Never Say Never
March 14, 2008
The collection of Stephen Sprouse's belongings that had been stored in a Brooklyn warehouse for years, now known as the archives, was moved to another warehouse in New Jersey a few months ago. Yesterday morning, I went there with a couple of people who were searching for items to scan and photograph for a project they're working on. I met them in front of their apartment building, and we hopped into a hired SUV to cross the Hudson River to my old home state.
Although it's farther away and, as a result, less accessible, the new space is much larger and cleaner than the old one. No musty smell or mold, no leaks in the ceiling, no layers of dust or truck exhaust. When we were led into the smaller side room where Stephen's items are stored, we were told, "Please don't leave anything behind, trash, food, empty water bottles, nothing." A tight ship, as they say.
The piles aren’t nearly as high as they once were, no damp cardboard boxes collapsing under the weight of a dozen others. But although some items have been organized and re-boxed, many are still in the same boxes they've been packed and repacked in over and over again for years. Black magic marker that listed the contents, scrawled out and revised, crossed out and revised again. "Box# 3" crossed out to become "Box A," scribbled over and made "Box 2C," and maybe a date, and so on. The most recent list of contents is printed out on a white sheet of paper and taped to the side of each box. The ones we were interested in looking through had been set aside for us ahead of time.
I've been through these boxes so many times that I should be able to rattle off what's inside each one from memory by now, but there are so many things crammed into so many boxes, and in no particular order, that I always see something new, something I've either never seen before, forgot all about, or assumed had been lost or discarded ages ago, which always makes going through them a little exciting, despite the inescapable melancholy. If I'm with someone else, I might start babbling with stories about whatever someone touches, but just as often, I get quiet. "What's this?" someone might ask. "Who knows?" I'll say. And many times, it's true. Even if the writing on the envelope is mine.
Every once in a while, Stephen would feel oppressed by the accumulated ephemera in his apartment — sketches, photographs, clippings, sentimental scraps of paper, letters, postcards, bills, and business forms — and he'd ask me to help him organize. A dreaded task for both of us. We'd throw everything into a loose pile and Stephen would sit next to it, handing me things one by one, while I sat next to a pile of empty envelopes, with a sharpie in my hand.
He'd hand me something, I'd slip it into the envelope, and he'd tell me what to write on the outside. Oftentimes, it appeared to me to be nothing worth saving — especially since I knew the envelope would go into a box, get sealed up and put into storage, and likely never be seen again — but Stephen was a sentimental guy and didn't always like to explain why something was important. Either way, it was faster if I just kept the production line moving and didn't ask.
I was wrong about never seeing these things again, of course. I've seen them again and again and again, invariably while looking for something else.
