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Cinéma & Cie. Film and Media Studies Journal
The Film Archive, the Archive as Film
Text.Serial.Journal
https://riviste.unimi.it/index.php/cinemaetcie
11
Thematic issue / Section thématique
2011-10-01
2022-12-10
2011-10-01
2024-02-14
Cinéma & Cie
Irini Stathi
2011/10/01
University of the Aegean
2036-461X
16-17
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The Film Archive, the Archive as Film
https://riviste.unimi.it/index.php/cinemaetcie/article/download/19362/17233
11
THE FILM ARCHIVE, THE ARCHIVE AS FILM
Irini Stathi, University of the Aegean




Archive, history, memory
   “No memory or testimony is possible without the archive! Or, memory and testimony are pos-
sible only without the archive!”1 Or, the archive is the end and the result of maintaining memory
and testimony. Any reflection on testimony, memory, the archive and archivization has to acti-
vate all thinking, ethics, writing, tradition, art and culture of humanity and to promote the inter-
pretation of human acts and artifacts.
   In our consideration of archives, there are two dimensions we need to examine: the archive of
the past (organizing human memory in terms of making historical order and cataloguing) and the
archive of the future (interpreting and managing human memory).
   Derrida’s Archive Fever starts precisely by drawing attention to the first dimension of the
archive: the word ἀρχή (arkhe), which he recalls at the beginning of his book, simultaneously
refers to the command to remember, archive and keep, and to the commencement of an institu-
tion of archivization. On the other hand, like the task of the translator envisioned by Walter
Benjamin2 (translation and interpretation go hand in hand as two members of the remembering,
archiving agency), the task here marks both the demand to archive and the need to face up to an
impossible pressure to forget the archive in order to remember. A way to forget the archive is to
transform it in a new form of source and reproduction of history and memory. The archive exists
based in the very primordial and structural aberration of memory, because “there is no archive
without a place of consignation, without a technique of repetition and without a certain exterior-
ity. No archive without outside.”3
   Eric Ketelaar commented that,

  Archives are memory because they are evidence. They are not only evidence of a transaction,
  but also evidence of some historic fact that is either part of the transaction itself or that may
  be traced via the transaction, or that which is otherwise embodied in the record, or in the con-
  text of the archiving process.4

   The memory, in that sense, is made impossible by the very imperative of archivization. “Before
archivization, however, is another ‘moment of truth’. […] It is archivalization,” meaning, accord-
ing to Ketelaar, “the conscious or unconscious choice (determined by social and cultural factors)
to consider something worth archiving.”5 According to Ketelaar archivalization precedes archiv-
ing. The searchlight of archivalization has to sweep the world for something to light up in the
archival sense, before we proceed to register, to record, to inscribe it, in short before we archive
it. “What the searchlight makes visible,” Karl Popper wrote, “will depend upon its position, upon

CINÉMA & CIE, vol. XI, no. 16-17, Spring-Fall 2011                                                55
IRINI STATHI

our way of directing it, and upon its intensity, colour, etc.; although it will, of course, also depend
very largely upon the things illuminated by it.”6 It seems that the preparation of a film creation
follows the same logic of archivalization and by differentiating archivalization from the subse-
quent inscription or archivization, which is then followed by capture and recording, we gain a bet-
ter comprehension of how the tacit narratives of the archive become explicit narratives within the
film. The archive reflects realities as perceived by “archivers;” similarly, the film reflects reali-
ties as perceived by the filmmaker. In any case, a notion of archivalization in filmmaking is
equivalent to the passion for the past7 and the excavation of memory.
   Derrida will bring the consequences of this aspect of the archive to its aporetic and terrible
limit, by saying that “the archive fever” in its most violent consequences and possibilities, “verges
on radical evil.”8 The radical evil is the destruction of the reality and the destruction of the orig-
inal archive.9 If the destruction of the Archive is possible, then the reconstruction of reality made
by another form as film, for example, is a possibility to remake history and to archiving in a new
way the reality through the transformation of history within a filmic context.
   Traditionally, when historians deal with fiction films, they tend to approach them simply as
ways to remember or make reflections of the periods in which they were produced. They see a
film as a product of its time and, in that sense, as a different kind of archive that must be consid-
ered and not forgotten in order to remember or to maintain in memory.
   Today, however, historians and film theorists alike find it increasingly rewarding to approach fic-
tion films as reflections of the past. In the postmodern understanding, the boundaries between film
and history are disappearing. The historians have become receptive to narrative strategies and fic-
tive elements in the writing of history, and the film theorists are watching the divide between fic-
tion and documentary disappears. Both fiction and documentary films can be considered as a kind
of historical archive. The boundaries between film and archive in this respect are disappearing.
   The evidential view of the archive that functions as a “pretext” of the filmic text has been crit-
icized in the last half century by those, including Ketelaar, who consider the archive to be rooted
in a positivist and constructivist approach to the past, which they deftly seek to replace in a tech-
nological environment with a postmodern perspective that draws ideas from both Foucault and
Derrida. In a remarkable rhetorical phrase, Hofman considers that “the archives can be seen as a
node […] clustering records into larger meaningful Whole.”10


Theo Angelopoulos’ “film-archive”
   Anyone who watches The Traveling Players (O Thiassos [Ο Θίασος], 1975), a film on recent
Greek history (1939-1952), which represents a series of historical events through the adventures
of a traveling theatrical group, will notice that it unfolds historical events and documentation. The
film seems to be a kind of memory-archive, which permits the correlations of the events and
objects of the past with the current historical period (filmic time – 1939-1952 – and time of the
film’s production). The events themselves are the very documents of the historical past and, at the
same time, the collective memory of Greece. The relationship between evidence and memory
emerges in the particular film’s discourse. However, the film is a critical meditation around his-
tory and the mean that we dispose in order to keep the historical memory alive and inalterable.
   Angelopoulos uses the historical archives in order to collect information, but the archival mate-
rial never appears unrefined in the film. We believe that Angelopoulos’ meditation around histo-
ry and the archive as evidence of historical past is the very notion of the archive given by Godard,
Deleuze, Derrida and Doane and it could be very useful in our discourse. Godard argues that:

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  Cinema is the media we use in order to write history and in the same time cinema shapes its
  one history during its realization. Could also offer to us ways to create history […]. The archi-
  ve is the appropriate place which facilitates the realization of such enterprises.11

  Derrida, on the other hand, brings to light a considerable amount of questions concerning the
role of archives as depositories of memory:

  The disasters which mark the end of the millennium are also archives of evil: hidden or
  destroyed, forbidden, misappropriated, “repressed.” Their usage is at once clumsy and refi-
  ned, during civil or international wars, during private or secret intrigues. Because of the
  unconscious we never demit from the need to appropriate a power on the document its main-
  tenance and its interpretation.12

  According to Doane,

  a close examination of Freud’s treatment of memory and temporality reveals the continual
  recurrence of three themes: 1. the insistence upon inscription as a metaphor for the processes
  of memory, 2. the retention of a notion of storage and the corresponding problem of localiza-
  tion and 3. the close association established between time and protection of the organism from
  external stimuli.13

   Doane continues: “For the unconscious, the site of memory is in a sense a truly ideal space for
unlimited storage, a perfect library in which nothing is ever lost.”14
   The insistence upon inscription conducted Freud to the so-called artifice of “magic notebook”
(film is a type of such artifice), which appears to be the most effective to represent the memory’s
inscriptions. The unconscious, the place of memory is the ideal topos of an immense accumula-
tion of things, thoughts and experiences.
   In this light, another film by Angelopoulos, Ulysses’ Gaze (To vlemma tou Odyssea [Το βλέμμα
του Οδυσσέα], 1995) dramatizes the dynamic between memory and history: how they feed each
other. The film treats the return journey of a nameless Greek American filmmaker (listed in the
film’s credits as A.) to Greece, a journey that soon becomes a painful flow of memories (some
from the private history of the protagonist, others from the repository of the region’s cultural and
historical memories).
   We notice the importance of history and memory reality in the filmic text, but in a way that
clearly refers, unlike the Traveling players, to the philosophy itself of the archive: 1. the film’s
introduction consists of a short documentary film entitled Weavers (Yfantres [Υφάντρες], 1905),15
by Giannakis and Miltos Manakis,16 and 2. the reason that pushes A. to traverse the Balkans is to
track down three undeveloped reels made by brothers Manakis in the early 20th century.
   The reels he is probably looking for is this two-minute-long documentary, which represents a
considerable portion of memory in the beginning of the century, saved because of the possibility
to record it on film. The protagonist’s (A.) voiceover helps to situate the film and facilitates the
role of such images within the historical memory:

  - Weavers in Avthela, a Greek village, 1905.
  - The first film made by brothers Miltos and Yannakis Manakis.
  - The first film ever made in Greece and the Balkans.
  - But is this a fact? Is it the first film? The first gaze?17


                                                                                                  57
IRINI STATHI

   Here, similar to Derrida, there is a reference to an ἀρχή (a beginning)18 of the visual history in
a certain territory and a certain period. A.’s question is not meant to raise doubts about the film’s
authenticity; Former Yugoslavia and War aside, his question signifies at once a concern with and
distrust for origins, specifically the ambivalence that characterizes any project aimed at re-
installing foundational myths of nation formation.
   When viewed from this perspective, Ulysses’ Gaze (1995) is about more than the historical
events that evolved during the war in Former Yugoslavia and the consequent division of the coun-
try into more nations. Similarly, the Manakis brothers’ documentary is something more than a
mere recording of daily life in the early 20th century, it becomes a testimony, a remembering that
is trying to create order in the historical chaos of the Balkans.
   Ulysses’ Gaze forms an itinerary through a geographical territory marked by a considerable
number of cultural and historical events that form the status and the particularities of the entire
Balkans, as well as an inner itinerary regarding the discovery of an arkhe in the individual pro-
tagonist’s life (he pronounces the T. S. Eliot verse, “In my end is my beginning,” underlining his
hybrid identity – the importance of his diasporic identity).
   In this regard, the third theme mentioned before, in Doane’s consideration, is connected with
the narrow relationship between the notion of time and the necessity to protect the self from exter-
nal stimuli, highlighting the problem of memory and temporality, as expressed by Freud.
Consciousness and memory in the Freudian thought are incompatible: memories are quite truth-
ful and are situated in the unconscious producing of continuous stimuli.
   So, as A. undertakes this journey through the archives in the Balkans, he experiences the past
and hence re-lives it; as well as that, the journey offers an anatomy of discursive structure and the
role of archives in cultural memory and in the formation of historical continuity. A. experiences
the journey as a visit into an archive of history, and he also creates a kind of catalogue of histor-
ical “things,” inasmuch as by rendering the film itself, he is making an archive of memories, both
personal and collective.
   A.’s research of the undeveloped reels, which are sent from one country to another and from
one city to another, in Ulysses’ Gaze helps to establish both a genealogy of the War and a geneal-
ogy of memory,

  but also calls attention to how history repeats itself in the centuries, as this repetitiveness is
  one of the ways in which cultural memory is manifested and interpreted through history. If the
  Manakis’ visual archive documents the complex and traumatic record of the Balkan past, it
  also operates as an anterior narrative in relation to the violence in the present, assuming a
  proleptic function.19

  As a record of historical and cultural memory, the Manakis archive “has no theoretical arma-
ture. Its method is additive: it offers a mass of facts, in order to fill up a homogenous and empty
time,”20 and thus belongs to the syntax that comprises history as historicism, which is about “the
present as that of the here-and-now.”21 Nevertheless, when A. discovers the images of this
archive, he sees not some images of the past that “have come to a standstill,”22 but a narrative of
the past, hence his desire to locate the lost reels. The complex stratification of visuality charac-
terizing the dramatization of the Manakis’ lives and work in Ulysses’ Gaze reinforces this atti-
tude. In this sense, the archive becomes the film itself or, perhaps, the very root of the film.
  This kind of remembering demonstrates that, even when institutionalized, cultural memory is a
fluid archive at best (like in Alexander Sokurov’s, The Russian Ark, 2002, where the order of the

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events of the past becomes a play of the present), an archive that has a cumulative structure. Not
only must the history it echoes be heard in the plural, but the events individuals are remembering
are imperatives, which must also be seen as the result of complex discursive forces. While an
attempt to resolve the contradictions of what is being remembered would inevitably end in
homogenization, and thus further mystification, the past, the very difficulty of determining what
memory entails is also what reveals memory’s capacity for myth-making, precisely what consti-
tutes cultural memory. The best way to remember is by interpreting mounds of things, thoughts
or events. Angelopoulos’ film appears as cumuli of events or thoughts, which relate to the his-
torical background – recent or older – and which are organized in a useful way for remembering.
   His belief that the probability to discover the first glance ever glimpsed on this region may dis-
close a gaze that could shake up the “eternal” values and meaning memorialized in national mas-
ter narratives. In this regard, the Archives themselves (in Athens, Skopie, Sarajevo) become a
kind of film. How cultural memory is recorded, interpreted, and practiced has the potential to alter
the present state of affairs, and hence the course of history. Thus, the War may not be the imme-
diate focus in Ulysses’ Gaze, but neither is it simply there as the gratuitous backdrop of the jour-
ney. At the film’s end, a poem in the form of a catalogue of things from the Greek tradition (the
lines A. recites) is another archive: those of a cultivated memory, enclosed in traditional ways to
remember things as poetry.
   The setting in which Derrida delivered the very first “archive fever” explains to some extent
what an archive was doing here in a film: a prolegomenon to a discussion of perditions and efforts
to remember those perditions, as well as a return to the questions of memory. Ulysses’ Gaze is
the domiciliation that marks the definitive passage from archive to filmic discourse and from
filmic discourse to archive. The women who are weaving in front of their houses and the act of
weaving itself is the arkhe, the beginning of a new era. It is, thus, in this reels research that the
meaning of the archive raises up. In this sense, the film becomes a kind of homeland or a muse-
um, an archive-thought and, in the process, taking place at that moment (the moment of the
screening) attempts to find adequate metaphors for representing memory. Angelopoulos sees in
this film the very desire that is “archive fever:” the desire to recover moments of inception, to find
and possess all sorts of beginnings.


Dusty archives, dusty films
   Carolyn Steedman in her book Dust (2001) argues: “Nothing starts in the Archive, nothing, ever
at all, though things certainly end up there. You find nothing in the Archive but stories caught half
way through: the middle of things; discontinuities.”23 The Archive, so, is made from selected and
consciously chosen documentation of the past and also from historical fragments in other forms
(not written) that the official history did not intend to preserve by including them in the written
sources. The film, instead, uses such documentation and develops it in a new form revealing a
new (audiovisual) dimension of the archival material, and using this material it is possible to
remove the dust from the past events and the archival objects themselves.
   Steedman continues: “The Archive is also a place of dreams.”24 If the Archive is a place of
dreams then the Archive is like a film, if we accept the dreamlike nature of film. To enter that
place where the past lives, where the ink on a parchment or bunches of light can be made to speak,
still remains the social historian’s dream, of bringing to life those who do not for the main part
exist, not even between the lines of state papers and legal documents, who are not really present,
not even in the records of Revolutionary bodies and fractions.25

                                                                                                   59
IRINI STATHI

  Carolyn Steedman’s book appeared as a response to Jacques Derrida’s 1994 Mal d’Archive:
une impression freudienne, which refers to the dust as a metonym for the essence of the archive.
We are forced to consider that it was not life that he breathed into “the souls who had suffered so
long ago and who were smothered now in the past,”26 but death that he took into himself with
each lungful of the past. Or, the dust of the time, like the last Angelopoulos’ film Dust of time (I
skoni tou chronou [Η σκόνη του χρόνου], 2008) made on the main historical events of the centu-
ry through the adventures of a “love story” as a pretext.
  Angelopoulos went once more into the archive (the archive of time) in order to enact a partic-
ular kind of national imagining. The dead and forgotten people he exhumed were by no means a
random assemblage of forgotten, anonymous dead. They were those whose sacrifices, throughout
History, made possible the survival of an entire population since 1920 and the self-conscious
appearance of the Greek nation.
  The silence of history and the death of the people in Dust of Time are not obstacles to the exhu-
mation of people’s deepest desires, as they are registered on the celluloid and the way in which
the filmmaker-historian found himself/herself able to speak on behalf of the dead and to interpret
the words and the acts that they themselves had not understood. It was not exactly Angelopoulos
the historian,27 nor indeed the Historian, who performed this act of interpretation (although it was
indeed, precisely, on a particular day, a date, a lived time, that the film entered the portals of the
Archives, and breathed in the dust of the dead, and gave breath also to historical people or peo-
ple who made history). It was, in fact, a magistrate (ἂρχων-archon), also called History, who did
the work of resurrection:

  Yes, everyone who dies leaves behind a little something, his memory, and demands that we
  care for it. For those who have no friends, the magistrate must provide that care. For the law,
  or justice, is more certain than all our tender forgetfulness, our tears so swiftly dried. This
  magistracy is History.28

  Media reports frequently refer to new developments in museums and archives sweeping aside
their dustiness, almost as though “dust” were a metonym for the essence of the archive. Such an
image portrays archives as being of little relevance to the present, as they lie virtually untouched
decaying into dust. Angelopoulos as Carolyn Steedman goes far beyond this into an exploration
of the nature of history, playing with different varieties of dust; some literal, some literary and
some metaphorical.
  In the screenplay of the film Dust of time, during a scene that is articulated like a kind of vale-
diction, Jacob, the old man and companion of the two protagonists, says: “To the dust of time,
which falls over everything, the small and the big... .”29 The reconciliation between private and
public memories is at its most acute in this sentence. Through dust all things can be maintained
untouched or as Carolyn Steedman argues:

  Dust is the immutable, obdurate set of beliefs about the material world, past and present, inhe-
  rited from the 19th century, with which modern history-writing attempts to grapple; Dust is
  also the narrative principle of history writing.30

  The film emphasizes the selectivity of archives and contrasts this with the complexity of mem-
ory. It uses a discussion on history to show how 21st century history creates unambiguous stories
of what actually happened. Dust is the symbol of the old historical approaches that persist and

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cannot easily be erased. So, given the title of this film, we lose the materiality of the archive, but
we gain the poetics of the film as a topos, a place of archive.
   This could have led to a discussion on the values of integrating textuality and materiality when
interpreting the past through film. Likewise, Angelopoulos does not explore the power of the
archive as a collection, but as a repository where all things have the same value. Items that enter
an archive collection do not just maintain their meanings as souvenirs of past events. Instead, they
continue to accrete meanings as they are catalogued, labelled and conserved as part of a collec-
tion. But, they assume a further meaning if they stay under the dust of “time,” which seems to be
the main force to interpret the past. The life of an archive is one that creates meanings; the life of
the things under the dust of the archive reinforces the possibility to interpret again and again. It
is not true that “nothing starts in the Archive,” but it is true that everything finishes in the Archive.

  The Archive then is something that, through the activity of History, becomes Memory’s poten-
  tial space, one of the few realms of the modern imagination where a hard-won and carefully
  constructed place, can return to boundless, limitless space, and we might be released from the
  house-arrest that Derrida suggested was its condition.31

  Angelopoulos’ ideas and some of his greatest insights are liable to be lost on anyone who is not
already involved in debates about postmodern historiography. The historical film must be accept-
ed as a vehicle for communicating those aspects of the past that written history cannot.
  From a phenomenological point of view, it could be said that it is the feeling of the past, a sense
of the past or a poetic speculation on the events of the past that is the main strength of the histor-
ical feature film.
  Alterations and manipulations in serious historical films should be seen as metaphorical ways
of communicating an overall interpretation of the past as the filmmakers see it. How this inter-
pretation can be communicated depends on the narrative mode. The classical film holds advan-
tages in the process-oriented, dramatized and individual way of communicating the past.
  The art film has more to offer with regard to complexness and different points of view. In that
sense, the film Archive becomes a kind of film, as we can “read” it as a metaphoric way to inter-
pret life, history and private experience.


Conclusion
  In all films mentioned above, it is easy to recognize the excitement of unraveling from docu-
ments the pieces of a narrative, the “enduring passions that researchers develop with the contents
of buff folders”32 or dusty memories. This is perhaps what Derrida had in mind when he described
the archive as “a responsibility for tomorrow” whose meaning will only be known “in times to
come.”33
  An archive and a film, in this respect, can be and often are a wunderkammer, but it is emphat-
ically not a wunderkammer “of material which has only been loosely classified, material whose
status is as yet indeterminate […]: material that has not yet been read and researched;”34 and only
in this sense a material under the veil of the dust of time.
  The question of the archive and the film as historical document is closely connected with mem-
ory as a consignment for future artists and filmmakers. Every film has something of a kind of
dust, which every archive contains.
  This dust provokes probably the aberration of memory, as mentioned before. In that sense, the

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IRINI STATHI

conditions of archiv(al)ization correspond closely to the primordial command to translate and
interpret reality, history and human condition, as a film itself is doing.
  Finally, archive, like film, is a place of dreams, of re-enactment for both the user and the
archivist (or the artist as archivist), who together are always engaged, either passively or active-
ly, in the process of re-figuration that is never ending.



1    Dragan Kujundzic, “Archigraphia: On the Future of Testimony and the Archive to Come,” in Discourse,
     vol. 25, no. 1-2, Winter-Spring 2003, pp. 166-188.
2    Walter Benjamin writes: “History is the subject of a structure whose time is not homogeneous, empty
     time, but time filled by the presence of the now.” Walter Benjamin, Theses on the Philosophy of History,
     in Illuminations, Knopf Doubleday Publishing, New York 1968, p. 261.
3    Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, University of Chicago Press, Chicago 1996, p. 11.
4    Eric Ketelaar, Writing on Archiving Machines, in Sonja Neef, José van Dijck, Eric Ketelaar (eds.), Sign
     Here! Handwriting in the Age of New Media, Amsterdam University Press, Amsterdam 2006, p. 188.
5    Eric Ketelaar, “Archivalization and Archiving,” in Archives and Manuscripts, no. 27, 1999, pp. 54-61;
     Eric Ketelaar, “Archivistics Research Saving the Profession,” in American Archivist, no. 63, 2000, pp.
     328-329; Eric Ketelaar, “Tacit Narratives: The Meanings of Archives,” in Archival Science, vol. 1, 2001,
     pp. 131-141.
6    Karl Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies; Part Two, Routledge, London 1995, p. 490.
7    Robert R. Vosloo, “Archiving otherwise: some remarks on memory and historical responsibility,” in
     Studia Historiae Ecclesiasticae, vol. XXXI, no. 2, October 2005, pp. 379-399.
8    Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, cit., p. 20.
9    Peg Birmingham, On Deception: Radical Evil and the Destruction of the Archive, in Shannon Sullivan,
     Dennis J. Schmidt (eds.), Difficulties of Ethical Life, Fordham University Press, New York 2008, pp.
     195-212 (p. 209).
10   Hans Hofman, The Archive, in Sue McKemmish, Michael Piggott, Barbara Reed, Frank Upward (eds.),
     Archives. Recordkeeping in Society, Centre for Information Studies, Charles Sturt University, Wagga
     Wagga 2005, p. 154.
11   Jean-Luc Godard, “Les Cinémathèques et l’histoire du cinéma,” in Travelling, no. 56-57, 1980, pp. 119-
     136 (my translation).
12   Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, cit., p. 12.
13   Mary Ann Doane, The Emergence of Cinematic Time: Modernity, Contingency, the Archive, Harvard
     University Press, Cambridge 2002, pp. 38-39 and 42.
14   Idem, p. 42.
15   See about The Weavers (considered the first film ever made in the Balkans) Christos Christodoulou
     [Χριστοδούλου, Χρίστος], The Manakis Brothers’ Photogenic Balkans [Τα Φωτογενή Βαλκάνια των
     Αδελφών Μανάκη], Paratiritis, Thessaloniki 1989; Giorgis Exarchos [Γιώργης Έξαρχος], Manakia
     brothers. Pionners of Cinema in the Balkans [Αδελφοί Μανάκια. Πρωτοπόροι του κινηματογράφου στα
     Βαλκάνια], Gavriilides, Athens 1991, p. 57; Brothers Manakia [Αδελφοί Μανάκια], (CD-ROM edition),
     Kastaniotis, Athens 1997. Exarchos dates the film in 1905 or 1907. In Ulysses’ Gaze Angelopoulos men-
     tions as date of the film 1905.
16   The two brothers considered being the Lumière brothers in the Balkans.
17   Theo Angelopoulos, Ulysse’s Gaze, 1995.
18   Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression, cit., p. 2.
19   Smaro Kamboureli, “Memory under Siege: Archive Fever in Theo Angelopoulos,” in Performing
     Identity/Crossing Borders (Conference proceedings, Cyprus, May 3-6, 2007), pp. 132-146.
20   Walter Benjamin, Theses on the Philosophy of History, cit., pp. 38-41.
21   Idem, p. 261.

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22 Idem, p. 396.
23 Carolyn Steedman, Dust: The Archive and Cultural History, Rutgers University Press, New Brunswick,
   NJ 2001, p. 45.
24 Idem, p. 69.
25 Idem, p. 68-70.
26 See in Carolyn Steedman, Something She Called a Fever, in Francis X. Blouin, Francis X. Blouin Jr.,
   William G. Rosenberg (eds.), Archives, Documentation, and Institutions of Social Memory, University
   of Michigan Press, Ann Arbor, MI 2007, pp. 4-19 (p. 11). According to Benedict Anderson, Michelet
   went into the archive in order to enact a particular kind of national imagining. See also Benedict
   Anderson, Imagined Communities, Reflections on the Origin & Spread of Nationalism, Random House,
   New York 1983, p. 198.
27 Irini Stathi [Ειρήνη Στάθη], Thodoros Angelopoulos: Journey toward the Frontiers of History [Θόδωρος
   Αγγελόπουλος: Ταξίδι στα όρια της Ιστορίας], in Irini Stathi (ed.), Thodoros Angelopoulos, Kastaniotis,
   Athens 2000, pp. 11-15.
28 See in Carolyn Steedman, Something She Called a Fever, cit., p. 12.
29 Theo Angelopoulos, Dust of Time. The Third Wing, Militos, Athens 2009, p. 85.
30 Carolyn Steedman, Dust: The Archive and Cultural History, cit., p. ix.
31 Idem, p. 83.
32 Carolyn Hamilton et al., Introduction, in Id., Reﬁguring the Archive, Kluwer, Dordrecht-Boston-London
   2002, p. 16.
33 Jacques Derrida, Archive Fever. A Freudian Impression, cit., p. 36.
34 Mike Featherstone, “Archive,” in Id. et al., Problematizing Global Knowledge, Theory, Culture &
   Society, Special Issue, vol. 23, no. 2-3, May 2006, pp. 591-596 (p. 594).




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