By BIANCA BOVA
Flatfiles have an inherent allure. There is a certain kind of person (often, unsurprisingly, art collectors) that tend to own them, that treat them as pieces of domestic furniture. Expensive, heavy, and sporting an industrial appearance incompatible with a substantial array of interior design aesthetics, their presence signals that their utility is so necessary, so practical to their owner, as to be worth the trouble. To own a flatfile is to be envied, at least in certain circles. The archivists, the registrars, and the simply nosy among us know the thrill of sliding open their drawers. Their pristine steel exterior, evocative of the golden age of downtown offices and high-heeled secretaries, just as often gives way to perfect organization as it does belie something far more exhilarating and chaotic. This is, after all, where the things loved sufficiently to be preserved, but which, for reasons of taste, vanity, or simply capacity, haven’t received the honor of being put on display are housed. To dig in the flatfiles is to peer into the psyche of their owner. (READ MORE)
