24 August 2025
Would you believe that the PHI Stoa, made from the finest stone with hand-polished internal walls and ceilings, was built in the 2010s… and that its primary purpose is to store film? Visiting the PHI Stoa with the 2025 Spring Getty Scholars Program was an experience that showcased how this collection storage facility expresses its respect for audiovisual heritage while meeting the stringent requirements of preservation.
Collection-holding facilities, especially those without exhibitions and other forms of visitor experiences, aren’t often frequented by the public. There’s usually no need to present them in an exciting way, let alone riff off an ancient Greek stoa on the outside, only to then make you feel that you’ve joined a convent with its 15th-century Italian interiors. For context, this building, is dedicated primarily to the UCLA Film and Television Archive who co-inhabit the space with the Packard Humanities Institute. The collection boasts holdings from major Hollywood film productions, local Los Angeles gems, and one-of-a-kind captured moments in world history.
I’ve seen some fancy collection stores, but this takes it to another level. Beyond the way it looks, this facility is by far one of the most well-resourced audiovisual archive storage facilities I’ve ever visited. For my fellow nerds, there are numerous underground nitrate film storage chambers onsite! Have you ever visited nitrate film storage not in a questionable building somewhere so remote that you could be walking from paddock to paddock for days until you find civilisation? I definitely hadn’t, and I especially hadn’t seen a facility that, although walking for a fair bit, I don’t remember ever seeing the end of the corridor connecting the rows of chambers. However, regardless of size, like when whānau (family members) want to move in to your new apartment, UCLA staff informed us that space is at a premium. The chambers are kept precisely at the temperature that both halts degradation (so that it doesn’t combust in on itself) and can, in theory, preserve it forever.
Originally I asked myself, “Why put the additional expense into the way it looks, when its only real purpose is to store collections? If you already have the function, why go to more expense for no one to really see it?” For mahi (work), I often advise those wanting to build a collection storage facility to first put the money into its functionality. Time and time again I see similar projects forced into a function-or-looks situation. Many opt for function, as that tends to go over budget given the technical and niche requirements, and find creative ways to beautify the space at the end, often leaning towards economical contemporary features.
For those who opt for looks first, these are the cautionary tales we tell each other in museums and archives, often citing the “oops” moment when collections staff couldn’t fit items through a doorway or around a corridor corner. You have to respect the dreamers who want both, and until I visited the PHI Stoa I had never seen it truly achieved. Before visiting, I had heard about the V&A opening their new East Storehouse, thinking that for collection storage enthusiasts this was the most exciting project to date. The V&A East Storehouse’s purpose in comparison to the PHI Stoa is nuanced with one key difference: the V&A East Storehouse is in the public eye. Even though the PHI Stoa hosts organised tours with professionals and special groups, case in point with the tour I was on, its primary purpose is the work required to physically care for and preserve the collections.
Back to this question of why invest so much into the presentation of a collection storage facility when only a handful of people see it. On the bus ride home from the tour, our peers (except those who went to sleep mid-conversation) discussed at length what we had just experienced. Many comments were flying around comparing the PHI Stoa’s impact on society to causes attempting to address world hunger, or the plight of humanitarian and environmental causes requiring financial aid. The pivot of conversation reminded me of the 2000s film Miss Congeniality: “What is the one most important thing our society needs? …world peace.” I do, however, understand the sentiment shared between my peers. How could I not, given the reality of my own Māori people in Aotearoa-New Zealand, and that of many underprivileged peoples plagued by inequity, colonisation and greed. But we were getting distracted, pulling away from the question and what we had all witnessed, which was awe.
In this discussion, never at any point was I convinced that because a considerable amount of resources went into the PHI Stoa, that it wasn’t worthwhile. Coming home to Aotearoa, my own memories answered the questions I had. Ironically, around the time Miss Congeniality hit the screens, a series of sculptural artworks by Robert (Bob) Jahnke were presented. The artworks, named Hawera, Mamaku and Agnus, are now owned by New Zealand’s national museum, Te Papa Tongarewa, and depict garments, items and a carcass you’d see in an average New Zealand abattoir. Having many whānau members who have either worked or still work in abattoirs, it was a scene I was familiar with, seeing their white gumboots outside the wharenui (meeting house) and their knife belts hanging in the whare kai’s (dining hall) kitchen as they prepared the hāngi (earth oven).
Watching Bob being interviewed for his work on television in the 2000s, I remember the journalist distinctly asking why he went to so much detail with the knives in the knife holder, commenting: “No one would ever see them past the handle, why go the extra mile and fully shape them into a knife?” To which the response was: “Because I would know that they weren’t fully formed.” This was a very important lesson as a 10-year-old: just because not everyone sees the work doesn’t mean you shouldn’t put in the time and respect required to uplift the mana of the very thing you are crafting.
Travelling through my grandfather’s tribal district in July 2025, I was reminded of why waka huia were crafted to the detail we now associate them with. Waka huia are often referred to as treasure boxes, carved wooden boxes that held special and smaller taonga, typically jewellery and personal adornments. Unlike jewellery boxes that sit out on display, waka huia were often suspended from the ceiling, out of sight and harm’s way. They often demonstrated exceptional craftsmanship, and yet their intention wasn’t to be on display. The fine, detailed carving was to reflect the mana of what was being housed inside; the more ornate, the more special the collection of taonga within.
Upon reflection, the PHI Stoa’s external and internal architecture makes sense. If you can, for a cool 200 million dollars of course, why not house your most prized collection in an incredible (and functional) treasure box?
Ngā mihi nui (a special acknowledgement to):
UCLA Film and Television Archive
Packard Humanities Institute
Getty Conservation Institute
Getty Research Institute
Reem Baroody