms of Information” (2006). Fullwood’s discussion of how personal archives are often poorly preserved speaks to Caswell’s point on the power of the archivist. Because information degrades over time, the decision of what gets preserved is left to whomever has access to the personal archives in question. Even if those records won’t be included in an official narrative, their continued existence is a far better fate than total destruction.

Even when information has degraded, Bates’ discussion of “embedded” information can illuminate why those damaged records can still have value. A water-stained photograph, for example, may speak not only to the great-grandmother in the picture, but also the flooded house her descendants lived in. In this way, personal records continue to accumulate and communicate information even beyond the “recorded” information, in Bates’ terminology, that was initially intended. This is why Fullwood advocates for people to maintain catalogues of their own archives—photos, documents, home video, and so on—so that they may still be interpreted and shared generations later, with all the added information that comes with time.

Also related to Caswell’s discussions of the power of archiving was Parker’s short presentation on the communicative potential of archives. She talked about the way archives create community and identity for a collective group of people: whether it’s of a society, as in official archives, or of a family or a group of friends, as in personal archives. In being excluded from archives, marginalized groups are excluded from their communities, which is what makes their own personal archiving so powerful. It’s a way to reclaim their narratives, their lives, from those who would rather their stories not be shared with the broader consciousness.

Parker emphasized that archiving is an important way to communicate across time and space; whether a photo is sent to friends hundreds of miles away or discovered in a dusty attic after decades, this communication acts as a touchstone for black queer people to connect with one another. As Caswell acknowledges that the archivist has power over how the story is told for future generations, Parker’s discussion presented the potential of having marginalized people as the archivists, the tellers of their own stories.

All of the speakers, in their discussions of intersectionality and power, time and space, came around to the same concept: that of legacy. Ultimately, being able to preserve and share personal archives is a way for marginalized groups to share their own legacies with the world. In times when official archives would exclude black queer stories, causing future generations of black queer people to doubt their own existence and history, the offering of an alternative archive allows the black queer legacy to live on.

References

Bates, M. J. (2006). Fundamental forms of information. Journal of the American Society for Information Science and Technology, 57(8), 1033–1045. doi: 10.1002/asi.20369

Black Portraiture[s] V: Memory and the Archive: Past. Present. Future. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://www.blackportraitures.info/.

Caswell, M. (2016). ‘The Archive’ is Not An Archives: Acknowledging the Intellectual Contributions of Archival Studies. Reconstruction, 16(1).

Costanza-Chock, S. (2018). Design Justice: towards an intersectional feminist framework for design theory and practice. Proceedings of the Design Research Society 2018. doi: 10.21606/drs.2018.679

Edmonia Lewis. (2019, October 16). Retrieved from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edmonia_Lewis.

Henderson, A. (2012, February 17). Edmonia ‘Wildfire’ Lewis: A black lesbian who sculpted freedom and independence. Retrieved from http://gayhistoryproject.epgn.com/historical-profiles/mary-edmonia-wildfire-lewis-a-black-lesbian-who-sculpted-freedom-and-independence-read-more-pgn-the-philadelphia-gay-news-phila-gay-news-philly-news-mary-edmonia-wi/.

Intersectionality. (2019, October 18). Retrieved from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Intersectionality.

Jackson, N. (2010, November 12). Taking Care of Your Personal Archives. Retrieved from https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2010/11/taking-care-of-your-personal-archives/66425/.

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The information of cryptography in people, places, and things

Place: Spyscape Museum

This summer, I visited the Spyscape Museum in Manhattan. It’s at once a museum and an activity: while it has exhibits about counterintelligence operations, cryptography, and other “spy”-related topics from across history, it also comes with a significant interactive component, leading visitors through quizzes and games.

Photo: Spyscape

The whole museum is centered around a challenge of sorts, geared towards discovering what sorts of skills you have that could be relevant to various professions related to spying, including field operators, handlers, researchers, and codebreakers, among other roles.

Beyond being a fun way to spend a few hours away from the summer heat, the Spyscape Museum actually made me curious about many of the things I learned there, such as the Anonymous movement, cryptography’s legacy in the digital age, and the role of covert operators across history.

As a museum, Spyscape is an institute of information, cataloguing and preserving different histories of covert operations. Spyscape, like many museums, teaches by a method called interpretation.

“Interpretation relies heavily on sensory perception—sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and the kinetic muscle sense—to enable the museum-goer emotionally to experience objects.”

(Alexander, 2008)

With visual and audio components to its exhibits, plus touch screens that allow visitors to play games and answer questions, Spyscape certainly makes use of the full sensory experience.

The subjects of the museum, cryptography and covert operations, also deal heavily in information: protecting it, freeing it, and controlling who has access to it.

“Nations go to great lengths to gain [information] by using the time-honored tools of espionage and codebreaking to gather information secretly. … Codebreaking evolved from the ancient art of pencil-and-paper puzzle solving to the science of cryptanalysis.”

(Gannon, 2001)

This evolution in cryptography mirrors the journey of the information field, from the simplest of roots to the complex webs of information we have today in the digital age. It’s this evolution that the Spyscape Museum catalogues, interprets, and shares for its visitors.

Person: Alan Turing

One of the most important people in the history of cryptography, whose story was given great focus in one of Spyscape’s exhibits, was Alan Turing. He’s famous for leading the World War II-era British counterintelligence team that beat the German Enigma machine, which encrypted messages according to regularly-changing ciphers that were difficult to crack. But he had a hand in many other information-related operations during and after World War II, and his life itself is a study in how information can have an impact on a personal level.

Turing’s claim to fame was his work for British counterintelligence on the Enigma problem.

“The science of numbers and symbols was in Turing’s genes … [He] ignored the intimidating numbers and put his trust in what he knew—mathematical logic.”

(Gannon, 2001)

Having an eccentric manner but an undeniably genius brain, he gained respect from his colleagues and managed to find a solution that reliably broke the codes created by Enigma machines.

Even after the war, Turing continued to work in information-related fields, going on to lay “the foundations for computer technology and artificial intelligence” (Spencer, 2009). His work, in large part, has been the starting point from which much of the digital age has sprung: computers, machine learning, and data analysis, in their modern iterations, have all been influenced by Turing’s work.

Of course, the sensitivity of Turing’s projects during World War II meant that he wasn’t publicly recognized for his contributions to ending the war; he had to keep his work a secret from even his family.

“Turing’s oldest niece, Inagh Payne … recalls sitting on his knee asking him repeatedly what he did at the office. Turing remained quiet about his work for the war effort.”

(Spencer, 2009)

And this wasn’t the only part of his life he had to keep a secret: his homosexuality, for which he was eventually criminally prosecuted, was another large piece of information about him that could not see the light of day.

It is this juxtaposition between his work and his life that strikes me most about Alan Turing. His life’s work, the achievement for which he is most recognized, is that of freeing information, revealing secrets, and saving lives by being able to break codes and open lines of communication. But in his personal life, neither recognition for his incredible deeds in the service of his country, nor the simple liberty of being able to love freely, were granted to him. Exposing and withholding information are two sides of the same coin; perhaps no one knew that coin as well as Alan Turing.

Thing: Cryptex

While I was at the Spyscape Museum, I couldn’t help but reflect back on one of the first books that ignited my interest in cryptography: The Da Vinci Code. Though I haven’t read it in a long time, a few of the concepts from the book have really stuck with me. One of the things that has always intrigued me is an object called a cryptex.

“A portable container that could safeguard letters, maps, diagrams, anything at all. Once information was sealed inside the cryptex, only the individual with the proper password could access it.”

(Brown, 2003)

This device struck me as a genius invention when I first encountered it — appropriately, it was credited to Leonardo Da Vinci in the story. For a while, I believed that was its origin, but actually, it was invented by Dan Brown, The Da Vinci Code’s author.

The cryptex itself is obviously linked with information: namely, it’s designed to protect information from everyone but its intended recipient. But the real-life story of this fictional object also has a lot to do with the way we interact with information, especially when it can be used for profit.

A year after the publication of The Da Vinci Code in 2003, a fan of the book named Justin Nevins created the first physical replica of the cryptex. Shortly thereafter, he trademarked it — which led to a dispute between Nevins and Columbia Pictures when The Da Vinci Code was adapted into a movie. Nevins wrote out his side of the story many years later on a forum website (Nevins, 2017).

As Nevins tells it, Dan Brown didn’t have a problem with him holding the trademark for the cryptex at first. But when The Da Vinci Code‘s movie was in production, Columbia Pictures wanted to make their own replicas for the movie, and wanted Nevins to drop the trademark. Nevins and Columbia Pictures eventually settled out of court: the movie was allowed to use the word “cryptex,” but Nevins was allowed to keep his trademark. He still sells cryptices online.

This part of the story is, understandably, not as well known as the cryptex itself; but it brings this device from a fictional object to a technology of the real world. Copyrights and trademarks are a big part of regulating how information can be used and received in the world, which echoes the original purpose of the cryptex itself: keeping information from certain parties, and revealing it to others.

The cryptex’s journey from fiction to reality illustrates the importance of information: the creativity that can happen when it’s shared with the world, and the monopolization that might ensue when it’s kept safeguarded in just a few, powerful hands.

References

Alexander, E. P., & Alexander, M. (2008). Museums in Motion: An Introduction to the History and Functions of Museums. Lanham, MD: Rowman et Littlefield Publishers, Inc.

Brown, D. (2003). The Da Vinci Code. New York: Doubleday.

Gannon, J. (2001). Stealing Secrets, Telling Lies: How Spies and Codebreakers Helped Shape the Twentieth Century. Washington, D.C.: Brasseys.

Nevins, J. (2017). The history of the Cryptex. Retrieved from https://forum.thecodex.ca/t/the-history-of-the-cryptex-r/70.

Spencer, C. (2009). Profile: Alan Turing. Retrieved from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/8250592.stm.

Spyscape Museum. Retrieved from https://spyscape.com/.

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