Demystifying the Newberry: A Guide for Those with Research Imposter Syndrome
- Madelyn Watson
- 16 hours ago
- 7 min read
The day came, and I finally found myself standing on the steps of the Newberry Library in Chicago. Working with a personal collection found in an attic and the Wisconsin Historical Society archives had given me the skills I needed to access the library, but the Newberry felt like a different level. It seemed like the kind of place where “real” researchers went to look at important things, and my imposter syndrome was increasing as the building got closer to opening.
On that particular Saturday, a holiday parade was lining up on the roads surrounding the building. The symmetrical stone facade stands in front of a park that might ordinarily have been quiet at 10am on a chilly November morning, but at that moment was bustling with activity.
Walking in, I was met by friendly people at the welcome and information desks. The Newberry’s extensive catalog is an easy place to disappear for hours at a time, and after sifting through it for a few days, I had narrowed down and requested a preliminary list of items to see in Special Collections. The librarian who gave me my Reader’s Card looked briefly at the list before sending me off and commented, “Ooh, you found some really neat things! Happy researching!”
The sun beamed through the tall windows in the stairwell onto the intricate carvings in the railings and base of the steps. As I walked upstairs, I could feel the nerves of entering the library melt into excitement for what I would see when I reached the fourth floor.
Arriving at the reading room, I handed my card to the archivist at the front desk. She asked which three items I wanted to see first, and I found a seat in the back of the room near a window. As I waited for the first three books on my list, I listened to the faint sound of steel drums playing Christmas music outside. In an odd way, the loud festive environment outside complemented the calm of the library and made the reading room less intimidating. It felt like I was about to escape the noise of the present through a tunnel of books into the past.
Three Items:
The archivist interrupted my daydreaming with my first requests. She placed three music-related items on book cradles in front of me: a handwritten manual from 1519 and two printed treatises, one from 1480 and the other from 1595.
The 1519 manual was tiny and for a split second I questioned that it was real. It looked about the right size for a dollhouse, but somehow contained 164 leaves of parchment. At 10cm tall, it would have fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. The catalog described it as a book of hours or a small book of prayers that could have been personalized to its owner. In this particular manual, a small note on the inside indicated that it could have been owned by a Benedictine nun who may have carried it in her pocket or used it on a daily basis. The book was so tightly bound at the spine that when its mismatched metal clasps were released, the pages expanded beyond their intended width. Despite its minuscule size, each page was incredibly detailed with up to 17 lines of handwritten Latin text and many hand-painted illustrations throughout. One in particular–that of a possibly melting skull–accompanied a prayer for the dead and stuck in my memory long after I left the library.
The Grammatica Brevis from 1480 was unassuming on the table. Its binding was simple and had been redone at some point during its time as a library book, and compared to the 1519 manual, it was enormous. By looking at it, I wouldn't have guessed that it was over 500 years old. This music theory treatise was written by Pescennio Francesco Negro (b. 1452) and printed by Theodor of Würzburg in 1480, making it one of the first examples of music notation printed using moveable metal type instead of hand-carved woodblocks. This style of printing would later be developed by Ottaviano Petrucci (1466-1539) and popularized by his treatise in 1501.
The Diagolo del R.M. Don Pietro Pontio Parmigiano (“Dialogue by the Reverend Master Don Pietro Pontio of Parma”), a 1595 treatise on counterpoint in music, was well-loved and full of character. Its binding was flexible and worn. Its inside covers reminded me of a passport with its collage of stamps and plates tracing its journeys from library to library. The title pages had elaborate woodcut illustrations depicting Greek figures of Arithmetic and Music. Like the 1480 Grammatica Brevis, its contents reflected important ideas of the late Renaissance that likely attracted musical scholars for centuries, but the annotations were what interested me the most. Mentioned in the catalog and covering nearly every page, the writing in aged brown ink showed the detailed workings of a reader’s mind as they mathematically made sense of the author’s theories on proportions and intervals.
Camaldolese Gradual:
Amazed at the hours that had already gone by, I looked at the clock and decided I had time for one more item. I chose a 14th-century Camaldolese gradual, another illuminated medieval manuscript that I’d come across in the catalog. Curious what it was, I asked the archivist if I could request it from the reading room, and she confirmed that I could.
Instead of the green pillow that was used to cradle the other books, the archivists brought out a large acrylic frame for it to rest on at a comfortable angle. Two librarians rolled it out on a cart and worked together to lift it onto the table. After they walked away, I sat there for a moment questioning whether they really trusted me to turn the 700-year-old pages of this massive book.
The gold leaf of the first historiated initial depicting the Annunciation of Mary glistened in the sun that came through the windows. I stood up to turn the pages as carefully as I could, gently using both hands to guide each leaf towards the front cover.
Moving chronologically, the book traced the life of Jesus from the Annunciation to Easter. As I slowly made my way through the enormous volume, I followed the music as it moved from chant to chant. Aside from a recognizable word here and there, the Latin text was nearly impossible for me to read, but the initials, elaborately decorated to depict the scenes referenced in each section, led me through its thematic content. However fascinating the text may have been, to me the most captivating story was told by the weight of its wooden covers, size of its parchment leaves, texture of its inks, and penmanship of its scribes.
In an instant, the sheer expense of producing the book was clear: the herd of animals required for the parchment, gold leaf and precious minerals used for the ink, and the time spent by scribes and illuminators and binders to put it all together. And somehow, 700 years later, it made its way to me, on a table in the reading room of the Newberry on a weekend afternoon, with parade musicians playing “Jingle Bells” in the background.
Amidst the noise of the outside world, the music from half a millennium ago drew me into the book. Standing on my tip-toes and bent over the vast opening, I imagined being lost inside as I carefully examined the details of each brush and pen stroke. This book, this library, this experience–it all felt much larger than I, and as an undergrad with no specific research goals and little archive experience, I was amazed to have been so welcomed here. As daunting as it was to enter, I left the library when it closed that day thinking about everything I’d seen and grateful for the time I’d spent there. I knew immediately that I would be back.
I have since returned to the Newberry and seen a wide variety of objects. I’ve realized that visiting the archives means embracing what is unique and unpredictable about the experience, knowing that a catalog description or image online is only as large and palpable as your computer screen.
Visiting the Newberry:
The Newberry Library in Chicago is located at 60 West Walton St., about a two-hour drive from the UW-Madison campus. The reading rooms, including special collections, are located upstairs and open from 10am-4pm Tuesday through Saturday. To explore these collections, put in a request using the Newberry Library Catalog and follow the online instructions or speak to a librarian at the desk about getting a Reader’s Card. Many items at the Newberry, including the Grammatica brevis, are available online via their online database. Contact library staff with questions over email using the Ask a Librarian page on their website or at (312) 943-9090 over the phone. More information can be found at www.newberry.org/visit.
To see the Camaldolese gradual and any of the music treatises mentioned above, visit the reading room in Special Collections on the fourth floor and request the materials using the information below:
Catholic Church, 1519
VAULT Case MS 5065
Newberry Library Special Collections. Case Manuscripts. 4th floor.
Prescennio Francesco Negro (b.1452), 1480
Inc. 4498
Newberry Library Special Collections. 4th floor.
Pietro Pontio (1532-1596), 1595
VAULT Case MT55 P8 1595
Newberry Library Special Collections. 4th floor.
Catholic Church, between 1390 and 1395
VAULT oversize Case MS 74
Newberry Library Special Collections. Case Manuscripts. 4th floor.
About the Series:
This essay belongs to Old Books, New Stories, a three-part series celebrating the unexpected stories found in archival libraries. Explore the previous two essays in the series: “Sawdust and Spangles: An 8th-Grader’s Scrapbook of the Historymobile” and “The Fisher Books: Unraveling a Mystery”
About the Author & Project:
Madelyn Watson is curious about all things archives, history, and music. As a double major in Music Education and History with a certificate in Medieval Studies, she hopes to give voice to the stories found in old books and share the experience of working in the archives with the community.
Thanks to the UW-Madison Sophomore Research Fellowship for funding this series, to Professor Joshua Calhoun (English Department) and Holding History, and to the archivists at the Newberry Library for sharing their knowledge and materials.
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