Time was, you couldn't just stroll into a library, walk up to a shelf, close your eyes (or leave them open, if you prefer) and pick out a book to read. And that time is now... Days of Future Past. Or would it be Days of Past Future?
Well, to explain my befuddlement, please allow me to digress for a brief history of libraries...
Well, to explain my befuddlement, please allow me to digress for a brief history of libraries...
In the beginning...
Cuneiform (British Museum) ...there was chaos. Things... information... knowledge was scattered everywhere... and no one could find anything they needed... when they needed it. And it was said by someone... although we don't know who... "let there be a semblance of order." And there was a library.
The earliest libraries were housed in the temples of Sumer, a region of city-states in Mesopotamia. They housed:
The earliest libraries were housed in the temples of Sumer, a region of city-states in Mesopotamia. They housed:
- commercial accounts (who sold how many goats to whom and at what price);
- math and grammar lessons for young scribes (No, my young scribawan, the correct usage is I couldn't care less, not I could care less);
- medical and astrological treatises; and
- collections of hymns, prayers and incantations.
Temple at Edfu (Ancient-Egypt.org) And someone said... although we don't know who... "go forth and multiply... gather up all the information and knowledge and have dominion over it... sort it... and organize it... and make sense of it... so that you might make it available for mankind so that knowledge may grow from more to more and therefore human life be enriched." And so the idea of libraries spread and grew, from the Egyptian "House of Papyrus" at Edfu (I kid you not!) to the fabulous scholarly collections of Ashurbanipal and Alexandria and the Ottoman Empire to the imperial libraries of Constantinople and Damascus to the monastic libraries of the Middle Ages to the libraries of the great universities at Oxford and Paris to the earliest "public" libraries in Europe and the United States.
If it's a temple, then I must be a Goddess...
(courtesy ancestry.com) But even as libraries spread and developed and evolved, the notion of "library as temple" remained. It was a Temple of Knowledge of which the Librarian was a Guardian Goddess who sat at the Altar of Reference. The patron/supplicant would approach the altar seeking succor in the form of information (a tablet in Mesopotamia, a book elsewhere, once the "miracle of Mainz" occurred) Because in these early libraries, the emphasis was much more on storage and preservation rather than use. Hence, books were often chained to tables to prevent their removal by sticky-fingered patrons or kept behind bars (literally and figuratively) and only handed over reluctantly for brief periods of perusal within the confines of the temple/library.
Ranganathan and his laws And then someone said... "Books are for use." (We actually know who said this, the rock star/ library god, S.R. Ranganathan, who didn't carry his 5 Rules down from Mount Sinai engraved on a tablet, but he still became one of the most influential philosophical figures in the history of librarianship. He also didn't conclude his pronouncement with the interjection, "Duh!") He also said that every book has its reader and every reader has his/her book. Now these truths may seem self-evident, but it wasn't always so.
So, over time and with the brilliant innovations of a few smart librarians following the Laws of Ranganathan and the organizational system of Melvil Dewey (or Library of Congress, if you're in academia) and bolstered by the monetary input of at least one capitalist with a thirst for knowledge and a taste for philanthropy of the intellectual kind, the idea of a library has evolved into being more of a market place. And the buildings and their accouterments changed to reflect that notion. Andrew Carnegie (btw, that's Car-NEG-ie, not CAR-ne-gie), who provided millions to build public libraries in towns across the United States, was also a smart businessman who kept his eyes on his pennies. To reduce operating costs in the branch libraries in his native Pittsburgh, his directors introduced the "open stack" policy, a revolutionary idea of "self-service" in which patrons could access books directly, without having to approach the Reference Altar. John Cotton Dana pursued this same policy in the Denver Public library and other systems that he administered.
Books had become far more plentiful and easier to replace; the cataloging systems were easy to use and made locating material much more straightforward for the average person. Entering the stacks was no longer like entering the Holy Sanctuary, it was like entering Books R Us or Infomart.
So, over time and with the brilliant innovations of a few smart librarians following the Laws of Ranganathan and the organizational system of Melvil Dewey (or Library of Congress, if you're in academia) and bolstered by the monetary input of at least one capitalist with a thirst for knowledge and a taste for philanthropy of the intellectual kind, the idea of a library has evolved into being more of a market place. And the buildings and their accouterments changed to reflect that notion. Andrew Carnegie (btw, that's Car-NEG-ie, not CAR-ne-gie), who provided millions to build public libraries in towns across the United States, was also a smart businessman who kept his eyes on his pennies. To reduce operating costs in the branch libraries in his native Pittsburgh, his directors introduced the "open stack" policy, a revolutionary idea of "self-service" in which patrons could access books directly, without having to approach the Reference Altar. John Cotton Dana pursued this same policy in the Denver Public library and other systems that he administered.
Books had become far more plentiful and easier to replace; the cataloging systems were easy to use and made locating material much more straightforward for the average person. Entering the stacks was no longer like entering the Holy Sanctuary, it was like entering Books R Us or Infomart.
Would you like some Nietzsche with your Kierkegaard?
Hence the idea of library as marketplace: librarians, instead of reclining at the altar, go out and drum up business and patrons get to browse and touch the goods before committing to a purchase.
Which, of course, led to exploration and the birth of Serendipity, who, unlike Venus, did not rise up out of the ocean on a clam shell wearing only her hair. (Serendipity the word was coined by Horace Walpole in 1754 and means "a fortunate happenstance" or "a pleasant surprise.") Indeed, it (or she, or he, however way you roll), as a library experience, blossomed in the midst of the freedom that patrons had to, in the words of Ranganathan, "wander among the books and lay his (or her) hands on any of them at his will and pleasure." Accompanied by Serendipity, in the course of looking for one book, a patron may find, just by chance, another even more suited to his (or her) liking. Or perhaps even two or three or an armful... Because you can't always know what you want, much less get it, unless you can take a look around. (And yes, I know that with the sophistication of our online PAC systems, you can "virtually" wander a shelf, but it's not quite the same thing, now, is it? And don't call me a Luddite. I love technology, I am comfortable with it, I teach it, I respect it, blah, blah, blah...)
Serendipity deepens the joy of using a library (there's one of those feeling words again) for patrons of all ages, from the pre-schooler stumbling upon Ruby and Max, those irrepressible bunnies created by Rosemary Wells, while on the hunt for the latest Pigeon book by Mo Willems to the tween who finds the fantasies of Emily Rodda while picking out the sequel to Rick Riordan's The Lightning Thief to the adult who might walk into a library looking for Gustave Flaubert's portrait of a bad marriage and went home carrying Gillian Flynn's as well. And it happens all the time in the nonfiction section as well. You stride purposefully down to the 551s section for books about tornadoes, only to have your eyes drawn to the stunning geode on a cover in 540s. And, of course, you just have to stop and peruse. (Or at least I do!)
Which, of course, led to exploration and the birth of Serendipity, who, unlike Venus, did not rise up out of the ocean on a clam shell wearing only her hair. (Serendipity the word was coined by Horace Walpole in 1754 and means "a fortunate happenstance" or "a pleasant surprise.") Indeed, it (or she, or he, however way you roll), as a library experience, blossomed in the midst of the freedom that patrons had to, in the words of Ranganathan, "wander among the books and lay his (or her) hands on any of them at his will and pleasure." Accompanied by Serendipity, in the course of looking for one book, a patron may find, just by chance, another even more suited to his (or her) liking. Or perhaps even two or three or an armful... Because you can't always know what you want, much less get it, unless you can take a look around. (And yes, I know that with the sophistication of our online PAC systems, you can "virtually" wander a shelf, but it's not quite the same thing, now, is it? And don't call me a Luddite. I love technology, I am comfortable with it, I teach it, I respect it, blah, blah, blah...)
Serendipity deepens the joy of using a library (there's one of those feeling words again) for patrons of all ages, from the pre-schooler stumbling upon Ruby and Max, those irrepressible bunnies created by Rosemary Wells, while on the hunt for the latest Pigeon book by Mo Willems to the tween who finds the fantasies of Emily Rodda while picking out the sequel to Rick Riordan's The Lightning Thief to the adult who might walk into a library looking for Gustave Flaubert's portrait of a bad marriage and went home carrying Gillian Flynn's as well. And it happens all the time in the nonfiction section as well. You stride purposefully down to the 551s section for books about tornadoes, only to have your eyes drawn to the stunning geode on a cover in 540s. And, of course, you just have to stop and peruse. (Or at least I do!)
Marian the robot librarian?
So, besides being a rather simplistic origin story of libraries, what exactly is this all about?
The Joe and Rika Mansueto Library, the self-proclaimed "library of the future," that's what.
The Mansueto Library, opened in 2011, is the newest library on the University of Chicago campus. It sits just to the west of old Regenstein, like a sparkling, many-faceted, oval-cut diamond tossed down next to a chunk of concrete. The Mansuetos, both alumni, provided a cool $25 million for its construction. Designed by Chicago architectural icon, Helmut Jahn, the library, constructed in the shape of an ellipse, is a stunning physical space and an engineering marvel, consisting of an 8,000 square foot "Grand Reading Room," a state-of-the-art preservation and digitization lab, and an underground Automated Storage and Retrieval System (ASRS) (the "stacks") with the capacity to hold 3.5 million volumes (or volume equivalents, as they put it).
The Joe and Rika Mansueto Library, the self-proclaimed "library of the future," that's what.
The Mansueto Library, opened in 2011, is the newest library on the University of Chicago campus. It sits just to the west of old Regenstein, like a sparkling, many-faceted, oval-cut diamond tossed down next to a chunk of concrete. The Mansuetos, both alumni, provided a cool $25 million for its construction. Designed by Chicago architectural icon, Helmut Jahn, the library, constructed in the shape of an ellipse, is a stunning physical space and an engineering marvel, consisting of an 8,000 square foot "Grand Reading Room," a state-of-the-art preservation and digitization lab, and an underground Automated Storage and Retrieval System (ASRS) (the "stacks") with the capacity to hold 3.5 million volumes (or volume equivalents, as they put it).
Rather than shelves, the books are stored in mausoleum-like bins and metal shelf units which are attached to 50-foot-tall storage racks.
Patrons search for and request materials in the library's online catalog. A robotic crane swoops along a track, gathers up the correct bins where the books are located and shoots them up to the main floor circulation desk where patrons can check out the material. The whole process takes about 5 minutes or so.
A particularly unique feature about the ASRS is that the material is shelved by size, rather than library classification. Poor old Melvil is probably rolling over in his grave, because this is the way books were often stored before he came up with his classification system. Ah, progress...
Patrons search for and request materials in the library's online catalog. A robotic crane swoops along a track, gathers up the correct bins where the books are located and shoots them up to the main floor circulation desk where patrons can check out the material. The whole process takes about 5 minutes or so.
A particularly unique feature about the ASRS is that the material is shelved by size, rather than library classification. Poor old Melvil is probably rolling over in his grave, because this is the way books were often stored before he came up with his classification system. Ah, progress...
The portal...
Under the Dome...
You have to enter the Mansueto through Regenstein for "security reasons." You do so by passing through a connecting steel and glass bridge with sliding doors that exude a Star Trekian vibe. You emerge into The Grand Reading Room, which is very high-end IKEA: yards and yards of blonde white oak, plenty of stainless steel, long tables, shorter tables, all enclosed by an aluminum-framed glass dome.
The day we visited, the place hummed. Literally. Twice as loud as old Reg ever did. And instead of seeming light-filled and airy, the dome felt oppressive. I felt like I was a firefly trapped under a jar: I could see the enticing natural world (that lovely green grass, those well-tended shrubs) surrounding me, but I just couldn't get to it, no matter how far I crawled. (Shades of Stephen King with some Kafka thrown in...) I imagine in the winter, particularly this past winter with its 80 inches of snow, the effect is igloo-like, which might be kind of cool. Until claustrophobia takes hold.
But the worst aspect for me, the library adventuress, was the absolute lack of serendipity in that ultra-modern space. Yes, I understand the rationale.
Preservation
Closed vs. Open Shelving:
A closed automated shelving system allows library materials to be stored at temperature and humidity conditions (60 degrees Fahrenheit and 30% relative humidity) that are ideally suited for their preservation but could not be achieved in open spaces where patrons browse and retrieve materials.
And I appreciate the efficiency. And I understand the "electronic open stacks" of digital image-based texts. Like I said, don't call me a Luddite. That's knee-jerk.
It's just that... as a library wanderer, in a place where "not all those who wander are lost," I feel the loss of serendipity.
Closed stacks = no wandering. No wandering = a limit on the possibility of every book finding its reader and every reader finding her book.
That seems kind of like ancient history to me.
Preservation
Closed vs. Open Shelving:
A closed automated shelving system allows library materials to be stored at temperature and humidity conditions (60 degrees Fahrenheit and 30% relative humidity) that are ideally suited for their preservation but could not be achieved in open spaces where patrons browse and retrieve materials.
And I appreciate the efficiency. And I understand the "electronic open stacks" of digital image-based texts. Like I said, don't call me a Luddite. That's knee-jerk.
It's just that... as a library wanderer, in a place where "not all those who wander are lost," I feel the loss of serendipity.
Closed stacks = no wandering. No wandering = a limit on the possibility of every book finding its reader and every reader finding her book.
That seems kind of like ancient history to me.
Contemplating whether to scale the dome, as others have apparently done (perhaps U of C will be adding shrubbery with thorns to the landscaping)
RSS Feed