GUEST POST BY DR CAROLINE HAMILTON
A scant few audiophiles sifted through
overflowing racks of secondhand records and CDs. Signs advertised albums for
10p. I politely flicked through bent cardboard and cracked plastic,
feigning interest while my friend searched for any loot he might strip from the
wreckage. It took me only a few minutes to abandon any interest.
Recently, I went to Berwick St in Soho with a DJ friend of mine who was
in London for a few days. Once hailed as having the greatest concentration of
record shops in Britain – back in the 1990s Berwick St had more than 20
independent stores – the strip was even celebrated on the cover of an album by
Oasis. But, when I visited a few months ago, the scene was a far cry
from those ‘glory’ days.
I was struck by how relatively quickly the
concept of “browsing” had moved from shelf to screen. Through no fault of its
own, this record store had become a room full of junk. While I waited for
my friend I asked the assistant for his predictions on the future. “It won't be
long before all these places around here will be replaced by a string of coffee
shops."
This struck a particular chord with me
because only a few days earlier the research partner I have been working with
here in the UK, if:Book, announced
its plans to transform a project we’d been working on together, an experimental
community based bookshop, into – you guessed it – a coffee shop.
Well, not just a coffee shop, but an
experiment in finding new ways to attract people to visit spaces where, for a
modest expenditure they can enjoy a variety of reading experiences. In this
case it happens to be a rather unpretentious café above the local library. Here
there’s lots of light, some large tables to work or read and wifi. There’s also
a wall of books for sale (a mix of big name and local self published products),
and community noticeboards which advertise, amongst other things, courses in
digital literacy, book making and creative writing. So, it’s not just a coffee
shop but a literary social space.
If Berwick St left me wondering: are
bookshops – spaces easily as beloved by their public as record stores once were
– eventually to suffer a similar fate? The ifBook experiment ‘cafe/bookshop in
the library’ made me speculate on whether this might be a possible solution.
In his book Last Shop Standing: Whatever
Happened to Record Shops? Graham Jones attributes the closure of independent
stores to the new market landscape in which record companies put online
retailers and supermarkets ahead of independent outfits. But corporate greed
and agglomeration are only one side of the story: customers have turned away
from traditional shopping experiences in favour of online services. Even the
local video
rental store has now vanished from our streets because of these changes in
consumer behavior.
When we talk about the current challenges
facing bookshops, there is implicit in this a concern that what such struggles
really demonstrate is that books are becoming less relevant in our everyday
lives. But is this necessarily the reality?
Research I’ve been working on rather gamely
claims to consider what might happen in ‘the bookshop of the future’ and many
of these blog musing draw upon the qualitative research I’ve conducted over the
past 6 months with seven small, independent London-based book retailers and
their customers. Based on what I’ve learned through these conversations and
observations I want to propose that, contrary to logic, a bookshop, even
without (many) books on the shelves really can be more than ‘just
a room’? to its customers.
The idea that bookshops have important
symbolic value as well as a commercial role is evident in any analysis of
popular media. In books and films the bookshop also regularly features as site
for charming and whimsical personal encounters (think of 84 Charing Cross Rd,
or films such as You’ve Got Mail or Notting Hill). Bookshops are rather like
holidays, not only because they are associated with relaxation and escape but
because, as with taking a holiday, what we value most of all about them are the
affective associations they engender. Bookshops are spaces for their patrons’
fantasies about their preferred engagements with their preferred kinds of
literature. They evoke feelings. This being the case the idea of the bookshop
is arguably more valued than the actual store on any particular street corner.
This popular discourse contributes to
consumer opinion on the value of bricks and mortar book stores. And so, even as
sales of iPads and Kindles grow every year, and more customers turn to online
shopping, bookshops are as beloved (if less patronized) as ever. In Laura
Miller’s study
of American independent bookshops she reflects on the cultural value that
attends the work of the bookseller, suggesting that “in the valorization of the
work of the bookseller there is a clear sense that books are exceptionally
moral objects deserving of protection from [destructive] forces.”
This is why the loss of our bookshops is
greeted with even more concern and scandalized outrage than the disappearance
of retailers such as record stores or other high street retailers because
access to books is understood to contribute so much to a healthy society.
Miller observes that independent stores
have worked hard to harness the sense of community and being ‘in touch’ that
customers anticipate, using this to set them apart from their conglomerate
competition. These activities allow small, local stores to account for their
undiscounted prices, and also give customers that much desired sense of being
‘in touch’.
But, however nice it is to have a ‘sense of
community’ this doesn’t address the realities of our daily habits. I have no
doubt that you and I both support the notion of community, we both value the
democracy engendered by literacy, we both want local small businesses and local
artists to succeed. We both like nice coffee. We both also buy books online. I
myself admit that I do almost all of my book purchasing online — partly these
are ebooks for the ease of travel and research, but also because printed books
cost a lot of money. Customers I spoke to expressed similar sentiments. They
enjoyed browsing but often returned home to buy a book online at a discount. Or download it.
There is unquestionable convenience to the
online system, but also, some new pleasures. Customers I spoke with told me of
the value of the internet as a research tool for reading, of the pleasure and
positive feeling of finding out about books via online networks. Here’s a
typical comment: “I confess I get most of my recommendations for reading these
days via things my friends post online; on Facebook, or Twitter, whatever.
Maybe it’s a link to a book review of something new and I think, oh yeah, that looks
interesting…Before I know it, it’s on its way to my house.”
It’s not just that interesting things
aren’t happening inside small bookshops, but these days much of it isn’t
traditional book buying and selling.
In the sites where I’ve been conducting field
work I’ve noticed some small but significant changes. The internet and digital
social networks are being used not just to link people with common allegiances
who are geographically distant but also proximate. Several of the stores I work
with understand that the majority of their online network is locally based and
tailor their digital identity to reflect this. So for instance, one store I
visited maintained a popular Twitter identity that kept followers up to date
with day-to-day activities in store, from the boredom of the daily commute, to
frustrations ordering stock or indecision about lunchtime sandwich selections.
Even if you’re not in-store it’s easy to keep up to date with the daily life of
the bookshop. This store recognized that it wasn’t reading books or critique of
books that suited social networks, but being around them in a very quotidian
way that was the key. This same store also manages a slate of after-hour events
that have almost nothing to do with books (quiz nights, sewing classes, music,
comedy and most recently even an Avon evening). These cases illustrate how the
old idea of community support and being ‘in touch’ can match with the immediacy
and novelty of digital networks.
As definitions of “reading” and “readers”
have expanded with digital communications its very like that the bookstore’s
ideal customer might not even be someone who would describe themselves as
having that traditional “passion for books.” Yet, they find their social and
cultural tastes and allegiances well catered to by the store and its wider
network. These are the book store’s new potential customers.
Bookstores need to take greater account of
this change, emphasizing their role as social spaces for people, rather than
store houses for stock. The bookstore’s continued ability to generate
affection, even among those of us whose actions end up undermining it, perhaps
speaks less to our love of books and reading and more to our desire to feel ‘in
touch’ with our local environment, via the symbolic value books and bookshops
represent. Bookshops need to give people ways to connect online and reasons to
leave the house that don’t rely solely on the sale of their primary product. To
survive, bookshops need to do something many record stores did not, that is,
reinvent themselves as physical destinations within a broader network for
reading, rather than being only in the business of book selling.
Dr Caroline Hamilton has been visiting the UK for 6 months as part of
an Endeavour Fellowship investigating how digital culture is affecting the work
of bricks-and-mortar bookshops. You can read more about her work at:
www.printedmattersproject.blogspot.com
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