By Kostas Arvanitis and Robert Simpson
In the aftermath of the 2017 Manchester Arena bombing, spontaneous memorials sprang up across the city as people sought to express grief, solidarity, and remembrance. From these gestures of public mourning, a powerful collection emerged: the Manchester Together Archive (MTA), comprising over 10,000 items, collected by Manchester Art Gallery. These items range from soft toys and handwritten notes to candles, t-shirts, and drawings: physical expressions of love and loss, pain and resilience.
As researchers working closely with the MTA, we have come to appreciate that this is no ordinary archive. It is emotionally charged, ethically complex, and alive with the voices and vulnerabilities of those affected by tragedy. And as much as we study the archive, it studies us back. It affects us. This blog post is a reflection on what it means to do this kind of research, practice-led, emotionally invested, and ethically demanding, and the ways it shapes our emotional wellbeing.
We often describe our relationship with the archive as a kind of orbit. Not a fixed position, but a continual movement: being pulled toward the centre by the emotional intensity of the materials and the moral importance of the work, and then needing to pull away in order to recover, reflect, and recalibrate. This oscillation – between closeness and distance – isn’t just about scheduling or workload. It’s about how to sustain oneself in the presence of a trauma archive.
There are moments when we feel ourselves drawing closer. Perhaps it’s during an encounter with a child’s drawing or a hand-written letter from an affected individual. These objects have emotional weight. They invite care, and in caring, we often find ourselves deeply immersed. At such times, the archive becomes a place of connection. We feel part of something important, something necessary. We are close to the centre.
But proximity comes at a cost. There are days when the emotional fatigue sets in, when the stories become overwhelming, when we find ourselves taking the archive home in our thoughts. In those moments, we step back. We engage in what we’ve come to call “tactical withdrawing” – taking intentional distance from the work to protect our wellbeing. This might look like a day away from the material, a change in task, or simply reaching out to a colleague who understands.
Then there are times when we find ourselves hovering. This is the space of ethical uncertainty: when we don’t quite know how to proceed. Such as a request that has come in from someone affected by the bombing, or we are unsure how best to document a particular object. In these moments, we pause. We reflect. We hover between action and inaction, knowing that care sometimes means holding back.
And always, inevitably, we re-enter. Sometimes because a deadline looms, or an event approaches. Sometimes because we simply feel ready again. And with each re-entry comes a renewed need to orient ourselves emotionally; to find our footing once more in the shifting ground of the MTA. This isn’t a one-time recalibration; it’s a constant process of emotional negotiation.
What makes this work bearable, in other words what allows us to continue orbiting, is not just personal resilience, but the relationships that sustain it. We are not alone in this work. We are part of a broader ecosystem of care, one that includes museum professionals, archivists, community members, and fellow researchers. The people who have cared for the MTA over the last eight years have become part of its gravitational field, and our connection to them is a source of strength and perspective.
These professional relationships are not just logistical, they are emotional. They offer validation, understanding, and a shared language for the challenges we face. They remind us that trauma-informed practice must go beyond policies and protocols. It must include attention to the wellbeing of those doing the work; not just in times of crisis, but as a sustained and relational commitment.
In many ways, our work with the MTA is a form of emotional labour, one that demands sensitivity, stamina, and care. But it is also deeply meaningful. The archive is not just a collection of things; it is a space where a number of emotions by the creators of the spontaneous memorials are held and honoured. And being part of that work, despite its challenges, is something we are profoundly grateful for.
As researchers, we often strive for “objectivity”, for distance. But in a trauma archive like the MTA, distance is neither always possible nor always desirable. What matters is movement: the ability to come close when needed, and to step back when necessary. To orbit, rather than anchor. To recognise that emotional wellbeing in this work is not a static state but a dynamic practice.
In writing this reflection, we hope to open up space for others doing similar work to speak about their own orbits, their own movements toward and away from the emotional centres of their research. Because if we are to care for collections of traumatic events, and for those affected by them, we must also learn to care for ourselves, and for each other, along the way.
No responses yet