By Kostas Arvanitis and Robert Simpson
Following the 2017 Manchester Arena bombing, spontaneous memorials appeared across the city as people gathered to express grief, solidarity, and remembrance. Manchester Art Gallery collected over 10,000 items from the spontaneous memorials, forming what is now known as the Manchester Together Archive (MTA). These items range from soft toys and handwritten notes to candles, t-shirts, and drawings; a material culture of loss, solidarity and resilience.
As researchers working closely with the MTA, we have come to appreciate that this isn’t an ordinary archive. It is an ethically complex archive, charged with emotions of those affected by the tragedy. And as much as we study the archive, it studies us back. This blog post is a reflection on what it means to do this practice-led, emotionally invested, and ethically demanding research, and the ways it impacts on our own emotional wellbeing.
We often describe our relationship with the archive as a kind of orbit. Not a fixed position, but a continuous movement: being pulled toward the centre by the emotional intensity of the materials and the 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 an archive related to a traumatic event.
There are moments when we feel getting closer to the archive. It’s usually when we encounter a child’s drawing or a hand-written letter from an affected individual. These items have emotional weight. They invite care, and in trying to care, we often find ourselves deeply immersed. At such times, the MTA becomes a place of connection. We feel part of something important for individuals, communities and the society more broadly. We are close to the centre.
But proximity comes at a cost. There are days when we feel emotionally exhausted, when the stories become overwhelming, and 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 usually when we don’t quite know how to proceed. For example, a request that has come in from someone affected by the bombing that we need to think on, or we are unsure how best to document a particular object. In these moments, we pause and 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, or because we simply feel ready again. And each re-entry is accompanied by 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, but 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.
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, including ourselves.
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 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.
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