The Filing Cabinet

From Places:

I was researching the history of the U.S. passport, and had spent weeks at the National Archives, struggling through thousands of reels of unindexed microfilm records of 19th-century diplomatic correspondence; then I arrived at the records for 1906. That year, the State Department adopted a numerical filing system. Suddenly, every American diplomatic office began using the same number for passport correspondence, with decimal numbers subdividing issues and cases. Rather than scrolling through microfilm images of bound pages organized chronologically, I could go straight to passport-relevant information that had been gathered in one place.

. . . .

I soon discovered that I had Elihu Root to thank for making my research easier. A lawyer whose clients included Andrew Carnegie, Root became secretary of state in 1905. But not long after he arrived, the prominent corporate lawyer described himself as “a man trying to conduct the business of a large metropolitan law-firm in the office of a village squire.”  The department’s record-keeping practices contributed to his frustration. As was then common in American offices, clerks used press books or copybooks to store incoming and outgoing correspondence in chronologically ordered bound volumes with limited indexing. For Root, the breaking point came when a request for a handful of letters resulted in several bulky volumes appearing on his desk. His response was swift: he demanded that a vertical filing system be adopted; soon the department was using a numerical subject-based filing system housed in filing cabinets. 

The shift from bound volumes to filing systems is a milestone in the history of classification; the contemporaneous shift to vertical filing cabinets is a milestone in the history of storage.

. . . .

It is easy to dismiss the object: a rectilinear stack of four drawers, usually made of metal. With suitable understatement, one design historian has noted that “manufacturers did not address the subject of style with regard to filing units.”  The lack of style figures into the filing cabinet’s seeming banality. It is not considered inventive or original; it is simply there, especially in 20th-century office spaces; and this ubiquity, along with the absence of style, perhaps paradoxically contributes to the easy acceptance of its presence, which rarely causes comment. In countless movies and television shows, one or more filing cabinets line the walls of newsrooms and advertising agencies or the offices of doctors, attorneys, private eyes, police inspectors. Their appearance defines a space as an office but rarely draws attention to the work it does in that office. Occasionally, the neatness or disorder of a filing cabinet gives us an insight into the mental state and work habits of the office’s occupant. Sometimes, the filing cabinet plays a small but vital role in dystopian critiques of bureaucracy.

But if it appears to be banal and pervasive, it cannot be so easily ignored. The filing cabinet does not just store paper; it stores information; and because the modern world depends upon and is indeed defined by information, the filing cabinet must be recognized as critical to the expansion of modernity. In recent years scholars and critics have paid increasing attention to the filing systems used to store and retrieve information critical to government and capitalism, particularly information about people — case dossiers, identification photographs, credit reports, et al.  But the focus on filing systems ignores the places where files are stored.  Could capitalism, surveillance, and governance have developed in the 20th century without filing cabinets? Of course, but only if there had been another way to store and circulate paper efficiently. The filing cabinet was critical to the infrastructure of 20th-century nation states and financial systems; and, like most infrastructure, it is often overlooked or forgotten, and the labor associated with it minimized or ignored. 

. . . .

The vertical filing cabinet was invented in the United States in the 1890s, and quickly became a fixture throughout North America and around the world. It spread globally because it provided a way to store large amounts of paper so that individual sheets could be retrieved easily. The technique of using drawers for storing a sheet of paper on its long edge was significant because loose papers cannot stand upright on their own. Put another way, the filing cabinet technology enabled loose paper to stand on edge so that more sheets could be stored in less space but still be accessed with minimal difficulty. It allowed loose papers to do the work of paperwork.

From a brochure for Yawman and Erbe’s 800 Series. [Courtesy of the Smithsonian Libraries, Washington, D.C.]
Illustration from the 1919 catalogue of the Library Bureau. [Collection of Craig Robertson]

. . . .

How does a filing cabinet do this work? According to patents, the early manufacturers drew on techniques and practices from cabinetry and metalwork in new and useful ways. In a typical patent, a filing cabinet is a collection of steel plates, rollers, slides, walls, ball bearings, rods, flanges, corner posts, channels, grooves, locks, tops, bottoms, sides, arms, legs, and tongues. All these parts were variously combined to create a cabinet that would allow a drawer to open and close even when it was full of paper that might weigh upwards of 75 pounds. The thousands of sheets of paper that manufacturers claimed could fit in a file drawer were organized using guide cards and manila folders, both accented with tabs. Not only did these features help paper stand vertically on edge; more important, they also made visible the organization of the papers. Early user manuals quickly identified the key principle of vertical filing: “the filing of papers on edge, behind guides, bringing together all papers, to, from, or about one correspondent or subject.”  Papers stored this way were easy to locate and to access and, as such, essential to the functioning of a modern, healthy office. As the authors of a secretarial textbook from the mid 1920s put it: “The flat file permits the use of but one hand, while with the vertical file both hands are used, thus increasing speed. That is, papers filed vertically are accessible, compact, and sanitary.” 

Link to the rest at Places


Actual file cabinet from the Watergate Hotel, National Museum of American History, via Wikimedia. Author, Kenneth Lu. This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic license.
The World’s Tallest Filing Cabinet, Vermont, via Wikimedia. Permission is granted to copy, distribute and/or modify this document under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License, Version 1.2 or any later version

7 thoughts on “The Filing Cabinet”

      • I personally use the “piles-on-the-floor” technique. Not as elegant a solution as “loose pages on end,” but it works for me. As a bonus, I have piles on the floor in front of and blocking the four-tier file cabinets. Crack that, hackers!

        • A fellow traveller!
          BTW, the oficial term is Archeological Filing System.

          I organize my desktop in three trays: IN, IN, HOLD.
          (Nothing ever leaves.)

          One time on the day job the AA and the graphics specialist took it upon themselves to order up my desktop. I was unable to find anything in a timely fashion for months until the proper chaos reasserted itself. They learned tbat though there might be madness to my method, there was method to my madness.
          (True story.)

          • “BTW, the official term is Archeological Filing System.”

            As it turns out, I’m currently writing about Neanderthals, and they used the same system! So that gene allele survived to the present day and ended up in YOU (and me).

        • I believe I may have mentioned this before, but a lawyer I knew a long time ago was renowned for his desk, the top of which was nothing but a collection of various stacks of paper – letters, legal documents, etc., etc., etc. Big stacks.

          He was also renowned for his ability to immediately pull a document he needed from its precise location in one of his stacks. This feat inevitably impressed clients and attorneys visiting to discuss a case.

          Like a great many country lawyers who enjoy their work, he died in harness. His perfect stacks-of-paper filing system suffered a post-mortem fall from grace, however, when his partners and a couple of secretaries undertook to remove the stacks and place the papers into file folders.

          During this process, they discovered many thousands of dollars in the form of checks which had been written to the firm as and for retainer fees, services rendered, etc., which the decedent lawyer had forgotten about and never deposited. Many of the checks were so old that the surviving partners didn’t even attempt to deposit them.

Comments are closed.