Memories are often tied to spaces, objects, to materiality. They travel with these items, shaped by the passage of time and the commemorative practices of individuals and groups. The National Village Museum "Dimitrie Gusti," in Bucharest, Romania, serves as a fascinating meeting point of various memory journeys. Traditional houses from different ethnographic regions of the country are brought together in the heart of the capital, commemorating simple livelihoods and cultural heritage. Having spent much of my youth playing around these buildings, they have taken on a new significance for me. Drawing on Astrid Erll’s theories of traveling memory, insights from Marcel Proust's Swann’s Way, and Katherine Hayles’ ideas on materiality, I aim to explore how the same structures can become linked to multiple layers of individual and collective memory over time. Homes can transform into monuments, and serious commemorations can become playgrounds. There is much to be said about the National Village Museum “Dimitrie Gusti”, and its stories shift depending on the one who tells them.

Memory and Materiality: Some Working Definitions

Memory and materiality can be defined in numerous ways, as these two concepts have traveled widely across time and academic fields. Highlighting their tendency to evolve, they can also be seen as dynamic. This is reflected in the following two working definitions.

In her article, Astrid Erll presents a history of memory studies before focusing on her own contributions to the field.¹ After reflecting on notions of individual and collective memory, Halbwachs’ concept of “social frames,” and other key terms and theorists, she theorizes transcultural memory as a traveling entity.² Erll defines this concept as “the incessant wandering of carriers, media, contents, forms, and practices of memory, their continual ‘travels’ and ongoing transformations through time and space, across social, linguistic, and political borders.”³ She outlines the various elements involved in the creation of memory, emphasizing the "unceasing motion" inherent in this complex process.⁴ A closer examination of each term within her definition provides greater clarity: People serve as carriers of memories, both individually and through the groups with which they share histories.⁵ Objects and technologies, certain media, can also store recorded accounts of events, with impressions being passed from one carrier or medium to another.⁶ In this process, the content—the stories of what is remembered—can be altered too (forgotten, repressed, exaggerated, etc.).⁷ Additionally, the practices or rituals through which humans commemorate events can evolve over time or or due to influences from other cultures.⁸ Finally, Erll mentions forms, such as “symbols, icons, or schemata,” which can take on different meanings depending on the times and contexts in which they are invoked.⁹ Considering these factors, it becomes evident that memory and history are not set in stone; however, their connections to materiality are worth further exploration.

In her Writing Machines, Katherine Hayles explores the function of materiality in various digital or printed media.¹⁰ The pages themselves show a creative use of this concept, as some words appear in bigger font, others are underlined, and whole sections look as if magnified through a lens. Also, on the edges of the text there is a pattern of vertical lines similar to how a book looks from the side, or to a bar-code, depending on the interpretation. Besides what she shows through examples, Hayles also directly explains what she means by text materiality.¹¹ “In the broadest sense, materiality emerges from the dynamic interplay between the richness of a physically robust world and human intelligence as it crafts this physicality to create meaning.”¹² By reflecting on their surroundings and further transforming their environment, people make sense of the materials around them. In doing so, they often attribute new layers of meaning to what they see and create. It seems Hayles’ view on materiality does not only refer to a tangible world, but also to human abilities of finding significance even in the simplest of objects.

The Fragile Contours of Memories: Proust and Personal Remembrances of Spaces

After years of summer camps spent on its grounds, the Village Museum “Dimitrie Gusti” is a place deeply embedded in my memory. To draw a picture of this space, I will turn to my own impressions on it. From the entry, a white building with a ticket booth, visitors can take either of three stone alleys ramifying through a maze of humble houses. Everything is surrounded by greenery. I prefer walking to the left towards the lake, where there is a "floating" blue building with fishing equipment. This side extends from a tall gate to another, both leading to the park across the lake. The first is next to a wooden carousel, and the second is next to the oldest building in the museum, a church made from the same material. Sometimes tourists are allowed inside, and can see the faded paintings on its walls. To the right, the museum’s rim is fenced. It takes at least two hours to look at all the exhibits, which indeed form a village of hay, clay, braided twigs and solid wood buildings. If any performances at the central stage attract the visitors' attention, or if their children start to chase the chickens living there, then the tour can last for longer.

Turning to another description of personal memories, the narrator in Swann's Way by Proust reflects on an important place from his past—Combray.¹³ When he “revived old memories” of his hometown, they often blended into one another in a mixture of light and shadow.¹⁴ He was aware that the city could look different at other times, yet he could only rely on his own recollections.¹⁵ These memories were vivid, often focusing on moments that left a lasting impression. One such moment is when “the whole of Combray and its surroundings, taking shape and solidity, sprang into being, town and gardens alike, from [his] cup of tea.”¹⁶ The narrator’s mother had given him the tea and madeleine cake on a winter’s day.¹⁷ The taste of these treats filled him with a sense of bliss that transported him back to the place where he spent his youth.¹⁸

Similar to the memories in Proust’s text, my recollections of the Village Museum are gradually blending together, shifting with the passage of time. They are also influenced by my surroundings—and perhaps by other senses as well. A visit to the museum might trigger more related memories, just as the taste of the traditional sweets sold at the entrance brings them to the surface. When I think of the blue house by the lake, I also recall the times I ate my lunch there on the wooden pontoon. This happened so frequently that I cannot separate the days, but I do remember one more unusual experience: a child fell into the water, and his father quickly rescued him. I watched the scene with concern, and I imagine the boy’s memories of the lake house are likely less serene than mine. Each visitor or curator of the village has their own collection of stories. I could add more details about my favorite hiding spots during games of hide and seek, or the windmill that fascinated me, but there are deeper layers of memories to consider—ones that are significant to larger groups. For this purpose, most of the facts about the museum are based on the information available on its official website.¹⁹

Long Standing Commemorations: The Museum’s Affirmation of the Nation

With the word “national” in its title, the Village Museum is closely tied to the collective memory of Romanians, showcasing traditional houses from various ethnographic regions of the country and preserving cultural heritage. This is its official commemorative function, contributing to the nation’s longevity. The museum spans over 100,000 m² next to the capital's largest park and lake, Herăstrău (recently renamed after King Michael I). Its central location further emphasizes the exhibition's significance in Romanian culture. Some of the buildings date back to the 17th century, while the most recent are from the 20th century. These houses have literally “traveled” from Moldavia, Transylvania, Oltenia, and Maramureș, among other regions, to be reassembled at the museum. They have been well-preserved, though parts have been replaced, particularly after the damage caused by two fires in 1997 and 2002. This speaks to the effect of time, weather, and hazards on materiality, and also touches on the representation of memory. Like the Ship of Theseus, if all the original parts are replaced with replicas, do these houses still embody tradition as originally intended, or have they become mere shadows of what they once were?

Worn out Wood and Fading Times: Thinking Back to the Beginning

Looking at their original function, all the buildings or annexes exhibited in the Village Museum were initially part of people's homes or close knit communities. There used to be religious ceremonies in the churches now mostly left for tourists to admire. Hay beds and low wooden tables accommodated people's sleeping and eating habits. The memories of the peasants who once lived in these households have traveled with their belongings, now coming to life in the imagination of those who observe their materiality. To better preserve these old objects, they are kept at a safe distance from the public’s curiosity. However, there was a time when they once again served their original purpose. From 1940 to 1948, the Village Museum provided refuge for displaced people from Basarabia and Bucovina, temporarily ceasing its function as a tourist site. As the new inhabitants could not be relocated immediately, some exhibits were damaged or removed from display. This period highlights the tension between the two different functions of home and monument. Originally designed for everyday use, these village structures transitioned into museum artifacts meant for preservation. Any shift between these roles creates both physical and symbolic friction, raising questions about their function and meaning over time.

Furthermore, the museum also has a beginning and history of its own. It was opened for the public in May 1936, following an inauguration ceremony attended by King Carol II. The museum's name honors Dimitrie Gusti, the sociologist and folklorist who played a key role in its creation. This background reinforces the museum’s official commemorative purpose, not only affirming the collective memory of traditional Romanian villages, but also highlighting the nation's efforts to preserve these memories and their material ties.

Conclusion

As demonstrated by the National Village Museum “Dimitrie Gusti,” places of commemoration can activate complex layers of memory for both individuals and communities. Drawing on Astrid Erll’s concept of traveling memory, Katherine Hayles’ perspective on the dynamics of materiality, and a parallel with Marcel Proust’s reflections on Combray, I explore personal, national, and collective remembrances tied to this space. My own memories exemplify the vivid or blurred forms that recollections can take and how they can be shaped or triggered by materiality, engaging the senses.

Comprising an outdoor collection of historic buildings from Romania’s ethnographic regions, the museum transforms these households into monuments. In doing so, it affirms cultural values deemed significant by curators within the framework of national collective memory. Visitors are invited to imagine the lives of the peasants who originally built and inhabited these homes while encountering multiple layers of narrative—their initial function, their journey to the museum, and their evolving significance over time. At the same time, each visitor brings their own perspective, shaping new impressions of these surroundings. A home, a monument, a playground—each exhibit travels far along the pathways of memory, offering different meanings to those who encounter it.

Endnotes

1. Astrid Erll, “Travelling Memory,” Parallax 17, no. 4 (2011): 4-18, https://doi.org/10.1080/13534645.2011.605570.

2. Erll, “Travelling Memory,” 4-18.

3. Erll, 9.

4. Erll, 12.

5. Erll, 12.

6. Erll, 12-13.

7. Erll, 13.

8. Erll, 13.

9. Erll, 13-14.

10. N. Katherine Hayles, Preface, Chapter 1, and Chapter 2, in Writing Machines (Cambridge/London: Mediawork MIT Press, 2002), 4-33.

11. N. Katherine Hayles, “Chapter 2: Material Metaphors, Technotexts, and Media-Specific Analysis,” in Writing Machines (Cambridge/London: Mediawork MIT Press, 2002), 32-33.

12. Hayles, “Chapter 2,” 33.

13. Marcel Proust, Excerpt from Swann’s Way, trans. C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin, (New York: The Modern Library, 1992), 58-65.

14. Proust, Excerpt from Swann’s Way, 58.

15. Proust, 59.

16. Proust, 64-65.

17. Proust, 60-62.

18. Proust, 63-65.

19. “Historical National Museum of the Village “Dimitrie Gusti,”” https://muzeul-satului.ro/en/despre-noi/istoric-muzeul-satului/.

The English version of this introduction can be found through a button on the top-right corner of the page. The translation there is not entirely clear, so I turned to the Romanian version and paraphrased from there.

Bibliography

Erll, Astrid. “Travelling Memory.” Parallax 17, no. 4 (2011): 4-18. https://doi.org/10.1080/13534645.2011.605570.

Hayles, N. Katherine. Preface, Chapter 1, and Chapter 2. In Writing Machines, 4-33. Cambridge/London: Mediawork MIT Press, 2002.

Proust, Marcel. Excerpt from Swann’s Way. Translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Terence Kilmartin, 58-65. New York: The Modern Library, 1992.