The Work of the Librarian in the Age of Technological Reproduction

THERE is, of course, a man (if he isn't a woman) behind the
librarian. When the librarian leaves his office or the counter, the man
steps forth... If someone says “So-and-so looks like a librarian,” he is
probably thinking in terms of the old-time librarian, spectacled, round-
shouldered, peering, and surrounded by an astral aura derived from the
immemorial dust that time has dropped gently on his books.
-Author unkown, from “The Man Behind the Librarian:
the Results of an Enquiry” in Library Review, vol. 9, issue 8, 1944 (URL).

The aura of the librarian is as dusty as a witch’s spell
or as the passages of space between lines of poetry, cast away in a Charles Halloway-esque attempt at redemption. But before we cast about in our own mutterings of Shakespeare let us remember who had the last laugh: because just as Mr. Cougar crumbles to dust in his attempt to outsmart the angel of history, so, too, does the machine. Perhaps, after all, only Halloway was right.

Technology is moving as rapidly as this opening paragraph, with as many connections and inquisitions, and sometimes it makes just as much sense. There is something poetic about its movement, however, something dynamic and progressive. And most of all, democratic.
Walter Benjamin argued that the mechanical reproduction of works of art (through mass copies, photographs, and assorted other methods) destroys the feeling of awe that the spectator feels when gazing at, say, a painting by Monet. This feeling is inspired by what Benjamin called the “aura” of art. The aura, according to Benjamin, was not something inherent in the art itself, but was based rather on the historical and cultural values—values that are political in nature. Monet is impressive because he represents a major development in the history of art, and because society has deemed his work to be impressive. But is he any more impressive—intrinsically—than the work of another and less popular impressionist painter?
Benjamin’s friend Theodor Adorno agreed with him that mechanical reproduction “shatters” the aura of art. Not only do major art works become commonplace through mechanical reproduction, but they lose their history and uniqueness within a historical context. Monet’s singular and unique work—awe inspiring as an exhibition at a major art museum—is commonplace and ordinary hanging over the booth at the local truck stop. But does that make a viewing of the original any less dramatic? Or are lesser known works, works without such dramatically spectacular auras, truly less resonant?




'Impressionism in Autumn': this photo has a CC Attribution non-commercial 2.0 generic copyright by tanakawho (flickr username)

Rather than shattering the aura, mechanical reproduction only served to heighten the aura, to extend its range, its eloquence and power. Viewing the original in a national museum, one can stand above and outside of the ordinary—one can be more than what one is. Like Charles Halloway, who longed to be more than what he was in Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked this Way Comes. The work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction did not politicize art in the manner in which Benjamin expected would occur. It only increased the power of the aura.
The librarian, as well, has an aura. This is a feeling that is inspired in us when we think of “librarian”. Images in our heads trigger chemical responses in our bodies trigger attitudes and language in our actions. Benjamin argues that this type of politicized, socialized reaction is based on ritual. The shattering of the aura is really a breaking of the ritual of art, the ritual that is founded upon centuries of artistic practices such as the manner in which art is discussed, exhibited, and valued.
But if the age of mechanical reproduction did not shatter the aura, perhaps the age of technological communication has. Today’s librarian is not the dusty, stodgy, or spectacled archivist that the librarian “aura” would have us believe him or her to be. The loss of the centrality of the book in our society has also unseated the mythical heritage of the librarian…to an extent. Techie and savvy, today’s librarian is as apt to be pierced in more places than we care to imagine as to sit at home pouring over ancient volumes of Robert Frost. But we do still enjoy our Frost. So what has really changed?

When I look at the future, not through the certain—if tragic—eyes of the angel of history, but through the eyes of uncertain—and hopeful—youth, I am thankful that while I may read him on my computer screen downloaded from Project Gutenberg, I still read Robert Frost. I am thankful that the ritual has not been shattered. I am thankful that there is still an aura of the librarian—one that I can be a part of. Because without ritual, without history, without the context of life, I would come face to face with something that is so terrifyingly beautiful that I am afraid that I would not survive the encounter. Is it fear that keeps the aura in place, or is it our own realization that we are too fragile to exist any other way. And is it that realization that opens us to our innermost fulfillment?
Revolution or evolution. Either way is fine with me, but I choose evolution to the furthest extent that I am capable. For the carousel’s promise is a price that is too high for me to want to pay. Let the revolution come. And if it sweeps us away we can just take Frost with us.