I hate getting consent forms signed. It’s something I’ve had to do a lot, whether for oral history projects, co-production projects in museums or as part of research projects. It’s awkward to say the least. I hand over the form and then there is no option but to kind of hover while the person I’ve worked with for months bends over the paper and signs it. Signing my life away, semi-joked one signee, as I hovered.
‘Do better, easier-to-read forms’, you say – thanks, yes, I have tried this. ‘Build better more transparent understandings before you get to the form signing bit’, you say – good idea and yes, I’ve tried that too. ‘Draw up the form together’ – yeap, done that too. That moment is still awkward.
It’s an awkward moment, as I’ve written elsewhere (Graham 2012a, 2012b) and with others (Graham, Mason and Nayling 2012), because all those small interactions which build relationships – all those moments of laughter and joking, the moving moments, the moments of misunderstandings or disagreements which have since been worked through – get somehow flattened out into a series of transactions, agreements over use and a signature.
But I’m pretty sure no matter how great the form, no matter how brilliantly negotiated the participation process and no matter how skillful the hoverer, that awkwardness is part of this moment. To focus on these improvements of form and process are important and must be understood in terms of ethics (as I’ll be discussing with Alex Henry and Aileen Strachan today at the Tackling Ethical Challenges Conference in Durham, see also Banks et al. 2012; Banks et al. 2014). But this awkwardness comes from something bigger. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t need the form. In fact, it’s politics which floods the scene.
An oral history or a digital story is a very personal thing. Yet the very reason it has been recorded is for public record and use. It is for use now. It is also, if accessioned into a collection, for use in perpetuity. As a result suddenly up pop many things which exceed me-the-form-carrier and you-the-signee. Between us suddenly appear (like a pop up book or the introductory credits to Game of Thrones) the museum, funders, indefinable others who might use or edit the recording; everyone now and everyone in the future.
And this is the big, tricky issue of ‘how should decisions about heritage be made?’ from my perspective. Heritage is personal and it’s public. It is owned by specific people and places. But its very transformation into ‘heritage’ has some kind of wider, public dimension. Some have noted this and have strongly argued that people’s memories, objects or practices and decision-making should just be theirs; they should be ‘accorded the right to decide’ (Waterton and Smith 2010 p. 11). Yet it is these same people who equally robustly point out how exclusionary public institutions are. Could it be that for ‘heritage’ to be diverse and to be inclusive, this shift ‘into the public’ has to happen? Is part of this a necessary recognition of heritage as only existing as it does because of public and civic purposes? Is this sense of a bigger purpose, beyond yourself and even your rights (Graham 2012b), necessary to make heritage ethically viable?
Perhaps heritage has no simply source of legitimacy, in other words. I hoover awkwardly because I personally can’t make it all alright. The form being signed is not just between me and you. I carry the form to you on behalf of yet-unimaginable others (everyone now, everyone in the future). And you sign it, maybe, possibly, recognizing a purpose bigger and beyond yourself (history, culture, humanity, perpetuity). This is different to research ethics, it is as if the act of signing over, of accessioning or depositing is a specific form of representational politics – a form of politics which seeks ideals of clarity and transparency and yet, and because of the constant limits of these ideals, feels always, personally emotionally fraught.
Flowing from this are questions I’ll be taking to our first ‘How should decisions be made?’ workshop in March; questions of the effect multiple and often imagined sources of legitimacy. Can I pay attention to how this awkwardness feels – what this feeling tells me about the dangers of appropriation, ownership and loss – and the demands of publiciness at the same time? More particularly how might an interpersonal ethics and politics (of association, of self-organization, of the horizontal) relate to a deliberately public politics of heritage? Trying to think both together is all very, but helpfully, awkward.