Envisioning the Past: Archaeology and the Image (New Interventions in Art History)

Envisioning the Past Archaeology and the Image

Edited by Sam Smiles and Stephanie Moser

Envisioning the Past

New Interventions in Art History Series editor : Dana Arnold, University of Southampton New Interventions in Art History is a series of textbook mini-companions – published in connection with the Association of Art Historians – that aims to provide innovative approaches to, and new perspectives on, the study of art history. Each volume focuses on a specific area of the discipline of art history – here used in the broadest sense to include painting, sculpture, architecture, graphic arts, and film – and aims to identify the key factors that have shaped the artistic phenomenon under scrutiny. Particular attention is paid to the social and political context and the historiography of the artistic cultures or movements under review. In this way, the essays that comprise each volume cohere around the central theme while providing insights into the broader problematics of a given historical moment. Art and Thought edited by Dana Arnold and Margaret Iversen (published) Art and its Publics: Museum Studies at the Millennium edited by Andrew McClellan (published) Architectures: Modernism and After edited by Andrew Ballantyne (published) After Criticism: New Responses to Art and Performance edited by Gavin Butt (published) Envisioning the Past: Archaeology and the Image edited by Sam Smiles and Stephanie Moser (published)

Envisioning the Past Archaeology and the Image

Edited by Sam Smiles and Stephanie Moser

ß 2005 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd blackwell publishing 350 Main Street, Malden, MA 02148-5020, USA 108 Cowley Road, Oxford OX4 1JF, UK 550 Swanston Street, Carlton, Victoria 3053, Australia The right of Sam Smiles and Stephanie Moser to be identified as the Authors of the Editorial Material in this Work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by the UK Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988, without the prior permission of the publisher. First published 2005 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Envisioning the past : archaeology and the image / edited by Sam Smiles and Stephanie Moser. p. cm.—(New interventions in art history) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-4051-1151-8 (hardback : alk. paper)—ISBN 1-4051-1150-X (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Imaging systems in archaeology. I. Smiles, Sam. II. Moser, Stephanie. III. Series. CC79.I44E585 2005 930.1’0285—dc22 2004016176 A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. Set in 10.5/13pt Minion by Kolam Information Services Pvt. Ltd, Pondicherry, India Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by TJ International, Padstow, Cornwall The publisher’s policy is to use permanent paper from mills that operate a sustainable forestry policy, and which has been manufactured from pulp processed using acid-free and elementary chlorine-free practices. Furthermore, the publisher ensures that the text paper and cover board used have met acceptable environmental accreditation standards. For further information on Blackwell Publishing, visit our website: www.blackwellpublishing.com

Contents

Series Editor’s Preface List of Illustrations Notes on Contributors Introduction: The Image in Question Stephanie Moser and Sam Smiles

vii ix xi 1

1 Romancing the Human: The Ideology of Envisioned Human Origins Paul Privateer

13

2 ‘‘We Grew Up and Moved On’’: Visitors to British Museums Consider Their ‘‘Cradle of Mankind’’ Monique Scott

29

3 The American Time Machine: Indians and the Visualization of Ancient Europe Stephanie Pratt

51

4 ‘‘To Make the Dry Bones Live’’: Ame´de´e Forestier’s Glastonbury Lake Village James E. Phillips

72

5 Unlearning the Images of Archaeology Dana Arnold 6 Illustrating Ancient Rome, or the Ichnographia as Uchronia and Other Time Warps in Piranesi’s Il Campo Marzio Susan M. Dixon

92

115

vi Contents 7

8

9

Thomas Guest and Paul Nash in Wiltshire: Two Episodes in the Artistic Approach to British Antiquity Sam Smiles

133

A Different Way of Seeing? Toward a Visual Analysis of Archaeological Folklore Darren Glazier

158

Photography and Archaeology: The Image as Object Frederick N. Bohrer

180

10 Wearing Juninho’s Shirt: Record and Negotiation in Excavation Photographs Jonathan Bateman

192

11 Video Killed Engaging VR? Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen Graeme P. Earl

204

12 The Real, the Virtually Real, and the Hyperreal: The Role of VR in Archaeology Mark Gillings

223

Index

240

Series Editor’s Preface

New Interventions in Art History was established to provide a forum for innovative approaches to and perspectives on the study of Art History in all its complexities. Envisioning the Past is an original volume that pulls together a wide-ranging selection of material which coheres around a strong central theme. The essays consider how visual representations have shaped archaeology and the conceptualization of the past by museums, through the new medium of virtual reality and in the work of art historians. The contributors demonstrate a wide variety of interests and approaches. Particularly notable is the inclusion of several chapters dealing with topics and methods usually isolated within specific disciplines or grouped together into studies of marginalized material. Thus, the reader is able to compare chapters on American Indians with those on Iron Age Europe. The disciplinary and methodological coverage is equally broad, ranging from art-historical and archaeological to anthropological, citing such tools as virtual technology in addition to photographs and archaeological field notes. The strength of the book is the cross-disciplinary examination of a vibrant issue at a crucial moment in its evolution. In effect, it provides a window into current cross-disciplinary thinking about the construction of knowledge concerning the past. In range, content, and timeliness, this work makes a valuable contribution to this burgeoning field of enquiry that embraces at once archaeology, architectural and art history, cultural geography, anthropology, and history. The chapters combine to form an innovative and insightful interrogation of how we think about and envision the past, which is a prompt for future research that will take this debate in new directions. As such, the

viii Series Editor’s Preface transdisciplinary concerns of Envisioning the Past are most pertinent to New Interventions, and this volume is a very pleasing addition to the series. Dana Arnold London, 2004

Illustrations

2.1 Display on human evolution, Natural History Museum

37

2.2 Visitor observing display on human evolution, Horniman Museum

38

3.1 Pe`re Joseph Franc¸ois Lafitau, Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains compare´es aux moeurs des premier temps, plate 1, volume II, engraving, 1724

62

3.2 Pe`re Joseph Franc¸ois Lafitau, Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains compare´es aux moeurs des premier temps, plate 3, volume II, engraving, 1724

64

4.1 Forestier’s jetty scene: ‘‘The entrance to the lake village of the ancient Britons: the skilfully built landing-stage: and a general view of the settlement showing the piled stockade,’’ The Illustrated London News, December 11, 1911

80

4.2 Forestier’s roundhouse scene: ‘‘In a dwelling-place set on an artificial island in north central Somersetshire: the inside of a hut of the British Lake Village near Glastonbury,’’ The Illustrated London News, December 11, 1911

81

5.1 Andrea Palladio, The Villa Almerico, known as ‘‘La Rotonda,’’ near Vicenza, 1566–9, from Palladio, Il Quattro Libri dell’Architettura (Venice, 1570), book II, plate XIII

102

x List of Illustrations 5.2 Reconstruction of the plan (partly unexecuted) for the Villa Madama, near Rome, 1518 onwards

103

6.1 Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Tavole V–X, Ichnographia, from Il Campo Marzio (Rome, 1762)

118

6.2 Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Tavola XVII, Reliquiae columnarum Aedis Apollinis . . . from Il Campo Marzio (Rome, 1762)

123

7.1 Thomas Guest, Bronze Age Grave Group Excavated at Winterslow in 1814, oil on canvas, 45.3 x 60.7 cm

134

7.2 Thomas Guest, Saxon Grave Goods from an Excavation at Winterslow, 1814, oil on canvas, 45.6 x 60.7 cm

135

7.3 Paul Nash, Equivalents for the Megaliths (1935), oil on canvas, 45.7 x 66 cm

136

8.1 The Shaitan and the amphora

170

8.2 The site and the citadel

171

9.1 Auguste Salzmann, Jaffa Gate, Inscription on the False Door, photograph, 1855–6

182

9.2 Fe´lix Teynard, Rock-Cut Architecture-Tomb of Amenemhat, Beni-Hasan, photograph, 1851–2

185

10.1 Group portrait of participants in the Gardoms Edge Project, with Juninho’s shirt, 1997

199

10.2 Composite photograph, Gardoms Edge Project, 1996, 1997

201

Notes on Contributors

Dana Arnold is Professor of Architectural History at the University of Southampton and Director of the Centre for Studies in Architecture and Urbanism. She is the series editor of New Interventions in Art History and general editor of two further Blackwell series: Companions to Art History and Anthologies in Art History. From 1997 to 2002 she was editor of the journal Art History. Her recent publications include Reading Architectural History (2002), Re-presenting the Metropolis: Architecture, Urban Experience and Social Life in London (2000); and the edited volumes Art and Thought (2003) and Tracing Architecture: The Aesthetics of Antiquarianism (2003). Her Art History: A Very Short Introduction is forthcoming. Jonathan Bateman studied archaeology at the University of Sheffield. He has presented work on the ethnography and visual languages and discourse of archaeology at a number of international conferences and has published work on the relationship of archaeology and computer visualizations (e.g., ‘‘Immediate Realities: An Anthropology of Computer Visualisation in Archaeology,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8, 2000, http:// intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue8/bateman_index.html. His ‘‘Pictures, Ideas and Things: the Production and Currency of Archaeological Images,’’ is forthcoming in M. Edgeworth and D. Gomes, Ethnography of Archaeology: Papers Presented at World Archaeological Congress 5. He is Information Officer for the Council for British Archaeology. Frederick N. Bohrer is Associate Professor and Chair of the Department of Art and Archaeology at Hood College in Frederick, Maryland. He is the author of Orientalism and Visual Culture: Imagining Mesopotamia in Nineteenth-Century Europe (2003) and editor of Sevruguin and the Persian Image: Photographs of Iran, 1870–1930 (1999).

xii Notes on Contributors Susan M. Dixon teaches art history at the University of Tulsa, Oklahoma. She has published widely on Piranesi and is the author of a manuscript entitled The Arcadian Society and its Garden: Performance, Politics and Gender in Eighteenth-Century Rome. Graeme P. Earl is a Research Fellow in the Department of Archaeology at the University of Southampton. His research focuses upon the potentials of virtual reality and virtual pasts in archaeology, and the role of hypermedia in the modern discipline. He is currently engaged in projects based in both Egypt and Spain. Mark Gillings works in the School of Archaeology and Ancient History at the University of Leicester. His research interests focus upon the (often fraught) relationship between developments in theory and practice in landscape archaeology. This has concentrated mainly upon the application of Geographical Information Systems (GIS) and, since 1996, a set of approaches we can broadly term ‘‘Virtual.’’ Darren Glazier is a member of the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir, Egypt. His research interests include the sociopolitics of the past and role of archaeology in the present, especially the potential benefits of collaborative archaeological research. He is currently completing his Ph.D. thesis at the University of Southampton. Stephanie Moser is Senior Lecturer in the Department of Archaeology at the University of Southampton. Specializing in the representation of the past, particularly in illustration and museum display, she is the author of Ancestral Images: The Iconography of Human Origins (1998) and Exhibiting Egypt (2005). James E. Phillips specializes in the history and representation of archaeology, and is currently a Ph.D. student in the Department of Archaeology at the University of Southampton. His doctoral dissertation focuses on the presentation of archaeology in general periodical publications in nineteenth-century Britain. Stephanie Pratt is Principal Lecturer in the Department of Art History at the University of Plymouth. She has published widely on the representation of Native Americans in European art and is collaborating on an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery, London, on overseas visitors to London in the long eighteenth century, entitled London’s Complexion. Her book British Art and the American Indian will be published in 2005.

Notes on Contributors

xiii

Paul Privateer is Associate Professor of Culture and Media Studies at Arizona State University. His area of interest is in science, technology, and society studies, with an emphasis on digital culture studies, technoculture, and postmodernism. He has published in the area of romantic discourse and nineteenth-century theories of identity, e-learning systems, technology, and education, and is presently working with Blackwell on a social history of theories of intelligence, as well as preparing a science, technology, and society anthology co-edited with Robert Markley. Monique Scott is a doctoral candidate in the Department of Anthropology at Yale University, and an NSF Yale Peabody Museum Fellow, teaching biodiversity and human health in public schools. Her dissertation explores perceptions of human evolution and Africa in British, Kenyan, and American museums. She has worked in a great variety of museum exhibition and evolutionary education projects internationally and is currently assisting in the design of a human origins exhibition at the Yale Peabody Museum. Her larger interests aim to encourage exhibitions of anthropology to better reflect and integrate their diverse audiences. Sam Smiles is Professor of Art History at the University of Plymouth. He has published widely on British art, especially in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He has a particular interest in art, archaeology, and antiquarianism in Britain and has explored this in numerous essays and articles. His books include The Image of Antiquity: Ancient Britain and the Romantic Imagination (1994), Eye Witness: Artists and Visual Documentation in Britain, 1770–1830 (2000), and J. M. W. Turner (2000).

Introduction: The Image in Question Stephanie Moser and Sam Smiles Introduction It is a commonplace of art history and its cognate fields that representation is never innocent. Image studies in a number of disciplines actively pursue researches into the discursive contexts that motivate representational strategies and have sought to define the numerous conventions that are employed to shape meaning and construct knowledge. We now routinely accept that no pictorial device can be a transparent illustration of the world, but instead deploys technical devices, formal conventions, and ideological assumptions to orchestrate meaning. The value of images in archaeology is customarily understood as related to their provision of information, but once the mediation of images is taken into account that evaluation is far from simple. As a preliminary consideration, we need only remember that what counts as precision in one representational tradition may seem woefully imprecise in another. Formal and stylistic observances act as filters of meaning, delimiting what can be achieved pictorially: technical constraints can determine the amount and quality of detail to be recorded; stylistic mannerisms will inflect the recording of data. In addition, the overall impact of the image, qualities of mood and atmosphere produced through these conventions, can manipulate the viewer’s reaction. Above all, the underlying rationale for the image, its commissioning, function, and intended audience will all determine the limits of what it once meant and what it may mean now. These conventions need to be understood if the imaging of archaeological knowledge is to be properly considered, and they apply with equal force

2 Stephanie Moser and Sam Smiles to all categories of its visual representation. We need to engage with the problematics surrounding the image’s mediating function as a bearer of archaeological knowledge, and this is as valid for the analysis of virtualreality (VR) reconstructions as it is for eighteenth-century engravings. Proper scrutiny of these representations will lead us on to treat wider concerns, especially the ideological position of the image and its contribution to any given epistemic structure.1 The spectrum of archaeological imagery is a broad one, ranging from excavation records, to historical reconstructions produced for research purposes, and then beyond these to more popular and/or imaginative work informed by such research. In recent times the ways in which visual images have been created to present the past have greatly expanded from two-dimensional illustrations in traditional media to VR reconstructions and moving images. Perhaps uniquely, therefore, archaeological imagery incorporates all elements of visual culture, from high art to low, from traditional to digitized media, and from ‘‘scientific’’ to ‘‘creative’’ renderings. Within this spread of activities many archaeologists working today would want to distinguish the valuable from the frivolous, perhaps using as a criterion the extent to which an image records rather than imagines its subject. On such grounds we might presume that the record, as a more research-orientated image, would be less open to critical visual analysis and might, indeed, function as a corrective to other representations of the past circulating in fine art and popular contexts. The record, in some Popperian sense, would be an image founded on secure data and from which no false inferences could be derived. What vitiates this aspiration is the naive assumption that an image can be created and apprehended ‘‘transparently,’’ as though some forms of graphic communication can offer pure, unmediated apprehension of their subjects. A moment’s reflection shows that even excavation reports are coded, bearing traces of wider beliefs about evidence, knowledge, and the communication of both. Writing in 1965, and looking back over three centuries of archaeological draftsmanship, Stuart Piggott declared: All technical and scientific illustration is at once symbol and communication, a pictorial language addressing the author’s audience side by side with his [sic] written text. It transmits information according to an agreed code of conventions which translates actuality into forms and outlines in one or more colours, usually black on white, in a manner which will convey to the observer the features of the original which the illustrator wishes to present.2

Introduction

3

This formulation, as Piggott indicated, owed a great deal to the art historian Ernst Gombrich’s Art and Illusion, first published in 1956, but it chimes with Piggott’s own researches into the history of antiquarianism and the development of graphic communication in archaeology.3 In Gombrich’s classic formulation, to represent is not to make an accurate copy of a visual experience, but is instead to construct a faithful relational model. By emphasizing the artificiality and culturally bound nature of representation, Gombrich had challenged the notion of the so-called ‘‘innocent eye.’’ Piggott’s interest in Gombrich’s work seems to have been prompted by his own dissatisfaction with the contemporary drive toward ‘‘scientific’’ recording systems in archaeology, which attempted to minimize ‘‘the variables of human knowledge, experience, skill and (dirty words!) flair and genius.’’4 His long study of archaeological draftsmanship had taught him that the visual record was of crucial importance to archaeology and, moreover, that its aesthetic qualities were worthy of attention. He was, moreover, perfectly well aware that every representational mode or technical procedure constituted a different language of engagement with the archaeological record, because meaning is constituted in materials and technique.5 In the mid-1960s, then, an archaeologist and an art historian were both concerned to examine the graphic codes through which aspects of the visible world are represented, paying scrupulous attention to the contingency of vision as a culturally bound phenomenon. A moment seemed to have arrived when art history and archaeology could have combined forces to examine the interplay between art, antiquarianism, and archaeology, considering the extensive contribution the image has made to picturing (and thus shaping knowledge about) the past. Yet art history, for all its sophistication as a means of investigating visual culture, has not made any sustained effort to consider the importance of images to archaeology. The studies that do exist are scattered across a variety of topics, especially those connected with the rise of an antiquarian sensibility from the Renaissance onward.6 Within archaeology, equally, the recognition that Piggott afforded to the study of images has also been slow in developing, and only matured as a research concern in the 1990s.7 Indeed, even the chapters gathered together in this volume demonstrate how wide a gulf still remains between art-historical and archaeological interpretations of this material. The characteristic reference points for each discipline do not share much common ground, as the bibliographies for the authors included here will attest. Perhaps one of the things this collection can

4 Stephanie Moser and Sam Smiles achieve is to reveal the potential richness of a study informed by both approaches.

Archaeology and the Image Within the Western tradition, the origins of archaeology are traditionally associated with humanism. Although it would be a difficult quest to attempt to find the very earliest image informed by antiquarian or archaeological research, the Renaissance visual tradition includes two subjects that anticipate what have become the key categories of archaeological imagery. Thus, images of early human society during its mythical Golden Age can be aligned with archaeology’s later representations of vanished cultures in historical reconstructions, while pictures showing the Discovery of the True Cross constitute some of the earliest depictions of an excavation. These two categories of image might never have been transformed into an archaeologically significant contribution, however, had not the idea of the data-rich image also developed. Humanist curiosity about the past also provoked artistic and architectural interest in the ruins of classical civilization, so evident in Rome particularly, and in isolated objects from other eras and cultures. Initially, the images made of them were not intended for wide public dissemination, but for private study or circulation among small groups of scholars and patrons. However, by the early eighteenth century, the economics of publishing had facilitated the development of illustrated books whose images were devised to offer reliable information to a reasonably wide readership. A Baconian stress on verifiable data, as opposed to mere reliance on authority, privileged the collection of accurate representation, and artists were employed to measure, draw, and organize the relics of antiquity, especially classical antiquity, so that sense could be made of them.8 By extension, the architecture and material culture of other peoples and eras could also be subjected to the same approach, whether Gothic architecture, Egyptian antiquities, or prehistoric and proto-historic remains. James Douglas, for example, displayed the results of his excavations into Saxon graves in Kent in his Nenia Britannica; or, a sepulchral history of Great Britain (1793). Reproduced in aquatint, precisely because he felt this to be the best medium for graphic communication, Douglas referred to this visual data as ‘‘the facts here established,’’ confident that his chosen means of representation would enable other antiquaries to check their finds with his discoveries.9 The

Introduction

5

image seemed to hold out the prospect of an objective visual databank, immunized from the provisionality of scholarly interpretation. As the English antiquarian, William Borlase, declared in 1749: the materials, styles, measurement and appurtenances of monuments are things not to be new moulded by, or made to comply with every fanciful conjecture, but remaining always the same, will be impartial authorities to appeal to, invariable rules to judge of and decide the customs, rites and principles as well as monuments of the ancients; and therefore it is much to be lamented that all curious travellers and writers in antiquity did not draw.10

For Borlase and his fellow antiquarians it was obvious that competent draftsmen could provide accurate images that would function as evidence at one remove. To this day the importance of a full visual record of archaeological discovery is not in doubt, and what is clear from this brief re´sume´ is that the contribution of the image to archaeological research has a long pedigree. From at least the early eighteenth century, antiquarian scholars were aware of the informative power that a graphic representation provides. Drawings, especially if they were engraved as illustrations, could disseminate knowledge, provided that sufficiently competent artists were employed. Yet competence in producing a faithful record is often in conflict with aesthetic concerns, and one feature of early antiquarianism is the quest to achieve a graphic style that was maximally informative. Often this meant eschewing many of the stylistic mannerisms artists were trained to use, thereby raising the stakes in considerations of fidelity to appearance.11 No amount of rigor in constructing a graphic language could overcome the fact that it was still a language, whose efficacy relied entirely on others being versed in its codes and conventions. As archaeology developed, and notwithstanding the advent of photography and highly detailed excavation drawings, its problematic recourse to visual imagery remained much as Piggott formulated it: archaeological imagery is a coded system; it is both symbol and communication. It is precisely because an unmediated representation can never be achieved that it behooves us to examine the cultural circumstances, epistemic context, and semiotic register of any archaeological representation. With particular respect to archaeology, the analysis of images should also take account of the afterlife of archaeological representations, for it is

6 Stephanie Moser and Sam Smiles here that the constructed past produces some of its most long-lasting effects. Images of the past survive longer than the theories they were designed originally to support; they linger on in museum displays, as illustrations in archaeologically orientated books, and as part of popular culture. And perhaps one of the reasons they do so is that archaeologists have not taken them seriously enough. Precisely because images are not generally considered by the scholarly community to be authoritative interpretations or explanations of the past, requiring detailed refinement or rebuttal, visual representations are often overlooked by archaeological researchers. Because they do not seem to offend, they are not ascribed with enough power to merit critical examination. As a result archaeologists have tended to overlook images or, at best, to consider their existence as an adventitious phenomenon, divorced from the work of ‘‘real’’ archaeology. In an extreme view, the image is no more than a passive reflection of archaeological discovery, sugaring the academic pill for a public in need of something less austere than the paraphernalia of archaeological research. These ideas are, in our view, too comfortable. Like other academic disciplines, as archaeology has responded to the emergence of that skepticism associated with some aspects of post-structuralism, it has moved away from an exclusive preoccupation with empirical methods and objective analysis to a growing concern with the construction of knowledge, questioning the status and legitimacy of its traditions and values.12 In these circumstances the imaging of archaeology can be seen as of much greater interest, encouraging self-reflexivity in the discipline insofar as a representation ultimately says more about its own cultural situation than it does about the subject it purports to depict. We believe that the imaging of archaeology should not remain a peripheral concern, for it offers a particularly rewarding point of entry into the discipline’s past and present working assumptions. The power of the visual image needs to be understood, its ability to select and organize knowledge, to compress time and space, to insinuate conclusions, and to tidy away the inconvenient and the complex in the interests of a compelling vision is as true now as it has ever been.

Chapter Overview The chapters comprising this volume are wide-ranging, but nonetheless share several overlapping concerns. Paul Privateer examines the rhetorical

Introduction

7

force of a movie like Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, which provides a clear instance of the power of images, their ability to make a convincing representation. Privateer describes popular images of origins as ‘‘cultural organizing systems,’’ whose imaginative language disguises their role in producing social epistemologies. More specifically, they create ‘‘cultural maps’’ that, through their repetition and institutionalization, reinforce certain social behaviors. The force of these cultural assumptions can be witnessed in other contexts. Focusing on museum displays, Monique Scott argues that ideas about Africa’s role in human evolution are imbricated in wider understandings about present-day Africa. She lays bare an array of racial misconceptions – embedded in institutional and popular thinking – which continue to be fostered by popular representations on television, through other media, and in education. Despite all the ‘‘progress’’ that has been made in problematizing this issue, indigenous peoples are still considered to be windows on the past. As a site where verbal and visual explanations are both on display, the museum offers a compelling example of the ways in which essentially visual stereotypes can dominate meaning. This theme is taken up in Stephanie Pratt’s essay. In examining the visual representations resulting from European expeditions to America, she shows how they had a powerful secondary function in reconstructing the earliest ancestors of Europe. Sixteenth- and seventeenth-century images of Native Americans facilitated a ‘‘direct apprehension’’ of a conceptually difficult subject: the origins of European society. Graphic representations, initially produced to illustrate voyages of discovery, were divorced from their original context to advance a thesis on the nature of human development. Where textual evidence was lacking for cultural origins and the diffusion of culture, visual representation provided a solution, acting as clear and unquestionable testimony. James Phillips, likewise, demonstrates the cultural assumptions surrounding Forestier’s illustration of an early British settlement. These images of a regulated and well-ordered society are shown to articulate forcefully the most positive evaluation of the archaeological data, in contrast to some of the lazier assumptions in circulation at the end of the nineteenth century about woad-covered savages. Forestier’s beguiling representation of a pre-literate culture proved influential well into the twentieth century. The gendered presentation of different social spheres in representations such as these has become of particular interest to archaeologists in recent years.

8 Stephanie Moser and Sam Smiles Several authors in this volume emphasize the extent to which antiquity has been recorded in terms of what was appreciated and valued about it at the time. Dana Arnold, Sam Smiles, Susan Dixon, and Darren Glazier show how visual representations privilege a highly restricted interpretation of the archaeological record. For instance, in looking at images of ancient Rome, Arnold demonstrates that key figures in the history of architecture, like Palladio, interpreted classical architecture from an explicitly gendered, rational position, which influenced his appropriation of it and blinded him to other interpretations of that legacy, as seen in Raphael’s more functional approach. Arnold’s chapter, with its call to ‘‘unlearn’’ the images, demonstrates how we first need to examine precisely how images embody ideas in order to develop different ways of seeing. We can expose their predicates/assumptions, and from here we can then begin to create different ways of seeing. As Arnold explains, our perception of an object is guided by our pre-existing thoughts about it; it satisfies the criteria of what we think it should be, rather than what it is. Dixon and Smiles look at the visual recording of archaeological material in the early modern era. Dixon explores Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s complex engravings of ancient Rome, published in the 1760s, analyzing the ways in which his techniques of presentation manipulate the relics of antiquity to produce new conjunctions of space and time. The effect of Piranesi’s interventions is to sacralize these relics, making the past more distant and yet also more hallowed. Dixon suggests that Piranesi’s new way of envisioning classical Rome can be usefully contextualized not only as an innovation within the history of topographical and antiquarian engraving but also as a product of Rome’s and the papacy’s situation at mid-century. Smiles examines the tension existing between imagination and record in apprehending British antiquity. Comparing two responses to the archaeological heritage of Wiltshire, one in the 1810s and the other in the 1930s, he argues that the protocols surrounding the function of art, its traditions and values, militated against the deployment of a privileged technique such as oil painting for archaeological purposes. This procedural difficulty may have complicated the translation of archaeological remains into a visual record, but it also hints at the positive contribution the creative act can have to engender new responses to antiquity. Glazier takes such approaches into an entirely new direction, examining the imagery used in folk tales as a means of literally envisioning an archaeological site. Working with the same recognition of the power of images to structure comprehension, he adopts methodologies commonly

Introduction

9

deployed for the analysis of visual culture to show how conceptual images can condense a spoken narrative into a representation as revealing as any physical illustration. One of the key themes addressed in this volume is the way in which images that are thought to be less problematic than reconstructions using traditional media are shown to be equally ambivalent in their representations of the past. The myth that some genres of visual representation are more faithful to the archaeological record than others – photography, architectural drawing, and computer-generated imagery, for example – is questioned by Jonathan Bateman, Frederick Bohrer, Graeme Earl, and Mark Gillings. All of these techniques for imaging the past have their own stylistic conventions, which although less obviously ‘‘artistic,’’ are clearly not objective. The idea that there is a special relationship between archaeology and photography was raised by Michael Shanks in his Experiencing the Past: On the Character of Archaeology (1992). Since then few have endeavored to explore the intricacies of how this method of visualization is used in both historical and contemporary practice. Here both Bohrer and Bateman examine how photography functions in ways other than its obvious service in recording data and their retrieval from archaeological sites. Bohrer shows how photography does far more than record, making its own interpretative position. In a discussion of a series of nineteenthcentury photographs of Jerusalem he demonstrates the fusion between the documentation of sites and antiquities and the concern for aesthetic quality (e.g., a concern for composition). So, the ‘‘recording’’ or rendering of antiquities is a unique compilation, which takes on its own active role, transforming and reconfiguring the subjects it captures. There is a paradox in the sense that the photograph is valued for presenting archaeological information in a more comprehensible way, ‘‘improving’’ the interpretation of evidence. Its selective nature, and the ability to select and highlight certain features, shows how photography functions as a kind of archaeology in itself. Bohrer also reminds us that photography did not always serve as a ‘‘positivistic archive of information.’’ Indeed, the early use of photography was not aimed to document knowledge or data, but rather to record an event in which individuals participated. Bateman’s chapter on photography focuses on archaeology and contemporary practice. He shows how central both the formal and ‘‘social’’ photography of archaeology are to the discipline. While the formal photography of excavations includes images of open trenches and artifacts, the

10 Stephanie Moser and Sam Smiles social includes images of the individuals who have worked on site. While the former serves as evidence in archaeological interpretation, the latter is typically taken as a personal record of the excavation. He challenges the way that the formal role of photography has been divorced from its social role, looking at the exclusion of people, removing them from the means of production, or the process of retrieving archaeological data; they are omitted from the published record of archaeological work as if their presence would somehow taint the seriousness of the enterprise. Here we see how ‘‘authorship’’ is taken out of the equation – the conventions of photography have established the importance of the ‘‘clean’’ archaeological image. Bateman breaks down the division between types of photographic practice and shows how excavation photographs are the end point in a set of negotiations between individuals, the data they endeavor to collect and the setting in which they work. These warrant consideration because they play a role in defining professional identity and the nature of the discipline. The chapters on computer-generated imagery (CGI) by Graeme Earl and Mark Gillings raise the issue of their interpretative nature. Challenging the belief that the increasing technological sophistication of computer images will lead to an improvement in visions of the past, Earl and Gillings argue that such images remain untheorized because of the faith archaeologists have in new technologies of representation. Earl focuses on TV CGI and advocates a greater reflection on the nature of the relationship between TV producers and archaeologists. While there are debates regarding VR in research and museums, there is nothing on the way 3-D visuals are being used on TV, very probably because the populist nature of archaeology on television tends to render it professionally suspect. While archaeologists maintain these assumptions about the relationship between the media and the discipline, there needs to be more dialogue between producers of popular knowledge and archaeology. Earl argues that computer images are more deceptive than other graphical techniques, which stands at odds with a discipline concerned to acknowledge its interpretative dimensions. The project of ever-developing CGI reconstructions will not capture a closer vision of reality than any other form of representation. CGI visual imagery needs to go beyond being ‘‘authentic,’’ to acknowledge the aesthetic and to expose the technological process that ends in its seemingly convincing visual representation. Gillings, similarly, adopts a skeptical position with respect to VR. He identifies the assumptions about VR in archaeology that restrict the use of this technology –

Introduction

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that the more ‘‘accurate’’ the image the better; that VR pulls everything together at the end, that VR is a tool, not an interpretative device. Reflections on the historical and contemporary use of the image in archaeology reveal that the issues and characteristics of visual representations that we identify now were present in early modern reconstructions of the past and, equally, that new techniques of imaging cannot be assumed to be superior to traditional media as recorders of objective data. The ability of the image to produce its subjects, as opposed to being a passive mirror of reality, stands as a rebuke to any simple-minded belief in the objectivity of modern recording techniques. Yet, the conclusion we might draw from this need not be unduly pessimistic or defeatist. A better understanding of the contribution images have made, and continue to make, to archaeology should allow all those involved in this area to work more subtly with this resource. If we are to liberate the image from its impossible role as an objective record, we can only do so by creating and developing new imaging practices that work with indeterminacy and provisionality. The image capable of embracing the uncertainty of knowledge is a rich intellectual resource; rather than working with the clear delineations of an over-reductive picture, we might do better to highlight the aporias and occlusions of a more fractured vision. Images could then begin to offer the possibility of large-scale epistemic change, not only within archaeology but also outside it, in the museum displays and virtual reconstructions on offer to the general public.

Notes 1

See, e.g., W. J. T. Mitchell, ed., The Language of Images (Chicago: Chicago University Press, 1980). 2 Stuart Piggott, ‘‘Archaeological Draughtsmanship: Principles and Practice Part 1: Principles and Retrospect,’’ Antiquity, 39 (1965), p. 165. 3 See also Stuart Piggott, William Stukeley, an Eighteenth-century Antiquary (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1950), Antiquity Depicted: Aspects of Archaeological Illustration (London: Thames & Hudson, 1978), and Ruins in a Landscape (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1976). 4 Piggott, ‘‘Archaeological Draughtsmanship,’’ p. 166. 5 In 1941 Piggott described a book project, for the general public, combining his archaeological text with drawings by John Piper, which would ‘‘give a new reality that photographs lack.’’ Letter to Peggy Piggott, July 1, 1941, Piggott Correspondence, Oxford Institute of Archaeology. See Sam Smiles, ‘‘An-

12 Stephanie Moser and Sam Smiles

6

7

8

9 10 11

12

tiquity and Modern Art in Britain c.1930–1950,’’ Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 19:1 (April, 2004), pp. 81–98. See Alain Schnapp, The Discovery of the Past: the Origins of Archaeology (London: British Museum Press, 1996); Sam Smiles, The Image of Antiquity: Ancient Britain and the Romantic Imagination (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1994). For a recent collection of essays on this topic, see Martin Myrone and Lucy Peltz, eds., Producing the Past: Aspects of Antiquarian Culture and Practice, 1700–1850 (Aldershot and Brookfield, VT: Ashgate, 1999). See, e.g., Stephanie Moser, Ancestral Images: The Iconography of Human Origins (Stroud: Sutton, 1998); B. L. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images: Visual Representation in Archaeology (London: Routledge, 1997); B. S. Baigrie, ed., Picturing Knowledge: Historical and Philosophical Problems Concerning the Use of Art in Science (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1996); G. Lagarde`re, Peintres d’un monde disparu (Solutre: Muse´e De´partemental de Pre´histoire Solutre, 1990). Historians of science, particularly Stephen Jay Gould in his Wonderful Life: The Burgess Shale and the Nature of History (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1989) and The Book of Life (New York: W. W. Norton, 1993), and M. J. S. Rudwick, Scenes from Deep Time: Early Pictorial Representations of the Prehistoric World (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), have written on the power of illustration in paleontology. Such works, all detailing the classical world, include Pietro Santi Bartoli, Gli Antichi Sepolcri; Overo, Mausolei Romani et Etruschi (1697); Bernard de Montfaucon, L’Antiquite´ Explique´e et Represente´e en Figures (15 vols., 1719–24); Gian Battista Piranesi, Antichita` Romane (1756); Julien David Le Roy, Les Ruines des Plus Beaux Monuments de la Gre`ce (1757); James Stuart and Nicholas Revett, Antiquities of Athens (1762); and Thomas Major, Ruins of Paestum (1768). See Ronald Jessup, Man of Many Talents; An Informal Biography of James Douglas, 1753–1819 (London: Phillimore, 1975), p. 95. See P. A. S. Pool, William Borlase (Truro: Royal Institution of Cornwall, 1986), pp. 128–9. For further consideration of British antiquarianism and the image see Sam Smiles, Eye Witness: Artists and Visual Documentation in Britain, 1770–1830 (Aldershot and Brookfield, VT: Ashgate, 2000), especially chapters 1–3. See M. Shanks, Experiencing the Past: On the Character of Archaeology (London: Routledge, 1992).

1

Romancing the Human: The Ideology of Envisioned Human Origins Paul Privateer Stories of human origins seduce us with their exotic promises, these Sirenlike stories tempting us with the ineffable, the fog of a shrouded past parting momentarily for glimpses of our ancestral DNA, our first home, and our roots. Origin revelations hold out the promise of all promises – of a paradise finally regained. From the earliest of sacred stories to the latest digital spectacles, from popular movies to BBC or PBS science specials, a promise intoxicates us; we simply have to decode the mystery of our origins to unveil the mystery of ourselves. I should like to suggest, from the outset, that – despite all their figurative language – origin narratives are really about the business of culture making. They are more about the enterprise of producing and privileging certain kinds of knowledge than they are innocent stories of fantasy and mystery. And therefore, rather than cataloging or reading a representative sample of origin narratives, I would like to concentrate primarily on their ideological effects. My goal is to explore how origin narratives function as cultural organizing systems, hoping to show that this kind of analysis is as valuable as providing proof of the validity of any origin myth theory. In essence, this chapter interrogates popular constructions of human origin narratives, exploring how their romancing spirit, their imaginative language, works to obscure their production of social epistemologies. Ultimately, I would

14 Paul Privateer like to trace the way different representations of an ‘‘origin’’ create specific ideological alliances with other epoch-defining ideas that together produce concentrated value formations (Foucault’s episteme). Such knowledge collectives construct class distinctions, create representations of the other as subaltern, and structure the architecture of cultural power. Some of the material presented here is also gathered from recent research in evolutionary biology and sociobiology that, I believe, can illuminate the ideological content of many human origin narratives. I would like to begin by presenting a brief abstract of certain origin-narrative patterns, followed by an exploration of some popular constructions of human origins, ones that romance us with their drama of savagery, spirituality, and scientific magic, before concluding with some theoretical considerations. This chapter will demonstrate how representations of the past, our envisionings constructed through visual media, the fine arts, illustrations, museum displays, multimedia, and popular culture, are themselves expressly ideological. This despite the fact that they normally claim the objectivity presumably guaranteed by anthropological, archaeological, and scientific knowledge.

Abstracting Origin Narratives Origin stories abound with supernatural spectacles, strange characters and fantastic excesses. For instance, the Apache creation myth tells us: ‘‘In the beginning nothing existed – no earth, no sky, no sun, no moon, only darkness was everywhere. Suddenly from the darkness emerged a thin disc, one side yellow and the other side white, appearing suspended in midair. Within the disc sat a small bearded man, Creator, the One Who Lives Above.’’1 While the more familiar Genesis 1:1 proclaims that ‘‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth,’’ the Babylonians believed that creation began the instant the sky-god Marduk battled the earth-goddess Tiamat, the great chaotic primeval ocean, dragon, and great maternal mother-goddess. In the Japanese Tales from the Kojiki we learn that ‘‘Before the heavens and the earth came into existence, all was a chaos, unimaginably limitless and without definite shape or form. Eon followed eon: then, lo! out of this boundless, shapeless mass something light and transparent rose up and formed the heaven.’’2 According to Philippine folktales, ‘‘When the world first began there was no land, but only the sea and the sky and between them was a kite.

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One day the bird which had nowhere to light grew tired of flying about so she stirred up the sea until it threw its waters against the sky.’’3 In The Theogony Hesiod reports: ‘‘First of all there came Chaos and after him came Gaia of the broad breast, to be the unshakable foundation of all the immortals . . . . From Chaos was born Erebus, the dark, black night and from Night again Aither and Hemera, the day, were begotten, for she lay in love with Erebos and conceived and bore these two.’’4 And The Upanishads state: ‘‘In the beginning this was Self alone, in the shape of a Person (Purusha). He looking around saw nothing but his Self. He first said, ‘This is I’; therefore he became I by name.’’5 In contrast with ethnic-origin myths, modern physics speculates that the universe came into being after the first attosecond of a Big Bang. Its existence, that of an infinite space of pure undifferentiated energy, compressed within a tiny seed, grew into an infinite expanding, and then a cooling, and, finally, a stabilization achieved by a series of sudden creative changes. This story, however, is being contested by recent Hubble telescope findings of an ever-expanding universe. When the cosmic dust cleared, as it were, the first force was gravity, its power so intense and so unyielding that it may have ripped apart empty space, causing the birth of light and matter. A slightly different view suggests that the entire universe – matter, energy, space, and time – burst into existence about 15 billion years ago from what appears to be a singular point of infinite potential and impenetrable mystery. Because space and time themselves did not exist in this mysterious origin, we cannot say where the universe came from or what existed before it. Without space, there is no ‘‘where.’’ Without time, there is no ‘‘before.’’ Beyond our capacities to sense or even to conceive, this cosmic Mystery abides eternally every present in the heart of all things. We and the cosmos are none other than this Mystery.6

From the Creation Explanation we encounter a more ‘‘integrated’’ view, one that unites religion and science, but decidedly in a religious manner: ‘‘Our first father, Adam, in the Garden of Eden, was in a sense the first scientist . . . under the personal daily tutelage of God he pioneered the human study of God’s creation by putting into practice the initial steps in scientific research. These were observation, classification, and naming.’’7 Unlike origins imagined by physicists, mythologists, or holy priests, social scientists target a significant instance when various hominid lines produced the first true Homo sapiens. Dramatic accounts abound:

16 Paul Privateer thirteen million years ago . . . a drier climate forced many tree-dwelling primates out of their forest homes and challenged them to adapt to new ecological niches . . . primates that stayed in the forest evolved into chimpanzees (and) gorillas, the ones that moved out would become us. A threeand-a-half-million-year-old footprint . . . indicates . . . our human ancestors had clearly diverged from the great apes. The footprint is of a creature unquestionably standing on two legs. The adjustment from walking on all fours to walking upright encouraged reliance on vision, and freed the front limbs for other work, like tool-making and carrying. The weight of the body, previously supported by the front limbs, shifted to the legs and pelvis, which thickened to carry the weight of the upper body . . . the fingers became more and more dexterous, more and more able to make fine manipulations. . . . With these developments came asymmetric limbs . . . accompanied by brainy asymmetry. . . . Busy brains are big brains and so by two and a half million years ago hominid brain size had doubled. Twohandedness, coupled with any enhanced ability to process information in the brain, took hominids to the next stage of evolution. The new type is called Homo habilis, the key actor in the story.8

And even the last hyper-hippest of postmodern genres, cyberpunk fiction, contains the cool Gibson idea about an ultimate origin: ‘‘The Tao . . . is older than God.’’9 Regardless of whether they describe the birth of the universe or the origin of Homo sapiens, origin stories from myth, religion, and science often share similar content and cultural functions. They are, to say the least, managerial. Origin narratives order and organize data, they name, they form hierarchies, create sequences and genealogies, define resources and values, make observations, invent sexual differences and corresponding gender roles; they tease us with erotic stories of compulsive passions, describe great cosmological battles, and recount the violent births of patricidal children. Origin narratives are occupied with the business of culture making.

Popular Constructions of Human Origins and Their Ideological Stories Although examples of modern popular human origins appear in different media, I would like to concentrate on those whose ideological impact is most revealing. Many origin novels have been transferred to the big screen,

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this fascination with beginnings constituting a distinct genre, with content variations ranging from religious to bio-anthropological material, from movies about the biblical Genesis to pseudo-science movies like Quest for Fire. D. W. Griffith’s Man’s Genesis (1912) and the cinema version of Conan Doyle’s The Lost World (1925) were the earliest movies about human origins. Based on Conan Doyle’s eponymous novel, The Lost World was a typical prehistoric adventure movie, a` la King Kong, replete with the requisite amount of now commonplace wax-figure dinosaur fights. But more importantly, and amid all the gore, when deconstructed the movie reveals the horror of imperialism, a horror matched only by reptilian brutes. As a combination of imperial and science romance, it invents a unique genre, similar to themes evident in novels like Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines, Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and similar works by H. G. Wells and Jules Verne. The Lost World is unique for its concentration on a prehistoric world in which imperial colonialists discover a hidden yet strange land, a place where the laws of physics, time, and nature are conveniently suspended for our entertainment. This suspension of natural rules underscores, however, the imaginative ease by which art and film can aid in the power of colonial greed to maximize its commercial interests. More importantly, the movie presents several racist abuses without apparently the slightest moral afterthought. By way of contrast, D. W. Griffith’s Man’s Genesis is a comic parody of the popularization of Darwin. While The Lost World projects a world of imperial excesses justified on the basis of gross misreadings of Darwin’s theory of evolution, Man’s Genesis is a comic prehistoric love story. Its protagonist is Weakhands, a feeble caveman who invents a club to smash the head of his rival who also is in love with the character Lillywhite. Rather than producing new insights into the nature of existing origin myths, these early movies produce cultural representations that simply reinscribe the imperial and scientific power associated with both the transcendental and hostile-nature notion of human origins. Moreover, these movies begin a tradition promoting two sub-genres: the prehistoric tribe film and the ape-man film, both of which continue to stress the brutish hostility of the natural state, demanding that humans dominate each other and the world of nature. Ape-man movies begin with The Missing Link (1932), Ape Man (1943), The Hairy Ape (1944), Lost Continent (1951), Night of the Bloody Apes (1968) and Trog (1970), to mention a few. Prehistoric tribal movies began with Neanderthal Man (1953), Teenage Caveman (1958), Eegah (1962), Women of the Prehistorical Planet

18 Paul Privateer (1966), Altered States (1980), Caveman (1981), Quest for Fire (1982), The Emerald Forest (1985), One Woman or Two (1987), and Encino Man (1992). Movies of prehistoric adventures also include The Land that Time Forgot (1975) and At the Earth’s Core (1976). Lastly, the more sober movie Inherit the Wind (1960) portrays the ‘‘Monkey Trial’’ argued by Clarence Darrow and William Jennings Bryan. The drama concerns the Tennessee teacher, John T. Scopes, arrested for violating state law by teaching Darwin’s theories of evolution. Although there have been many movies constructing popular representations of human origins, only a few seriously turn in upon themselves to reflect an artistically self-conscious desire to understand the sociopolitical implications of those myths. The genre of the human-origin movie reaches its most popular expression in one of the most controversial and futuristic movies in film history. This 1968 movie asserts that the source of human origins is a transcendental agency (the obelisk, symbolic and monumental) that assists human survival by providing the means – the intellectual insight and tools – for the eventual domination of the natural world through violent and aggressive activities. In this movie, intelligence and technology propel humans toward a very ambiguous apocalyptic rebirth, the impulse to destroy – as an evolutionary force – is guided by an unknown supernatural force. It is no accident that the movie opened in the same year that the number of US troops in Vietnam reached half a million. The film, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, deserves careful analysis. The first five minutes of the film encapsulate 2,000 years of Western origin myths. They show a group of vegetarian hominids living in a vast mountainous desert land. Harmony is always temporary and cyclical, with leopards leaping off rocks and killing the primates and rival groups contesting the control of precious resources. Members of both groups perform several aggressive charging displays: hair bristles, arms flail, shoulders are hunched, faces compressed, and legs stamp the ground over and over again in a dance of threats. As mouths bare long canine teeth, it becomes clear that this is cast in a theatre of domination. Kubrick’s research obviously led him to understand that charging displays are combinations of different aggressive vocal, locomotor, postural, and facial gestures, all performed during times of intense escalating emotion. The next scene shows the hominids waking to a confrontation with a tall dark obelisk, a flat rectangular structure without a pyramidal top. After overcoming a fear of the slate-gray monolith, the hominids gather around it, caressing its surface, and growing increasingly comforted by its

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presence. The next shot presents a point of view from which we see the base of the obelisk and the sun moving overhead, its blinding power of insight cut in half by the linear edge of the obelisk. This image is important because it reappears momentarily when the alpha male hominid, foraging among a pile of tapir bones, suddenly looks curiously at a larger femur bone that he picks up and begins to tap the ground. His head rocks back and forth in slow, illuminative thought, he then looks up to recall the obelisk-sun image. Kubrick flashes back to the image to remind us that it has a role in what the primate is thinking. This indeed is a significant moment in the film, prompting several significant questions: what does the primate make of that recalled image; is he freely thinking this, or is the image somehow being inserted in his mind by an outside force, the obelisk, and, finally, how is the image connected to what actions follow? At this point the primate picks up the large femur and begins slowly bashing a tapir’s skull, and in a brilliant moment of cinematic compression, a live tapir falls to the ground as the primate is now a carnivore. Interestingly enough, this bone becomes a tool that enhances the alpha primate’s strength, intelligence, and power to intimidate. With more Zarathustrian flourishes, the hominid explodes into complexly hysterical violence, with Kubrick isolating the femur in a shot of a furry arm arcing to the earth with sudden and horrific violence. This scene then segues to a second group confrontation, with the alpha primate challenging his counterpart from an opposing group. The two leaders meet at the water hole, each group member screaming and jumping up and down in the background. Once the rival crosses the pond, the femurtoting primate smashes him in the skull, knocking him to the ground to be murdered by other femur-wielding clan members. And in another brilliant tight shot, Kubrick has the leader heave the femur up into the air in victory and then, in a exquisite transformational blend shot, the bloody white bone morphs into an oblong-shaped space station drifting about in the universe. In typical Kubrick filmic imagery, a primitive bone weapon becomes a complex extraterrestrial satellite, the implications of that transformation simultaneously substantial and ambiguous. These early scenes conjure up the popularization of a key term in Darwin’s Origin of Species (1859): can we doubt (remembering that many more individuals are born than can possibly survive) that individuals having any advantage, however slight, over others, would have the best chance of surviving and of procreating

20 Paul Privateer their kind? On the other hand, we may feel sure that any variation in the least degree injurious would be rigidly destroyed. This preservation of favorable variations and the rejection of injurious variations, I call Natural Selection.10

Although Kubrick’s account of human origins in 2001: A Space Odyssey is a near-textbook representation of the ‘‘natural state’’- and ‘‘natural selection’’-based myth, his coupling of the transcendent myth (the obelisk) with nature actually deconstructs the conventional separation between them, the supernatural and spiritual, and the natural and aggressive. By bringing these two systems together ambiguously, Kubrick’s movie reveals their ideological cooperation; the supernatural here is a catalysis for the violence of intellect and weaponry enacted by hominid society. As a student of violence, given his later movies A Clockwork Orange and Full Metal Jacket, Kubrick infers that our consumption of violence begins with our origin myths, stories that legitimize and validate a violent supernatural authority. His representation of Darwinian ‘‘natural selection’’ takes its popularization to task. Natural selection accounts for the adaptive organization of living beings, and was never intended – as its popularizations do – to promote economic or philosophical theories of an extreme or aggressive nature needing to be dominated by a superior individual. The historic use of Darwinian theory to support ultra-conservative forms of capitalism is itself worthy of research. In the final analysis, it is clear that human origin myths have been appropriated by capitalist theorists and popularizers, from Adam Smith to Rush Limbaugh, to justify their own ideological behaviors and to confuse liberty with capital accumulation.

Game-Based and Sociobiological Origin Models I would like to supplement the above with the argument that other accounts of human origins exist that differ significantly from those already presented. In fact, their ideological potentials are far different from most popular representations of human origins. This section will present a brief history of the evolution of new representations of human origins. To present a different vision of human origins and early human group dynamics, I should first like to refer to the early work of John Von Neumann and Oskar Morgenstern (Theory of Games and Economic Behavior, 1944), noting their basic distinction between zero-sum games and

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non-zero-sum games. In zero-sum games the fortunes of the players are inversely related. In tennis, chess, and boxing, one contestant’s gain is another’s loss, although a given victory is not to be confused with the greater complexity issue of what role multiple losers may play in effecting larger exchange processes. In non-zero-sum games, one player’s gain need not, however, be bad news for the other. In fact, in most non-zero-sum games the players’ interests overlap, as was the case when three Apollo 13 astronauts trying get their stranded spaceship back to earth in 1970 were engaged in a life-and-death non-zero-sum game. The outcome would either be equally good or bad for everyone. Such black-and-white activities are rarely as clear in the everyday world of social transactions. Lawyers, business competitors, customers, legislators, merchants, students, childhood friends, can sometimes – but not always – find their interests overlapping. To the extent that their interests do overlap, their relationship is non-zero-sum; the outcome can be, in modern parlance, a win–win or lose–lose form, depending on how they play the game. When we move game theory from its original economic field to the biological sciences, some interesting ideas surface. Some evolutionary biologists use zero-sum and non-zero-sum theory to explore how the behavior of individual genes, cells, animals, special interest groups, corporations, or even nations behave in terms of biological versions of game theory. Certain theorists have even argued that something sociobiological underlies the vast amount of sociopolitical ideas that constitute social discourse. For example, Pyotr Kropotkin, a nineteenth-century anarchist, argued in his Mutual Aid (1910) that the origin of the human species and its continued evolution could actually be understood in terms of cooperation rather than in harsh competition. This thesis has been echoed in recent biological adaptations of classic games theory to demonstrate that cooperation functions as a stabilizing strategy for certain populations, a behavior that they continually adopt. Certain theorists, such as E. O. Wilson, S. A. Fraser, Miles Hodges, Richard Dawkins, and Robert Wright, have argued from various perspectives that dynamics – at non-zero-sums – have played a major role in shaping the origin and evolution of organic life. They also believe that the evolution of new human technologies permit and encourage richer forms of non-zero-sum interactions which, in turn, help produce social structures uniquely dedicated to helping convert non-zero-sum situations into positive sums. Such a theory explains the scope and depth of the growth of social complexity. For although the weak are often exploited, for the most

22 Paul Privateer part societies function in terms of complex parasitic behaviors that resemble non-zero-sum relationships. With more research comes more evidence proving that non-zero-sum dynamics produce more long-term positive sums than negative sums. Several theorists, especially Robert Wright in his NonZero: The Logic of Human Destiny (2000), argue that individuals in those complex societies that function primarily in terms of high-frequency non-zero-sum games are individuals engaged in larger, more complex webs of resource interdependence. The approximate date of when nonzero-sum situations began to merge into mostly positive-sum games has been established as 15,000 years ago. The more frequent the development of non-zero-sum situations, the more often cooperative activities produced such collaborative resources as public transportation, email, and the gradual articulation of McLuhan’s global village. Robert Wright places the following Darwin quotation at the very beginning of his book: As man advances in civilization, and small tribes are united into larger communities, the simplest reason would tell each individual that he ought to extend his social instincts and sympathies to all the members of the same nation, though personally unknown to him. This point being once reached, there is only an artificial barrier to prevent his sympathies extending to the men of all nations and races.11

As this quotation suggests, and as recent work in sociobiology demonstrates, natural selection means more than simply one bird gaining advantage over his neighbor by eating a worm. To the contrary, it is through natural selection that new collaborative technologies arise, permitting richer forms of non-zero-sum interactions among diverse biological entities: among genes, cells, animals, and even cultures. In conclusion to this section, I would like to suggest that a comprehensive view of popular-origin myths cannot be entirely accurate, given their traditional supernatural- or natural-law representations. The problem with such versions is traceable to the problem of representation itself, that is, of reducing complex organic and cultural processes to either a single physical moment, a single supernatural agency, or a single meaning/ cause of any kind. By contrast, the evolution of human origins may involve the playing of ever more numerous and diverse, ever larger, ever more elaborate non-zero-sum games. And it is in the accumulation and effect of these games that the evolution of human origins is constituted. Not to be understood as a single illuminating moment in which a hairy

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proto-human raises a bloodied femur over his dead victim – a moment in the technology of autonomous violence and individual power. No, indeed. What may be required, however, is a more complex understanding of the relationship between processes, origin points, and potentials. Our challenge is to understand and to track the ways in which increases in nonzero-sum systems facilitate the evolution of human destiny, from its Big Bang or God-created or primordial soup ancestry to its global trafficking in contemporary cyberspace. This option romances me with its clarity, intelligence, and potential, a choice whose ideological content pre-deconstructs any effort to monopolize knowledge and power.

Postmodernism and the Problem of Origins Conventional human-origin narratives are ideological because they continuously strengthen dominant cultural ideas. As I suggested earlier, origin stories create cultural maps that, through repetition and institutionalization, ultimately reinforce certain social behaviors. The dominant ideas of any age or culture gain or lose supremacy by either merging or not merging with other ideas, ideas that form ideological matrices, with each contributing idea invented, reinvented, or repurposed so as to guarantee ideological coherence. In recent years, postmodern theory has put into question the traditional idea of the originary, arguably the oldest governing idea in most ideological systems, the degree of its pervasiveness and power relative to the degree of a given culture’s primitiveness. By claiming an uncontestable place in the construction of cultural authority, the originary functions hegemonically, naming, ordering, and specifying the creation and control of a culture’s origins; the originary functions as the first and oldest source of the privileging of certain knowledge and power. This knowledge is often called ‘‘ancestral wisdom.’’ In many respects the ideological function of the originary is identical to the very purpose of origin myths. Those who know, store and recite the particulars of their culture’s origins inherit the authority commensurate with their class position. Rather than exploring it in terms of a particular history, myth, or cultural geography, postmodern theorists contest the authority of the originary on the basis of modern discoveries into the nature of language. For instance, several theorists have argued that presence (the underlying power of an ultimate incarnated being, that is, the Judaic-Christian deity

24 Paul Privateer in the Garden of Eden or on Mount Sinai) should not be confused with any of its representations. How, they ask, can any representation of an original Supreme Being or creation moment be ontologically present, or, more significantly, how could it ever have been truly present if its existence depends first and foremost upon language? How could a presence be present if its existence is conditional upon signification, the ‘‘word’’ or its incarnation? The space separating representation from its phenomenal presence reveals, in turn, that the authority of an evoked originary force is more a matter of information (the dynamics of metaphor and memory, a quality previously signified) than expressly being that of either an actual spiritual or natural phenomenon. A deconstruction of classical notions of origins reveals that they are not the source of phenomena (the objects of direct experience). Moreover, the idea of unity (what a supreme originary force ultimately embodies) should not automatically be privileged, as it typically is, against the idea of plurality, of more than one origin producing an entity. This wholesale deconstruction of an originary transcendental signified is the primary directive of postmodernism, its impact evident in developments in feminist and cultural studies, as well as helping to critically engage current themes of identity, sexuality, the body, and technoculture. Postmodern critics are quick to point out the problematic nature of claiming the originary as a reality posited outside of or prior to signification. Such traditional claims are in themselves intriguing discursive strategies, the equivalent of a rhetorical auto-immune system, a self-protecting ideological mechanism preventing the authority/power gained from their association with the originary from being challenged by any critique or discourse external to the originary. In the past, the traditional authority/power of an originary transcendental signified could not be attacked because its representation has always been that of an identity ‘‘prior-to-language.’’ In essence, deconstructing the authority of the originary ultimately asks: how can the unsignifiable signify? The discovery of the gap between presence and representation speaks directly to a paradox of how the originary can reside outside the very ontological/ phenomenal world it presumably created in the first place. How, in essence, can such a presence be both outside and inside itself as a sign or represented object? This brief outline illuminates the ideological issues orbiting the construction of any story of origins. Submitting classical human origin narratives to postmodern analysis reveals the significant role certain ideological

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systems have played in regulating various sociopolitical deployments of origin narratives. Postmodern criticism has been particularly useful in showing how the ideological content of traditional origin narratives is transformed into social compliance behaviors. The idea that whatever is signified can never be actually and immediately present is particularly relevant to an analysis of ideologies employing a transcendental origin as a dominant authority component. Postmodern thought challenges the very idea that the existence of something – whether it is the universe, planet Earth, the beginning of civilization, or the origin of Homo sapiens – could ever have an absolute originating source or point in time and space independent of signification. And when that source is signified, as it typically is, it becomes immediately problematic as a representation; representations by their nature can never be present. It becomes obvious that there is something inherently ideological at play during the construction of an initial source Being or event, a spectacular coming into Being/ being by something that in its previous form was absolute nothingness. At its most deconstructive moment, this postmodern critique of an originary transcendental signifier – a sign of an absolute origin – also helps to critique other mythic and scientific representations of instantaneous origins, together with their social and ideological functions. Various efforts in postmodern theory, particularly those of Jacques Derrida, suggest that traditional inquiries into origins mask the tendency to ignore this phenomenon, preferring instead to uncover the real metaphysical stuff of ultimate foundations, those enigmatic sources traditionally positioned behind the phenomenal world of false knowledge they have presumably created. And even the most unlikely of modern theories fall prey to the similar allure of this ancient metaphysical tradition. For example, Marxist, existential, structuralist, psychoanalytic, and phenomenological critiques have often attempted, despite their anti-metaphysical biases, to get to the true origin of Being/being. Their guiding assumption is that, because it will reveal absolute truth or human authenticity, their inquiry will finally remove illusions from human thought. Their goal is not a far cry from the metaphysical premises illuminating Plato’s cave allegory. By contrast, postmodern theorists deny the possibility of returning to, the recapturing of, or even the representing of, any origin, its source, or any higher reality existing outside of the phenomenal. This position is taken regardless of whether an origin source is transcendent, is invoked into presence, is a matter of metaphysics or material history, or is the basis for a radical idea of individual identity.

26 Paul Privateer Interestingly enough, origins are not always about things or object sources, as is the case of the precise-instance accounts of when humans were invented, a time when the universe began, or the first second when time stepped into regularity and sequence from the shadowlands of its former nothingness. For instance, the authority and privileged meanings assigned to the originary have occupied theorists from Derrida, Lyotard, Baudrillard, Deleuze, and Guattari to Barthes and Foucault, with the last two interested in the ideological relationship between agency and origin. Barthes and Foucault have argued that every writer (as an originary source) is metaphorically dead; Barthes being concerned with the epistemological implications of this demise, Foucault with its historical and ideological effects. Their pronouncements constitute a radical denial of origin and its privileged status based on agency. In its stead is a denial of any form of epistemological privilege, any absolute knowing that assumes that an authoritative reading of a text or any assembly of signs, a painting, an even an archeological site can be achieved by assuming it possesses an original authorial/agency intention. Agency, for both theorists, has no privileged position in the production of thought, despite an army of ideological claims to the contrary. Even if they could be known, an author’s intentions would be no more valid as a key to understanding of a text than any other seemingly privileged source. And since intentions cannot be the origin of a text, they have no inherent claim over any other factor.12 So how do these preliminary qualifications move us from theory to an understanding of the cultural practices and ideological significance of common notions of origins? Postmodern theory offers us a unique way of exploring ideas of human origins in terms of their representational status, especially as components within various ideological systems. What we learn from postmodernism is that before anything can be an originary object or thing, it is first a representation, a metaphoric construct functioning ideologically in a complex symbolic system. Analyzing thousands of years of different cultural periods reveals that representations of the originary appear in a variety of forms. So whether we examine threads of origins winding through ancient, pre-modern, Renaissance, Enlightenment, Romantic, Victorian, or modern human origin narratives or discourses, what we discover is that these strands overlap to construct the ideological basis by which most Western cultural citizens understand their histories. In essence, postmodern criticism has shown that the world of origins takes material form as a set of codes, with

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narratives of order acting as authority constructs. What becomes obvious is that these narratives contain ideas of power and knowledge that ultimately create cultural regulatory systems. Interestingly enough, the ideological powers of these narratives are usually ignored because of their surface promise to break though the mystical to get to the heart of the beginning, a glimpse that nonetheless generates a set of cultural rules. There are also other critiques of origin narratives. Several sociobiological theories, for instance, suggest that the complexity of human origins cannot be captured simply in terms of either a transcendental or natural agent, with that of either a deity creator or a violent predatory natural state. In fact, contrary to the social Darwinism of popularized scientific thinking, engendered in Herbert Spencer’s notion of the ‘‘survival of the fittest,’’ the success of early human origins may have resulted from an array of collective ‘‘non-zero-sum’’ practices. This idea contrasts with the dominant popular emphasis on the strongest members of a species, a narrative more effective in advancing the aims of modern capitalism than in being very accurate biologically. This chapter has tried to outline some of the more compelling aspects of origin narratives, particularly their ideological business. Hopefully it has demonstrated that in both content and theory our envisioning of the past carries with it some of very same ideological trappings and content that reside within the very objects of our analysis.

Notes 1 http://www.magictails.com/creationlinks.html 2 http://www.edu:8080/
wldciv/world_civ_reader_1/kojiki.html 3 http://univie.ac.at/Voelkerkunde/apsis/aufi/folk/folk-t01.html 4 Hesiod, The Theogony, trans. Richmond Lattimore (Ann Arbor, MI: Ann Arbor Press, 1992), p. 130. 5 Lin Yutang, The Wisdom of China and India (New York: Random House, 1942), p. 121. 6 http://www.integralscience.org/genesis/genesis.html 7 http:www.parentcompany.com 8 James Burke and Robert Ornstein, The Axemaker’s Gift: A Double-Edged History of Human Culture (New York: Grosset, 1995), pp. 9–10. 9 William Gibson, All Tomorrow’s Parties (New York: Penguin Putnam-Ace, 2000), p. 17. 10 Charles Darwin, Origin of Species (Oxford University Press, 1996), pp. 67–8.

28 Paul Privateer 11 Robert Wright, NonZero: The Logic of Human Destiny (New York: Pantheon, 2000). 12 See Roland Barthes, ‘‘The Death of the Author,’’ in Image, Music, Text (New York: Hill, 1977); Michel Foucault, ‘‘What is an Author?’’ in Language, Counter-Memory, Practice (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977).

2

‘‘We Grew Up and Moved On’’: Visitors to British Museums Consider Their ‘‘Cradle of Mankind’’ Monique Scott Introduction In July 1999, a Conde´ Nast Traveler article featuring the indigenous South African Kung-San began: As a species, we grew up and moved on, and if your particular adaptation is to be able to plan the future and remember the past, then getting out of the Kalahari will be something of a priority. Run, don’t walk. In a blink of 10,000 years, you can be in downtown Manhattan with air conditioning and Internet pizza delivery . . . . But some people stayed behind.1

It is readily apparent that popular media have not altogether abandoned the century-old representation of aboriginal Africans as an evolutionarily unique and inferior species. African peoples and a much mythologized African ‘‘ape-man’’ are intimately bound to each other through the continent, an enduring association that has long colored images of our earliest human ancestors as well as the continent that cradled them. For the most part, Africa’s distinction as the ‘‘cradle of mankind’’ has proven to be a double-edged sword for Africa and Africans. Through the popularization of anthropological discourse, Africa has been impressed upon many as the

30 Monique Scott continent from which ‘‘we’’ arose and eventually escaped. This vision ‘‘Out of Africa’’ (emphasis on the out) has long inspired the crude teleological assumption of progress from ape to man, from Africa to Europe. And Africans, accordingly, have become integral to this narrative, offering bodily proof of the natural analogy of ‘‘our’’ deep evolutionary history. In the end, the continent – after achieving the once rather coveted position of the cradle of mankind – now struggles against the persistent stigmatization as the fundamental, though ignoble, bottom rung. Throughout a long history of Hottentot Venuses and Ota Bengas (the ‘‘Pygmy’’ exhibited a century ago at the Bronx Zoo), African peoples have been used to perform race according to the whims of a Western ontological quest.2 Borrowing from historical accounts of African exploration and ethnographies of Africans, early evolutionary images of Africans transformed the continent and its people from ethnographic spectacle to evolutionary spectacle. As Gustav Jahoda’s comprehensive historical critique has demonstrated, the stigmatization of African peoples as bestial and apelike has left pervasive political and psychological residues throughout much of the world, including Africa itself.3 This science fiction enters the vernacular in a myriad of fashions, both blatant and subtle – from racial slurs that liken black people to primates (as apes, baboons, porch monkeys, jungle bunnies, tree-swingers, etc.) to those folk explanations of black features linking black people uniquely to their animal roots (in hair texture, skin color, nose shape, etc.); from those slurs that imply the savagery of the black lifestyle (urban jungle, wilding, spear-chuckers, etc.) to pop-cultural allusions in music, art, advertising, and cinema (for instance, the racialized paranoia of Planet of the Apes, and its recent revival). As an image, the bestial African is stubbornly entrenched in the collective imagination, perpetuating an unyielding legacy. This constellation of racially encoded images signifying African origins does not pervade popular and vernacular cultures alone; they are widespread in the evolutionary reconstructions of museums. Natural history museums have long been positioned at the forefront of those institutions disseminating ostensibly informed evolutionary images of Africa to the lay public. Within them, audiences of human evolution exhibits have long been invited to envision Africa as the cradle of mankind. Here, the evolutionary theses supporting African origins come to life through an array of fantastic images of ancestral Africa and aboriginal Africans – a complex and often contradictory mix of iconography that extends from primitive hominoids to African Eve, from bestial ape-man to noble savage.

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From research conducted in two London museums, the British Museum of Natural History and the Horniman Museum, this chapter discusses the ways diverse audiences of human evolution exhibitions perceive Africa as the cradle of mankind.4 This study of visitor perceptions reveals the complex ways in which visitors equipped with a weighty set of cultural baggage – baggage filled with such things as Conde´ Nast Traveler writing, Planet of the Apes films and Hottentot Venus images – occupy the nexus between the evolutionary folklore outside of the museum and that which has been generated within it. This research also reveals the way in which that cultural baggage forces museum visitors to negotiate between their own fully evolved selves (defined by such evolutionary leaps as fast food, air conditioning and the internet) and the ‘‘people who stayed behind.’’

Scientific Illustrations and Canonical Icons, the ‘‘Visual Language of Science’’ My project builds upon an accretion of scholarship that recognizes popular reconstructions of human origins as very influential documents, documents integral to the success of anthropological arguments both within and beyond professional anthropological circles. Such scholarship critiques human origins imagery as a powerful rhetorical device, often one uniquely powerful among those images used in other scientific disciplines. Human origins imagery shares with other ‘‘deep-time’’ sciences such as geology and paleontology the remarkable ability to capture the magic (and the attendant mysteries, romance, horror, and vastness) of remote prehistory. Origins imagery makes the otherwise inconceivable imaginable, even tangible. As Stephanie Moser has commented, ‘‘our sense of deep time is inherently a visual one,’’ so visual renderings of human prehistory are ultimately the most satisfying.5 Human origins imagery collapses millions of years into one (or a few) isolated frames of view. In doing so, origins imagery not only seduces visitors, but relieves them of the tedium of esoteric evolutionary jargon. Evolutionary reconstructions are undoubtedly the most provocative and engaging of evolutionary educational media. While visual modes of evolutionary education may be engaging, they are often also fundamentally misrepresentative. With a manipulative sleight of hand, human origins imagery collapses evolutionary time and

32 Monique Scott condenses geographic space. The Africa of our origins then becomes an isolated place distant in both prehistoric space and time, often converging symbolically on the imagined dark bodies and dark wilderness of Africa. Furthermore, the tremendous reliance upon inference and analogy in the reconstruction of our human ancestors compounds the misrepresentation of Africa. This ‘‘imaginative deduction’’ is often grossly unscientific, a mere projection of the present (the Conde´ Nast ‘‘Bushmen,’’ for example) into the evolutionary past.6 By imagining our forebears in recognizable, but artificial, packages, evolutionary reconstructions tend to concretize flaws in scientific logic, becoming both tautological and overly adaptationist in rationale.7 Another feature lending itself to the distortions inherent in many reconstructions of human ancestors is that, quite frankly, they concern both humans and ancestors. Reconstructions of human ancestors define for us our own fundamental humanity. Thus, they cannot avoid being encoded, explicitly and implicitly, with various subjective connotations about what it means to be human. Moser’s seminal critique of human origins imagery, Ancestral Images, has called attention to the ways in which human origins imagery recycles a limited number of certain elemental motifs.8 Origins images create a narrative punctuated by culturally invested behavioral landmarks, such as fire, hunting, and art. At the same time, they also define certain characteristics as uniquely prehistoric. According to Moser, ‘‘They use a set of icons that serve to communicate the essence of what it means to be primitive, and by implication, prehistoric: caves, skins, clubs, nakedness, hairiness, dark skin, and rocky or wooded landscapes.’’9 These motifs, in their constant repetition, make a definitive statement on what it means to be human, and the biological and cultural hurdles that must be overcome to arrive there. For example, the creation of art has become one of the most potent symbols of modern humanity, and a litmus test for cultural sophistication. That this symbol of humanity is depicted most often in Europe exemplifies how these evolutionary hurdles are very much colorcoded, defining implicitly who is (and conversely, who is not) fully evolved. The chronometric yardstick also reveals that there are actually two trajectories of human origins – biological origins in Africa (the first set of hurdles) and cultural origins in Europe (the last set of hurdles). At the expense of the increasing evidence for a recent ‘‘African Eve’’ and accumulating research in African archaeology, the so-called ‘‘Great Leap Forward’’ or ‘‘Human Revolution’’ out of Africa resigns the cradle of mankind (and its characteristic signs – dark skin, immersion in nature,

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interaction with wild beasts) to pre-civilization evolutionary stasis.10 These motifs continue to persist, compromising scientific accuracy and stifling alternative visions. While the evolutionary stigmatization of Africa produces a potent image of its people, this ‘‘image’’ is not simply visual. It is a dense package of ideas, folklore, ideology, and politics that exists as much in cultural memory and collective imagination as it does on the artist’s canvas. In the Western imagination, the Africa of our origins is symbolically landscaped across the Africa of today, a projection that is experienced as fully in travel to the game reserves in Africa as travel to the Akeley Hall of African Mammals at the American Museum of Natural History.11 Furthermore, the two- and three-dimensional images of the natural history museum function within the greater matrix of cultural production that has circulated and continues to circulate value-laden images of Africa.12 Natural history museums are very much a forum of image and ideological exchange, both challenging and reinforcing the sedimented imagery museum visitors bring with them to exhibitions. I consider visitor studies a most significant tool for critiquing the cultural work of evolutionary representations. They can expose museum visitors, and cultural consumers generally, as much more than monolithic observers. As illustrated by several important critiques of the relationship between museum, nation and heritage – such as Karp, Kreamer, and Levine’s Museums and Communities: the Politics of Public Culture – diverse individuals bring unique understandings to museum exhibitions, an amalgamation of varied cultural histories, educational experiences, and class insights.13 I contend that these affiliations shape individual perceptions of evolutionary heritage, especially perceptions of African origins and African ancestors. These identifications influence how people see themselves and their ancestors reflected in human evolution exhibits, and how they locate the origins of the cultures, ‘‘races,’’ and nations they find familiar. Audience research also uncovers the voice of marginalized museum visitors. Built on the progressivist assumptions fostered by the Africato-Europe evolutionary narrative, human origins exhibitions tend to presume that modern-day museum visitors live outside of Africa and do not maintain cultural ties to the continent. As a result, the reality and experience of many black museum visitors becomes persistently overlooked. It is also important to consider the relationship between the caveman Neanderthal as icon and the ape-man African as icon. Both serve significant symbolic functions to popular evolutionary imagery, and work

34 Monique Scott simultaneously as significant abbreviations of particular prehistoric moments. The image of the Neanderthal is by far the most common representative of prehistoric man. Its suite of characteristics – white skin, disheveled hair, stooped posture, vacant expression (the classic characteristics developed by artists such as Zdenek Burian) – sells and transports easily as an icon. The image of the African ape-man, however, is almost as pervasive, while functioning in less neat and recognizably overt manners. Many images of the Neanderthal often function irrespective of the African ape-man, juxtaposed (often comically) simply against the modern European as his brutish prehistoric ancestor. As comic relief, the Neanderthal provides the best mirror for the European and his anxieties about his humanity. However, the African ape-man is the natural predecessor of the Neanderthal caveman, and the two have a symbolic interdependence. In longer narratives of human evolution, such as those incorporated in museums and those played out in linear depictions of the ‘‘march of progress,’’ we see the white-skinned Neanderthal caveman as an advancement beyond the dark-skinned bestial ape-man. I would argue that the Neanderthal caveman and African ape-man have a symbolic relationship to one another, and both make significant evolutionary arguments about human progress. Interestingly, this relationship between Neanderthals and dark-skinned ancestors is becoming increasingly complicated with the proliferation of the notion of an African Eve, and the thesis that dark-skinned modern humans outcompeted Neanderthals to become the ancestors of all Homo sapiens. Again, however, an iconographic ploy is often performed to redeem the European character. As Diane Gifford-Gonzalez has critiqued, the European Neanderthal is now often portrayed as succumbing to the violent (particularly sexually violent), spear-wielding, dark-skinned modern savages newly out of Africa. This is epitomized by the scene in the BBC production ‘‘Ape-Man,’’ calling upon many racial stereotypes, that depicts a gang of black men circling and raping a young, docile Neanderthal woman.14

Museums Today: The British Museum of Natural History and the Horniman Museum I’ve found that today’s museums recycle age-old racialized anthropological dogma in four significant ways. First, natural history museums continually

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emphasize linearity in human evolutionary history, thus reducing the complexity of the fossil record and human diversity to a neat procession of species. The linearity implies a teleological evolution, driven and purposeful. As a result, the human evolutionary history represented in museums often remains uncomplicated by the many theoretical and methodological incongruities that make the discipline so intriguing. Second, museums continue to call upon dark skin and other conspicuous iconography of Africa as characteristics of prehistory while, thirdly, modernity continues to be represented as something that occurs uniquely in Europe, among white-skinned ancestors. This dark prehistory and white modernity are misrepresentative only in their functional dependence on one another, insinuating through such distinctions in color an evolutionarily primitive Africa into the minds of museum visitors. Finally, museums typically imply that there exist discrete racial types, a product of racial polygenism. By exhibitions moving in discrete racial packages, from black to brown to white, museums endorse the notion of strict regional (indeed continental) boundaries between ‘‘races’’ and an ancient origin of racial groups. By not offering the alternative notion of remarkable similarity and exchange between modern humans, museums appeal to the notion, pervasive throughout the nineteenth century and early twentieth century, that while there may be one common ancestor for the earliest hominoids (or mere ape-men), there are three or so different origins of modern humanity. This confluence of all these representational weaknesses encourages visitors to assume that modernity occurred first (if not only) in Europe, and that the migration out of Africa allowed for the emergence of true humanity. (And during my study, museum visitors have recited verbatim this notion.) The two museums considered here, the British Museum of Natural History (or the Natural History Museum) and the Horniman Museum, both conform to traditional modes of evolutionary representation as well as make significant correctives on them. They are representatives of the beauties, challenges, and paradoxes of the modern natural history museum. The British Museum of Natural History may very well, in birth and bloodline, represent one of the purest forms of the original natural history museum. It is held as such in the imagination of its visitors; it is often imagined very much anchored to its eighteenth-century Wunderkammern roots, despite having made significant departures in display technique and scientific ideology. The Horniman Museum, on the other hand, provides a most beautiful model of the Victorian

36 Monique Scott Darwinist museum. Today its natural history gallery remains truly a museum within a museum. A gift to the people of London, this most modern of Victorian natural history museums (right down to its architecture) was designed to extol the new principles of social Darwinism and Darwinian anthropology. In their beginnings, the two museums were ideologically quite conflicted. The Natural History Museum (under antievolutionist Richard Owen) remained true to its pre-Darwinian lineage with an emphasis on natural diversity and Linnaean taxonomy; while the Horniman Museum (under ardent evolutionist A. C. Haddon) reflected Victorian anthropology with an emphasis on Darwinian and social Darwinian evolution. Both museums stand today as exquisite representatives of the natural history museum – not as mere models of the past but as museums traversing the past, present, and future of the natural history museum form. The human origins exhibition at the Natural History Museum is entitled ‘‘Our Place in Nature.’’ Opened in 1980, the exhibition is probably most distinguished by its emphasis on phylogenetic reconstruction (or cladistics), a didactic device that has been the focus of much critical attention. The museum divorces itself from conventional representations by having visitors weigh species-specific character traits at each new exhibition juncture, an exercise that in some ways subverts the linearity of the evolutionary course. This strategy offers museum visitors unique insight into scientific method and theory, a most important critical tool to impart to visitors. It also presents an evolutionary course that is decidedly less definitive and linear. However, the expense of presenting cladistics alone is that it distinguishes the method as the only valid scientific approach, to the exclusion of other methods. Given its resistance to the certainty attributed to the more conventional modes of representation, this approach also tends to beget confusion and uncertainty in moments (making it more amenable, for example, to creationist deconstruction). Other than the emphasis on phylogenetic reconstruction, the exhibition is fairly classic in layout, progressing directionally from apes and Africa in the beginning to culture and Europe in the conclusion. In order to represent tidily the leap from past to present, the introductory diorama offers (perhaps self-consciously) a stark juxtaposition between an ape standing next to an idealized, David-esque bust of a white man (Figure 2.1). Reinforcing this, ‘‘Modern Humans’’ are represented by a conventional European caveman scene: a shaggy-haired man holding a spear standing beside a crouching woman.15 The exhibition also uses a variety of artistic

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Figure 2.1 Display on human evolution, Natural History Museum. Courtesy of the Natural History Museum

reconstructions and life-size models, including an unconventional lifesized model of a dark-skinned Neanderthal female that complicates many visitors’ expectations of white-skinned Neanderthals. The Horniman Museum differs markedly from the Natural History Museum, in terms of both the human evolution exhibition and its visiting constituency (Figure 2.2). The human evolution exhibition here is rather small and inconspicuous, consistent with the classic Victorian display approach that characterizes the entirety of the natural history gallery. The exhibition covers in a very simple, prosaic fashion the procession in hominid forms from Australopithecines to modern humans (at least as perceived in the 1980s when the exhibition was curated). The exhibition pays little attention to hominid behavior and scientific methodology, and it lacks any artistic reconstructions. The exhibition ends with a ‘‘Varieties of Mankind’’ panel, which divides humans into four discrete regional categories: Indo-Europe, Northeast Asia and the Americas, Africa, and Australia. This outdated archetypal view of human races rests heavily on multiregionalist notions, which caused confusion in more than one of the Horniman’s regular black visitors. For example, having located his own

38 Monique Scott

Figure 2.2 Visitor observing display on human evolution, Horniman Museum. Courtesy of the Horniman Museum

geographic home, one eleven-year-old black regular visitor to the museum asked me curiously about the European subdivision, ‘‘Europe is supposed to have black people, and it’s got many white people in there!’’ An older visitor further problematizes the racial implications of the exhibit with ‘‘The African section gives the impression that we are primitive and look like that. We look a little different now.’’ Overall, compared to the wide range of media and didactic strategies employed by the Natural History Museum, the Horniman Museum is rather flat and simplified, and this contrast became apparent in the range and tenor of visitor responses to the two exhibitions. The Horniman Museum’s featured cultural exhibition, ‘‘African Worlds,’’ was also of great peripheral interest to my study of the museum. With its progressive representation of African cultures, ‘‘African Worlds’’ is unique to natural history museums (for example, its avantgarde opening states, ‘‘You are not a country, Africa. You are a concept . . . you are a glimpse of the infinite’’). The exhibition includes dynamic, lively exhibits of a tremendous variety of African cultures, including the voices and interpretations of diverse African peoples, past and present. The exhibition is a triumph in display techniques, representation,

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and complications of African cultures. Because this cultural exhibition complicates African cultures with its display techniques and counterrepresentations, it provides a unique opportunity to consider how it might influence visitors’ responses to the narrative underpinning the Horniman Museum’s human origins exhibition.

Perceptions of Africa: The Visitors Respond During summer 2000, I conducted surveys at the Natural History Museum and the Horniman Museum to probe diverse museum visitors’ perceptions, and I complemented these surveys with a number of in-depth interviews and focus groups, including groups of schoolchildren visiting the two museums. I also interviewed various museum professionals, including members of the education, exhibition, and anthropology departments, as well as tour guides.16 At the Natural History Museum, I surveyed 120 museum visitors. Because I conducted my surveys primarily on weekdays, the majority of respondents were international (mostly European) tourists (41 percent British, 59 percent non-British). Most respondents were below the age of 40 (75 percent), and there was a bias in the proportion of men to women (58 percent to 42 percent). At the Horniman Museum, I surveyed 115 museum visitors, mostly British (75 percent). Most of these respondents were also below the age of 40 (77 percent), and the proportion of men to women was relatively equal (51 percent to 49 percent). The Horniman’s ethnically and economically diverse constituency makes the museum particularly notable. As a historically free museum in a largely black region of southeast London, most of the Horniman’s visitors are local residents who visit the museum regularly. In contrast with the Natural History Museum, I was able to collect information on the ethnic backgrounds of the Horniman’s visitors; visitors there self-identified themselves as 15 percent black, 11 percent Asian, and 74 percent white.17 An overwhelming majority (90 percent) of visitors at both museums claimed that they had previous exposure to human evolution through both formal education and, more importantly, through such popular media as television and books (the most common), as well as films, magazines, and newspapers. Indeed the very popular BBC television series ‘‘Ape-Man’’ seemed to captivate my respondents in particular.

40 Monique Scott For the purposes of this chapter, I will limit my discussion to the three survey questions most directly related to visitor perceptions of Africa and African ancestors. In this vein, I presented visitors with two open-ended questions: ‘‘Do you think of early African hominids (or ape-men) as ancestors? Why or why not?’’ and ‘‘Do you think of Africa as the cradle of mankind?’’ In general, visitors to both museums concurred. Visitors at both museums agreed in relatively similar proportion (78 percent) that African hominids were ancestors. There was slightly less consensus between the museum visitors that Africa was the cradle of mankind. While 67 percent of my respondents at the Natural History Museum agreed that Africa was the cradle of mankind, only 62 percent of the Horniman respondents agreed. These numbers merely sketch a plot, however; the visitors’ actual words tell the full story. The qualitative responses reveal just how much visitors rely on cultural and racial preconceptions of Africa to understand the science of African origins. From this evidence, we can see the tacit assumptions built into the exhibition as well as the racialized cultural baggage visitors bring to bear upon exhibitions, both mutually reinforcing each other to produce an image of a static and primitive Africa.

African ape-men as ‘‘ancestors’’ Regarding African ape-men as ancestors, several respondents assumed a unique connection between African or black peoples of today and evolutionarily distant African ancestors. Visitors used various forms of social evolutionist or progressivist rationale to come to terms with their African ancestors.18 Some visitors made the social evolutionist logic perfectly clear.19 For example, a Natural History Museum’s respondent response (mirroring several others) revealed poignantly visitors’ racial misconceptions, as well as their roots. This visitor wrote ‘‘Yes . . . school lessons always linked the two . . . because of appearance and similarities.’’ A Horniman Museum visitor echoed this misconception rooted in formal education, reasoning that African ape-men were ancestors because ‘‘it is what I have been told at school. Also if you look to a coloured person, their faces have more similarities to hominids than us.’’ Some visitors made more subtle associations. For example, one Natural History Museum respondent reasoned that African ape-men were ancestors ‘‘because they were nomadic,’’ an inference that associated African nomads of today with the presumed nomads of deep evolutionary history. When I asked the same

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question in interviews, I received similar responses. One Horniman visitor, recalling his own collection of cultural baggage, said: One of these programmes that I was watching said that there was a tribe in Africa that still lives, how we would call, primitively. They reckon that more or less every single human in this world is related to this tribe. . . . They’re saying that Europeans and everyone, there is a common link with this tribe of people who have, you know, obviously not really gone anywhere. They’re still pretty more or less where the whole thing sort of happened.

We see, then, that museum visitors typically point to modern black people as living emblems of our deep evolutionary history, a lazy extrapolation common to nineteenth-century social evolutionism. We also must recognize that television (here, the Discovery Channel) joins Conde´ Nast Traveler in perpetuating these conceptual strategies; more importantly, these responses also point to the education system as a legitimizing agent of these pervasive racial fictions. Visitors also relied upon their own experience with or cultural relationship to Africa to come to terms with African origins. A number of visitors based this belief on their own travel experiences, and one stated simply: ‘‘Yes, [I believe African ape-men are ancestors] because I live in South Africa.’’20 One black Jamaican man wrote that he believed in African apemen as ancestors ‘‘because we as Africans possess hair texture unique to animals (of far different quality).’’ This self-referential response reveals just how much folk explanations of race and racial characteristics can distort the way in which people of color come to see their own selves. Racial misconceptions are not unique to Euro-Americans, ingrained as they are in a vast array of popular culture, formal systems of education, and museum institutions.21

Africa as ‘‘cradle of mankind’’ The idea of Africa as the cradle of mankind met more resistance culturally than the idea of African hominids as ‘‘ancestors.’’ And more museum visitors used outdated anthropological rationales to conceptualize Africa in this way. I found that respondents used at least three culturally informed, present-day-informed strategies to explain their attitudes. The three ways visitors imagined Africa as the cradle of mankind were: (1) through physical associations with African peoples (as with the

42 Monique Scott previous question); (2) through an imagined African landscape; and (3) through recent cultural or political criteria. Altogether, this question inspired many visitors to come to terms with significant tensions between ‘‘us’’ and ‘‘them’’; between biological origins and cultural origins, between Africa and Europe, and between ape-men and ancestors. Not only do these statements shed light on the limited vocabulary visitors use when thinking of the ‘‘we’’ and ‘‘they’’ in African origins; they emphasize how the sentiments of rather evolutionary educated museum visitors of today are anchored to nineteenth-century ladders of progress from Africa to Europe. First, asking people to imagine Africa as the cradle of mankind elicited responses that depended very much upon Africans themselves being the embodiment of evolutionary ancestors. One Natural History Museum visitor wrote: ‘‘Yes, [I believe Africa is the cradle of mankind] because Africa has a black population and we evolved from a black race.’’ This straightforward rationale was echoed again and again among museum visitors. Similarly, a Horniman visitor reasoned: ‘‘When you think of Australian aborigines . . . I think we come from there. But when you think of Masai, I think maybe the Garden of Eden is in Africa.’’ Here the visitor invokes various dark-skinned peoples she identifies on the ‘‘Varieties of Mankind’’ panel as potential signifiers of her own evolutionary origins. Again, indigenous people are being clearly called upon as conduits to the past, as analogies for distant evolutionary ancestors. The second rationale visitors used to imagine the cradle of mankind was an imagined African landscape. The visitor that spoke of the Masai and the Garden of Eden conjured up an image of evolutionary ancestors as well as an image of the prehistoric environment. This is in fact characteristic of the ways in which many people understood Africa as the cradle of mankind, by invoking the biblical image ‘‘Garden of Eden.’’ As Adams and McShane have written, ‘‘Europeans invented a mythical Africa, which soon claimed a place of privilege in the Western imagination. We cling to our faith in Africa as a glorious Eden for wildlife.’’22 Other visitors focused quite explicitly upon the perceived fertility of the land. For example, a Natural History Museum visitor wrote: ‘‘With all the rainforest area and fertile land with plenty of water, it would seem ideal for the early mankind.’’ These statements suggest that, despite the popularity of the savanna hypothesis and the present-day aridity of the East and South African fossil sites, some museum visitors tend to imagine Africa as a land of lush rainforests and fecund jungle. This category of survey responses calls upon the present African landscape to rationalize the prehistoric

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African past. Although painting fairly positive or romantic images of Africa, these images function to keep the continent contained in a rather remote, timeless, and static prehistory. As a more subtle implication of the African landscape, some visitors responded to this question commenting that Africa as the cradle of mankind ‘‘just seems right’’ or ‘‘just feels right,’’ suggesting the visceral emotions implicit in determining one’s evolutionary cradle. The third rationale, one I tentatively refer to as ‘‘Outside of Africa,’’ denies Africa as the cradle of mankind by using rather contemporary or Western yardsticks of human progress. A subset of these responses was highly politicized. For example, one Natural History Museum visitor expressed his difficulty envisioning Africa as the cradle of mankind with the explanation: ‘‘No. I think Africa’s status as a third-world continent overshadows the role it played in the development of mankind.’’ Another Natural History Museum visitor used similar highly politicized logic: ‘‘There are lots of people who would like us to believe that [Africa is the cradle of mankind] in the US now. There is enormous pressure to give Africa her due, as if it needed anything else. Africa is doing fine.’’ This white American visitor to the British Museum of Natural History, frustrated with Western benevolence to Africa, deemed Africa as deserving of very little – certainly not the distinction ‘‘cradle of mankind.’’ Another visitor explained not envisioning Africa as the cradle of mankind with the response: ‘‘Mankind has developed outside of Africa to a greater degree.’’ This Horniman visitor’s comment seems to epitomize the culturally biased and progress-driven logic of many of the previous responses. Clearly the vision of Africa as a troubled continent today is influencing perceptions, and even inspiring resentment, for Africa’s role in prehistory. A subset of these responses consisted of people who believe the phrase ‘‘cradle of mankind’’ should be reserved for explicitly cultural or ethnic origins. This is a response I anticipated, given the many implications held by the moniker. Several visitors articulated a difference between biological and cultural birthplaces of humanity, expressing often a discomfort with Africa being anything other than a distinctly biological birthplace. For example, visitors would agree to Africa as cradle of mankind with statements such as ‘‘biologically maybe, but not culturally.’’ Along these lines, visitors also articulated the difference between North Africa and subSaharan Africa, the former seeming a more appealing cultural cradle. It is also important to note that visitor comments also reveal the inclination or compulsion to believe that races have prehistorically deep

44 Monique Scott evolutionary origins, that modern humans are not recently associated. For many visitors, Europeans come from Europe and Africans come from Africa. Again, this multiregionalist bent is a product of museums lagging behind scientific findings pertaining to the genetic homogeneity of the human species, as well as general sociopolitical discomfort stemming from our fundamental racial and biological similarities. Visitor ambiguities or inner conflicts about the cradle of mankind were also revealed in the subtlest nuances of conversation. A small contingent of visitors at both museums seemed to accept Africa as the cradle of mankind begrudgingly, resigning themselves to sentiments such as ‘‘we have to come from somewhere’’ and agreeing to African Origins only because of a proudly ‘‘open mind.’’ These inflections were most apparent in interviews and casual conversation. It suggests, yet again, the many cultural implications and investments we have in our biological origins. The visitor research ultimately illuminated the ways the words ‘‘cradle of mankind’’ are extremely value-laden for museum visitors, and the ways in which the phrase inspires some people to want to imagine something closer to home, usually a home far outside of Africa. These (and other responses) also indicate that visitors customarily call upon present understanding of African cultures and African politics to inform their understanding of African prehistory.

Africa, ‘‘a place of beautiful animals’’ I also invited visitors to choose from and rate the validity of five stereotypes of the African continent. This question asked: ‘‘Do any of the following statements come close to your impressions of Africa? If more than one apply, please rate 1, 2, 3 . . . .’’ (There was also an alternative option of ‘‘Other.’’) From the list of statements, the forerunning stereotype of Africa emerged as ‘‘a place of beautiful animals.’’ This is a testament to the many Western representations of Africa where the savannas and jungles of Africa are privileged over the Africa of African peoples.23 Following the Africa of animals, visitors seem to envision Africa in the following order: ‘‘a place of beautiful people’’; ‘‘a continent in turmoil’’; ‘‘a land of primitive cultures’’; and lastly as the ‘‘Garden of Eden.’’ Most interestingly, the survey responses for this question from both the Natural History Museum and the Horniman Museum are remarkably similar, despite the Horniman’s ‘‘African Worlds’’ exhibition. In fact, one Horniman Museum visitor’s response to this question is negatively inspired by a religious component of ‘‘African Worlds.’’ She

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offered, as to her perceptions of Africa, ‘‘I can’t stand voodoo. I like pretty things. Africa scares me.’’ Her comment echoes responses from the study Reading National Geographic, where again and again readers commented generally feeling unpleasant and discomforted by images of African peoples, whereas images of African animals are greatly admired.24 The similarities between the two museums speaks to the resiliency of stereotypical images of Africa, as well as the ability of museum visitors to project personal meaning onto exhibitions. And only three visitors from the two museums added that Africa was far more complex and holds greater variation than the stereotypical statements would suggest.

Conclusion This study reveals the complicated ways museum exhibits are dynamic ‘‘contact zones,’’ a forum for the two-way interaction between producers and consumers, science and stereotype, and the ways in which both museum and visitor share in the mutual construction of meaning.25 This insight is fundamental to the analysis of the museum institution as both producer and recipient of ideology. The Natural History Museum and the Horniman Museum are exceptional in their respective means of undermining the way in which evolutionary exhibitions are conventionally read. The Natural History Museum achieves this in the use of cladistics to subvert the linear, teleological narrative. And the Horniman Museum achieves this in the ways its progressive ‘‘African Worlds’’ exhibition should work to subvert traditional representations of African culture as primitive and prehistoric. Nonetheless, a significant number of museum visitors still seem to regard Africans as evolutionarily inferior, and a conceptual ladder of progress from Africa to Europe often facilitates acceptance and understanding of African origins. Many museum visitor responses suggest the difficulties they have in fully realizing and appreciating the fundamental humanity of black people, making it that much easier for Africans to become dehumanized in the context of evolution. The ways in which Africans come to embody evolutionary history often reverberate with the teleological assumptions and racial hierarchies of nineteenth-century museum anthropology. The long history of human evolution exhibits proceeding chronologically from the dark African prehistory to the bright European present has left residues of doggedly resilient chronometric ladders of progress.

46 Monique Scott Despite the fact that Africa has long served as a backdrop for evolutionary scenarios, the construction of Africa and Africans within human evolution exhibits has rarely been examined. It is of tremendous significance, both scholarly and political, to interrogate the ways in which Africa still embodies a distinct set of ideas in the popular imagination, a set of ideas that continues to influence and contaminate interpretations of human prehistory. Museums must be increasingly conscientious not to reinforce popular cultural myths about Africa, and not to allow century-old misinformation to compromise or simplify evolutionary arguments. Expectations would hold that because of the unique identities of the Horniman Museum and the Natural History Museum, and because of distinctions in their visiting constituencies, the perspectives of museum visitors would be more varied. That this was not the case reveals how museum visitors are largely a product of a greater sociocultural matrix, and are much affected by a great variety of influences. This does not lessen the responsibility of the natural history museum as interventionist; conversely, it places a greater burden on museums to relay more challenging and conscientious representations of Africa and human evolution. Given that museum visitors tend to be very scientifically educated and interested, and pride themselves on their cultural and intellectual sophistication, the responses discussed in this chapter are likely to be symptomatic of much greater and more grave racial misconceptions in society at large. Also bear in mind that British museum visitors are not unique. The responses discussed here are reinforced by the responses of American and Kenyan museum visitors in my greater study. Along these lines, it is also important to consider the ways in which museum visitor perceptions do not always conform in anticipated ways to racial affiliation, and conform often to parameters of education, affluence, and class. Additional research into Western and non-Western museum visitors is necessary in order to truly assess the signature of racial folklore among diverse museum visitors. One way to circumvent conventional representations is to complicate and expand the so-called end of the human evolution story. While there are perhaps constraints on the range of possible artistic reconstructions that begin exhibitions, we can certainly expand the images that end exhibitions. Although museum visitors, as well as the ancestors they face in human evolution exhibitions, are infinitely diverse, the characters and settings used to re-enact human evolution are often redundant. Because of the chronological layout of most human origins exhibits, exhibits often begin in Africa and end in Europe, with technology, culture, civilization,

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and the Human Revolution. The gross underrepresentation of diverse peoples at the ‘‘end’’ of evolutionary narratives and the underemphasis of African cultural revolutions make the migration out of Africa seem very much as if humanity progressed out of the cradle and into the finishing school. While anthropological research has expanded upon images of Africa, introducing such characters as a recent African Eve into the prehistoric African landscape, the theoretical advances often become subverted by conventional African imagery (African apes and African apemen). As African archaeological research expands, so should popular iconography. We also have to consider that implicit within many African origins narratives is a shared consciousness of now being outside of or beyond ancestral Africa. As a result, the reality and experience of black museum visitors, museum visitors connected culturally and often physically to Africa, becomes nonexistent. Human evolution exhibitions are reflections of ourselves. As we face our ancestors, let’s be constantly mindful of not only who the ‘‘they’’ are in our African origins, but who the ‘‘we’’ are as well.

Notes 1 A. Gill, ‘‘Grub’s Up,’’ Conde´ Nast Traveler (July, 1999). 2 As Wilmsen has stated in regard to conceptions of the South African KungSan, or ‘‘Bushmen.’’ See E. Wilmsen, Land Filled with Flies: A Political Economy of the Kalahari (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), p. 4. 3 G. Jahoda, Images of Savages: Ancient Roots of Modern Prejudice in Western Culture (London: Routledge, 1999). 4 The project-at-large compares British, American, and Kenyan museum audiences. In addition to the British museums, the project also includes the National Museum of Kenya (Nairobi) and the American Museum of Natural History (New York City). As case studies, the four natural history museums are not called upon as essential archetypes, nor are they considered representative of museum visitors or nations as a whole; they merely offer a window of insight at unique regional and historical moments. 5 S. Moser, Ancestral Images: The Iconography of Human Origins (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), pp. 2, 173. 6 ‘‘Imaginative deduction’’ as used by Stoczkowski. See W. Stoczkowski, ‘‘The Painter and Prehistoric People: A ‘Hypothesis on Canvas,’ ’’ in B. L. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images: Visual Representation in Archaeology (New York: Routledge, 1997), p. 251.

48 Monique Scott 7

8 9 10

11

12

13

14

15

16

In fact, they conform to what Stephen Jay Gould refers to as the ‘‘four horsemen of progress, determinism, gradualism and adaptationism.’’ See S. J. Gould, The Flamingo’s Smile: Reflections in Natural History (New York: W. W. Norton, 1985), p. 15. Moser, Ancestral Images. Ibid., p. 173. S. McBrearty and A. Brooks, ‘‘The Revolution that Wasn’t: A New Interpretation of the Origin of Modern Human Behavior,’’ Journal of Human Evolution, 39:5 (2000), pp. 453–563. On Akeley Hall, see D. Haraway, ‘‘Teddy Bear Patriarchy: Taxidermy in the Garden of Eden, New York City, 1908–1936,’’ in Primate Visions: Gender, Race and Nature in the World of Modern Science (London: Routledge, 1989), pp. 26–58. Much critical scholarship has attested to this. See, for example: J. N. Pierterse, White on Black: Images of Africa and Blacks in Western Popular Culture (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992); and B. Lindfors, ed., Africans on Stage: Studies in Ethnological Show Business (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999). I. Karp, C. Kreamer, and S. Lavine, eds., Museums and Communities: the Politics of Public Culture (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992). Also P. G. Stone and B. L. Molyneaux, eds., The Presented Past: Heritage, Museums and Education (London: Routledge, 1994) and D. Boswell and J. Evans, eds., Representing the Nation: A Reader, Histories, Heritage and Museums (London: Routledge, 1999). I am greatly indebted to Diane Gifford-Gonzalez for her insights on the racial implications of human origins representations. I am most thankful for her critique of representations of the ‘‘Out of Africa’’ thesis of modern human origins. D. Gifford-Gonzalez, ‘‘Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens: What the Blank Spaces on the Canvas Reveal,’’ conference paper delivered at ‘‘Envisioning the Past: Constructing Knowledge through Pictorial Traditions of Representation,’’ University of Southampton, November 10–12, 2000. On representations of gender in conventional origins images, see D. GiffordGonzalez, ‘‘You Can Hide but You Can’t Run: Representations of Women’s Work in Illustrations of Paleolithic Life,’’ Visual Anthropology Review, 9 (1993), pp. 23–41. The survey questions are subdivided into three sections, questions pertaining to: (1) specific exhibition media, such as reconstructive models and illustrations; (2) the conceptualization of teleological progress and order in human evolutionary history, including perceptions of the relationship between biological and cultural evolution; and (3) perceptions of Africa and Africans. The questions are designed to probe visitor familiarity with certain folk or outdated evolutionary ideas (such as conventional racial hierarchies and

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taxonomies), as well as contemporary evolutionary models (such as the African replacement model), and the manner in which these ideas are projected onto and received from exhibition media. Visitors were approached randomly toward the end of the exhibitions, and only those visitors that spent time with the majority of the human origins exhibits were asked to participate. 17 And that breakdown reflects pretty closely the demographics collected by the Horniman Museum marketing department in 1999. 18 I rely upon a notion of cultural or social evolution similar to that used by the authors of Reading National Geographic to critique the magazine’s photographs: The organization of photographs into stories about cultural evolution (couched in more ‘‘modern’’ terms of progress and development) . . . tell the Euramerican public that their race prejudice is not so wrong; that at one point people of color were poor, dirty, technologically backward, and superstitious – and some still are . . . . In the context of this story, the fact that bronze peoples are portrayed as slightly less poor [than black people], more technologically adept, serves as proof that progress is possible – and fatalistically links progress to skin color. (C. Lutz and J. Collins, Reading National Geographic, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993, p. 164)

19 Note that because the majority of visitors to the British Museum of Natural History and Horniman Museum were not of ethnic minorities, that demographic can be assumed unless otherwise indicated. This is used as shorthand, while acknowledging the problem of reinscribing the white museum visitor as the norm. 20 See Bruner and Kirshenblatt-Gimblett on East African tourism, and the ways in which Africa is envisioned often as an evolutionary ‘‘Garden of Eden.’’ E. Bruner and B. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, ‘‘Maasai on the Lawn: Tourist Realism in East Africa,’’ Cultural Anthropology, 9:4 (1994), pp. 435–70. 21 As such, museums function as part of those ideological state apparatuses that, as defined by Louis Althusser, carry out the ideological work of the state in maintaining dominant social orders. See L. Althusser, Lenin and Philosophy and Other Essays (New Left Books: London, 1971), pp. 127–86. 22 This idea is much expanded upon in J. S. Adams and T. O. McShane, The Myth of Wild Africa: Conservation without Illusion (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), p. xii. 23 Ibid. And many additional works have commented on this, including Lutz and Collins, Reading National Geographic. 24 Lutz and Collins, Reading National Geographic. 25 The term ‘‘contact zones’’ is borrowed by James Clifford from Mary Louise Pratt to describe museums in multiracial, multicultural societies: ‘‘By

50 Monique Scott thinking of their mission as contact work – decentred and traversed by cultural and political negotiations that are out of any imagined community’s control – museums may begin to grapple with the real difficulties of dialogue, alliance, equality, and translation.’’ J. Clifford, Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), p. 213.

3

The American Time Machine: Indians and the Visualization of Ancient Europe Stephanie Pratt In this chapter I have chosen to examine how European encounters with America, and the images attendant on certain particular voyages of discovery, helped to establish a mental picture of what all so-called primitive societies were like. As is well known, travelers’ reports on North and South American communities, and particularly the eastern seaboard groups of North America, illustrated by Theodore de Bry, took hold of the European imagination. The verbal and visual evidence resulting from these encounters was not merely of ethnological interest, however. For the first time, or so it seemed, it was possible to envisage the beginnings of human society and therefore to imagine what Europe’s earliest history must have been. Necessarily, given this chapter’s focus, I will be concentrating on the early modern period, when archaeology, even in its antiquarian guise, was in its infancy. The point in doing so is to show that some of the concerns tackled by other authors in this volume emerged, or at the very least lay latent, in the earliest speculations on the growth of human society and in the use of images to envisage that past. The relationship, between empirical knowledge of ‘‘primitive’’ culture and its visual representation, on the one hand, and speculations about the past, conditioned by that engagement with the primitive, on the other, can therefore be considered as the matrix within which the illustration of archaic society is first produced. In

52 Stephanie Pratt other words, although the concern of this collection of essays is focused on archaeology and the image, the prerequisites for the illustration of archaeological knowledge were established some centuries prior to the emergence of archaeology as a mode of engagement with the past. Thus, whereas the growth of archaeology as an academic discipline coincides with the nineteenth century’s development of printmaking technologies and of photography, the process of imaging the past has a surprisingly long history and can usefully be examined in earlier centuries. The very idea that an image can capture discursive knowledge, or, more provocatively, that images can achieve some form of cognitive clarity that no prose account could duplicate, can be detected in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, if not earlier. The collection of information associated with European voyages of exploration and colonial and missionary endeavors was not always accompanied by illustrative images, but when it was so provided we can sometimes detect a thoughtful attitude to the contribution images might make to the discourse as a whole. Rather than acting merely as ornamental embellishments or passive duplications of factual matter already securely delineated in prose, these illustrations often functioned as supplements to the text, offering new insights and perspectives or providing a wealth of detail that even the most exhaustive descriptive account would have been hard pressed to supply. Moreover, because a competent illustration seems to offer its viewer a direct apprehension of the subject, lacking the inevitable ambiguities and occlusions of written language, the image possessed a material authority that appeared to brook no dissent. In what follows I hope to show how these general concerns bear on one particular text and its engravings.

‘‘In the Beginning all the World was America’’ This chapter takes as its point of departure Pe`re Joseph Franc¸ois Lafitau’s Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains compare´es aux moeurs des premier temps, published in Paris in 1724, which may be regarded as symbolizing that tendency in modern European thought to use information on so-called primitive contemporary peoples as a means of visualizing peoples of the remote past. It is a well-known and frequently referenced text, and one of its most distinguishing features is its incorporation of didactic visual illustrations. As a thesis, Lafitau’s concept of the comparison of the cultures of American Indians with those of the remote past was not

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particularly groundbreaking at the time of its publication. There were many distinguished precedents for his work and some contemporary models of practice on which he could draw.1 The European revelation of a ‘‘New World’’ in America had prompted numerous scholars through the 1500s to speculate on the origin of cultures, using the example of Amerindian peoples as a vantage point from which to consider the origins of Europe. In fact, Lafitau’s book is now seen less as a product of the early enlightenment and more as a culmination of the mediaeval scholastic tradition found in writers as diverse as Eusebius, Isidore of Seville, Bossuet, or even Jose´ de Acosta, all of whom exerted some influence on his own work.2 However, for all its indebtedness to tradition, Lafitau’s Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains is still considered by modern commentators to constitute an impressive achievement in its own right. What has been claimed for it is that, perhaps more than any other account addressing the subject of America and its first peoples, it made manifest the idea that, as Locke had put it, ‘‘In the beginning all the world was America.’’3 Lafitau’s thesis rested on a belief that symbolic and mythic representations made in rituals over time and across space contain some essential truths about man’s origins and development. In observations made of geographically distant peoples, a reality of early times could be discerned which was not based on speculation but deduced from observable facts. In consequence, Lafitau’s text and its major conclusions must be included in any serious study of the history of primitivism in European art and thought. In this chapter I wish to discuss both the conservative and the innovatory aspects of Lafitau’s work. I will indicate the ways in which Lafitau’s idea of comparison fit securely within a long-standing European attitude to American Indians and the latter’s capacities to enliven the past cultures of Europe via their manners, customs, beliefs, and appearance. Yet, despite this sense in which Lafitau’s thesis was the latest and most fully developed study in a series of similar explorations into the remote past, I will also assert that the illustrations to his text substantiate his arguments in a novel way. They further the case he proposes and, due to their inherent visibility and clarity, make up for the sometimes unresolved aspects in his main thesis. The significance of this lies in our realization that Lafitau employed illustration as a mode of discourse, making archaeological and historical claims via his use of images. By 1724 there existed quite a large literature on American Indian peoples as they had been encountered through the colonization process, and a considerable part of this literature was not only francophone in language

54 Stephanie Pratt but Jesuit in orientation. Lafitau’s text can be seen not only as contributing to this tradition, combining fieldwork with scholarly research, but as the culmination of two centuries of speculation on the significance of the American peoples. His Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains drew on his recent experiences of Indian communities while working as a Jesuit missionary in Sault-Saint-Louis, Canada, from 1712 to 1717, making contact with Huron, Iroquois, and Algonquin peoples living close to the missions. His text is an analysis of the culture of these Eastern Woodlands groups (particularly the Huron and Iroquois), and it is noted today for its close comparison of their customs with those of a number of cultures of the ancient past, in particular the Scythians, Lycians, Cretans, and Lacedaemonians (Spartans).4 Lafitau believed that the process of comparison should be free-ranging, taking in all other cultures, ‘‘past and present, familiar and remote,’’ in order to illuminate Indians with reference to ancient European times and, correspondingly, to illuminate ancient Europe with reference to contemporary Indians. In this way his sources of information extended much more widely than those used by previous authors on this subject. He states quite clearly how he sees the process taking place: ‘‘the ancient authors have given me information on which to base happy conjectures about the Indians, [and] the customs of the Indians have given . . . information on the basis of which I can understand more easily and explain more readily many things in the ancient authors.’’5 Essentially, this view amounts to the ‘‘primitivizing’’ of the ancient past, in light of European understanding of North and South American Indian cultures.6 The peoples of the geographically distant ‘‘new’’ World and the chronologically distant ‘‘old’’ World are made the equivalent of each other. Thus, to take an extreme case, Lafitau can assert that the Incan and Mexican maidens, kept as virgins from a young age at their temple sites, are not only comparable to ancient ‘‘Vestal Virgins,’’ but are, in fact, identical to them.7 To this extent, then, the Americas are presumed to offer a window on to Europe’s archaic past; like a time-machine they transport the modern scholar to the beginnings of cultural achievement.

European Scholars, Antiquity and the New World It is perhaps worthwhile to speculate briefly on Lafitau’s own origins in the area around the port of Bordeaux. The city offered an excellent milieu for encountering New World peoples and products for any ambitious young man hoping to contribute to Jesuit and colonialist endeavors in North

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America. It was also, of course, the home city of Michel de Montaigne.8 (Coincidentally, the nearby port of Bayonne was associated with the Baron de Lahontan, whose views on Indians and the growth of civil society we will consider later.) Bordeaux was thus the ideal base for looking west and attempting to comprehend the importance of America for Europe and Europeans. Although the conclusions reached by both French Bordelaisian writers differ greatly when moving from the philosophical treatises of Montaigne to the more empirical scholarship of Lafitau, both men can be said to share one attitude: they regard the experience of being with and meeting American Indians as crucial for their analyses.9 How much influence Montaigne’s thinking may have had on Lafitau’s conclusions is hard to estimate. Their differences in religious outlook must certainly make for cautious comparisons. Yet, in opening up his research to all cultures, all accounts and all forms of knowledge, Lafitau made no judgment as to the value of one authority over another, except insofar as the Jesuits had already established quite a distinguished record of publication by the early eighteenth century and this would form the core of his source material. Lafitau took the evidence he needed and essentially ignored the philosophical and/or political connotations of the texts he plundered. The comparative method meant that analogies or similarities were the main focus and overrode all other considerations. In this way, writers outside of the Jesuit tradition, such as Montaigne, Lescarbot, Hariot, and even Lahontan (all of whom will be discussed shortly), could be pressed into service, bringing valuable evidence and insights to his study, in spite of the fact that almost all of them were either Protestant in religious orientation or skeptical about the merits of French rule in the colonies. For more profound thinkers such as Michel de Montaigne, the Indians of America offered a model of the very basis on which all human behavior and history might come to be fully understood. In Montaigne’s Essais of 1580 he took the idea of a pre-Lapsarian origin and found that images of Native Americans are best used as a corrective device helping more developed civilizations to find their truer selves in a past history of mankind, at least at its earliest stages. This approach could be justified by the analogous case of classical views of so-called barbarian peoples, which Montaigne interpreted as appropriate models for the way Europeans should now view American Indians. He wrote that he was ‘‘sorry that Lycurgus and Plato did not know [the Indians], for . . . what we have seen of these people with our own eyes surpasses not only the pictures with which poets have illustrated the golden age, and all their attempts to

56 Stephanie Pratt draw mankind in the state of happiness, but the ideas and the very aspirations of philosophers as well.’’10 In this statement, and as part of his quest for understanding himself, Montaigne makes Native Americans a material corrective to poetic or philosophical speculations on human origins. Having seen Brazilian Indians, Montaigne could imagine Europe’s remote past with a visual clarity denied his predecessors. In this manner, his comparative and early ethnologizing can be linked with the later philosophical and speculative writings of figures such as the Baron de Lahontan and Jean Jacques Rousseau. Montaigne’s attitudes to the discovery of peoples in North and South America were not unique and similar sentiments to his are echoed in the accounts of some explorers during the late sixteenth century, whose reports were published on their return to Europe. Richard Hakluyt’s first edition of his Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques, and Discoveries of the English Nation (1589–90), for example, includes the 1584 voyage of Captains Philip Amadas and Arthur Barlowe to the North American Atlantic coast. Here is first printed the oft-repeated judgment that the Indian peoples whom Amadas and Barlowe met while in America were the essence of the goodness inherent in mankind: ‘‘We found the people most gentle, loving and faithful, void of all guile and treason, and such as live after the manner of the Golden Age.’’11 Lafitau was too much of an empiricist to accept any such idealization or mythification of the Native American (and, hence, European) past, but he was the intellectual inheritor of a century of similar speculations concerning the potential of the American Indian to illuminate the most archaic phases of European society. Indeed, by the early eighteenth century, such analogies were becoming almost a standard maneuver in descriptions of the Americas. Several of the texts published before Lafitau’s discuss the peoples encountered in America in terms of their customs, practices, beliefs, and so on, while also drawing comparisons with ancient examples from the Old World. Sixteenth-century texts, such as Peter Martyr’s De Orbe Novo Decades (1525), Andre´ Thevet’s Les Singularitez de la France Antarctique (1557), Gonzalo Fernandez de Oviedo y Valde´s’s Historia general y natural de las Indias (1537–47), or Jose´ de Acosta’s Historia natural y moral de las Indias (1590), and later publications by French explorers and missionaries, such as Marc Lescarbot (1609), Gabriel Sagard (1632), Franc¸ois Du Creux (1664), and even the Jesuit Relations themselves (1632–74) in the seventeenth century, make crucial comparisons between what was ‘‘seen’’ in American Indian cultures and those customs

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and practices known from scholarly research to have taken place in the European past.12 For Lafitau, however, this tendency to idealize the past via the Native American examples found in a French speculative and scholarly tradition of writing about America and its inhabitants that extends back to Montaigne, was a dangerous venture. In following such views it might be conceived that the Americans were in fact more developed than Christian Europe, which as a Jesuit he could not accept. What Lafitau did gain from these earlier accounts was the possibility that one could view Amerindian peoples as positively as one might consider the ancestral peoples of Europe, and that this might make sense of a diverse world which he needed to unify and connect within a single moment of creation. This Christian and moralizing attitude would be the determining factor in shedding light on his approach to the subject. In place of that tendency to idealization, Lafitau’s analysis steps away from the often rather random observations of these earlier writers, and attempts to offer more precise comparisons, allying his research with its more exacting predecessors within that tradition. Of these, perhaps the most notable is Andre´ Thevet’s Les Singularitez de la France Antarctique (Paris, 1558). Written from the author’s perspective as chaplain to Villegagnon’s exploratory voyage during the year 1557, this text, unusually for its time, helped to bring the Americans into the universal history of humanity.13 In place of occasional observations Thevet makes systematic comparisons of classical examples with newly experienced phenomena seen in Brazil and, in doing so, offers a historiographic model for comprehending Amerindian culture. In 1558, however, this was a joint enterprise: Thevet’s experience of Indian cultures in Brazil is combined with the classical scholarship of the Hellenist, Mathurin He´ret, himself thoroughly conversant with newly discovered as well as canonical Greek and Latin sources. Lafitau’s singular achievement, nearly two centuries later, was to be both a classical scholar and a precise observer of native customs.14 The structure of Thevet’s text is significant for Lafitau’s enterprise, also, as Thevet takes the discussion point by point, offering for each ‘‘ethnographic’’ example a suitable and learned parallel from the ancient past.15 Lafitau, equally, was nothing if not systematic in his bringing together both the visual and historical records regarding American Indian customs and beliefs as they were known up to the time of publication. He was consistently precise in making reference to the established literature, and his quotations are often exactly transcribed. In a sense, then, Lafitau can be seen writing Native American peoples into an existing tradition, placing his first-hand observations within a structure of existing

58 Stephanie Pratt scholarship and sharing the comparative assumptions that the best of that scholarship had achieved. Similarly, Jose´ de Acosta, as a Jesuit author, must have held some importance for Lafitau, and many of the earlier Spanish writer’s theories and attitudes influenced Lafitau’s main approach. De Acosta maintained in his Historia natural y moral de las Indias that the Native Americans’ mores could be understood better if they were likened to the behavior and customs of ancient Greeks and Romans, for both peoples could be described as holding to ‘‘barbarian’’ practices. In volume two of the Historia, for instance, when discussing Amerindian ‘‘idolatry,’’ de Acosta makes clear the analogy between the roles played by images of their gods in both the Central and South American religions and those that were apparent in antique times: But heere [sic] the Mexicaines Idolatrie hath bin more pernicious and hurtfull then that of the Yncas, as wee shall see plainer hereafter, for that the greatest part of their adoration and idolatrie was employed to Idols, and not to naturall things, although they did attribute naturall effects to these Idolls, as raine, multiplication of cattell, warre, and generation, even as the Greeks and Latins have forged Idolls of Phoebus, Mercurie, Jupiter, Minerva, and of Mars.16

De Acosta’s purpose in writing this account was largely to demonstrate his belief that the ‘‘history of the real but remote Indians could illuminate the historical process itself and that by studying such an alien society, his European reader might come to understand something about the natural behavior of all human communities including his own.’’17 His historical account devised stages of mankind’s development which varied among peoples of the world from complete ‘‘savagery’’ through various stages of barbarism through to the highest forms of civilization as found in Europe. Marc Lescarbot’s History of New France (1609) may also have proved influential on Lafitau. Lescarbot made the visual link of comparing the look of Native Americans to that of the classical heroes, in effect seeing them as Spartans. Lescarbot also put forward a case for viewing some of the Indians of New France, the Souriquois (Micmac), as well as the Armouchiquois (Maliseet), as virtual ancient ancestors of the French. His comparisons often amount to what could be visualized about both sets of peoples, contemporary and antique, that is, their dress or lack of dress, their ornamentation and body decoration, and their physical strength. In terms of physical endurance and hence, bodily fitness, the following comment by Lescarbot reveals the strict nature of the parallelism being constructed:

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And by this swiftness the Germans of old gave much trouble to Julius Caesar. So our Armouchiquois are as swift as greyhounds, as we have said above, and the other savages are but little inferior to them; yet they do not force nature, nor use any art to run well. But like the ancient Gauls, being addicted to hunting (for it is their life) and to war, their bodies are nimble, and so little charged with fat, that it does not hinder them from running at their will.18

The readers of Lescarbot’s account are thus being asked to see their German (and perhaps, Gaulish) ancestors as having living models in the currently colonized Eastern seaboard figures of the Micmac and Maliseet peoples now under view. America as a newly constructed time-machine held out the promise that Europeans were looking not only at a recently discovered branch of humanity but also into their own past. Similarly, and most importantly, the Jesuit writers of the annual Relations, published in Europe from 1632 to 1674, also told of a visual resemblance of Native Americans to classical figures such as in Father Le Jeune’s Relation of 1634 which stated: Once I almost believed that the pictures of the Roman emperors represented rather the idea of the painters than men who had ever existed, so great and powerful are their heads; but I see on the shoulders of these people heads of Julius Caesar, Pompey, Augustus, Otto, and others that I have seen in France, drawn on paper, or in relief on medallions.19

In Le Jeune we can discern a pattern or plan for what will later be Lafitau’s central thesis, that in order to see or visualize more clearly the ancient European past, the tool or technique for doing so is at hand in the figure of the American Indian. It is more than likely that Lafitau would have read Le Jeune and other writers of the Relations, particularly during his preparations for his voyage to New France in 1711, knowing that he would have to work with the Native American peoples surrounding the missions there.

The Image as Demonstration The occasional use of illustrations in these earlier accounts requires a study of its own, but one in particular would have impressed Lafitau: Thomas Hariot’s Briefe and True Report of the new found land of Virginia (first published in 1588). Hariot had worked closely in 1585 with the artist chosen to accompany the English expedition to America, John White, making notations that would help explain the carefully drawn illustrations

60 Stephanie Pratt of plants, animals, and peoples, together with Indian settlements and the ceremonies that took place while the English were there.20 Hariot’s role as a naturalist on board an English exploratory venture to the New World meant that his concerns about what he saw and recorded were focused more on natural features within the North Carolina environment and less on the religious significance of the practices he may have witnessed. Thus, as regards the text, Lafitau would find little consistent emphasis that Native Americans offered appropriate models of how the past must have looked and felt; but, in its supplementary illustrations, when republished in 1590, Lafitau would have found an emphatic visual and textual proposal to the Report’s readers, inviting them to envisage the remotest European past via recently made images made of American Indians. I will return to this influential publication in my discussion below, but for now we should note that it prefigures Lafitau’s use of explanatory images in its invitation to readers to use their eyes when making cross-cultural comparisons. Lafitau’s own use of visual comparisons can be seen as a programmatic extension of the occasional remarks found in the French tradition about the look of Amerindian culture. As well as discursive argument, he used graphic representations of such comparisons to advance his thesis. In one sense his images might be understood as filling the void at the heart of all those cross-cultural speculations concerning the relevance of contemporary America for ancient Europe. Where firm textual evidence was lacking, whether for cultural origins or for the diffusion of culture, the images offered clear and unquestionable testimony, iconographically at least, that these comparisons were procedurally valid.21 What might otherwise have remained merely a hazy supposition could be provided with, at the very least, a firm outline, metaphorically speaking, sufficient to make a mental shape of the concept and a point of recall in the memory. Lafitau makes this point emphatically in the first pages of his book by stating that ‘‘what the text or the notes do not explain adequately will be clarified by the illustrations and a number of plates which I have engraved.’’22 Les Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains contains many uniquely conceived illustrations that not only illuminate his speculations, but also make manifest the symbolic and morphological comparison that Lafitau found so essential to his proposal. As images they are not difficult to read visually, for the objects and peoples being represented are clearly delineated and distinguished from one another. In showing items from various cultures and from different historical periods, Lafitau seems to be following the practice of contemporary writers such as Bernard de Montfaucon, whose work on

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classical antiquity was richly illustrated with plates providing cultural information in their own right.23 But Lafitau’s comparative plates offer a more speculative route to knowledge and were designed as such. According to Gilbert Chinard’s foundational study of exoticism in French literature, Lafitau had considerable control over the illustrations and was involved in directing their execution.24 They are not, therefore, merely embellishments to the text, but carefully considered extensions of it. There is some question over who actually engraved each plate, as there seem to be differing approaches to the handling of figures and groups over the whole set and it is possible that a number of different hands were involved.25 Peter Mason has determined the engraver of the frontispiece, a German artist working in La Haye, Ernst Ludwig Creite. Creite, if he was the main artist involved, was certainly a competent illustrator and his procedures are entirely in line with known and accepted practices of the time, such as the borrowing of figures and motifs from other previously engraved plates.26 Indeed, given Lafitau’s reliance on existing textual authority for his own comparative speculations, it is entirely consistent that his engravings also made use of an extant visual repertoire. In both cases, verbal and pictorial, the argument proceeds by means of apt literary or visual quotation from secure humanist and classical sources. Each individual plate in Lafitau’s Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains appears to be a thesis in itself. Addressing a variety of themes and bringing together items in a type of systematic collection with a proto-museological sensibility, the author and his illustrator sought to make visual connections between the items. The overarching theoretical framework that gives these combinations and comparisons their significance is further outlined in the accompanying text and notes to the illustrations. I will discuss the two most relevant examples for a consideration of the presumed affinity between Indians and European antiquity. In Plate 1 of volume II (Figure 3.1), Lafitau’s illustrator offers a compendium of images taken from several sources, one of which is the illustrated account published in 1590 by Theodore de Bry of Thomas Hariot’s A Briefe and True Report of the new found land of Virginia. De Bry’s engraving of John White’s image of a Weroan (or Nobleman) of Virginia is here introduced into an image which also includes figures of satyrs, fauns, and an ancient German holding his wooden club, itself taken from Philip Cluverius’ Germaniae Antiquae of 1616. In the bottom row are some helmets with heraldic devices and a scene of two mounted knights jousting. The point of the plate in Lafitau’s account is to demonstrate how a long-standing European tradition of

62 Stephanie Pratt

Figure 3.1 Pe`re Joseph Franc¸ois Lafitau, Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains compare´es aux moeurs des premier temps, plate 1, volume II, engraving, 1724. By permission of the British Library, 454.d.16

horned helmets can be shown to have primitive and traditional origins. From our contemporary viewpoint such illustrations appear to be entirely fanciful, and, even in his own time Lafitau had several detractors.27 Certainly, as here, he was capable of playing fast and loose with the evidence, inventing horns to supplement the feathers shown in the Weroan’s

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headdress by de Bry. For Lafitau, however, the bigger project in which he was involved, to offer a unifying vision of humanity, may have excused such creative imaginings. The Virginian figure’s horned headdress, although bogus, thus validates the significance of similar headgear in Europe, whether medieval or proto-historic. It is possible that Lafitau’s thinking was influenced by an earlier publication, Baron de Lahontan’s Nouveaux Voyages (1703), where the supposed American Indian use of heraldic devices was examined. The American Indian tribal groups encountered by the baron are provided with complete insignias, which Lahontan also illustrates. For instance, the ‘‘Hurons bear a Beaver Sable, set squat upon a Beaver Kennel Argent, the midst of a Pool or Lake.’’28 Whilst this might be viewed as a parodic or ironic use of European modes to describe American Indian behavior, it again points to the possibility of seeing Indians as ancestors or even mediaeval knights come to life. For Plate 3 of volume II (Figure 3.2), the textual explanation chiefly concerns the hieroglyphic writing used by Native Americans to designate lineage and military prowess. Again, Baron de Lahontan’s book creates a precedent by giving over an entire plate to the illustration of sign-writing used by American Indians.29 The image in Lafitau’s volume, however, suggests a parallelism concerning iconic communication in primitive European and American cultures. A Pict is shown on the left, with two Native Americans on the right; all three united by their use of hieroglyphic communication. Lafitau presents this comparison as a visual one. The thesis his text outlines is here, as he says, ‘‘placed before our eyes by the engraving.’’ Lafitau’s Pict is indebted to John Speed’s Historie of Great Britaine (1611), where Speed emphasizes the Latin connotation of Pict, meaning those who make pictures [on themselves], but the comparison of Pict with Amerindian has a slightly older origin. We have already noted that Lafitau made use of Hariot’s Briefe and True Report of the new found land of Virginia republished by Theodore de Bry in 1590 as the first volume of his Historia Americae. The greatest significance for this discussion, however, is what was appended to the end of Hariot’s Report: five figures of ancient British peoples drawn by John White (or perhaps Jacques Le Moyne). Based on Hariot’s understanding of how the classical authors had described the indigenous peoples they encountered in Britain, the images are nevertheless informed by recent experience of America. In this way the illustrations seem to address the central proposition that Native Americans, accurately delineated, allowed Ancient Britons to become physically real, imaginable beings. Hariot explains in a legend appended to the plates that the images are

64 Stephanie Pratt

Figure 3.2 Pe`re Joseph Franc¸ois Lafitau, Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains compare´es aux moeurs des premier temps, plate 3, volume II, engraving, 1724. By permission of the British Library, 454.d.16

some pictures of the Pictes which in olde time did habite one parte of Great Britainne. The painter of whom I have had the first inhabitants of Virginia, gave me also these five figures followinge, fownde as hy did assured me [in] an oulld English chronicle, the which I wold well sett to the ende of these First Figures, for to showe how that the Inhabitants of the great Britanne have bin in times past as sauvage as those of Virginia.30

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Whether or not that ‘‘oulld English chronicle’’ actually existed is beside the point, for what happens within the Report as a whole is a visual assertion of similarity, where Virginia Indians, Picts, and Britons are presented as equally exotic, equally distant from a contemporary European perspective. Hariot’s stress on the Virginians being the ‘‘first’’ peoples or aboriginals of America almost required the presence of other first or original peoples, that of the ancient British and Pictish peoples, visually arrayed in the first volume of what de Bry intended would eventually become a much larger published series. However, when Lafitau, in his turn, places that same Pictish figure alongside Native Americans the results are more decisive than anything Hariot and de Bry could offer. Rather than amplifying a solitary plate with a written text that suggests a cultural affinity, Lafitau forcibly conjoins ancient Britain and modern America in one image. If contemporary Native American practice has the potential to extend our understanding of ancient Pictish communication, then only a visual device can properly undertake this, more pungently than any verbal discourse, by collapsing space and time. Thus, if one looks hard at the plate, the griffon devices on the Pict’s shoulders are quite similar in shape to the figures of cranes being traced onto the tree by his Native American equivalent. More than any other plate, this illustration makes visual Lafitau’s main thesis, that the activity of writing is a consistently progressing human ‘‘invention.’’ Hieroglyphics, or the ‘‘primitive style’’ of writing, link both Pictish and Indian figures in their growing awareness of the power of language and communication. In Lafitau’s hands, then, the analogy between ancient Europeans and Native Americans brings both forward in visual terms, locating both instances of supposed ‘‘barbarian’’ behavior within a single time frame where one figure might even wish to converse with the other. The visual proposal offered in Lafitau’s plates develops the essential thesis of the text that in Native Americans is found a version of early man very similar to that supposed to have existed in ancient European times. As we see in this instance, this development is effectively an iconic construction, using a visual conjunction to make its case.

Image and Identity These sorts of comparison could, of course, work both ways. In the early years of the eighteenth century, a fiercely skeptical text appeared at the end of

66 Stephanie Pratt Baron de Lahontan’s Nouveaux Voyages (1703), a ‘‘philosophical dialogue’’ between an American Indian Adario (Kondiaronk), the Huron chief, and a French aristocrat, the baron himself. Their debate challenged the very reasons for French invasion and colonization by suggesting that rather than ‘‘uncivilized’’ behavior, the American Indians represented the core values of humanity: honesty, valor, strength, and freedom, things that were thought missing in the center of civilization, Paris. Nearly a century after Lescarbot, the encounter between a supposed savage and a highly refined and civilized barbarian had brought the question of parallelism between the European ancient past and the contemporary Native American present fullcircle. Lahontan’s dialogue begins with a specifically anti-Jesuit point, underlining the intelligence of the American Indians, who can argue with the professors of Christian doctrine by the light of their own inherent reason. In doing so, Lahontan suggests that ‘‘civilization,’’ as the Jesuits interpret it, is precisely what is not needed to gain a harmonious and perfect society among the Indians. He paints a picture of early, ‘‘primitive’’ man that moves from the ‘‘hard’’ primitivism of Lescarbot to a more revolutionary proposal, that people can live in peace and goodwill without developed institutions and laws, the trope of sans loi, sans foi and sans roi.31 It is precisely in the face of such skeptical texts that Lafitau sought to assert a strongly Christian and euhemeristic account of American Indian practices in comparison with those of the ancient past.32 In practical terms, we know that the Jesuits were greatly involved in much of the early colonization process in both North and South America in these centuries, and the questions of origin and comparison with Old World examples would certainly build the case for intervention in and conversion of the American Indians’ religious beliefs, thereby remedying the ‘‘barbarism’’ that had stopped them from reaching a sufficiently high level of ‘‘civilization.’’ For Lafitau, the eventual accumulation of knowledge, particularly of God and Christian truth, would increase man’s development; progress toward the European present of the early eighteenth century was the ultimate goal of all humanity.33 Central to Lafitau’s interest in American peoples and their customs, then, was the theological premise that an original awareness of God might prove the truth of revealed religion and thereby establish the authority of missionaries, such as the Jesuits, in bringing Catholic religious practices to the Native Americans. His book might therefore be thought of as a strong riposte to such detractors of the Jesuits as the Baron de Lahontan, whose Nouveaux Voyages was published twenty years before Lafitau’s Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains.

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It could be argued that with America’s disclosed presence irrupting into the European worldview, so came an anxiety over existing forms of knowledge and conceptions of historical time. This anxiety found an outlet in the drive to reconfigure and re-describe the known world under new paradigms and new conditions. Some recent scholars have argued that the primary experience of ‘‘discovery’’ of America and its peoples is foundational to modern thinking and modern experience.34 The fact that such a breakthrough occurred during a period of European renaissance and the developing sense of European identity underlines the significance of the event more boldly. In other words, in order to understand the concept of a European, the invention of an aboriginal and primary ‘‘new’’ world of ‘‘Indians’’ is essential. For the generations contemporary to 1492 and those following them throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the presence of America and its indigenous peoples only led to further disruptive speculation on the true nature of man. The debate narrowed in the seventeenth century on the question of origins; that is, how mankind first populated the landmasses and thus how America came to be peopled by those who were found there. This led to ideas about a pre-Lapsarian condition holding in places such as America where the inhabitants had miraculously escaped the devastation of the biblical Flood and had existed until this time without the perhaps questionable benefits of developed civilization. What such conditions seemed to be was a laboratory of human life encouraging scholars and philosophers to speculate on what was observed and thus to understand the very beginnings of human society and culture. It was an attitude that would be long-standing within the already emerging scientific community. The implications of this attitude in seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury thought have been considered in the subsequent literature, but the importance of graphic illustration has been perhaps relatively underplayed. This balance needs to be redressed. We might want to argue that the idea of America as offering an insight into primitive European culture was made believable more effectively in comparative engravings than in discursive texts. In other words, the images which illustrate Lafitau’s text focus some of the problems inherent in his comparative method and rationalize them for the reading audience. For whereas the travel reports of modern or classical authors might diverge when recording the customs and beliefs of contemporary or historic primitive peoples, the physical appearance of one material culture could be more successfully and immediately aligned with another. The appeal to the eye, on this analysis,

68 Stephanie Pratt elaborated a comparative ethnology predicated on visual considerations; in other words the superficial and outward appearance of a culture, rather than its lived reality. Further, because a plate could present simultaneously peoples who were actually separated in space and in time it could weaken, even demolish, the distinctions a more cautious ethnology might wish to retain. In effect, the conjunction of iconic representations performed a sort of conjuring trick, producing a magic mirror in which historically early European cultures were reflected in contemporary Native America.

Notes 1

2

3 4 5 6

7

William N. Fenton has pointed to one account in particular that may have offered the most suitable model for comparative analysis, that of M. de la Cre´quinie`re, Conformite´ des coutumes des Indiens Orientaux, avec des Juifs and des autres Peuples de l’Antiquite´ (Brussels, 1704), where the emphasis is not on ‘‘marvels’’ but the ‘‘customs’’ of the peoples concerned. See ‘‘Introduction’’ to Father Joseph Franc¸ois Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians compared with the customs of primitive times, ed. William N. Fenton and Elizabeth L. Moore (Toronto: Champlain Society, 1974), vol. 1, pp. xlix–l. Fenton, ‘‘Introduction’’ to Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians compared with the customs of primitive times, vol. 1, pp. xlii–xlix. This is also the view of Anthony Pagden, in The Fall of Natural Man. The American Indian and the Origins of Comparative Ethnology (Cambridge and London: Cambridge University Press, 1982). Ronald L. Meek, Social Science and the Ignoble Savage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), p. 57. Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians compared with the customs of primitive times, vol. 1, pp. xxxiii, 38. Ibid., pp. 3–4. Sabine MacCormack, ‘‘Limits of Understanding: The Perceptions of GrecoRoman and Amerindian Paganism in Early Modern Europe,’’ in Karen Ordahl Kupperman, ed., America in European Consciousness, 1493–1750 (Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press, 1995), pp. 79–129. An extract from de Acosta’s History may have influenced Lafitau’s similar conclusions, ‘‘These virgins of Mexico, and more especially they of Peru, had some resemblance to the Vestall Virgins of Rome, as the Histories shew . . . ;’’ Father Joseph de Acosta, The Natural and Moral History of the Indies, reprinted from the English translation edition of Edward Grimston, 1604, and ed. Clements R. Markham (New York: Burt Franklin, [1880] 1970), vol. II, p. 334. Lafitau goes on from this to speculate whether all American Indian

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8 religions contain such figures. See Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians compared with the customs of primitive times, vol. 1, pp. 129–30. 8 Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians compared with the customs of primitive times, vol. 1, p. xxxi. 9 Ibid., pp. li–lii. 10 From Book One: Chapter 31 ‘‘Of Cannibals,’’ in Michel de Montaigne, Essays, translated with an introduction by J. M. Cohen (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1958), p. 110. 11 Richard Hakluyt, Voyages and Discoveries. The Principal Navigations, Voyages, Traffiques and Discoveries of the English Nation, edited, abridged and introduced by Jack Beeching (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972), p. 274. 12 Pietro Martire d’Anghiera (Peter Martyr) De Orbe Novo . . . Decades Octo (Alcala´, 1530); Andre´ Thevet, Les singularitez de la France Antarctique, autrement nomme´e Ame´rique (first published in Paris, 1557); Gonzalez Ferna´ndez de Oviedo y Valde´s, La Historia general y natural de las Indias (first published in two volumes, Seville, 1535 and Salamanca, 1537); Jose´ de Acosta, Historia natural y moral de las Indias (first published in Spanish, 1590); Marc Lescarbot, Histoire de Nouvelle France (first published in Paris, 1609); Father Gabriel Sagard, Le Grand Voyage du Pays des Hurons (first published in Paris, 1632); Franc¸ois Du Creux, Historia Canadensis (Paris: Cramoisy Press, 1664). The Jesuit Relations were published annually from 1632 to 1674 by the Cramoisy Press, Paris. 13 Lestringant states that ‘‘[t]he fable of the illustrious inventors serves less to widen the gulf and justify domination than to attach the American branch of humanity to the common trunk of universal history.’’ See Frank Lestringant, ‘‘The Euhemerist and the European Perception and Description of the American Indians,’’ in Wolfgang Haase and Meyer Reinhold, eds., The Classical Tradition and the Americas (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1994), vol. 1, part 1, p. 181. 14 For a discussion of the classical references in ibid., pp. 173–88; and, for Lafitau’s place within this method of writing on the Americas, see, Peter Mason, ‘‘Classical Ethnography and Its Influence on the European Perception of the Peoples of the New World,’’ in ibid., p. 155. 15 See Mason, ‘‘Classical Ethnography and Its Influence on the European Perception of the Peoples of the New World,’’ and Lestringant, ‘‘The Euhemerist and the European Perception and Description of the American Indians,’’ pp. 135–72, 173–88. 16 De Acosta, The Natural and Moral History of the Indies, vol. II, p. 305. 17 Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man, p. 150. 18 Marc Lescarbot, The History of New France, with translation and notes by W. L. Grant, and an introduction by H. P. Biggar (Toronto: Champlain Society, 1907), vol. 3, p. 145.

70 Stephanie Pratt 19 Father Le Jeune in the Relation of 1634 as quoted in J. H. Kennedy, Jesuit and Savage in New France (Hamden, CT: Archon Books, 1971), p. 106. 20 For a fuller discussion of these images, see Paul Hulton, America 1585. The Complete Drawings of John White (London: University of North Carolina Press and British Museum Publications, 1984). 21 Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man, pp. 206–7. 22 Here the author is probably making reference to the rhetorical nature of some travel accounts, which he felt had embellished their narratives and raised questions over their veracity. See Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians compared with the customs of primitive times, vol. 1, pp. lxiv–lxv. The comment by Lafitau is on p. 41. 23 Bernard de Montfaucon, L’Antiquite´ explique´e et represente´e en figures, 5 vols., each of 2 parts (Paris, 1719). 24 Gilbert Chinard, L’Ame´rique et le reˆve exotique dans la litte´rature franc¸aise au xvii et au xviii sie`cle (Paris: Hachette, 1913), p. 319. 25 William Sturtevant, ‘‘Sources for the Illustrations,’’ in Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians compared with the customs of primitive times, vol. 1, pp. 272–3. 26 Peter Mason, Infelicities: Representations of the Exotic (Baltimore, MD and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998), p. 100. 27 Both Voltaire and the Scottish historian William Robertson point to inconsistent and irrational aspects in Lafitau’s major work, Customs of the Indians. For an extended discussion of Lafitau’s reputation as a scholar, see Lafitau, Customs of the American Indians compared with the customs of primitive times, vol. 1, pp. lxxxiii–xcix. Critical commentary by Robertson is cited in J. S. Slotkin, ed., Readings in Early Anthropology (London: Methuen, 1965), p. 202. 28 Lahontan, New Voyages to North-America, reprinted from the English edition of 1703, with facsimiles of original title pages, maps and illustrations, and the addition of Introduction, Notes and Index, by Reuben Gold Thwaites, LL.D. (New York: Burt Franklin, [1905] 1970, 2 vols.), p. 511, and illustration following p. 686. 29 Ibid., pp. 512–15, illustration follows p. 720. 30 Michael Alexander, ed., Discovering the New World, Based on the Works of Theodore de Bry (New York: Harper & Row, 1976), p. 89. 31 Hugh Honour suggests that the expression comes from sixteenth-century, and thus early, speculative writers on America. See Hugh Honour, The New Golden Land: European Images of America from the Discoveries to the Present Time (New York: Pantheon, 1975), p. 56. 32 Both Peter Mason and Frank Lestringant argue that Lafitau’s thesis must be read in the light of Euhemerism, or the belief that progress in society comes through the actions and inventions of great individuals. See Mason, ‘‘Classical Ethnography and Its Influence on the European Perception of the Peoples of the New World’’ and Lestringant, ‘‘The Euhemerist and the European

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Perception and Description of the American Indians,’’ vol. 1, part 1, pp. 135–88. 33 MacCormack, Mason, Meek, and Pagden all assert this basic reading of Lafitau’s underlying purposes. 34 See Tzvetan Todorov, The Conquest of America. The Question of the Other, trans. Richard Howard (first published in French, 1982), (New York: Harper & Row, 1985).

4

‘‘To Make the Dry Bones Live’’: Ame´de´e Forestier’s Glastonbury Lake Village James E. Phillips Introduction In December 1911 a series of artistic reconstructions of the recent discoveries made in the Somerset Levels, near Glastonbury in the West of England, appeared in The Illustrated London News (hereafter ILN).1 Depicting scenes of everyday life in the Iron Age Lake Village, these eight pictures, created by the paper’s Special Artist Ame´de´e Forestier, have come to be some of the most widely reproduced archaeological reconstructions of all time, especially in works on British prehistory. However, discussion of the images does not usually go beyond a few brief comments that they represent a view of prehistory that many consider to be somewhat outdated. Dismissing such influential images so casually is to ignore what they can tell us about the role that archaeological reconstructions have played in creating the ideas that we have about life in the past. ‘‘Popular’’ presentations of archaeology, such as reconstruction drawings and journalistic articles, aimed at a general audience, are an important source in understanding the way that ideas about the past are created and consumed at different points in history, and constitute influential statements of archaeological knowledge.2 This chapter will explore how Forestier’s reconstructions of the Glastonbury Lake Village created an image of prehistoric life, and will examine the wider associations the images have with the archaeology of Glastonbury,

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traditions of pictorial reconstruction, and the historical context of their production and consumption. Their story begins with the discovery of a prehistoric settlement at Glastonbury in the late nineteenth century.

The Glastonbury Lake Village The discovery of the Glastonbury Lake Village is one of the great stories of British archaeology.3 It is a tale of one man’s persistence and dedication to the belief that, somewhere in the Somerset swamps, there were prehistoric lakeside dwellings similar to those found in other parts of Europe. In the 1850s the first lake villages had been discovered and excavated by Swiss archaeologist Dr. Ferdinand Keller, and an English translation of his book The Lake Dwellings of Switzerland, detailing the discoveries made in the wetlands outside of Zurich, was published in 1866, with an expanded second edition appearing in 1878.4 In 1888, after reading of Keller’s discoveries, Arthur Bulleid, a resident of Glastonbury, noted the similarities between the environmental conditions of the Zurich region and the Somerset Levels, and commenced a search for similar settlement sites in his local area.5 For four years, whenever the opportunity arose, Bulleid wandered the Somerset swamps looking for signs of prehistoric occupation, particularly in the areas where peat cutting was taking place. He would often climb to the top of Glastonbury Tor, where he would scan the area below with his binoculars, looking for any sign of a settlement.6 All this searching proved fruitless until the spring of 1892. As Bulleid writes: On a Wednesday afternoon in March, 1892, when driving across the moor from Glastonbury to Godney, a field was noticed to be covered with small mounds, an unusual feature in a neighbourhood where the conformation of the land is for miles at a dead level. On the following Sunday afternoon the field was visited, and anticipations were agreeably realized by picking from the numerous mole-hills a number of pottery fragments, a whetstone, and pieces of bone and charcoal. The same evening in course of conversation a valued friend and neighbour, Mr. Edward Bath, became interested in the matter, and having intimated that he believed that the field belonged to him, a note arrived the following morning to confirm this, with permission to dig, subject to making arrangements with the tenant. This was done, and a week or two later tentative excavations took place by digging trenches into two of the mounds.7

74 James E. Phillips Soon after Bulleid’s initial discovery a member of the Glastonbury Antiquarian Society, Mr. John Moreland, contacted Dr. Robert Munro, a specialist in lake settlements, who paid a visit to the site in September, 1892.8 The following month an article by Munro describing Bulleid’s findings appeared in The Times.9 It was with great anticipation that Professor Boyd Dawkins, author of the popular work Cave Hunting (1874), described Bulleid’s presentation of his discovery, made to the Somerset Antiquarian Society, as ‘‘the most important he had heard made to a local society for many years.’’10 As excavations proceeded and a wealth of well-preserved evidence of Iron Age life emerged, the truth of those words began to be realized and, a year after the discovery was made, two committees were established to oversee the excavations. The first included some of the most influential archaeologists of the day, including Dr. Munro, Sir Arthur J. Evans, Professor William Boyd Dawkins, and Lieutenant General Pitt-Rivers.11 The second comprised members of the Glastonbury Antiquarian Society and other notable local residents. The significance of the discoveries made at Glastonbury was soon well known within the archaeological community, with reports appearing in several learned journals.12 Excavation took place at the site every summer from the time of discovery in 1892 up until 1898 under the direction of Bulleid, and resumed six years later with Harold St. George Gray, former assistant to Pitt-Rivers, at the helm alongside Bulleid.13 Work was concluded, and the first volume of the excavation monograph published, in 1911.14 In the same year an article written by Bulleid, detailing the important discoveries made at Glastonbury, appeared in the ILN.

The Illustrated London News – Purveyor of Archaeological News Founded in 1842 by newsagent and publisher Herbert Ingram, the ILN was Britain’s first illustrated weekly newspaper.15 Its aim was to convey pictorially the news of the day, ranging from society gossip, to war correspondence and ethnography.16 Covering all the important news stories, the ILN also had a major commitment to reporting the latest archaeological discoveries.17 One of the features that readers of the ILN could expect in most editions was a full report of the latest archaeological finds, fully illustrated, from all parts of the world. The focus was on the spectacular discoveries of the day, with Arthur Evans’s work at Knossos, and the discoveries of Henry Layard, Heinrich Schliemann, and Flinders

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Petrie being some of the best-known examples. Almost as popular as the discovery of spectacular ancient treasures was speculation about the nature of our earliest ancestors, including accounts of Neanderthal remains from France, and the search for the ‘‘missing link’’ in Asia and Africa.18 Earlier in 1911, two articles on Paleolithic finds, written by the archaeologist Arthur Keith and illustrated by Forestier, had appeared in the paper.19 The ILN was an extremely popular publication in the nineteenth century, with sales figures regularly in excess of 100,000 copies.20 Although that figure had diminished somewhat by the beginning of the twentieth century, owing largely to competition from publications such as the Daily Mail (1896), Forestier’s Glastonbury reconstructions would still have reached a substantial audience. An academic report (such as the Glastonbury Lake Village monograph) has a maximum audience of a few hundred people, composed primarily of the archaeological community, therefore its impact at a general level is fairly limited.21 The importance of publications such as the ILN is the role that they play in the transmission of archaeology to a mass non-specialist audience. The man who, more than any other, was responsible for bringing archaeology to the general public in the first half of the twentieth century was the editor of the ILN, Sir Bruce Ingram, great-grandson of the founder.22 In a letter written to Cambridge prehistorian Glyn Daniel, later reproduced in Daniel’s A Hundred Years of Archaeology, Ingram describes his commitment to reporting archaeology: As a boy at school, I was taken to Egypt by my father for an extended tour of most of the exploration sites, an experience which made a lasting impression on me. When the control of the paper fell to me in 1900, I made up my mind that there were a great many people who would have been equally interested if they were to be given an opportunity of seeing what was being done all over the world to throw light upon the civilisation of the past. The difficulty was to combine technical accuracy with an exposition simple enough for the comprehension of the layman, and by that means to stimulate his desire for further publication of a similar character.23

During his remarkable 63 years at the helm from the commencement of his editorship in 1900, over two thousand articles on archaeology were featured.24 There was a noticeable decline in the coverage on his retirement, as Glyn Daniel lamented in an editorial of the archaeology journal

76 James E. Phillips Antiquity in the early 1970s: the ILN ‘‘is, alas, no longer the weekly purveyor of archaeological excitement that it was to those of us who grew up in the twenties and thirties.’’25 The importance of the part played by the ILN in introducing a generation to archaeology should not be underestimated. What set the ILN apart from other newspapers was its use of pictures as the primary medium to convey the news of the day.26 In the nineteenth century the ILN had illustrated its archaeological articles with depictions of antiquities or of excavations in progress. A new feature of Ingram’s editorship was the inclusion of imaginative reconstructions of life in ancient times, with most of these illustrations produced by their Special Artist Ame´de´e Forestier.

Ame´de´e Forestier and the Creation of the Reconstructions Forestier was born in Paris in 1854 and studied under Lehmann at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.27 He began work for the ILN in 1882 and, for the remainder of the century, produced illustrations for royal events and general news items, as well as illustrations for the fictional stories that appeared in the paper. Forestier’s work also accompanied fictional pieces in the Windsor Magazine and the popular novels of several prominent authors, including Walter Besant. However, it is for his imaginative reconstructions of archaeological finds that appeared in the first quarter of the twentieth century that Forestier will be best remembered. In 1911 Forestier produced his reconstructions of the Glastonbury Lake Village, which have become his most enduring works. This series of eight illustrations, spread over six pages and accompanied by Bulleid’s article, appeared in the first week in December. Earlier in the year the ILN had run several articles searching for the first Englishman (including the Galley Hill remains), and Bulleid’s article appears to pick up on this theme.28 Comparatively few articles on archaeological discoveries made in England found their way into the paper, with more exotic excavations being the preferred theme. That an article on British archaeology was given such a large amount of space, and high number of illustrations, attests to the importance of the discoveries made at Glastonbury. Although working primarily on reconstructions for the ILN, Forestier also produced a series of illustrations of Roman life in London for the Museum of London, a continuation of earlier work produced for the Royal

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Ontario Museum in Canada, and an illustrated book entitled The Roman Soldier.29 But it was to prehistoric discoveries that he devoted most of his efforts.30 As a correspondent to The Times, almost certainly the architect, illustrator, and co-author of the best-selling Everyday Life series, C. H. B. Quennell, wrote on the occasion of Forestier’s death in 1930: To my certain knowledge, for the last 25 years there was hardly any discovery of archaeological importance which was not illustrated by his drawings in the pages of the Illustrated London News. Forestier was especially interested in prehistoric man and loved to bring him to life, not by fictitious imaginings but by the most careful reconstructions based on scientific research. He did useful work also at the London Museum in the series of drawings which hang over and explain some of the exhibits there. Many will have seen and remembered these and be sorry to hear of the death of the kindly man who made them.31

Careful background research into the archaeology behind his reconstructions was a feature of Forestier’s work, reflecting his wider interests in ancient history and prehistory. The article by Bulleid that accompanied the Glastonbury reconstructions provides some additional background details to the illustrations. Cases of exhibits may be seen in our public museums, showing the state of culture and progress of art during the succeeding Stone, Bronze, and early Iron Ages. To the casual observer, however, these relics lack interest, owing to his inability to visualise the everyday life of the people who made and used them. It is therefore the endeavour of the artist to make the dry bones live by depicting some views and scenes based on the relics found, and other information gained during the investigation of the Glastonbury Lake Village.32

The ILN article also included five photographic images of artifacts discovered at the site – a bronze bowl, a ladder, a jet ring alongside a sling stone, a decorated comb, and a wooden table or anvil – many of which can be observed in Forestier’s reconstructions; a link that was explicitly stated in the description of the roundhouse scene that appeared below the illustration.33 The juxtaposition of imaginative reconstructions, that included artifacts discovered at Glastonbury, with photographs depicting the same objects is important, as it enhances the ‘‘reality’’ of Forestier’s illustrations. The accompanying article, written by Bulleid, the

78 James E. Phillips accepted expert on the Lake Village, again reinforces Forestier’s vision. ‘‘The occupations and amusements illustrated in this number are proved by the actual finds, and if anyone doubts this he may refer to the forthcoming monograph on the Lake Village now in press, and published by the Glastonbury Antiquarian Society.’’34 The authority of the reconstruction is further enhanced by the noticeable stylistic similarities between Forestier’s reconstructions and the general illustrations that accompanied news items in the paper. In fact, it is likely that Forestier’s depictions appeared less ‘‘alien’’ to readers of the ILN than a number of the ethnographic images that were frequently featured. If readers accepted the documentary nature of the news images, it is but a small step to accept the authenticity of Forestier’s imaginative representations of life in the past. ‘‘I have made it my duty to secure accurate information on the many points involved to give my pictures a genuine documentary value,’’ was how the artist described his work.35 Who could doubt that this is what life was really like in Iron Age Glastonbury?

The Aim of the Reconstructions All too often when we look at artistic reconstructions of life in the past we forget that such images were, in many cases, produced to convey a highly specific message about the period that they are representing. No records relating to Forestier’s brief for the pictures survive, and no correspondence is known to exist between artist and excavator. However, we can still go some way toward establishing the aim behind the Glastonbury reconstructions and the messages they convey.36 Right from the start of the Glastonbury Lake Village article the quotation on the first page makes the aim explicit: ‘‘Not the woad-daubed savage of the old history books: the civilised ancient Briton.’’37

The pictures were produced with a very specific purpose in mind: to challenge outdated representations of the Iron Age. As Bulleid says in the second paragraph of his article: ‘‘The subject of prehistoric archaeology has made such rapid strides during the last fifty years or so that the views we held in our youth of the early inhabitants of the British Isles no longer hold good.’’38

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The aim of Forestier’s reconstructions is to replace the well-established depiction of the savage ancient Briton, which had been frequently reproduced, with an image that presents the Iron Age as civilized. This idea of challenging pictorial stereotypes is a theme that Forestier takes up again in his later work The Roman Soldier.39 The evidence available from the Glastonbury Lake Village was ideal for this purpose, as such a wealth of evidence of craft production and ‘‘sophisticated’’ practices had been discovered. The headlines above all the pictures continue the theme of the first title by stressing how civilized the ancient Britons were. This message is further reinforced in Bulleid’s text: ‘‘The relics discovered throw considerable light on the life and civilization of the people, whose artistic qualities were truly wonderful. They were skilled carpenters; among the many remarkable wooden objects found were ladles, cups, bowls, a ladder, and several lathe-turned tubs.’’40 Art is often considered to be one of the most obvious markers of a civilized nature, so stressing the ‘‘artistic qualities’’ of the people is a powerful statement as to the status of the inhabitants of Glastonbury Lake Village. As Bulleid questions: ‘‘Can we now call the Briton of two thousand years ago prehistoric?’’41 But how was this impression of civilized life at Glastonbury achieved?

Creating Iron Age Glastonbury Two of the most compelling images that we have of life in the Iron Age are the figure of the warrior chief, and the scene of life in the roundhouse. It is these two images that feature in the jetty scene (Figure 4.1) and the roundhouse scene (Figure 4.2), the two Glastonbury reconstructions that have been most frequently reproduced. Both pictures depict scenes of everyday life in the Iron Age, and feature a wide range of activities brought together in a single illustration. The reconstructions are full of little cameos of Iron Age activities, representing a cross-section of the inhabitants of the village, from chiefs, to hunters, to slaves. It appears to be Forestier’s aim to cram as much information as possible into a single scene, and wherever the eye travels a different facet of life can be observed. This is the basis of a successful reconstruction drawing, as the maximum quantity of information is conveyed in the smallest space. This was especially important in a publication such as the ILN, where column space allocated to each story was limited, and it was the paper’s policy to subordinate text to image.

80 James E. Phillips

Figure 4.1 Forestier’s jetty scene: ‘‘The entrance to the lake village of the ancient Britons: the skilfully built landing-stage: and a general view of the settlement showing the piled stockade,’’ The Illustrated London News, December 11, 1911. Copyright Somerset County Museums Service

Warriors on the jetty Perhaps the most famous image of the Iron Age is the figure of the warrior Celt, complete with helmet, sword, shield, and spear, and often seen staring heroically into the distance. It is this easily recognizable figure that dominates Forestier’s scene on the jetty. The depiction of the Iron Age warrior has its origins in classical accounts of the ancient Britons, with Lucas de Heere’s 1575 illustration of two ancient Britons about to go to battle being perhaps the earliest pictorial example.42 Through time this original image was augmented with unfamiliar and exotic images from the New World, along with newly discovered archaeological evidence, to produce a powerful stereotype that has had a major influence in the way we represent the past.43 The warrior image has frequently been drawn upon in portrayals of the earliest humans, but it has been employed with the greatest effect to represent the ancient Britons.44 In its most familiar guise the depiction of the warrior conveys an impression of savagery and

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Figure 4.2 Forestier’s roundhouse scene: ‘‘In a dwelling-place set on an artificial island in north central Somersetshire: the inside of a hut of the British Lake Village near Glastonbury,’’ The Illustrated London News, December 11, 1911. Copyright Somerset County Museums Service

82 James E. Phillips primitiveness, truly the woad-daubed savage of the old history books. Forestier, however, required an alternative source of inspiration. The Glastonbury warriors appear to have their visual origins in French depictions of the ancient Gauls, which were closely linked to historical art of the 1860s.45 The image of the heroic ancient Gaul became popular in France in the 1870s following its defeat in the Franco-Prussian War, and was to prove a powerful symbol of national pride. The image stresses the noble and civilized nature of the Gauls and it is significant that Forestier chose this depiction of the warrior. The wider connotations may have been familiar to him as a Frenchman, and in his reconstructions of the lake village the image is transported to Glastonbury ready-made to give an impression of civilization.46 Bulleid makes the link to the Gauls explicit when he talks about the clothing of the inhabitants of Glastonbury: ‘‘It was an unfortunate circumstance that no actual article of dress or fragment of textile was found; therefore the artist has taken the responsibility of clothing the inhabitants in the garbs of the contemporary people of Ireland and Northern Gaul, from the best possible evidence.’’47 The use of such a well-established visual image as the Celtic warrior is an extremely powerful way of conveying a sense of the period to a viewer, and Forestier uses the association with great effect. Both the jetty scene and the depiction of life in the roundhouse employ visual icons with a long historical association with the Iron Age to create an image of the past that is instantly recognizable to a viewer. It is also apparent that Forestier’s Glastonbury warriors closely resemble a number of his illustrations of Roman soldiers.48 The contrast between the civilized nature of the Romans and the uncivilized ancient Britons, Gauls, and Germans is a well-known image from the accounts of Roman historians. By drawing on images of Romans in his depictions of ancient Britons, Forestier was making use of a well-established visual and textual association with civilization, another ready-made link that added to the image that Forestier wanted to portray. Making a link between Britain and the imperial power of Rome may have been especially important at this time, as 1911 was a year when international events caused a heightened sense of tension in Europe, and open conflict between France and Germany, which could have involved Britain, was only narrowly averted following a dispute over the balance of power in north Africa. Forestier’s use of the civilized ancient Briton in the person of the warrior – civilized but with a harder edge – could perhaps be regarded as a reference to the international situation at the time. The village is described as being defended by a

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‘‘pallisading of piles’’ and the chief standing at the jetty is heavily armed; a statement maybe that Britain was ready should the international situation deteriorate further, as indeed it did three years later. The warrior figure is usually depicted staring heroically into the distance, often toward the advancing Roman armies: a lone figure standing up to the aggressions of the invaders. It is a description that could accurately be applied to the Glastonbury chief, and is an image that would have struck the right patriotic note during a time of international uncertainty. The idea of a long civilized British nation also hints that others maybe do not have such a long civilized past: those who threaten war, perhaps? The presence of a number of severed heads stuck on poles at the entrance to the village is a curiously incongruous image in an illustration that is designed to convey an impression of civilization. Set against an iconography that stresses the industry and civilized nature of the ancient inhabitants of the area, this somewhat gruesome depiction appears to be a marked contradiction to the otherwise harmonious message conveyed. Civilized maybe, but not quite there yet? Or is it just a case of the sensationalist illustrative style that is so characteristic of the ILN? Several other images of severed heads had appeared in news items in the paper in the same year in what appears to have been something of a fascination for decapitation in 1911. However, there is another explanation that is closely linked to the story of the excavation of the lake village itself. A great area of dispute over the findings at Glastonbury, and a source of tension between Bulleid and Boyd Dawkins, was over the interpretation of the human bones.49 In essence the conflict was whether they represented a violent end to the village through an attack, as proposed by Boyd Dawkins, or whether they did not, and the village fell out of use over a number of years with no catastrophic end, as Bulleid believed. As it was Bulleid who wrote the ILN article, emphasizing the civilized nature of the ancient Britons may have been his only counter to the views of a powerful professor, whose opinions were reproduced in the official excavation monograph.50 Although we can never know the exact motivation behind a reconstruction unless the artist has left a record, it is certainly possible to make a number of different suggestions about how an image of the past creates a view of ancient life.

Everyday life inside the roundhouse If the warrior is the most famous image of the Iron Age, the roundhouse follows only a short way behind. From classical times there has been an

84 James E. Phillips association of houses with civilization, the lack of a house being one of the most important signs of primitiveness.51 It is therefore no coincidence that a roundhouse provides the setting for the second of Forestier’s images that we will look at. The first impression of life that is given in this picture is the cozy familiarity of a family gathering. What is important here is that the scene would have appeared ‘‘familiar’’ to readers of the ILN, a scene that was distinctly different from their everyday experiences, but an image that was nonetheless recognizable, a combination of an Edwardian kitchen and parlor scene. Women dominate this scene of everyday life, although the central figure, the returning hunter, is male.52 As he enters the hut with a swan on a pole the women in the scene are turned toward him. A ray of light from the chimney highlights his face; the women’s faces are almost without exception in shadow. The male is the active figure; the women are passive or engaged in domestic activities. This image provides a picture of a civilized Iron Age family group, and conveys this message by portraying men and women engaged in the sort of activities that would have been recognizable to the readers of ILN. Early twentieth-century gender roles are being projected back onto the Iron Age to make the people in the image appear ‘‘more like us,’’ conveying their civilized nature through the use of a familiar image. It is a scene that could so easily be one of the depictions of everyday life shown to the readers in other stories that appeared in the paper. But there is another important distinction that can be made within this picture. The women to the right of the central pillar are wearing more elaborate outfits and are looking outward. The dominant female figure is standing, offering a drink to the returning male, who is dressed in a similar manner to the chief ’s attendants on the jetty. The other female figures are crouching or kneeling and their faces are shadowed. This scene is making clear statements about social as well as gender roles in the past. These shadowed figures could so easily be the scullery maids, the lowest of the domestic servants, who carried out the tasks the ladies of the house, represented by the women on the right, would not dream of doing themselves. The man of the roundhouse can be observed entering through the door: the Edwardian gentleman returning home. Although such a scene is unlikely to have taken place in such a confined space in a fashionable Edwardian house, if we look at the individual elements of life above and below stairs and compress them into a single scene, the image we have is entirely plausible. A truly Edwardian Iron Age has been

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created that provides an impression of the past that is safe and familiar, an image that would have no doubt appealed to the generally educated middle- and upper-middle-class readership of the ILN. In providing an image of civilization, what better idea to draw on than the age-old traditions of English society? There are few images that would have so effectively conveyed an impression of civilization to anyone viewing the picture. At a wider level this naturalization of Edwardian values can be seen as a statement on ‘‘the way things should be’’ by suggesting such social relations as natural and long term. There is an important link here to the wider political context of the times, as 1911 was a year of social unrest in Britain, with anarchist rioting in the capital and strikes and disputes in other regions. It was an uncomfortable time for many British people, who would have been very familiar with the political situation through the graphic portrayals and description provided by newspapers such as the ILN. When Forestier’s reconstructions are set into the wider context of the times the message behind the reconstructions is clear. The traditional social roles and values of society are presented as natural and, in a wider sense, the illustrations are operating to neutralize the perceived threat to the traditional order, presented by the social tensions of the times, by providing it with historical legitimacy.53 This impression is reinforced if we look at the description provided below the jetty scene: On the extreme left are seen men digging out a boat, one of those comparatively well-formed craft which were some eighteen feet long, and obviously sturdy. Next to these, and on the right looking at the picture, are fishermen hauling in their nets. Then there is a slave putting clay in baskets preparatory to conveying it into the village. In the centre is a chief, accompanied by two attendants, welcoming the return of a hunting expedition, the men on the left with fowl in the form of swans, the men on the right with meat.54

Everyone, from slaves, to hunters, to artisans, is working happily for the greater good of the village, each one in their natural place in society. The aristocratic chief stands aloof from the action, his power unquestioned. There is no hint of internal strife, and certainly no hint of strikes or riots against the traditional social order. Everyone is in their place, just like they had been since time indeterminate: such a civilized past, such an uncertain future.

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Conclusions This chapter has explored some of the ways that a detailed study of archaeological reconstructions can tell us how ideas about the past are created and disseminated. Forestier’s images of the Glastonbury Lake Village are based on the excavated evidence from the site and are intended to convey an impression of the civilized nature of the inhabitants of the village. This aim is closely linked to the wider social and political situation of the time, which was one of uncertainty of what the future held, both in Britain and abroad. To create this image of civilization Forestier employed a number of well-established images that had a long history of association with the Iron Age, which were combined with familiar ideas about everyday life. By depicting contemporary social and gender roles the past was made to appear like the present, giving the impression that the people in the past were just like us. The projection of Edwardian social values onto the past also gave legitimacy to those roles in the present, by presenting them as long-lived and therefore natural. Forestier’s illustrations for the ILN, along with his work for the Museum of London, represented all periods of prehistory, from the earliest humans to the Iron Age, as well as many parts and periods of classical history. If we look at this work collectively we have a near-complete record of one man’s vision of human history. Each one of these illustrations tells a complex story about how the past was considered at a different point in time, and how an image of that past was created for the consumption of the reading public. Archaeology provided Forestier with the dry bones, but it was his vision that brought them to life. As a final example of the influence of Forestier’s work it is worth quoting the description of the Glastonbury Lake Village provided by Jacquetta and Christopher Hawkes in their Prehistoric Britain: The village would first appear to a visitor as a huddle of thatched roofs rising among the thickets of alders and willows; carts are bringing produce from the higher ground where the villagers keep their beasts and cultivate corn and vegetables, while dug-out canoes moored at the landing-stage are ready for fowling expeditions among the many waterways, or for longer trading excursions. Inside its protecting wall, the village itself is full of life and activity – a compact stronghold of humanity isolated among the swamps. Duck and coot can be heard calling and splashing among reeds where herons and cranes stand motionless; occasionally a bittern sounds its

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uncanny booming call; and there, top-heavy, comical, and grotesquely beautiful, a family of pelicans is sailing down the open waterway.55

Reading this account, it is difficult to imagine that the source of inspiration could have been anything other than the ILN pictures of Glastonbury – a fascinating example of how a visual tradition of archaeological communication can so easily become a textual one, and a testament to the power of the vision of Iron Age life that Forestier created.

acknowledgments

My first thanks must go to the editors Sam Smiles and Stephanie Moser for their invitation to include my chapter in this book, and to Tim Champion, Stephanie Moser, and many others who provided numerous helpful comments at the original conference. My gratitude is also due to Somerset County Museums Service, and especially to Steve Minnitt, for providing me with the images and permission to reproduce them here.

Notes 1 The Illustrated London News, December 11, 1911, pp. 928–33, 936. The illustrations that appeared were: . A full-page reconstruction of the outside of the lake village – ‘‘Defended by a pallisading of piles: the ancient British Lake Village near Glastonbury. With dwellings grouped like those of the settlements in the lakes of Switzerland and southern Europe.’’ . A full-page illustration of the interior of a roundhouse (Figure 4.2). . A double-page spread of three warriors standing on the jetty outside the village (Figure 4.1). . A full-page illustration with five small scenes depicting weaving, bread making, playing dice, cockfighting, and metalworking. The original pictures are now housed in Taunton Castle Museum, Somerset, UK. 2 S. James, ‘‘Drawing Inferences: Visual Reconstructions in Theory and Practice,’’ in B. L. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 22–48 and B. Davison, Picturing the Past: Through the Eyes of Reconstruction Artists (London: English Heritage/CADW, 1997) both describe

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3

4

5 6 7 8

9

10

11 12

13

the process of creating a reconstruction drawing. For accounts of the wider influence of reconstructions on academic thought, see also S. Moser, ‘‘The Visual Language of Archaeology: A Case Study of the Neanderthals,’’ Antiquity, 66 (1992), pp. 831–44; and ‘‘Archaeological Representation: The Visual Conventions for Constructing Knowledge about the Past,’’ in I. Hodder, ed., Archaeological Theory Today (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), pp. 261–83. The story is recounted by R. Munro, Ancient Scottish Lake-Dwellings or Crannogs. With a supplementary chapter on remains of lake dwellings in England (Edinburgh: David Douglas, 1882), and again in R. Munro, ‘‘Introductory Chapter,’’ in A. Bulleid and H. St. George Gray, eds., The Glastonbury Lake Village, vol. 1 (Glastonbury: Glastonbury Antiquarian Society, 1911), pp. 1–35; see also A. Bulleid, The Lake Villages of Somerset (4th edn., Yeovil: Western Gazette Co., 1949) and J. Coles and S. Minnitt, ‘‘Industrious and Fairly Civilised’’: The Glastonbury Lake Village (Taunton: Somerset Levels Project and Somerset County Museums Service, 1995). See F. Keller, The Lake Villages of Switzerland and Other Parts of Europe, trans. J. E. Lee (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1866) and The Lake Villages of Switzerland and Other Parts of Europe, 2nd edn., trans. J. E. Lee, 2 vols. (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1878). For a brief biography of Arthur Bulleid see S. Dewar, Arthur Bulleid and the Lake Villages of Somerset (Beaminster: J. Stevens Cox/Toucan Press, 1966). Ibid. Bulleid, The Lake Villages of Somerset, pp. 14–15. For the major early works on British lake settlements see Munro, Ancient Scottish Lake-Dwellings or Crannogs and R. Munro, The Lake Dwellings of Europe. Being the Rhind Lectures in Archaeology in 1888 (London: Cassell & Co., 1890). Bulleid appears not to have been aware of Munro’s researches at the time he first made his discovery. The Times (October 24, 1892), p. 3. Reprinted as R. Munro, ‘‘The Discovery of an Ancient Lake-Village in Somersetshire,’’ in The British Lake Village near Glastonbury, compiled by the Glastonbury Antiquarian Society (Taunton: Arnicott & Pearce, 1895), pp. 5–12. Quoted in a letter from Moreland to Munro, reproduced in The Times and reprinted in Munro, ‘‘The Discovery of an Ancient Lake-Village in Somersetshire,’’ p. 6. For details of the members of the committee, see Munro, ‘‘Introductory Chapter,’’ p. 7. Annual reports of the findings from Glastonbury appeared in the proceedings of the Somerset Antiquarian Society. For a brief history of the publication of the site see Munro, ‘‘Introductory Chapter.’’ Details of the excavation of the Lake Village are described in detail by Coles and Minnitt, ‘‘Industrious and Fairly Civilised.’’

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14 Bulleid and St. George Gray, The Glastonbury Lake Village. 15 For a useful introduction to the history of the ILN, see J. Bishop, ‘‘The Story of The Illustrated London News,’’ ILN anniversary edition (1992), pp. 29–34. On the origins of pictorial journalism see M. Jackson, The Pictorial Press: its Origins and Progress (London: Hurst & Blackett, 1885). 16 For a general idea of the style of coverage, see L. de Vries, History as Hot News: The World of the Early Victorians Through the Eyes of the Illustrated London News 1842–1865 (London: John Murray, 1967); for a more detailed examination of the earlier years see P. W. Sinnema, Dynamics of the Pictured Page: Representing the Nation in the Illustrated London News (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998); for a history of illustrated publications before the ILN see P. Anderson, The Printed Image and the Transformation of Popular Culture 1790–1860 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991). 17 Edward Bacon, former archaeological editor of the ILN, reproduces some of the best-known archaeological finds featured in the paper in his compilation, The Great Archaeologists (New York: Bobbs-Merrill, 1976). 18 For a more detailed discussion see Moser, ‘‘The Visual Language of Archaeology,’’ pp. 831–44, and S. Moser, Ancestral Images: The Iconography of Human Origins (Stroud: Sutton, 1998). 19 ILN, March 4, 1911, pp. 304–5; May 27, 1911, pp. 778–9. 20 See Bishop, ‘‘The Story of The Illustrated London News,’’ pp. 30–1; see also A. Ellegard, The Readership of the Periodical Press in Mid-Victorian Britain (Gothenburg: Go¨teborg Universitets A˚rsskrift Vol. LXIII, 1957). 21 283 subscribers are listed in the first excavation monograph. 22 Ingram was a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries and received an Honorary D.Litt. from the University of Oxford in 1960. 23 Letter dated February 16, 1949, reproduced in G. Daniel, A Hundred Years of Archaeology (London: Duckworth, 1950), p. 311. 24 G. Daniel, ‘‘Editorial,’’ Antiquity, 34 (1960), p. 4. See Bacon, The Great Archaeologists, p. 15 for a list of editors. 25 Daniel, ‘‘Editorial,’’ Antiquity, 46 (1972), p. 94; see also G. Daniel, ‘‘Editorial,’’ Antiquity, 35 (1961), p. 3; ‘‘Editorial,’’ Antiquity, 40 (1966), p. 82. 26 The paper prided itself on the quality of its artwork and employed many talented illustrators through the course of its history. ILN, May 14, 1892, pp. 591–3 gives details of the artists employed in the nineteenth century. 27 See ILN, May 14, 1892, p. 593 for brief biographical details. As Stoczkowski notes, the artists who create archaeological reconstructions are rarely discussed. See W. Stoczkowski, ‘‘The Painter and Prehistoric People,’’ in B. L. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 249–62. 28 ILN, March, 1911, pp. 304–5. 29 See A. Forestier, The Roman Soldier (London: A. & C. Black, 1928).

90 James E. Phillips 30 See Moser, Ancestral Images, pp. 154–6. Forestier’s reconstructions of prehistoric life also appeared in J. Baikie, Men of the Old Stone Age (London: A. & C. Black, 1928). 31 The Times, November 19, 1930, p. 19. Letter signed ‘‘C.H.B.Q.’’ 32 A. Bulleid, ‘‘Not the Woad-Daubed Savage of the Old History Books: The Civilised Ancient Briton,’’ ILN, December 2, 1911, p. 928. 33 Both the bowl (the excavation’s most celebrated find) and the table feature prominently in the scene set inside a roundhouse. 34 Bulleid, ‘‘Not the Woad-Daubed Savage of the Old History Books,’’ p. 928. 35 Forestier, The Roman Soldier. 36 The ILN archives were destroyed during World War II. 37 ILN, December 11, 1911, p. 928. 38 Bulleid, ‘‘Not the Woad-Daubed Savage of the Old History Books,’’ p. 928. 39 Forestier, The Roman Soldier, p. 5. 40 Bulleid, ‘‘Not the Woad-Daubed Savage of the Old History Books,’’ pp. 928, 936. Many of these activities feature in the small illustrations of craft production: ILN, December 11, 1911, p. 930. 41 Bulleid, ‘‘Not the Woad-Daubed Savage of the Old History Books,’’ p. 933. 42 Reproduced in Moser, Ancestral Images, p. 69. 43 See especially ibid. 44 See especially S. Piggott, Ancient Britons and the Antiquarian Imagination (London: Thames & Hudson, 1989); S. Smiles, The Image of Antiquity: Ancient Britain and the Romantic Imagination (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1994); Moser, Ancestral Images. 45 Tim Champion provides a detailed discussion of the origins and use of the warrior image in nineteenth-century France in T. C. Champion, ‘‘The Power of the Picture: The Image of the Ancient Gaul,’’ in B. L. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 213–29. 46 Champion notes that the image of the warriors on the jetty most closely resembles Jules Didier’s Chef Gaulois a` la Roche-Salve´e. See Champion, ‘‘The Power of the Picture,’’ p. 228. 47 Bulleid, ‘‘Not the Woad-Daubed Savage of the Old History Books,’’ p. 928. 48 See Forestier, The Roman Soldier, especially the illustration on p. 31. 49 Discussed in Dewar, Arthur Bulleid and the Lake Villages of Somerset. 50 W. Boyd Dawkins, ‘‘The Inhabitants of the Lake Village,’’ in Bulleid and St. George Gray, The Glastonbury Lake Village, pp. 675–6. 51 See P. M. Vitruvius, The Ten Books on Architecture, trans. M. H. Morgan (New York: Dover Publications, 1960). S. Moser discusses the illustrations that accompanied early editions of Vitruvius in Ancestral Images, pp. 52–9. 52 For depictions of gender roles in illustrations of Paleolithic life, see D. Gifford-Gonzales, ‘‘You Can Hide, but You Can’t Run: Representations of Women’s Work in Illustrations of Palaeolithic Life,’’ Visual Anthropology

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Review, 9 (1993), pp. 23–41 and S. Moser, ‘‘Gender Stereotyping in Pictorial Reconstructions of Human Origins,’’ in H. du Cros and L. Smith, eds., Women in Archaeology: A Feminist Critique (Canberra: Department of Prehistory, Research School of Pacific Studies, 1993), pp. 75–92. 53 It is interesting to note how the roundhouse scene is altered in M. Quennell and C. H. B. Quennell, Everyday Life in the New Stone, Bronze and Early Iron Ages (London: W. T. Batsford, 1928), p. 85. This image depicts an Iron Age man and woman alone in the roundhouse, with the woman cooking while the man looks on. There is no evidence of any servants in the scene, which appears to reflect social changes that occurred after World War I. 54 Bulleid, ‘‘Not the Woad-Daubed Savage of the Old History Books,’’ pp. 932–3. 55 J. Hawkes and C. F. C. Hawkes, Prehistoric Britain (London: Chatto & Windus, 1949), p. 116.

5

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology Dana Arnold I am interested in the various practices of recording architecture and their connection to ways of thinking about cultural and social relationships. In this way images of archaeological remains become a barometer of systems of thought that inform and shape our journey into knowledge of the past. Language and linguistic constraints are essential parts of these practices and I here focus on the resonance between verbal and visual methods of recording and articulating architecture. My specific concern is to examine how the imag(in)ing of the past – particularly the archaeological remains of classical antiquity – became part of a gendered discourse where the rationality of both the verbal and visual taxonomies of representation privileged the male. I want to concentrate on two examples: first, Andrea Palladio’s I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura, or The Four Books of Architecture (1570), which comprises reconstructions of the architecture of the ancient Roman world with textual commentaries as well as similar-style representations of Palladio’s own buildings. Here the techniques of architectural drawing developed and employed by Palladio established the visual epistemological system that reaffirmed and promoted the continuance of the ‘‘normative’’ classical (male) building. Secondly, I want to explore representations of the architecture of antiquity that stand outside this kind of phallocentric architectural discourse. My discussion here centers on the appropriately named Villa Madama, designed by the artist, architect, and antiquarian Raphael in the late 1510s.1 My purpose is to investigate what these two sixteenth-century antiquarians, Raphael and Palladio, offered their eighteenth-century counterparts whose quest for rational knowledge of the past and the present was very much a part of the

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 93 Enlightenment project. Furthermore, I want to demonstrate that our knowledge of the architecture of the past is a gendered construct that promotes and maintains the sovereign white male subject, and that these preferences continue to the present day. Finally, I suggest that by unlearning these discourses the images of the archaeological remains of antiquity become a richer archive through the complexities of the various subject/ object relationships they sustain. My framework is the Foucauldian idea that power operates partly through discourse and that it can both construct and undermine subjects. These articulations bring into being that which they name. In this way language – the verbalization of our ideas – is the vehicle through which ontological effects are established. This is especially important for architectural history, as both its tropes of language and its visual discourses conform to ‘‘linguistic’’ principles. And it is these principles that guide our understanding of the architecture of the past and have informed the hierarchies of quality that can still dominate our judgment of classical design. The impact of verbal discourses on our perception of subjects is evident in, for instance, the predisposition to accept whatever is as natural, whether in regard to academic enquiry or our social systems. This is aided by our linguistic acknowledgment of woman as ‘‘different.’’ For instance, we use ‘‘he’’ instead of the apparently neutral ‘‘one’’ – in reality the white-male-position accepted-as-natural, or the hidden ‘‘he’’ as the subject of all scholarly predicates.2 This impacts on architectural history as well as other modes of cultural production, where the white Western male viewpoint is unconsciously and unquestioningly accepted as the viewpoint of the historian.3 I want to show here that this viewpoint is inherent in the discourses of the architecture of antiquity, but that it is also only a construct. There are other ways of seeing and writing the past based on different predicates. This analysis of the gendered construction of the languages of architecture might at first appear to jar against the comfortable image of genteel, gentlemanly travel and the polite activity of rediscovering the antique in the eighteenth century. But it is precisely this cozy image of eighteenthcentury antiquarianism that needs to be disrupted and unsettled. The rational enlightenment project was not objective, and its subjectivity continues to impinge on our understanding and qualitative evaluation of antique architecture. And this takes us right to the heart of the Cartesian rationalist system of imposing preformulated ideas of order on the

94 Dana Arnold known world. This issue relates more generally to the way culture is constructed and evaluated – culture is masculine and nature, that which is unruly and irrational or not subject to rational laws, is feminine. In this way gender becomes a signifier of power through its discourses of the male subject and his binary opposite – the female.4 If gender is, then, a social construction through its production by discourse, there must be a moment before the male subject began to dominate our linguistic and knowledge systems. In this chapter I attempt to ‘‘unlearn’’ the discourses of classically inspired architecture and retrace their evolution back to a moment before the linguistic constraints of the rational male subject were imposed.5

Traveling through the Past David Lowenthal was not the first to remark that the past is a foreign country. Baron D’Hancarville’s assertion that ‘‘Antiquity is a vast country separated from our own by a long period of time’’ indicates such attitudes toward the past existed as far back as the eighteenth century.6 This statement is made in the baron’s ambitious, if ultimately flawed, study, Antiquite´s Etrusques, Grecques et Romains (1767, but not published before 1776), which was based on the collection of Gavin Hamilton, the British envoy in Naples. The idea that travel to foreign lands could lead to knowledge of the past was endorsed by the voyages of discovery of explorers like Captain Cook. He found peoples untouched by Western civilization who appeared to be living history – through their geographical and cultural remoteness. The connection between travel and knowledge is essential to an understanding of the importance of an actual and metaphorical journey into the past. The journey I want to trace is the one made by eighteenth-century British antiquarians in the pursuit of knowledge of ancient Rome – particularly here its architecture. The intense interest in Rome that emerged in the opening years of the eighteenth century was driven by a distinct cultural imperative. The move toward classical formulae in art, architecture, and literature was indicative of a feeling in Britain that contemporary culture reflected and was akin to that of Augustan Rome. The nation’s belief in its cultural superiority over the rest of Europe meant it saw itself as the inheritor of the mantle of ancient Rome. Rome was seen as the fountainhead of Western civilization and stood for a set of timeless, rational values which were widely held. Its

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 95 unique attraction and influence benefited from Italy’s tradition of learning, as seen in its universities and urbanized societies that had flourished since the Middle Ages through the Renaissance period and beyond. The intellectual response of thinkers like Edward Gibbon in his The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776–88) demonstrate the rising importance of historical enquiry into the past. And knowledge and understanding of this epoch was generally enhanced in the opening years of the eighteenth century through the study of textual descriptions of the writers of antiquity. Eighteenth-century guides and commentaries relied heavily on classical literary precedents. Joseph Addison’s Remarks on Several Parts of Italy etc (1705) is a narrative of his travels which draws on ancient poetry. He uses classical verse as a means of commenting on key sites included in the Grand Tour, which was just emerging as an essential part of a gentleman’s education.7 This made an important link between the past as a foreign country and the actuality of foreign soil. This connection was remarked upon by contemporaries and is perhaps best summed up by Horace Walpole, who observed in 1740: ‘‘Mr Addison travelled through the poets, and not through Italy; for all his ideas are borrowed from the descriptions and not from reality. He saw places as they were, not as they are.’’8 The sources for ancient Roman architecture were far more diverse, ranging from the excavation of the archaeological remains, to textual sources, to the study of surveys made in the Italian Renaissance. Indeed, Italian Renaissance architecture itself offered a rich variety of reinterpretations of antique forms that many eighteenth-century architects found equally as attractive as the Roman originals.9 It is important here to look at the guides, or ciceroni, that were available to eighteenth-century travellers to Rome and to consider briefly how these related to the architecture and antique remains found there. Raphael and Palladio provide parallel routes for this journey through the past. But first it is necessary to explore the sources upon which these antiquarians drew, and examine how they shaped attitudes to the architecture of antiquity.

Epistemological Systems and the ‘‘Normative’’ Building It is important to think about how the languages of architectural history, both visual and verbal, work to produce the normative building. Here our knowledge systems of the architecture of antiquity come into play, as does their role in the promotion of the classical style. Indeed, it may at first

96 Dana Arnold appear that the male human subject does not take centre-stage in these contexts, but the actuality is otherwise. The enduring Western predilection for the classical can be traced back to the architectural criticism of antiquity, and is very much part of the way in which our knowledge of the past is constructed. One of the most influential texts in this regard is Vitruvius’ treatise De Architectura (The Ten Books on Architecture), written in the first century BCE, which is a survey of classical (principally Greek) architecture by a Roman author. The book provided a comprehensive survey of the classical style of building and supplied a ready-made taxonomic apparatus with which to discuss architectural design.10 Vitruvius codified the classical orders of architecture and instilled into them a language and grammar, which made them intelligible, and this technique of representation was well in advance of methods of recording and representing architecture visually. Vitruvius also maps out the anthropocentric proportions and associations of the different orders – for instance, Doric being based on the masculine body and Ionic on the feminine body. This strengthens the relationship of classical architecture to a human-based appreciation of style, as does the idea of the Vitruvian man – the perfect forms of the circle and the square which are shown as directly related to masculine proportions. The narratives around the orders found in Vitruvius’ text embellished them further as transmitters of particular modes of discourse, based in part on Greek history or mythology. As Vitruvius remarks: Propriety is that perfection of style which comes when a work is authoritatively constructed on approved principles. . . . The temples of Minerva, Mars, and Hercules, will be Doric, since the virile strength of these gods makes daintiness entirely inappropriate to their houses. In temples to Venus, Flora . . . the Corinthian order will be found to have peculiar significance, because these are delicate divinities. . . . The construction of temples of the Ionic order to Juno, Diana, father Bacchus . . . will be in keeping with the middle position which they hold; for the building as such will be an appropriate combination of the severity of the Doric and the delicacy of the Corinthian.11

Here the ideas of appropriateness and system are outlined by Vitruvius. And it is clear that in his view the orders could signify qualities that transcended the binary gender divide – at least as far as mythological divinities are concerned. But the historical narratives encapsulated in the

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 97 orders perhaps reveal a different attitude toward the gender of mortals. Vitruvius explains the caryatid, a draped female form which takes the place of columns, in this enchanting history: among the ornamental parts of an architect’s design for a work, there are many underlying ideas of whose employment he [the architect] should be able to explain . . . the marble statues of women in long robes, called Caryatides . . . [can be explained thus]. Caryae, a state in Peloponnesus, sided with the Persian enemies against Greece; later the Greeks, having gloriously won their freedom by victory in the war, made common cause and declared against the people of Caryae. They took the town, killed the men, abandoned the State to desolation, and carried off their wives to slavery, without permitting them, however, to lay aside the long robes and other marks of their rank as married women, so that they might be obliged not only to march in the triumph but to appear forever after as a type of slavery, burdened with the weight of their shame and so making atonement for their State. Hence, the architects of the time designed for public buildings statues of these women, placed so as to carry a load, in order that the sin and punishment of the people of Caryae might be known and handed down even to posterity.12

Vitruvius’ reinforcing of classical architecture with these associated values enabled the construction of an enduring canonical style or ideology imbued with a set of social and cultural beliefs expressed through a human-based system of proportions. In this system nature and femininity are mastered and subdued in the process of verbalizing the architecture of the past. Vitruvius was, then, essential for the development of the abstract ideas around classical architecture and the value system it promoted and represented. The Ten Books were an important source of Leon Battista Alberti’s De Re Aedificatoria, circulated in manuscript from 1452 and published in 1485 (later translated into Italian by the author).13 Alberti had a resounding influence on many other Renaissance architects and theorists and was still widely read in the eighteenth century. But Vitruvius’ classical canon had a broader appeal and was a fundamental part of the formulation of the canon of taste. For instance, Giorgio Vasari’s Lives of the Artists, which appeared in the latter half of the sixteenth century in Italy, drew on the Vitruvian ideal. In his preface to part three of the Lives Vasari remarks: ‘‘By rule in architecture we mean the method used of measuring antiques and basing modern works on the plans of ancient buildings. Order is the

98 Dana Arnold distinction made between one kind of architectural style and another . . . Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, Tuscan. Proportion is a universal law of architecture.’’14 Indeed, the Vasarian concepts of regola, ordine, misura, disegno e maniera (rule, order, measure, drawing, style) remain touchstones of academic formal criticism and the benchmark of perceived perfection against which other traditions were always to be found wanting. The judgments of Vitruvius and Vasari were handed down through subsequent generations of writers and influenced, for instance, J. J. Winckelmann’s Remarks on the Architecture of the Ancients (1755), which privileged the classical ideal. The veneration of classical architecture was also promoted through the academies of art and design, which flourished throughout Europe, where design was taught through rules and formulae.15 Academic architecture relied heavily on these textual sources for the formulation of its classical style; moreover, many architects and cognoscenti also used them as guides to the buildings of antiquity and Renaissance Italy. The confluence of the verbal and the visual produced potent manifestos for classical architecture as seen in Andrea Palladio’s I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura or The Four Books of Architecture (1570), which was used across Europe as a guide to the architecture of antiquity as well as Palladio’s own buildings. The Four Books first became available in English in 1715 when Giacomo Leoni published an edition translated from a French version. Neither the quality of the text nor the images, which were woodcuts, were particularly satisfactory, but an improved English edition, published by Isaac Ware, did not appear until 1738. Palladio’s debt to Vitruvius is manifest throughout this text and underpinned both the way in which he theorized about ancient architecture and the way in which he reconstructed it. And there is no doubt that he was very familiar with Vitruvius, as Palladio had illustrated an edition of The Ten Books translated from Latin into Italian by one of his Veneto patrons, Daniele Barbaro, in 1556. The process of visualizing Vitruvius’ verbal discourse on antique architecture must have been an important formative process in Palladio’s education as an architect and antiquarian. In ‘‘The Author’s Preface to the Reader’’ Palladio remarks: It was always my opinion, that the ancient Romans [in building] vastly excelled all those who have been since their time, I proposed myself Vitruvius for my mentor and guide . . . I began very minutely with the utmost diligence to measure every one of their [antique buildings] parts . . . that I might entirely from them, comprehend what the whole had

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 99 been, and reduce it into design. . . . I therefore, hope that the manner of building may with universal utility be reduced, and soon brought to that pitch of perfection . . . [and] to treat of architecture, as orderly and distinctly was possible for me.16

There is no doubt that through his novel and evocative conjunction of text and image Palladio became an essential interlocutor between the architecture of the ancients and the Renaissance and eighteenth-century antiquarian. The enduring popularity of The Four Books, even among those who did not understand the Italian text (or were baffled by the poor translations of it), is testament to the power of his images and analysis of the constituent parts of classical architecture together with his reconstructions of the ruins of ancient Rome. But I want here to understand Palladio through his limitations and boundaries rather than his perceived comprehensiveness. Both these evaluations of Palladio are based on his system of articulating architecture verbally and visually. And this system was very influential for eighteenth-century antiquarians. This brief outline shows how epistemological systems formulated in antiquity survived and in turn guided the reception and understanding of ancient architecture. These systems were sustained within architectural debate up to the eighteenth century and beyond. The process of distancing architecture from its physical context and making it part of intellectual debate in both verbal and visual terms has important consequences. The rationalizing system of representing architecture was part of a reductive process based on logos – the philosophical method for revealing the truth through linguistic means. This mode of graphic notation and narration of history had been pioneered by Palladio and disseminated through The Four Books, which was the most popular guide for eighteenth-century antiquarians.17 Ancient Rome was seen through Palladio and his techniques of representation influenced both architectural practice and the way in which buildings were recorded in Britain.

Palladio The Four Books rely on innovative techniques in architectural drawing to present plans, elevations, sections, and details of their subjects, both ancient and modern, which are complemented by textual descriptions of the buildings. In Book 4 on antique architecture, Palladio attempts to

100 Dana Arnold reconstruct the buildings of ancient Rome. These reconstructions demonstrate at once the potency of his technique of representing the architecture of the ancient world and the way in which it is made to conform to a set of predetermined conventions governed by abstract notions of geometry. These notions were seen to pertain to the patrician ideology of classical architecture. The order or perfect form of the circle or square based on male proportions as seen in the ‘‘Vitruvian man’’ was used to impose order on images of buildings to promote a rational, linear, geometric, and ultimately male world based on pre-existing verbal laws – the rationalizing, ‘‘masculine’’ forces of analysis based on verbal histories. One of the principal techniques of imag(in)ing the past used by Palladio was orthogonal drawing. This kind of representation provided accurate measurements of buildings as they were ‘‘flattened’’ against the picture surface – the only illusion of depth being shading to imply some kind of spatial recession. Orthogonal perspective preserved the proportional systems of architecture which would have been sacrificed if other techniques of representation had been used. In this way orthogonal representation stood in distinct contrast to the preoccupation of artists in sixteenth-century Italy with the creation of the illusion of pictorial space through aerial and linear perspective. Instead of a realistic image of a building, this technique placed emphasis on proportions and measurements which were accurately represented. We have already seen the verbal preoccupation with rationality, measurement, and the reduction of these principles into good (all’antica) design. Here we find the graphic, visual equivalent of this system of understanding classical architecture. Clearly, orthogonal perspective is an effective tool in the reconstruction of ancient architecture and it provided those who wished to emulate this mode of building with an easily readable blueprint to do so – complete with measurements. These extractable signs, linguistic procedures for pictorial clarification, created a universal science of recording and expression of a common ideal. This logocentric system fitted into the Cartesian, rationalist philosophy which found its best expression in the formulaic use of antique architecture in styles often called Palladian and neoclassical, but which in fact bore little relation to the actuality of antiquity. This tradition of architectural design and its histories establish theoretical hegemonies and aesthetic practices that promote the ideology of a patrician elite, which is based on ‘‘tangible reality’’ that was ultimately a male discourse.18 But it is important to remember that Palladio does not represent what was actually there. The plates in Book 4 are Palladio’s

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 101 reconstructions of Roman ruins based on his linguistic principles of architecture, albeit that these relate to a long-established tradition.19 Moreover, the measurements Palladio provides of both antique and his own architecture are not always accurate, and were sometimes optimistic interpretations of proportional formulae.20 In other words, Palladio is no more truthful than other reconstructions of Rome. He provides only a way of seeing or reading the architecture of the past using a particular set of linguistic principles, and not a universal objective truth. Yet The Four Books remained one of the most ubiquitous guides to ancient Rome. Consequently travelers, when faced with the actuality of Roman ruins, which might be overgrown and unexcavated, imagined antiquity through Palladio’s linguistic system. In addition to the rational presentation of antiquity, Palladio ‘‘canonized’’ his own architecture through its inclusion in The Four Books. The Villa Rotonda, perhaps one of his best known buildings, epitomizes how his way of seeing antiquity translated into Palladio’s own architectural practice21 (see Figure 5.1). The symmetrical plan (this is truly so, as it is symmetrical on both axes, rather than being bi-symmetrical) comprises sets of interior spaces whose proportional relationships interrelate through the formula of the square and the halfsquare. These spaces are ranged around the central circular space. The perfect forms of the square and the circle worked well on paper, if not in the measurements of the building itself. Palladio’s system governed the form of the building and an understanding of this system made the design attractive to both the patrician elite of sixteenth-century Italy and eighteenth-century Britain.22

The Villa Madama The Villa Madama in Rome acts as another kind of interlocutor between the archaeological remains of ancient Rome and their rediscovery and reinterpretation by subsequent generations of architects. The Villa Madama was in name at least the project of Cardinal Guilio de’ Medici, later Pope Clement VII, but was paid for largely by his uncle, the then Pope Leo X. The villa was situated on the northwest slope of the Monte Mario, just outside of Rome.23 Work began late in 1518, by 1521 the four principal rooms were completed, and work continued on the villa and its gardens, as on her visit on May 17, 1525 Isabella d’Este remarked: ‘‘Where there are the beginnings of a most beautiful lodging with some rooms

102 Dana Arnold

Figure 5.1 Andrea Palladio, The Villa Almerico, known as ‘‘La Rotonda,’’ near Vicenza, 1566–9, from Palladio, Il Quattro Libri dell’Architettura (Venice, 1570), book II, plate XIII

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 103

Figure 5.2 Reconstruction of the plan (partly unexecuted) for the Villa Madama, near Rome, 1518 onwards

finished as sumptuous and magnificent as may be done.’’24 Building ended abruptly with the Sack of Rome in 1527 when, on May 27, the roof was burnt, and in 1534 the unfinished villa was sold to Ippolito de’ Medici. It then passed to Duke Alessandro de’ Medici’s wife Margaret of Parma – from whom the villa received its name – the Villa Madama. Apart from a new roof, little was done to the building – a second story being added only in the nineteenth century. It might at first seem difficult to perceive the importance of an unfinished, remote papal retreat from the early sixteenth century. It has neither the uncanny quality of the Palazzo del Te´ in Mantua, which plays with our perception of domestic space. Nor does it have the predominant rationality and symmetry that characterize Palladio’s essays in the classical language of architecture as seen in his Veneto villas (see Figure 5.1). But it is an essential piece of connective tissue between the archaeological remains of Rome, the Renaissance rediscovery of antiquity and the eighteenthcentury adoption of the all’antica architecture through the writings on it and the images made of it. And through the Villa Madama I am able to examine what the differing antiquarian pursuits of Raphael and Palladio had to offer the enlightenment project. The ingenuity of its design lies in the adaptation of antique architectural elements to suit sixteenth-century functions without using the overriding principles of order, proportion,

104 Dana Arnold symmetry, and rule. The Villa Madama (Figure 5.2) is an attempt to reuse the design principles of ancient Roman villas – to reconstruct the complex spaces of Hadrian’s Villa at Tivoli and the other villas around that town, the Golden House of Nero and the Villa of Brutus. As a result the groundplan is not symmetrical. Instead, the layout of the villa follows the topography of the Monte Mario using, for instance, the steep hillside to form the seating of the theater. Also, the comfort of the occupants is an important factor, evident in the arrangements of rooms according to the needs of light and shade and cool winds and the presence of luxurious baths, loggie, and gardens. All of this is in keeping with the idea of a villa suburbana, whilst the palatial decoration of the interiors ensured the Madama rivaled its urban counterparts. Raphael’s competence as an antiquarian is manifest in both his architecture and interior design.25 For instance, his decoration of the Farnesina Loggia is based on the grotesques Raphael saw on the walls of the catacombs in Rome (which were in fact the underground rooms of the Golden House of Nero), and these were an important source for the interiors of eighteenthcentury architects such as Robert Adam. There is also written evidence of Raphael’s knowledge and discernment of the architecture of the past in his letter to Pope Leo X, probably written in 1519, on the state of the architecture of Rome. Here Raphael remarks that the architecture of antiquity can be distinguished from that of the Goths and of the present day as it was the last art to decline being ‘‘excellent in style and built more perfectly . . . than all others.’’26 And this statement tells us that not all sixteenth-century architects and antiquarians could differentiate between antique, Gothic, and their present-day architecture. Raphael had been commissioned by the Pope to survey, draw, and remark on the ancient buildings in Rome and his techniques for doing this are discussed in a letter: Those that are completely ruined and no longer visible may be understood by the study of those that still stand and can be seen. . . . I have studied in many Latin authors these things that I mean to set forth. . . . It now remains for me to teach the method by which we have tried to measure and draw them . . . . I have never heard or read that men of ancient times knew of this method of measuring with a magnetic compass.27

Indeed, it is clear that Raphael’s understanding of the techniques of architectural drawing rivaled that of Palladio. It is impossible to conjecture what further influence Raphael might have had on antiquarian studies had

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 105 he not died prematurely aged 37.28 But it is important to note that similar graphic means and skills to Palladio’s were at Raphael’s disposal – but he imag(in)ed antiquity quite differently. I want to return now to the Villa Madama and Raphael’s own discussion of it in a letter which probably dates from 1519 (Raphael died in April the following year, giving us a terminus ante quem). The recipient is unknown, but the letter offers the reader a detailed description of the villa in terms of its spaces and their function. The language of the letter draws on the Roman agricultural treatises of Cato, Varro, and Palladius, all of which had been published in Venice in the late fifteenth century. Pliny the Younger’s letters on his villas at Laurentum and Tuscany may also have been influential.29 (All these sources were also known to Palladio.) The letter begins with the location and orientation of the villa: The villa is placed astride that slope of Monte Mario which faces directly north-east, and because of the curve of the hill it is open to the South on the Rome-facing side, and from the opposite side it is open to the north west, and behind the shoulders of the mountain are the South west and the west . . . so your Excellency can observe how the site turns. But to direct this villa towards the healthier winds, I have turned its length straight towards the south east, with this precaution, that there are no windows, nor any living quarters facing the south east except those which have need of warmth.30

It is not that Raphael is ignorant of or chooses to ignore Vitruvius – he offers a different reading of him. For instance, the letter discusses the baths in the villa, both tepid and hot, which relates to Vitruvius Book V, ch. X, 4. The provision of boilers and the water supply corresponds to Vitruvius Book V, ch X, 1. Proportional relationships and layout are also based on Vitruvius’ discussions in Book VI: In this space there is a beautiful theatre made according to the following measurements and rules: first of all a circle is made of the intended size of the theatre, and in it are drawn four equilateral triangles whose points touch the outside edge of the circle; and that side of the triangle facing north east which makes an angle to the south east and the north west forms the front of the stage.31

Clearly, the Villa Madama is only one building, although it was well known and frequently visited by architectural tourists and was illustrated

106 Dana Arnold in Book III of Serlio’s Treatise on Architecture (one of eight books, 1537– 75), which also operated as guide to Roman and Italian architecture, albeit a less popular one than Palladio’s. Obviously, it does not offer the kind of comprehensive survey we find in Palladio’s The Four Books. But the different kind of engagement with antiquity is important evidence for other ways of imag(in)ing the past.

Duck Rabbits (or Seeing as) Palladio’s The Four Books and the Villa Madama might appear to be parallel tracks running through the history of the understanding of the architecture of antiquity. But they do intersect, and this brief elision demonstrates the different ways of seeing and articulating architecture both verbally and visually. Raphael’s description of the Villa Madama runs to several pages. He is interested in the spatial experiences the building offered the visitor and in how these spaces worked. The epistolary format adds a measure of informality and directness to the tone: Opposite the atrium doorway comes another facing towards the North West which goes into a most beautiful loggia fourteen canne long which has three openings, in the middle one of which is the entrance. The other two have in the corresponding position a semicircular area which makes the loggia spacious, to the extent of being five canne wide. This loggia forms a semicircle towards the mountain, with seats made for that purpose of cushions.32

Here Raphael sees the beauty and function of the loggia, but his description also tells us that the loggia is not symmetrical: ‘‘This loggia forms a semicircle towards the mountain’’ means it has an apsidal end to the west that is not mirrored at its east end. That this is intentional is confirmed in the architectural drawings, probably by Antonio or Guiliano da Sangallo, that survive of the villa.33 Palladio did not include any contemporary architecture, apart from his own, in the The Four Books except the Tempietto by Bramante (1502), which appeared amongst the temple architecture of ancient Rome.34 But Palladio drew a plan of the Villa Madama, probably on his visit to Rome in 1541.35 In this drawing, which presents itself as an accurate measured survey, the loggia is

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 107 symmetrical. Palladio could not accept the asymmetrical forms of contemporary or antique architecture.36 This kind of ‘‘seeing as’’ shows us the operation of the independence of the human imagination and gives us some clue as to why the language of architecture used by Palladio became so ubiquitous. In Kantian terms this kind of ‘‘seeing as’’ relates to the idea of aesthetic judgment and the notion of taste.37 This is not just associative – relating our perception to past experience. Our satisfaction with our perception of an object is that it fills the criteria of what we think it should be, rather than what it is. In this way the object brings into play the ordering capacity of the mind and the mind’s receptivity to sensory impressions. Wittgenstein develops this in his Philosophical Investigations where he discusses and draws a figure that he describes as a ‘‘duck rabbit’’ – depending on the name we give, in this case duck or rabbit, that is what we see.38 A similar kind of thing is going on with Palladio – his will to see antique architecture under the guidance of his thoughts about it, and the satisfaction these give, results in the kind of images he made of it. This mode of seeing, imag(in)ing, and exercise of taste was pioneered by Palladio in his visual discourses that visualized the verbal. He conflated these modes of seeing and appreciating the architecture of antiquity. There were, of course, other ways of seeing Rome and Palladio was not the only guide used by eighteenth-century visitors to archaeological sites. Raphael was also studied, especially by late seventeenth-century French antiquarians whose publications found their way into the libraries of their British counterparts.39 Lord Burlington and his prote´ge´ William Kent are seen as being responsible for promoting the style of architecture known as Palladian in Britain. And it is not my purpose here to contest or endorse this view.40 But alongside Palladio, Burlington and Kent used guides such as Etienne Duperac’s map of Old Rome (1563) and Falda’s Gli Giardini di Roma (1683). These are far more pictorial in their representation of Rome and use a bird’s-eye perspective, making accurate measurements impossible. These views of Rome often conflated the city’s geography, placing monuments in closer proximity than they are. Such images give an indication of an alternative experience of Rome for visitors like William Kent or Lord Burlington. The half-ruined forms of structures like the Baths of Diocletian were assumed to have been always surrounded by landscape, and were represented in this way in these surveys. Indeed, the association of these unruly relics of the past with nature provides a remarkable and important contrast to the measured reconstructions of antique buildings by Palladio. In this way this kind of imag(in)ing of

108 Dana Arnold antiquity was consigned to the domain of the irrationality of feminine nature. The association of the archaeological remains with the landscape is seen in their adoption in English garden design. For instance, William Kent’s Temple of the British Worthies at Stowe is based on the representations of the Baths of Diocletian in engravings such as those by Duperac. The inclusion of all’antica elements (sometimes constructed as ruins – just how they appeared in Rome) was a hallmark of eighteenth-century garden design. This represented a strong connection between the sidelining of the non-rational image of classical architecture to the already established irrational margins of feminine nature. Indeed, the multiplicity of ways of seeing and representing antiquity demonstrate the complexities of journeying into the past – especially if some kind of objective truth was being sought.

Raphael, Palladio, and British Antiquarians What was the connection between these different discourses of the architecture of antiquity? It was the discourse of Vitruvius, as articulated in the graphic techniques of Palladio, that found most favor. And, as we have seen, The Four Books was translated into English by Giacomo Leoni in the early eighteenth century, so widening its availability. Leoni went on to publish The Architecture of Leon Battista Alberti in 1726. At about the same time as Leoni published his translation of The Four Books, Colen Campbell began his survey of British architecture, Vitruvius Britannicus, which appeared in three volumes in 1715, 1717, and 1725. Although much less academic and analytical, the popularity of this kind of survey underscores the enduring preoccupation with the associative values of these stylistic formulae. Campbell’s Vitruvius Britannicus, vol. I (1715) and Leoni’s English translation of Palladio’s The Four Books of Architecture were both dedicated to King George I. Moreover, Leoni included a frontispiece prepared by Sebastiano Ricci showing Father Time unveiling a bust of Palladio, underneath which is a winged figure of Fame. Above this scene is Britannia with two putti holding the royal coat of arms. The message is clear: under the new royal house Palladio’s principles flourish once more. Moreover, the image of Palladio, which follows the title page, acts as a kind of metaphor for the adoption of his architectural principles in eighteenthcentury Britain. The image bears no relation to the portrait of the architect by his contemporary Paolo Veronese. The typical Renaissance Venetian

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 109 appearance of Palladio has been changed to a clean-shaven eighteenthcentury face dressed in soft cap and open shirt, making it more accessible and acceptable to Leoni’s audience. Palladio is ‘‘seen as’’ the archetypal British gentleman architect/antiquarian who will rationalize the history and current practice of architecture in Britain. Whilst Leoni provided an inaccurate but nationalistically orientated guide to classical architecture through the eyes of Palladio, Campbell made a quite different contribution. The first volume of Vitruvius Britannicus mapped out the classical architecture of the British Isles. It was not an architectural treatise but an assemblage of images which created a new and important archive of British classicism. That is to say, the use of the repertory of classical forms in a variety of architectural configurations confirmed the authority of the patrician elite. The opening statement by Campbell makes his purpose clear: The general esteem that travellers have for things foreign, is in nothing more conspicuous than with regard to building. We travel for the most part, at an Age more apt to be imposed upon us by the ignorance or partiality of others, than to judge truly of the merit of things by the strength of reason. It is owing to this mistake in education that so many of the British quality have so mean an opinion of what is performed in our own country; though perhaps in most we equal, and in some things we surpass our neighbours.41

Here we return to the metaphor of travel as means of knowing and understanding the past. And we see how Palladio provided a linguistic means of articulating the visual past of Britain in terms of its architecture. This rationalizing discourse about the past helped formulate the notion of taste, which in turn related to patriarchal social and cultural systems. The conflation of ideas about taste, class, and antique architecture cohere around the Lockeian idea of the philosophy of association.42 These ideas were absorbed into the Royal Academy of Arts – the very engine that promoted this kind of hegemony. Sir Joshua Reynolds, the first president of the Royal Academy, in the lectures originally given to the students at the Academy, addressed the question of architecture in his 13th Discourse: Architecture certainly possesses many principles in common with Poetry and Painting. Among those which may be reckoned as the first, is, that affecting the imagination by means of association of ideas. Thus, for instance, we have naturally a veneration for antiquity whatever building brings to our remembrance ancient customs and manners . . . is sure to give this delight.43

110 Dana Arnold Lord Kames continued this sentiment by suggesting that architecture could transmit the feeling of grandeur through association with antiquity. These elements come together to form a discussion around the nature of taste. This derives partly from the ability to relish beautiful objects and the pleasure associated with this. These ideas about originality and the appreciation of beauty and imitation through intellect were crystallized into an embodiment of an elitist structure by David Hume. Taste became a product of breeding, and socially formed tastes should be recognized as absolute preferences, with those who fail to accept them being inferior. Taste was equated with education – the intellectual ability to contextualize an object or building, whether it be original or copy. Social eminence was based on cultural superiority. The possession of taste indicated education and hence virtue, and implied a fitness to rule. Antiquity was harnessed into the service of the propaganda machine of the social and cultural elite of eighteenth-century Britain and exploited to its full potential. Palladio offered a rational system through which to do this. My purpose here has not been to suggest a binary division between ways of imag(in)ing antiquity. Nor have I intended to portray all eighteenth-century antiquarianism as part of the rationalizing enlightenment project. Rather, in the specific domain of imag(in)g the past there is a predominant predilection for methods and techniques of representation that codifies architecture through a set of linguistic principles. And these principles confirm the white male subject as the predicate of classical architecture. My wider agenda has been to indicate that this bias continues to the present day. This is manifest in the historiography of classical architecture in Britain where narratives of Palladian and neoclassical architecture predominate. This in turn impacts on our continuing predilection for classical architecture. I have discussed these issues in more depth elsewhere.44 This brief chapter has offered me the opportunity to approach these questions from a different angle. Within the specifics of this enquiry it is clear that images of archaeological remains of ancient Rome offer complex readings of systems of thought and attitudes toward antiquity. Unlearning these discourses – the investigation of their cultural and intellectual formulation – reveals their predicates and enables us to undertake different journeys through the past.

Unlearning the Images of Archaeology 111

acknowledgments

This chapter began as a seminar paper given during my tenure as a Visiting Scholar at the Getty Research Institute in Los Angeles, and an earlier version formed the basis of one my lectures delivered as Visiting Professor to the AHRB CentreCATH at the University of Leeds. Dr. Susan M. Dixon, Dr. James Lawson, and Professor Paul Smith have all been generous in their responses to my queries; any omissions or errors remain my own.

Notes 1 One of the most recent studies of Raphael as an architect is Christoph L. Frommel, Stefano Ray, and Manfredo Tafuri, Raffaello Architetto (Milan: Electa, 1984). 2 On this point see Kathleen Canning, ‘‘Feminist History after the Linguistic Turn: Historicising Discourse and Experience,’’ Signs, 19 (1994), pp. 368–404. 3 My discussion centers around the white male subject both as the predicate of ways of thinking about the past, specifically the activities of European Grand Tourists and antiquarians who used the works of earlier European writers and antiquarians as their guides. There is also an historiographic side to my argument, as this bias is perpetuated in architectural histories that do not re-examine these approaches to antiquity. On this latter point see D. Arnold, Reading Architectural History (London, Routledge, 2002). 4 On this point see Judith M. Bennett, ‘‘Feminism and History,’’ Gender and History, 1 (1989), pp. 251–72. 5 This idea is discussed by Jacques Derrida in his essay ‘‘To Unsense the Subjectile,’’ in Jacques Derrida and Paul The´venin, eds., The Secret Art of Antonin Artaud, trans. Mary Ann Caws (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998), especially p. 105. 6 Baron d’Hancarville, Antiquite´s Etrusques, Grecques et Romains (1767, but not published before 1776), in David Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985). 7 The Grand Tour is discussed by, inter alia, Jeremy Black, The Grand Tour in the Eighteenth Century (Stroud: Sutton, 1992) and Andrew Wilton and Ilaria Bignamini, The Grand Tour, The Lure of Italy in the Eighteenth Century, exhibition catalogue (London: Tate Gallery, 1996). For the anthropological analysis of the Grand Tour and a survey of its diversity see Bruce Redford, Venice and the Grand Tour (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1996), especially chapter 1.

112 Dana Arnold 8 9

10

11 12 13

14 15

16

17

18 19

20

Horace Walpole, Correspondence (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1980), xiii, p. 231. For a fuller discussion of the relationship between Italian Renaissance and eighteenth-century British architecture see D. Arnold, ‘‘The Illusion of Grandeur? Antiquity, Grand Tourism and the Country House,’’ in D. Arnold, The Georgian Country House: Architecture, Landscape and Society (Stroud: Sutton, [1998] 2003), pp. 100–16. This is discussed with specific reference to the villa in D. Arnold, ed., The Georgian Villa (Stroud: Sutton, [1996] 1998). On the point of language and criticism see Michael Baxandall, Giotto and the Orators (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1971). A rereading of Vitruvius is offered in Indra Kagis McEwen, Vitruvius: Writing the Body of Architecture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2003). Vitruvius, The Ten Books On Architecture, Book I, ch. 2, para. 5, trans Morris Hickey Morgan (New York: Dover, 1960), pp. 14–15. Ibid., pp. 6–7. The most recently available translation is Leon Battista Alberti, On the Art of Building in Ten Books, trans. Joseph Rykwert, Neil Leach, and Robert Tavernor (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1988). Giorgio Vasari, The Lives of the Artists, trans. George Bull (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1971), p. 249. The first Academy of Fine Art was founded in Florence by Vasari in 1563 and was followed by, for instance, the Accademia di San Luca, founded in Rome in 1593. The French Academy, founded in 1648, was modeled on the Italian institutions, as was the French Academy in Rome, which opened in 1666. The Royal Academy in London was founded in 1768. Andrea Palladio, I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura, 1570, facsimile of translation by Isaac Ware, ed. A. Placzek (New York: Dover, 1965). This passage appears in the unpaginated preliminary pages to the text. The enduring influence of Palladio’s I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura on architects and travelers throughout the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in Britain is discussed by Frank Salmon in his essay, ‘‘‘Heretical and Presumptuous’: British Architectural Visitors to Palladio’s Villas in the later Georgian Period,’’ in Arnold, The Georgian Villa, pp. 61–74. I develop this theme throughout my book: Arnold, Reading Architectural History. This is not to say that Palladio was insensitive to ancient architecture. He noticed, for instance that the temple portico front of the Pantheon was a later addition to the building. Palladio, I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura, Book IV, ch. XX, pls. 51–59. Palladio was used as a guide to ancient Rome and his own architecture by many generations of travelers, and his errors in measurement were remarked upon. For instance, Inigo Jones used his copy of I Quattro Libri dell’Archi-

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21 22

23

24 25

26 27 28 29

30 31

tettura, which is held in the Library at Worcester College, Oxford, as a guide to his tour of architecture in Italy. Jones checked Palladio’s measurements and found them wanting, and his remarks are noted in the margins. This has been published in facsimile: Inigo Jones on Palladio, being the notes of Inigo Jones in the copy of I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura di Andrea Palladio, 1601 in the library of Worcester College, Oxford (Newcastle, 1970). Palladio, I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura, 1570, Book II, ch. III, pl. 13. Palladio’s own architecture was influential, as were his reconstructions of ancient architecture. For instance, the Rotonda influenced Colen Campbell’s design for Mereworth Castle in Kent around 1722–5. Lord Burlington drew on Palladio’s reconstruction of an Egyptian Hall (Book II, ch. X, pl. 27) for his design for the Assembly Rooms in York in 1732. The site was rented by Leo X from the Chapter of St. Peter’s, probably in 1517. For a discussion of the commission and a detailed history of the building history of the Villa Madama see Christoph L. Frommel, ‘‘Die architektonische Planung der Villa Madama,’’ Romisches Jarbuch (1975), and John Shearman, ‘‘Raphael As Architect,’’ Journal of the Royal Society of Arts (1968), pp. 388–409. Isabella d’Este, as quoted in Frommel, ‘‘Die architektonische Planung.’’ Ingrid Rowland, ‘‘Raphael, Angelo Colocci, and the Genesis of the Architectural Orders,’’ Art Bulletin (1994), pp. 81–104, makes a convincing case that Raphael was involved in a vernacular translation of Vitruvius (as a complement to the earlier Latin one by Fra Giocondo, 1511). Raphael critiqued Vitruvius noting, for instance, that Vitruvius asserted that there were four column types that he knew of, but that there was no limit to the development of new types. It was never published. Shearman also discusses Raphael’s antiquarian projects and mentioned his intention to publish an Italian translation of Vitruvius, which he owned in manuscript form. See Shearman, ‘‘Raphael As Architect,’’ p. 401. I am grateful to Dr. Susan Dixon for bringing the Rowland article to my attention. Elizabeth Holt, A Documentary History of Art, vol. I (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981), p. 293. Ibid., pp. 292, 296. Shearman, ‘‘Raphael As Architect’’ also expresses this view of Raphael’s skills as an architectural draftsman. A case for the design of the Villa Madama being based on Pliny’s description of his Laurentine Villa is made by David Coffin, ‘‘The Plans of the Villa Madama,’’ Art Bulletin (1969), pp. 111–22. This letter is cited in Frommel, Ray, and Tafuri, Raffaello Architetto, pp. 324–6. Ibid., p. 326.

114 Dana Arnold 32 Ibid. p 325 (I have translated ‘‘pulmini’’ as cushions). One canna equals about 7 feet. 33 These are in the Uffizi Gallery. See especially UA 314, UA 273 and UA 282a. For a detailed discussion of the drawings see, inter alia, Coffin, ‘‘The Plans of the Villa Madama.’’ 34 Palladio, I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura, Book II, ch. XVII, pls. 44–45. 35 This is in the Royal Institute of British Architects’ Drawing Collection. 36 Serlio also illustrated this loggia in Book III of his Treatise on Architecture. In his commentary he remarks that there is no recess at the eastern end of the loggia and this was so as not to diminish some of the apartments. He recognized that here form followed function, rather than function following form. 37 Immanuel Kant, The Critique of Judgement, trans. Werner S. Pluhar (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett, 1987) p. 240. 38 Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (Oxford: Blackwell, 1953) esp. pp. 199–200. 39 See, for instance, Nicolas Ponce, Arabesques antiques des Bains de Livie, et de la Ville Adrienne, avec les plafonds de la Ville-Madame, peints d’apre`s les dessins de Raphael / et grave´s par les soins de M. Ponce (Paris, 1789). There are also several volumes of engravings of Raphael’s, dating from the late seventeenth to the late eighteenth century, of the Vatican Loggia and the Villa Farnesina in Rome. The painted grotesque decorations are based on Raphael’s study of the antique paintings that had survived underground in Rome – a risky antiquarian activity that might have led to his untimely death, probably from typhus fever, in 1520. The Villa Madama was less well represented by engravers but was a popular attraction for Grand Tourists. The idea of a circular court may well have influenced Robert Adam’s solution for the court at Syon House, for instance. 40 On this point see Arnold, Reading Architectural History. Also John Harris, ‘‘The Transformation of Lord Burlington: From the Palladio and Jones of his Time to the Modern Virtruvius,’’ in Arnold, The Georgian Villa, pp. 41–7, shows how the preoccupation with Palladio and Vitruvius by architects such as Burlington (and Inigo Jones) helped shape the historical scholarship of this period. 41 Colen Campbell, Vitruvius Britannicus, Vol. I (1715). 42 John Locke, Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1690). Key texts which developed and refined these ideas include Joseph Addison, The Pleasures of the Imagination (1712), Edmund Burke, Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Idea of the Sublime and the Beautiful (1757), and Lord Kames’s Elements of Criticism (1762). 43 This is discussed in Martin Postle, Sir Joshua Reynolds (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 44 Arnold, Reading Architectural History.

6

Illustrating Ancient Rome, or the Ichnographia as Uchronia and Other Time Warps in Piranesi’s Il Campo Marzio Susan M. Dixon Among the merchandise of any reputable Roman vendor of tourist paraphernalia, one can find the English version of a picture book entitled Ancient Rome: Past and Present.1 Despite the oxymoronic title, its premise is simple: it presents photographic images of the ancient Roman monuments, e.g., the Colosseum or the Circus Maximus, as you might see them today, and by flipping inset sheets of Mylar over those images, it (re)presents the same monuments as they might have, or perhaps to the less sophisticated tourist, as they had existed in ancient Roman times. As someone practicing a discipline outside of but tangential to the field of classical archaeology, I am of the (perhaps naı¨ve) opinion that this is what successful archaeological illustration should accomplish. It should show the artifacts of the past as they exist currently, and then again, as they might have appeared in the time of their creation or of their most intense use. These two historical moments, the present and the carefully reconstructed past, seem the two most perfect and natural states of the ancient

116 Susan M. Dixon artifact, whether it be small or large – medallion, statue, building, or urban area – whichever medium is used for its representation – pencil sketches, engraving, photograph, Virtual Reality technology – and whichever method of representation is chosen – plan, section, isometric drawing, or perspectival view. These two states, the now and the then, are linked in that the one leads to the other. The extant remains provide a means to attain knowledge of what is no longer visible, the historical past.2 At first glance, Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s Il Campo Marzio of 1762 appears to offer successful archaeological illustrations in this vein. Its illustrations seem to depict the before and after states of the monuments in this region of ancient Rome, the Field of Mars, as well as an incremental process by which the archaeological reconstruction was achieved. But a careful look at the illustrations reveals that this is not the case. The chronological framework might be in place, but the before and after states are startlingly off. Using ideas from the philosophy of history, I would like to explore the notion that chronological time was manipulated in the illustrations of Il Campo Marzio in such a way that it succeeded in creating a chasm between the past and the then present. Thus the ancient Roman past seemed ‘‘a foreign country,’’ to use L. P. Hartley’s metaphor.3 Furthermore, I will consider that the illustrations portray the monuments of the Campo Marzio as if they were relics whose traits of immediacy and tangibility were trumped by qualities of otherworldliness and supranatural power. I will posit that this way of envisioning the past in the mid-eighteenth century was a necessary leap for a culture that for centuries had made an industry of its past, by having it appropriated, copied, displayed, sold, and restored in a multiplicity of ways and for a wealth of purposes. This new ancient Roman past, more distant and less knowable than the old one, was harnessed as a useful tool for the papal cultural politics of the day.

Il Campo Marzio Published at the middle of Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s career, Il Campo Marzio was a product of his ever-increasing serious engagement with the Roman past. Piranesi (1720–78) is perhaps best known for his major works, Le Vedute di Roma, first published in 1748 and enlarged and reissued various times in later years, which proffers some ninety views of ancient and modern Rome, and L’Antichita` Romane, four volumes issued

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in 1756, each of which comprises a goodly number of then contemporary views, occasionally accompanied by geometric drawings, solely of ancient Roman monuments.4 These two publications were designed in large part for a Grand Tourist audience. In the early 1760s, Piranesi illustrated and published a series of shorter and more scholarly publications, for a more elite audience, many of which are not very well known in his oeuvre. In the publications, he concentrated on the archaeological remains of specific regions of the ancient Roman world, offering a relatively substantial explanation of those remains.5 In some cases, he reconstructed major monuments as in, for example, the Emissary of the Lago Albano. Il Campo Marzio, double-titled in Latin as Campus Martius, was the most popular of these archaeological publications. It was also the longest, with the textual argument being the most developed and most well footnoted, and the illustrations being both more numerous and more integral to the text in that they referenced it by way of keys and indexes.6 As the title suggests, it focused on the area he broadly defined as the ancient Field of Mars,7 originally outside the city’s defensive walls and housing the military quarters, altars, shrines, and tombs, and later, as the city expanded, housing many Roman building types: Roman basilicas, baths, temples, and theaters. The 41 illustrations are arranged in an ostensibly logical fashion.8 They begin with a series of maps that define the major topographic features of the area and represent the increasing architectonic density of the Campo Marzio over time. For example, Tavole III and IV display three maps each. They are represented as illusionistically laid on top of a base image, and they depict the major architectonic monuments built in the area during six distinct time periods. The six periods are: after the foundation of Rome (traditionally held to be 753 BCE) and the consecration of the site to Mars; during the time of the kings until the expulsion of the last one, Tarquinus Superbus (509 BCE); after the institution of the Republic until the time of the Consul Flaminius (died 217 BCE), the person credited with building the Circus Flaminius and the Via Flaminia; from his time to that of Caesar Augustus and the institution of the Empire (27 BC); during the early Empire under the Julio-Claudian Dynasty (ending with the death of Nero in AD 68); and finally, from that time to what is identified as the decadenza of the Roman Empire. These chronological divisions parallel the layout of the text that describes, as much as could then be known, which building was built when, where, and by whom, and that identifies the literary and archaeological sources of this information.

118 Susan M. Dixon

Figure 6.1 Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Tavole V–X, Ichnographia, from Il Campo Marzio (Rome, 1762). By permission of the Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library

In the publication, these two tavole are a prelude to the large fold-out illustration known as the Ichnographia, Tavole V–X (Figure 6.1). The Ichnographia appears to capture the area at the peak of its architectonic build-up, at the epitome of its architectural magnificence. It is not so much a map as a compilation of plans of the buildings in the region. Today, most maps of cities are concerned with identifying the space of the

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built versus the unbuilt areas; plans, on the other hand, convey the internal layout of buildings cut through at ground level. As a plan, the Ichnographia does not provide enough information for us to decide, for example, if a cluster of columns would have been roofed or not. However, it does define clearly the areas reserved for public squares and streets, and some major processional routes are indicated with dashed lines, as one might expect in a city map. It also employs the convention of mixing verbal with visual information that is characteristic of mapping; each of the monuments is labeled. The cartographic tradition had undergone great changes in the first half of the eighteenth century. A major symptom of that change was the map of Rome produced by Giambattista Nolli in 1748, a project in which Piranesi had some role. It renders the built versus the unbuilt areas of Rome as they could be understood by the pedestrian.9 This differed substantially from the tradition of using a bird’s-eye or oblique view to illustrate a city, a tradition which had been an established method of representation since at least the medieval period. For example, Etienne Duperac’s map of Rome of 1563 communicates the general profile and density of the city, but at the expense of correct measurements of the buildings and clear visibility of all the streets and open areas.10 Piranesi’s Ichnographia, however, adheres to neither Nolli’s or Duperac’s models. Instead it seems to owe more to a newly developing method of rendering archaeological reconstructions, in particular Francesco Bianchini’s reconstruction of the Palace of the Caesars on the Palatine Hill in Rome.11 Earlier reconstruction drawings, e.g., those by Palladio or Pirro Ligorio, also sometimes consisted of the plan, but they do not represent a complex of buildings as did those by Bianchini or Piranesi.12 For example, when Ligorio reconstructed a large region in ancient Rome, he reverted to the oblique view.13 Unlike the maps preceding the Ichnographia in Il Campo Marzio, the sustained historical moment captured in the large plan is not identified in the image’s caption, nor in the text and indexes. However, given the chronological set-up of the six maps on Tavole III and IV and the accompanying text, and the position of the images in the publication, one anticipates that it represents the Campo Marzio at the moment of the Roman Empire before its decline, presumably at some time during the late third or early fourth century. But this is not so. The Ichnographia is temporally out of synch with the process of historical narration alluded to in the earlier tavole. It depicts no one moment and is rather a pastiche

120 Susan M. Dixon of all times, a kind of Uchronia. Some buildings which could never have coexisted at the same historical moment are here rendered peacefully together. For example, the Amphitheater of Statilius Taurus, built in the reign of Augustus (located just beneath the ‘‘M’’ of CAMPVS MARTIVS inscribed crosswise across the Ichnographia), was destroyed in the fire of AD 64 during the reign of Nero, and therefore would not have been extant when the Mausoleum of Hadrian was built (on the left bank of the Tiber River), and yet they both exist in the Ichnographia. Just north of the Amphitheater of Statilius Taurus, the Horologium, sometimes referred to as the Solarium, constructed using the first obelisk confiscated from Egypt under the reigns of Augustus, was noted to be in great disrepair by around AD 47 and its function difficult to identify at that time.14 Yet it survives as a pristine healthy organism in close proximity to the Column and Temple of Antoninus Pius (what the literature today identifies as the Column of Marcus Aurelius and the Temple of Hadrian, or Hadrianeum15), both of which were second-century constructions. The late fourth-century Arch of Gratian and Valentian II is represented, but the Aurelian Wall of AD 270 is not.16 These chronological inconsistencies, these anachronisms, would have been known by any reader of Il Campo Marzio, for they are narrated in the accompanying text.17 The conclusion, then, is that while the Ichnographia appears as an archaeological reconstruction of the Campo Marzio at the very height of the Empire, it is not. What, then, does the Ichnographia convey?18

Ichnographia as memory Were artifacts like memories, everything ever built might be brought to light again, Freud suggests; for example, Rome would be a city ‘‘in which nothing once constructed had perished, and all the earlier stages of development had survived alongside the latest.19

Sigmund Freud began his Civilization and its Discontent with a disconcerting analogy between the city of Rome and human memory. In what is now a well-known passage, he asked the reader to try to envision a Rome in which, on the site where the Coliseum now stands, we could at the same time admire Nero’s vanished Golden House.20 On the Piazza of the Pantheon we should find

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not only the Pantheon of today, as it was bequeathed to us by Hadrian, but, on the same site, the original edifice erected by Agrippa;21 indeed the same piece of ground would be supporting the church of Santa Maria sopra Minerva and the ancient temple over which it was built.22

Freud then quickly dismissed the exercise, noting that the task was not only ‘‘unimaginable’’ but ‘‘even absurd,’’ ‘‘an idle game.’’ He stated that ‘‘to represent historical sequence in spatial terms we can only do it by juxtaposition in space: the space cannot have two different contents.’’23 The Ichnographia does respect the space of Rome and therefore never approaches Freud’s holographic and somewhat nightmarish vision. If time and place are two set poles around which historical dramas happen, in this case, the place is set, but the time is not.24 It does, however, share some qualities with Freud’s metaphor of the human memory, specifically in that in both, time is fluid. In this sense, the Ichnographia reads as a memory of an ancient Roman past rather than a historical reconstruction of it. The perception is heightened because Piranesi rendered the Ichnographia as if it was an ancient artifact, ‘‘a vast fragment of an even larger work,’’ existing as if inscribed on a broken marble plaque whose roughened edges are pinioned to a wall by means of heavy metal clasps.25 As others have noted, the Ichnographia depicts the plan in a manner reminiscent of one of Rome’s most famous artifacts, the second-century Forma Urbis, fragments of which were reassembled and newly displayed in the Museo Capitolino.26 In 1762, a year fixed in an age which saw transitions in the assumptions and practices of antiquarianism as they were subsumed by those of scientific archaeology, the context of the artifact was not necessarily valued. The site or place of retrieval of an artifact was only rarely considered of great import. Without this information about place, the artifact was sometimes bereft of a sense of its placement in chronological time. Its isolation was made visual in the images of the Vetera monumenta, in which we see sheet after sheet of disengaged statuettes, coins, mosaics, architectural fragments, and inscriptions.27 The undervaluation of find spots was particularly problematic in Rome, where activity which might be labeled today as plundering was part and parcel of the antiquarian’s profession.28 In the case of ancient Rome, with its plethora of written histories and literary documentation, including imperial stamps, consular inscriptions, and the like, the dating of an artifact could often be a very easy task. In these cases, information from find spots was not necessary. However,

122 Susan M. Dixon when no supplemental information was available, an artifact’s position in time could not be known with surety and its potential to narrate history was therefore limited.29 But the artifact’s ability to speak truthfully about the past was beginning to be explored at this time. As Arnaldo Momigliano long ago noted, the written source material for historical knowledge was progressively scrutinized in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and the artifact was increasingly valued as a storehouse and thus conveyor of that knowledge.30 The artifact was endowed with power to fill in the blanks of the historical narrative, to uncover what was unknown. Unlike written histories, its material evidence was considered trustworthy because it had not been purposefully manipulated by man but rather was an accidental survivor of the past.31 In a certain sense, the artifact of eighteenth-century Rome functioned as a relic. It shared with the sacred Christian relic both its fragmentary nature and its status as an embodiment of memories of a more powerful entity. The fact that the Ichnographia is rendered as a broken artifact makes visual its value as a storehouse of such memories. The question remains, however: why did eighteenth-century Rome need that kind of reminder? Guidebooks of Rome’s ancient past had been issued since medieval times. The eighteenth century was the age of the Grand Tour in which many foreigners flocked to experience Rome’s antiquities.32 Surely, all inhabitants and visitors to Rome knew something of the city’s magnificent ancient past. Why, then, did Piranesi spend so much time and energy on envisioning Rome as a memory? Before we return to this question, let’s explore the illustrations of Il Campo Marzio further.

The Veduta (Figure 6.2) As we have seen, the Ichnographia does not capture a fixed moment or sustained moment in time, and a similar temporal disfunction characterizes the many vedute in Il Campo Marzio. The majority of the illustrations following the Ichnographia in the publication are views of the major monuments in the area, including the Theater of Pompey, the Mausoleum of Augustus, the Pantheon, the Septa Julia, and the Aqua Marcia, among others. It presents them, however, not as they would be seen in Piranesi’s day, nor even as they appeared in ancient times, but rather as they might have appeared in the eighteenth century if all the accretions of the centuries between those two polar times had been removed. In

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Figure 6.2 Giovanni Battista Piranesi, Tavola XVII, Reliquiae columnarum Aedis Apollinis . . . from Il Campo Marzio (Rome, 1762). By permission of the Art and Architecture Collection, Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Division of Art, Prints and Photographs, The New York Public Library

other terms, they are rendered as no one would ever have been able to see them. One of the most compelling of these vedute is that labeled as representing the Temple of Apollinis, sometimes referred to today as the Temple of Apollo Medicus, which was built before the age of Augustus in honor of the healing god.33 The view is taken from somewhere in the middle of the Circus Flaminius (or a site Piranesi believed had been occupied by that circus, located below the space between the ‘‘C’’ and the ‘‘A’’ of the phrase CAMPVS MARTIVS inscribed across the Ichnographia), looking roughly westward in the direction of the Tiber River, and thus over the temple and toward the Theater of Pompey, the first large theater constructed of marble in Rome. In the engraved illustration, we see a ruinous landscape. Four decayed and decaying columns occupy the right-hand side of the composition. All capitals have ostensibly fallen from the columns, and their bases have long been obscured by accumulating debris. The seams between the

124 Susan M. Dixon column drums are deeply eroded, and vegetation opportunely sprouts from some of the cracks. The columns stand like rotting teeth in an aged mouth, or – more apt for those versed in today’s visual culture — like the remains of a city after an aerial bombardment. On the left side of the composition is a submerged arch, or rather half-arch, which is missing its keystone and the curve of the left jamb. It is the only indicator in this image of the Circus Flaminius’ presence on this site. In the background are shadowy remnants of the theater and an unidentified pier. In the foreground, scattered architectonic ruins – in the main column drums – lie half-immersed in the earth. A few solitary figures, looking remarkably like shepherds, reminiscent of the innocent inhabitants of some golden-age Arcadia but ones who seem far from that home, amble, head-down, leaning on long staffs, through the rough landscape. The variable sky takes up a good two-thirds of the composition, which as a whole is eerily empty; the emptiness is highly unusual in Piranesi’s oeuvre, which in the main is comprised of busy, overpacked imagery.34 Disrupting the atmospheric quality of the scene, Piranesi scattered numbers throughout the image; numbers that correspond to verbal information in the supplemental key. This mix of perspectival view and scientific information comes out of an established tradition of cartography in the early modern period and is common to all of these vedute.35 What could be the purpose of this veduta and of the numerous others like it in Il Campo Marzio? What was achieved by representing the monuments as vulnerable and severely fragmented? Barbara Stafford would suggest that the images reveal the application of the new eighteenthcentury scientific methods of medicine to the practice of archaeology, and as a corollary, the application of new illustrative conventions of one to the other. She notes that such Piranesian imagery suggests the microscopic dissection and examination of the core of the historical building, one that paralleled the artist’s activity as an excavator. His imagery, especially those of the solitary piers and columns, Stafford relates, ‘‘invoked the invisible integrity of an absent corporeality and grandeur.’’36 I would argue that these images are not the product of any real or metaphorical excavation intended to expose the architectonic core to the buildings of the Campo Marzio. However, Stafford is perceptive in recognizing the palpability of the lack of a body in these images. The ancient buildings in the Campo Marzio, which had been incorporated into structures very much in use in the eighteenth century, were surely fragmented, but that fragmentation was in most cases not visible to a visitor in the area.

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Piranesi’s images of hoary fragments preserved a memory of the ancient buildings where no clear image of them could have been easily perceived. In her House in Norham Gardens, Penelope Lively described the Cotswold town of Burford, a town with a well-preserved but artificial sense of its past: it was as if ‘‘all the relics felt dead.’’37 Gillian Tindall characterized similar places as ‘‘architecturally pickled’’ and suggested that successful historical sites should foster a ‘‘dynamic tension between what you see and what you know to have existed once and still to exist in some fragmented or symbolic form.’’38 Without that tension, ‘‘[a] living diachronic sense of the past’’ cannot exist.39 The Campo Marzio had not been so pickled, and in fact, the opposite was true: it had been radically altered since ancient Roman times. I suggest that these Campo Marzio vedute were designed to create such a diachronic sense of the past, to polarize and thus accentuate the distance between the visible present and the unseen past, and in the process to make the past hallowed. It could be argued that until the mid-eighteenth century, the monuments of the ancient past in the Campo Marzio, with few exceptions, were not held in much regard. It was the region of Rome most continuously and densely inhabited since ancient times. In the fourth and fifth centuries, after the Empire had shifted its seat of power to the East and had left the city of Rome vulnerable to the occasional sack by Migration tribes, Rome’s population was diminished. The services offered to that population, e.g., the water supply and its well-maintained passageways for the flow of goods, were much reduced. Located in the curve of the Tiber River and thus benefiting from its waters, the Campo Marzio was one of the major parts of the city to which the population flocked from before AD 400 and onward. In addition, urban interventions by the popes of the early modern period often occurred in this area: consider Alexander VII’s cutting of the triune of streets from today’s so-named Piazza del Popolo southward.40 As a result, of all the regions of ancient Rome, the Campo Marzio had undergone the most architectonic change. With the exception of some massive ruins left essentially unaltered, if not particularly maintained, monuments such as the Mausoleum of Augustus, few other architectonic monuments seemed obviously of the past in 1762.41 The Pantheon and the Mausoleum of Hadrian had been readapted, even if much of their original form was retained; and the same might be argued of the Circus Agonale-cum-Piazza Navona. While their presence spoke of the past, their function was blatantly of the present age; the Pantheon functioned as a church and tourist attraction; the Mausoleum of Hadrian as a

126 Susan M. Dixon fortress, and the Circus Agonale as a piazza. In other words, the sense of the past was not as strong in the Campo Marzio as it was, for example, in the Roman Forum, then referred to as the Campo Vaccino, or ‘‘cow pasture.’’ In the mid-eighteenth century, one could have seen the highly fragmented remains of ancient temples, basilicas, and arches in the forums at the center of early Rome. Little or no sign of the present clouded these monuments. For example, a vendor might set up a carriage garage between the remaining columns of the Temple of Concord in the Forum Romanorum, but the overwhelming sense that this building was ancient was not obscured. Even the ubiquitous shepherds and cowherds drawn to the area may have helped evoke rather than obliterate the notion that in this section of Rome, the likes of Augustus and Cicero once stood.42 Piranesi’s veduta reassigns the Temple of Apollonis to the ancient past. Its original appearance had long since been altered and its major structural elements had long disappeared, having been incorporated into other more usable structures by the eighteenth century. The manipulated illustration of the temple, rather than its physical remains, conveyed the sense of its antiquity. In other words, the illustration revealed what the temple could not in 1762. By means of illustration, Piranesi bestowed the temple with the status of an artifact, as well as that of a relic, i.e., an object from the past, a fragment from some once more mighty whole. Like a relic, the Temple of Apollonis was enshrouded as if in a shrine or reliquary; only Piranesi’s depiction made its presence visible. A relic’s power is activated by virtue of the fact that it evokes and creates yearning for that which is no longer extant. The four fragmented columns which Piranesi rendered in the veduta sacralized the ancient presence of the Temple of Apollonis, and by association, the ancient presence of all the monuments of the Campo Marzio.

Illustrating History The manipulations of time in Piranesi’s archaeological illustration were not repeated by others. Even as the Il Campo Marzio was being issued, the scientific depiction of chronology in archaeological illustration was beginning to matter. In the service of the Borbone King of Naples and the Two Sicilies, Karl Weber worked the sites of Herculaneum, Pompeii, and Stabiae from 1750 to 1764, and during that time he proposed scientific methods of excavat-

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ing and presenting the information gathered from those excavations. Among other things, he perfected a method of conveying the relationship of the underground archaeological sites to extant buildings or topography above on one sheet.43 He employed different qualities and weights of lines to mark the distinction; earlier means of conveying this type of two-tiered information involved using a ‘‘retomb,’’ or a paper literally attached to a base plan.44 Given the king’s insistence on secrecy in all matters related to the excavations, Weber’s drawings were not distributed in his day. They came to light only in the late nineteenth century, and they have provided models for subsequent archaeological illustration. In the late nineteenth century, Rudolf Lanciani used a mode of illustration which represented not only the streets and buildings of modern Rome in relation to the ancient monuments, but also the different ancient Roman building campaigns. For example, one illustration in his Ruins and Excavations of Ancient Rome positions portions of the extensive Golden House of Nero beneath the Baths of Titus and Trajan; essentially, the two building complexes overlap one another.45 Lanciani also perfected a representation which distinguished confirmed tangible evidence from that which was conjectural. For example, in Lanciani’s plan of the Basilica of Constantine, what was an extant archaeological remain in the late nineteenth century – a portion of wall, or a series of columns or piers – was rendered with heavy, blackened lines, and that which was reasonably conjectured, with outlined forms filled in with poche;46 the development of color printing further allowed for readable distinctions in these illustrations. The representation of the passage of chronological time has become much more sophisticated these days. The University of California at Los Angeles’s Cultural VR (or Virtual Reality) Lab instituted a ‘‘time slider’’ in their project to represent how ancient environments such as the Roman Forum change over time.47 At the touch of a mouse, buildings appear, decay, and disappear in real time, a time which is representative of the passage of historic time. But let’s return to Il Campo Marzio, whose illustrations suggest a remote but potent Roman past. Most historians date the historical recognition of the past as separate from the present to the late eighteenth century in the Western tradition. Rome had been keenly conscious of its grand past since the Renaissance, but it understood that past as an extension of the present, some repository to mine in order to legitimize its own beliefs and behaviors. But what about Rome in 1762? What prompted Piranesi’s new way of envisioning the past?

128 Susan M. Dixon The popes of the latter half of the eighteenth century inherited a much enervated papal office. Throughout the century, the papacy had been stripped of its financial, military, and diplomatic powers in the European arena. The two Wars of Succession had underscored the impotency of the Papal States and the Catholic hierarchy. One of the major weapons still left in the papal arsenals, however, was that of the possession of the heritage of Roman history.48 But that heritage had become familiar, available to all through some type of reproduction, restoration, or reconstruction. From about the fifteenth century into the mid-eighteenth century, the Roman past had been a marketable commodity. The parade of visitors seeking a glimpse of the magnificence of the ancient world was steady, and it reached its most frenzied activity in the eighteenth-century Grand Tour. Some remains of the Roman past were endlessly copied and recopied by artists and amateurs of the day. Despite a series of exportation regulations over the centuries, the artifacts themselves were sometimes carted away; for example, the Farnese collection was removed to Naples. Piranesi himself catered to the sale of the ancient past, in his production of vedute as souvenirs and in his dealings as a restorer of antiques. But in Il Campo Marzio, and all the publications of the 1760s, the commodification of the past is absent. The images reframe the past, recasting it as something less tangible and more aloof. The Ichnographia is a representation of a pristine ancient Rome, an urban environment in which nothing has decayed, and yet the entirety is depicted as if decayed; the veduta, on the other hand, shows only the decay of ancient Rome. Both images depict the buildings of Rome as they never existed at any moment in history, yet also as they occupied an easily identifiable place in the city. With ancient Rome represented as a Uchronia, the past reads as distant and hallowed, while at the same time, it is tied firmly to the topography of Rome. Bound yet elusive, the Roman past was less apt to be given away easily.

Notes 1 2

Ancient Rome, Past and Present: Guide with Reconstructions (Rome: Vision Editions, 1996). The premise that the artifact should be illustrated in these two states underlies Brian D. Dillon, ed., The Student’s Guide to Archaeological Illustrations, 2nd rev. edn. (Los Angeles: University of California, Institute of Archaeology,

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1985), in particular chapter three, on how to create architectural floor plans (by T. P. Seymour, pp. 47–54) and chapter four, on archaeological reconstruction drawings (by M. C. Johnson, pp. 55–64). The sentence begins L. P. Hartley’s The Go-Between (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1953), and was adopted as the theme of a historical work: see D. Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), p. xvi. The Vedute was enlarged and reissued in subsequent years, first in 1750, then in 1752. See A. M. Hind, Giovanni Battista Piranesi: A Critical Study (New York: Da Capo Press, [1922] 1967), pp. 74–88 for a list of the artist’s publications. These shorter publications include: Le Rovine del castello dell’Acqua Giulia (1761), Descrizione e disegno dell’emissario del Lago Albano (1762), Di due spelonche ornate dagli antichi alla riva del Lago Albano (1762), Antichita` d’Albano e di Castel Gandolfo (1764), and Antichita` di Cora (1764). Other related books include Lapides Capitolini sive Fasti Consulatores triumphalesquee Romanorum (1762). S. Zamboni, ‘‘Il Campo Marzio dell’antica Roma,’’ in A. Bettagno, ed., Piranesi: incisioni, rami, legatura, architettura (Venice: N. Pozza, 1978), p. 44, among others. Although Il Campo Marzio was not published until 1762, the project had been conceived as early as April of 1757, the date of Robert Adam’s letter to his brother James in which he stated that Piranesi was almost finished with the dedication plate to Adam. The area Piranesi identified as the Campo Marzio was very large, extending far beyond the boundaries of the region as it is defined in today’s scholarship. Aside from the unnumbered frontispieces and decorative vignettes, there are 47 numbered tavole in Il Campo Marzio. Six of those tavole were pasted together to form one illustration, the Ichnographia. On the Nolli map, see A. Ceen, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Rome 1748: The Pianta Grande di Roma of G. B. Nolli in Facsimile (Highmount, NY: J. H. Aronson, 1984), p. iii. For a historic presentation of the maps of Rome, see A. M. Frutaz, Le Piante di Roma, 3 vols. (Rome: Istituto di Studi Romani, 1962). Also see J. Pinto, ‘‘Origins and Development of the Ichnographic City Plan,’’ Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 35:1 (March, 1976), pp. 35–50. The plan was issued with other reconstructed images of the monument in Palazzo de’ Cesari, issued posthumously in 1738, plate 8, and reproduced in H. Millon, ‘‘Reconstructions of the Palatine in the Eighteenth Century,’’ in R. T. Scott and A. Reynolds Scott, eds., Eius Virtutis Studiosi: Classical and Postclassical Studies in Memory of Frank Edward Brown (1908–1988) (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1993), p. 481. The plan was most likely drawn by Bianchini and engraved by Francesco Nicoletti. See W. Oechslin,

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12 13 14

15

16

17

18

19

20 21

22 23

‘‘Storia d’archeologia prima del Piranesi: nota su Francesco Bianchini,’’ in Piranesi nei luoghi di Piranesi: 3, Archeologia Piranesiana (Rome: Multigrafica, 1979), pp. 107–20. Palladio produced a plan of the reconstructed Senaculum on the Quirinal Hill which Piranesi re-represented in Il Campo Marzio, tavola XLII. See the illustrations of Ligorio’s Anteiqvae Vrbis Imago (Rome, 1561). The source of this information is Pliny the Elder. See L. Richardson, Jr., A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome (Baltimore, MD and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992), pp. 190–1. Piranesi thought it might be the Temple of Marcus Aurelius. See his comments in Catalogo delle opera iscritte nelle grande icnografia del Campo Marzio, appended to the publication. I thank Stephen Lauf for pointing out this late fourth-century monument. It is situated on the right bank of the Tiber River, just south of the bridge leading to the Mausoleum of Hadrian. E. Eisenstein, ‘‘Clio and Chronos,’’ in History and Theory: Studies in the Philosophy of History, B.6 (1971), pp. 36–64, argued that the awareness of historical chronology was a hard-earned one made possible by the developments in print culture. In this argument, I am overlooking much of the literature on the Ichnographia which is concerned primarily with the use of the map for contemporary designers. In this category, I include M. Tafuri, The Sphere and the Labyrinth: Avant-gardes and Architecture from Piranesi to the 1970s, trans. P. D’Acierno and R. Connelly (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), pp. 25–54. Tafuri was one of the first to suggest that Piranesi was deliberately unconcerned with the historical realities of place, and he characterized the plan a negative Utopia. Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country, p. 239, referring to S. Freud, Civilization and its Discontent, trans. and ed. J. Strachey (New York: W. W. Norton, 1930), p. 17. Also see S. C. Bernfeld, ‘‘Freud and Archaeology,’’ The American Imago, 8:2 (1951), p. 120. The Golden House of Nero was torn down, and on the site, as a kind of memoria damnation, the Colosseum or the Flavian amphitheater was built. Just years before Freud’s writing, Rudolfo Lanciani had published his findings that the Pantheon was the work of Hadrian; it had before then been considered the work of Agrippa. See R. Lanciani, The Ruins and Excavations of Ancient Rome (New York: Bell Publishing Co., [1897] 1967), p. 474, citing his publication of October, 1881 and August, 1882 in Le relazione a sua Eccellenza il Ministro della istruzione pubblica (Rome: Salviucci). The Temple of Minerva was erected by Pompey in AD 62 and restored in the time of Domitian. Freud, Civilization and its Discontent, pp. 17–19.

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24 J. Ackerman and R. Carpenter, Art and Archaeology, Humanities Scholarship in America: The Princeton Studies (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1963), p. 114. 25 J. Wilton-Ely, The Mind and Art of Piranesi (London: Thames & Hudson, 1988), p. 74. 26 On the Forma Urbis fragments, see Ceen, ‘‘Introduction,’’ p. iii. Piranesi represents a fragment of it in Il Campo Marzio’s tavola XVI. 27 On the Vetere monumenta tradition, see E. Cochrane, Tradition and Enlightenment in the Tuscan Academies (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961), p. 170. The Accademia Etrusca in particular produced many Vetere monumente, by scholars such as G. B. Passeri and M. Guarnacci. 28 Piranesi himself could be considered such an antiquarian; see J. Wilton-Ely, Piranesi as Architect and Designer (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1993), pp. 149–53. For a context for such antique restorations, see S. Howard, Antiquity Restored: Essays on the Afterlife of the Antique (Vienna: IRSA, 1990). 29 B. G. Trigger, A History of Archaeological Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 73–6, marks the beginning of scientific archaeology with the addressing of the problem of dating. 30 A. Momigliano, ‘‘Ancient History and the Antiquarian,’’ Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 13 (1950), pp. 295–307. 31 P. Kosso, Knowing the Past: Philosophical Issues in History and Archaeology (Amherst, NY: Humanity Books, 2001), p. 29. 32 L. Schudt, Le Guide di Roma: materialien zu einer geschichte der romischte der romischen topographie (Farnborough: Gregg, [1930] 1971); A. Wilton, Grand Tour: The Lure of Italy in the Eighteenth Century (London: Tate Gallery, 1996); and J. Black, Italy and the Grand Tour (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2003). 33 Richardson, A New Topographical Dictionary of Ancient Rome, pp. 13–14. 34 A glimpse through Piranesi’s oeuvre should substantiate this claim. Also see Dixon, ‘‘Piranesi and Francesco Bianchini: Capricci in the Service of Pre-scientific Archaeology,’’ Art History, 22:2 (June, 1999), pp. 184–213. 35 Piranesi first used this mixture of mapping and perspectival representational conventions in some of the vedute in L’Antichita` Romane, but it appears more often in the archaeological publications of the 1760s. On this conflation of conventions in Dutch art, see S. Alpers, ‘‘The Mapping Impulse in Dutch Art,’’ in D. Woodward, ed., Art and Cartography: Six Historical Essays (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), pp. 51–96. 36 B. Stafford, Body Criticism: Imaging the Unseen in Enlightenment Art and Medicine (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1993), p. 64; but see also pp. 58–70. She is particularly fascinated with the process of etching as being similar to that of dissection.

132 Susan M. Dixon 37 Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country, p. 243, referring to P. Lively, House in Norham Gardens (London: Pan, 1977), p. 121. 38 G. Tindall, The Fields Beneath: The History of One London Village (London: Temple Smith, 1977), p. 16. 39 Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country, p. 243. 40 On the treatment of the city’s major monuments before 1800, see R. T. Ridley, The Eagle and the Spade: Archaeology in Rome During the Napoleonic Era (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 9–35. The Mausoleum of Augustus and some other large-scale monuments had been occupied and used as fortresses for the major aristocratic families during the late medieval period. 41 For example, see C. Westfall, In This Most Perfect Paradise: Alberti, Nicolas V and the Invention of Conscious Urban Planning, 1447–55 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1974) and R. Krautheimer, The Rome of Alexander VII, 1655–1667 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985), among other studies. 42 Piranesi himself was fascinated with this part of Rome and illustrated it many times over, in both Le Vedute and L’Antichita` Romane. 43 C. C. Parslow, Rediscovering Antiquity: Karl Weber and the Excavations of Herculaneum, Pompeii and Stabiae (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998). As had others before him, Weber also conveyed the location of the excavating tunnels on his drawings, and some topological features. 44 Ibid., p. 54. 45 Lanciani, The Ruins and Excavations of Ancient Rome, p. 360, fig. 138. 46 Ibid., p. 202, fig. 70. 47 See www.cvrlab.org 48 Another such weapon was the heritage of the early Christian Church. See H. Gross, Rome in the Age of the Enlightenment: The Post-Tridentine Syndrome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990) and C. M. S. Johns, Papal Art and Cultural Politics: Rome in the Age of Clement XI (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993).

7

Thomas Guest and Paul Nash in Wiltshire: Two Episodes in the Artistic Approach to British Antiquity Sam Smiles Introduction Over a century after his death, the English artist Thomas Robert Guest (1754–1818) emerged from total obscurity as a direct result of his contribution to archaeology. In June 1938 four paintings he had produced of grave goods unearthed at Winterslow, Wiltshire, were reproduced by Frank Stevens and John Stone in an article published in the Wiltshire Archaeological Magazine.1 Shortly afterwards, the paintings themselves were placed on permanent loan in the Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum and then purchased (for two of these, see Figures 7.1 and 7.2). One of them was illustrated in Jacquetta Hawkes’s Early Britain, first published in 1945 as part of ‘‘The British People in Pictures’’ series, and this alone may be responsible for the widespread public familiarity with ‘‘Mr. Guest of Salisbury,’’ as Hawkes’s caption and most subsequent authors describe him.2 Guest’s reappearance in the late 1930s was timely, given the growing popular enthusiasm for archaeology in that decade and the interest in historic and contemporary art of some British archaeolo-

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Figure 7.1 Thomas Guest, Bronze Age Grave Group Excavated at Winterslow in 1814, oil on canvas, 45.3  60.7 cm. ß Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum

gists, most notably Stuart Piggott. The painting by Guest of finds from a bell-barrow at Winterslow (Figure 7.1) was also the image selected by Jacquetta Hawkes for inclusion in Early Britain. It has a slightly Surrealist flavor to it, seen with modern eyes, reminiscent of Giorgio de Chirico in its strange confrontation of different worlds, its discrepancies of scale (the beaker is little more than eight inches high in reality), its spatial arrangements, and the enigma of its meaning.3 In these respects it seems to inhabit the same emotional environment as the paintings of Paul Nash (1889–1946), whose Equivalents for the Megaliths, now in Tate Britain (Figure 7.3), was completed in 1935, the same year that Guest’s paintings were rediscovered and three years before Stevens and Stone’s article helped rescue Guest from total neglect. Both pictures are the same size, both respond to the archaeological heritage, and both came about at a time when their artists were responding to antiquarian or archaeological investigations. At first sight, this coincidence seems to be no more than a happy accident of timing, with the implication that

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Figure 7.2 Thomas Guest, Saxon Grave Goods from an Excavation at Winterslow, 1814, oil on canvas, 45.6  60.7 cm. ß Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum

any attempt to link Guest and Nash would be an entirely anachronistic response. After all, when Guest produced these paintings, he meant them as artistic statements and as contributions to the serious prosecution of archaeological research, not as anticipations of modernism. Nash, likewise, would not have known of Guest’s existence in 1935. Nevertheless, what I hope to show in this chapter is how the horizon of possibilities open to Guest as an artist in the 1810s can be compared to Nash’s opportunities in the 1930s, and what this says about the changing relationship between art and archaeology in the modern period. The tension between Guest’s training and ambitions, on the one hand, and his response to British antiquities, on the other, was still a concern for artists of Nash’s generation in the 1930s, as was the relationship between archaeological and artistic appropriations of the past. Thomas Guest’s paintings of grave goods were produced in the summer of 1814 to help record the Bronze Age and Saxon objects found in two barrows near the Hut Inn at Winterslow, Wiltshire. The excavation of

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Figure 7.3 Paul Nash, Equivalents for the Megaliths (1935), oil on canvas, 45.7  66 cm. ß Tate Gallery, London, 2004

these barrows was conducted by the Reverend A. B. Hutchins, who eventually bequeathed many of his finds to the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford in 1847. The earliest source relating to his antiquarian activities comprises a letter from Hutchins to Sir Richard Colt Hoare, dated February 10, 1824, describing the excavations and Guest’s paintings of the Winterslow finds, together with a key to explain the objects depicted in one of them.4 Two of Guest’s pictures show finds displayed in interior settings; two of them show finds against a landscape background.5 One of these latter (Figure 7.2) records most of the Saxon finds from Hutchins’s ‘‘Collossall Barrow,’’ in which was discovered a large skeleton (omitted by Guest), the boss and handgrip of a shield, a spearhead, a buckle, and a wooden bucket with bronze hoops. All of these items have since disappeared, and Guest’s painting was used as documentary evidence of the Saxon finds in Stevens and Stone’s 1938 article. Modern archaeology thus vindicated Guest’s work in choosing to use it for this purpose, for the extant nineteenth-century literature demonstrates that Guest’s involvement with the excavation was always noteworthy and that Hutchins believed that the paintings of his finds constituted significant repositories

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of archaeological data. If we remember that excavations were not necessarily accompanied by precise verbal descriptions at that date, the paintings can indeed be considered as valuable testimony of the discoveries, especially insofar as they show objects which are now lost and were not exhaustively described in the accounts later provided by Hutchins. The correspondence between Frank Stevens, Curator at the Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum, and the then owner of the paintings, Mr. W. H. Heath, clearly shows how archaeologists in the 1930s agreed with Hutchins about the significance of Guest’s paintings lying in their ability to record data. In May, 1935, having finally established the whereabouts of the canvases, Stevens asked Heath to make sure that the pictures, ‘‘though of no special artistic merit,’’ were preserved for their ‘‘great scientific value.’’6 At the end of that month, making Heath an offer of £4 for the paintings, he again reminded him that ‘‘they have, of course, no artistic value.’’7 When Heath finally replied that £4 was not enough, Stevens turned to his colleague E. T. Leeds at the Ashmolean Museum for advice.8 Leeds’s reply entirely agreed with Stevens’s opinion: I have never had to buy original oil-paintings of antiquities and rather hope I never shall: my experience is that water-colours are much better. But if I were going to offer for them I should not put the value high. They are little more than a pictorial record, and if put up in a sale-room would fetch very little. That is the standard on which I myself should judge them, plus what more you are prepared to give for their (to you) historical value.9

As the rest of this chapter will propose, I believe that this archaeological viewpoint is justified, for Guest has proved to be a reliable witness, but in attempting to deny the status of these paintings as artworks it overlooks much of what Guest brought to the project and fundamentally misinterprets what the paintings achieved.

The Artistic Context It is evident from the published accounts that Hutchins himself made at least one drawing on the spot, for he describes how he took an ‘‘exact likeness upon the Barrow’’ of a piece of linen ‘‘before I removed the ashes, during which time the wind deprived me of the whole.’’10 Given his own abilities as a draftsman, his decision to use Guest must have been prompted by the desire to make a more substantial record of his discover-

138 Sam Smiles ies.11 In the painting of the Saxon finds from the so-called ‘‘Collossall Barrow’’ (Figure 7.2) Guest recorded a wooden bucket (described by Hutchins as ‘‘a covering for the arm made of wood and hooped round with brass’’), which subsequently crumbled away to dust, and Hutchins implies that the artist’s abilities had thus saved valuable data from irretrievable loss.12 Yet, granting that this was indeed the case, not only for the bucket but also for the other Saxon relics that have subsequently disappeared, Hutchins’s account obscures what the relationship of the painting to these grave goods actually was. Patently, for all its appearance of a selection of recently excavated finds in the location of the dig, Guest did not produce this image on the spot. Oil painting is a cumbersome business and was difficult to prosecute in the open air prior to the invention of collapsible metal tubes for oil paints in the 1840s. Moreover, it is clear that this is not a straightforward record. The objects are grouped in a picturesque composition, in a lozenge-like arrangement dominating the center of the painting. The image is cleverly designed for visual impact and it testifies to Guest’s abilities as an artist. That same professionalism would have directed his approach to the business of making records. The paintings he produced are still valuable documents, but they must not be treated as the equivalents of excavation notation, nor even as reports, but as another sort of response to Hutchins’s discoveries. A comparison of Guest’s other three paintings with the objects they depict demonstrates that he was accurate in his renditions and took some pains to get the details right. This is perhaps to be expected, given his interest in teaching drawing from nature and publishing an instruction manual on it, A New Pocket Sketch Book, containing an easy Method of Drawing from Nature (1807), but it also makes sense with respect to two features of the art world in the early nineteenth century: an enthusiasm for Dutch art and the growth of Naturalism. Dutch and Flemish painting of the seventeenth century, whether in still life or the incidental paraphernalia of domestic scenes, had achieved a high standard of mimetic accuracy in the rendition of material objects. Already popular with British connoisseurs, this type of picture was especially prominent on the British art market after 1800, with the dispersal of continental collections in the wake of the French Revolution. David Wilkie was one of a number of British artists working between 1800 and 1820 who achieved professional success in direct proportion to their ‘‘Netherlandish’’ approach, combining observational accuracy, minute description, and high finish. The growth of Naturalism in the same period is also worth bearing in mind. Naturalism

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can be characterized as a desire to paint the natural world without artifice, often working directly from the motif. Although Naturalism is associated with landscape artists considerably younger than Guest, his presentation of these non-idealized subjects, in settings lacking any artificial embellishments, seems at the very least conformable with some elements of the Naturalist credo. The fidelity of these paintings can therefore be best understood, perhaps, as a product of a particular situation, when a significant body of contemporary artistic practice was orientated to accurate observation, as opposed to the ideal. It helps explain how a drawing master, landscape and history painter could place his art at the service of antiquarian scholarship, where precision in recording was of more concern than artistic invention.13 Yet, even accepting the possible impact of changes in artistic practice on Guest’s approach to his task, the fact that Hutchins commissioned him to make oil paintings and that Guest felt it worthwhile to do so is noteworthy. Hitherto, the status of oil painting within the academic hierarchy distanced it from the more functional record of the world to be found in the engraved illustrations that were included in books on natural philosophy, medicine, and antiquarian study. In using oils to do the job of engraving Guest was being particularly innovative, for in moving from one medium to another he was making what we might characterize as a rhetorical decision. When it comes to the depiction of grave goods, graphic delineation, especially in the form of line engraving, is more obviously a form of abstracted representation, using an essentially linear notation to depict them and usually only employing black and white, not color. Contours are sharp, forms are crisply defined, and the contrast between the printed engraving and the blankness of the surrounding page accentuates its artificiality as an image. Moreover, taking its place amidst a textual presentation and so surrounded by words, the graphic notation of the printed image becomes almost a form of specialized writing. The excavated finds depicted in an engraving are, to this extent, objects already disciplined by the intellectual discourse that explains them. Furthermore, by its very nature an engraving can produce emphases and omissions that help clarify the points of interest in the object under review. If a typological argument is being advanced then the object’s shape will be accentuated and surface detail diminished; if the concern is more with measurement, then representation in different orientations will be paramount as opposed to a minute adumbration of detail. Scales, dimensions, identifying letters and numbers, even additional text, can all be added to the

140 Sam Smiles plate without upsetting our response to the image. It is precisely because an engraving is so obviously distinguished from that sort of mimesis that might fool the eye that we can employ its artifice selectively in this way.14 In short, engraving lends itself to notation, because its mimetic possibilities are restricted. And as a consequence we can accept that the integrity of the object qua object need not be rigidly adhered to in its engraved presentation. Instead we accept the conventions that render the object susceptible to our intellectual needs; it has been removed from the world of things into the structures of learning. Oil painting, on the other hand, was characterized in Guest’s time as a technique whose traditions and historic status elevated it above the business of making records. Academic theory emphasized the potential of painting to work with the imagination, to rise above the limitations of the world and to broach the ideal. Oil painters who reduced their art to pure mimesis could be censured for their banalization of the art form. Within the academic hierarchy, the pre-eminent place was reserved for historical, biblical, and mythological painting, a type of subject matter that Guest himself had recently exhibited in London; ranked below were portraiture, genre painting (i.e., social scenes), landscape, and still life. Even still life, however, had a respectable tradition and could be intellectually ambitious, especially in the products of seventeenth-century Dutch painting, when still-life subjects often included moralizing symbolism. To reduce still life to merely an empty display of mimetic skill was, on this reckoning, to misuse one’s talent, although there was compensation in the fact that the objects themselves were usually decorous in themselves and the overall pictorial ensemble would furnish a room prettily enough. What Guest did, however, was to take objects that most of his contemporaries would have regarded as decidedly uncouth and bestow on them the characteristic procedures of the still-life tradition. By doing so, the transition of the excavated objects from the world of things into the structures of learning was complicated to a high degree. As we shall see, the treatment Guest afforded Hutchins’s finds went significantly beyond rendering them archaeologically useful.

Winterslow and the provincial Artist Winterslow itself is 6 miles northeast of Salisbury. In the early 1800s its population was less than 1,000, although we should remember that

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Salisbury itself had fewer than 3,500 inhabitants at this time. Two of Guest’s paintings record the landscape there as background, showing it as largely uncultivated and given over to sheep grazing; but just as with the idea of Guest recording only what lay before his eyes, this evidence, too, is misleading in its seeming presentation of some remote, sparsely populated, and isolated location. In his account, Hutchins refers to Winterslow Hut as ‘‘that well-known spot,’’ and as a staging-post on the important turnpike road from London to Salisbury and the West Country, Winterslow was better connected with contemporary culture than many villages of its size. (Indeed, its association with the coaching era was made nationally famous when a lioness attacked the Exeter Mail as the coach pulled in to the inn at Winterslow Hut on the night of October 20, 1816.) Good communications allowed Winterslow to witness more than the seasonal round. From Winterslow, in late December 1800, for example, members of the Corporation and the Salisbury troop of Yeomanry Cavalry escorted Lord Nelson and his distinguished entourage to receive the Freedom of the city, in recognition of his victory at the Battle of the Nile.15 Culturally, Winterslow’s greatest claim to fame is the fact that William Hazlitt was a resident, off and on, for some fifteen years, following his marriage in 1808, and wrote some of his most important essays there. None of these associations are in any way significant, of course, from an archaeological point of view, but they can be adduced here to underline the fact that our consideration of Guest and Hutchins need not only pay attention to their collaboration on the relics of antiquity. The world they lived in was a social world, responsive to contemporary events, and the sites they investigated were, in this case, as significant synchronically as they were diachronically. As opposed to being something of an empty stage, merely a foil to the items displayed in their foregrounds, the landscape surroundings Guest painted for Hutchins’s discoveries would have been known to local viewers. One of the landscapes (Figure 7.2) looks south from Winterslow Hut to the barrows; the other (Figure 7.1) looks north from the barrows to Winterslow Hut and the London– Salisbury turnpike. Indeed, Hutchins or Guest may well have intended to accentuate the drama of the finds, by forcibly reminding local observers of the riches so long hidden in such a familiar location. What kind of artist was Thomas Guest? The surviving evidence for his life and professional career is meager, but full enough to allow some inferences to be drawn.16 He was born in the 1750s and lived through the period when British art was at its most vigorous, with the establishment of the Royal Academy in 1768, the developing careers of Reynolds

142 Sam Smiles and Gainsborough, and the emergence over the next 40 years of a significant school of landscape painters, from Richard Wilson to J. M. W. Turner. He lived in London for some time, making a living as an artist and drawing master, and with some success, judging by the fact that his address was in Pall Mall. Ill health obliged him to leave the capital and he moved to Salisbury in 1802, where he set up in business as an artist, drawing master, picture restorer, and supplier of oils and varnishes. In 1807 he published A New Pocket Sketch Book, containing an easy Method of Drawing from Nature, the kind of production that ambitious drawing masters used not just to formalize their methods but also to advertise their abilities. Guest’s Sketch Book was illustrated with nine explanatory etchings and covered perspective, composition, and the use of color, in both oil and watercolor.17 His home in the High Street doubled as an exhibition venue for his work and, from 1815, housed Guest’s formal organization of his art teaching as an academy. He evidently found the art business too irregular a source of income, even so, and branched out into other pursuits, running the circulating library and selling snuff and fishing tackle. He died in 1818, aged 64. This pattern of activities, and even to some extent this biography, is typical of numerous artists working in England’s larger provincial centers in the early nineteenth century. A London career was the great prize, but even if unsuccessful there, the cachet of having worked there could be used to bolster one’s reputation elsewhere. Provincial towns, however, seldom had the client base and economic strength to support artists as professionals, and it was almost always necessary to diversify one’s activities to embrace not just painting, often a hazardous means of earning a living, but also teaching, picture restoring, art dealing, and the purveyance of allied goods and services.18 Indeed, Guest’s career perhaps exemplifies the disappointed hopes of creative artists that Hazlitt outlined in his 1821 essay, ‘‘On Living to One’s-Self,’’ written, coincidentally, in the inn at Winterslow Hut: ‘‘how many wretched daubers shiver and shake in the ague-fit of alternate hopes and fears, waste and pine away in the atrophy of genius, or else turn drawing-masters, picture-cleaners, or newspaper critics?’’19 Guest’s exhibition record reveals that he had failed to achieve professional exposure in London before his move to Salisbury and must have made his living in the capital in much the same varied way as he would do in Wiltshire. In fact, with respect to significant exhibitions, Guest only showed work in London after he had left it, exhibiting four small landscapes at the British Institution in 1810, two of them of Stone-

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henge, followed by two scriptural subjects in 1814.20 His work for Hutchins was produced, therefore, in his late fifties, at the end of his most successful period as a professional artist. Even so, if Guest had initially cherished ambitious hopes for his career, this was a belated and inconsequential achievement.21

Painting, British Antiquities From this outline of his career it is evident that were it not for his antiquarian paintings Guest would have no place in the history of British art. Yet the fact that we owe these pictures to an irredeemably minor artist is no accident, for the depiction of British antiquities was not an activity that ambitious painters would choose as a specialism. The topographer and Director of the Society of Antiquaries, Richard Gough, had complained about this problem in the 1780s, noting that ‘‘the walk of fame for modern artists is not sufficiently enlarged. Emulous of excelling in History, Portrait, or Landscape, they overlook the unprofitable, though not the less tasteful, walk of antiquity, or, in Grecian and Roman forget Gothic and more domestic monuments.’’22 When British antiquity was depicted, in a manner which antiquarian scholarship or modern archaeology might find useful, it was by means of drawings and engravings, as opposed to pictures worthy of exhibition, and often by otherwise unknown artists. This is not to say that British antiquity was never treated by serious artists; rather it is to point out that if such artists treated it they did so occasionally and usually imprecisely.23 The point can be underlined by remembering that shortly after Guest produced his paintings, a more specialized painter of antiquities emerged in the person of another fringe artist, Richard Tongue. Based in Bath, and originally in the leather trade, Tongue advertised himself in the local business directories as ‘‘a painter and modeller of megaliths.’’ His extant paintings include representations of so-called Druidical antiquities from Cornwall, Wales, and Wiltshire, painted in a competent but naı¨ve style that indicates a probable lack of formal training, so echoing what the directories imply, that he was an amateur painter. These works, unlike Guest’s, show only a limited awareness of the artistic tradition in which they might be situated. Tongue seems to have been content to give his megalithic paintings and models away, as contributions to learning, donating two paintings to the Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution (now in the Victoria Art

144 Sam Smiles Gallery, Bath), two to the Society of Antiquaries, and three to the British Museum, along with six models, four of them dated between 1826 and 1828. In a letter written in 1838 Tongue talks of his intentions for the British Museum’s collection of his work, that the models and paintings should remain in public view to give visitors a sense of monuments they were unlikely to visit, to preserve ‘‘correct data’’ about them, in defiance of their actual and future decay, and to stimulate a widespread interest and respect for similar monuments.24 This credo is fundamentally antiquarian in its subordination of art to the business of providing empirical information and it harks back to similar eighteenth-century recommendations, championing the utility of images as repositories of accurate data.25 Tongue’s donation of paintings and models to the British Museum is echoed in the combined display of watercolor paintings and models of megaliths in the display case-cum miniature museum belonging to the antiquarian John Britton, his so-called ‘‘Celtic Cabinet,’’ another product of the early nineteenth century.26 Here works of art are bent to the topographer’s will, physically positioned as framed images on the exterior of the cabinet, to contribute to the antiquarian knowledge Britton valued, as opposed to any more aesthetic invitation. Tempting as it is to associate Guest solely with these sorts of endeavors, it is just as useful to pay attention to his qualities as an artist. Context is all, and just as John Britton’s artists may also be understood from other perspectives, situating them more securely in the history of art as opposed to reducing them to providers of topographical data, so Guest may be more than a recorder of grave goods. It is clear that he had a developed sense of composition, not just in the organization of the finds in still-life displays, but also in their disposition with regard to the landscape backgrounds. We might note, initially, that the rim of the Saxon bucket is positioned so as just to break the horizon line, while the curves of its hoops and the convex dome of the shield boss leaning up against it echo the swelling burial mounds behind them.27 Similarly, the linear structure of the bucket’s metalwork is reiterated by the parallel alignment of the spearhead and the shield grip, the latter itself orientated to the road in the distance. From a practical point of view this is a successful solution to a difficult problem: how to bring into relation five disparate objects, whose varied materials and fragmentary condition militated against any composition beyond that of a simple array in a catalog of finds. From the evidence presented in all four of Guest’s paintings, it is clear that he reconciled the demands of art and of antiquarianism with a bias toward

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the former. This would help explain why the Saxon skeleton was omitted from the picture under review. For a scholar, the grave goods, in conjunction with the remains of their erstwhile owner, would have provided a more useful repository of data, giving an indication of the man whose arms and equipment these were, perhaps even revealing the location of the grave-goods and the skeleton within the interment, as James Douglas had memorably depicted them two decades earlier, when engraving one of his Saxon excavations in Nenia Britannica.28 Instead, Guest removed Hutchins’s finds from their immediate context to position them in picturesque combinations, either in front of the landscape or in undifferentiated interior surroundings.29 It is arguable, on this basis, that Guest and Hutchins were engaged in allied but separate pursuits. Guest was a painter and employed his knowledge of painting and its traditions to inform his images. Purely from the point of view of recording his finds, however, Hutchins did not require this level of artifice. For all his subsequent comments valorizing Guest’s images as objective records of grave goods, what he received were in fact cabinet pictures, using the dignity of the still-life tradition to make British antiquity a suitable subject for display. What makes Guest’s images so quirky, certainly to modern eyes, is precisely that he has broken an unstated but understood convention regarding the acceptable presentation of such remains. What that convention implicitly asserts is that intriguing as such objects are, and however valuable a visual record of them might be for antiquarian scholarship, the information they contain is best recorded in a more utilitarian means of representation. Quite simply, they are not worthy of this kind of creative attention. It is a function of the still-life tradition, however, that we see objects more attentively than usual; prompted by the artist’s skill, our senses respond not just to the look of things but, almost synaesthetically, to textures, tastes, and smells. The tactility of the oil medium functions as a kind of correlative for this enhanced sensory response, the varying transparency and opacity of paint registering the differences in substance that constitute the objects arrayed before us. Rather than looking through them, for the information they contain as typical objects, we look at them in all their specificity and uniqueness. And because they are situated in an environment, catching and receiving light, we are aware of them not just as physically unique objects but also as objects at a particular moment, a sort of eternal present. What we see is not an object in an abstract presentation, but this object, here, now, in front of us. This kind of

146 Sam Smiles response is ultimately a sort of enchantment, luring the viewer into the pictorial space and responding to its sensual cues. Guest’s rendition of Bronze Age grave-goods is equally bewitching. His use of oils, his still-life organization, his compositional devices, above all his use of scale, animate the finds to the point that they seem to inhabit, even to command, their pictures, as opposed to being subservient to them. As almost animate presences they lose what might be characterized as the docile presence of similar objects when depicted in the more customary mode of an engraved representation. In short, although produced to help advance learning, through medium and presentation Guest’s objects resist their wholesale inscription into the world of antiquarian scrutiny. They might almost be said to lead their own lives.

Paul Nash and Archaeology The rediscovery of Thomas Guest’s work in the late 1930s coincided with a moment in British archaeology when antiquity and modern art came into close alignment. A number of the more significant figures associated with the modern movement, painters, sculptors, and critics, had expressed their admiration for prehistoric forms, responding especially to megalithic complexes such as Avebury and Stonehenge. The turn away from representational verisimilitude toward a more abstract formal language in the arts of the early twentieth century encouraged some observers to invoke prehistoric art as analogously situated. Here, too, in the remotest past of Britain, non-representational forms had been created, but they had been understood and valued as centrally important to their communities, unlike the skeptical and sometimes hostile responses to abstract art found in modern Britain.30 This essentially primitivistic interpretation of the links between past and present was much in the air in the 1930s and 1940s, and on occasion it involved quite close relations between artists and archaeologists.31 Probably the best known British modernist artist to engage consistently with prehistory was Paul Nash. Nash’s invocation of prehistoric Britain may be said to work with the same tension seen in Guest’s paintings, between artifice and information, but Nash’s solution was to offer a more resolutely artistic approach to antiquity.32 By way of a conclusion to this chapter I intend to discuss his painting Equivalents for the Megaliths (1935) (Figure 7.3), to investigate how we might characterize its relationship to the archaeology of the 1930s.

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Nash first visited Avebury and its surroundings in July 1933, while staying at Marlborough, and several of his most important paintings of the later 1930s are based on these experiences. Some of them are essentially topographical in spirit, but his more ambitious paintings offer a more abstracted presentation and play fast and loose with any geographical and archaeological exactitudes. These two modes of approaching the relics of antiquity may partially be explained by Nash’s need to secure as wide a market as possible for his output. Although he had secured a nationally significant reputation, very unlike the position of Thomas Guest in the 1810s, the exigencies of financial scarcity forced Nash, too, to extend his operations into many different spheres. During the slump of the early 1930s, the market for art became very difficult and Nash diversified his activities into painting, print media, design and, increasingly, writing.33 Nash wrote frequently on artistic and other matters and, as a result, we are in a good position to review his declared position on the relationship between art and archaeology. He wanted to champion the possibility of artists finding their own accommodation with the past, rather than being subservient to archaeological understanding. In a letter of May, 1937, he talks about his intentions for his painting Equivalents for the Megaliths: These groups (at Avebury) are impressive as forms opposed to their surroundings both by virtue of their actual composition of lines and masses and planes, directions and volumes; and in the irrational sense, their suggestion of a super-reality. They are dramatic also, however, as symbols of their antiquity, as hallowed remnants of an almost unknown civilisation. In designing the picture, I wished to avoid the very powerful influence of the antiquarian suggestion, and to insist only upon the dramatic qualities of a composition of shapes equivalent to the prone or upright stones simply as upright or prone, or leaning masses, grouped together in a scene of open fields and hills.34

Nash’s credo here asserts the paramount importance of artistic activity as an imaginative approach to antiquity, using compositional factors to structure a response that engages with, but is radically distinguished from, its originating stimulus in the real world. In choosing to emphasize the work of imagination, Nash is, of course, attempting to liberate the practice of art from any instrumental understanding of its potential to communicate. Art, on Nash’s analysis, is diminished the more it restricts itself to literal representation and enhanced the more it concerns itself with imagination and intuition.

148 Sam Smiles This is, essentially, a modernist position, and by that token it may seem that the delicate balance struck by Guest between imagination and illustration in 1814 has been weighted so heavily toward imagination in the 1930s that the resultant image is archaeologically irrelevant. The scruples that prompted ambitious artists to eschew antiquarian illustration in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were surely even more deeply entrenched in the 1930s. Nash was certainly opposed to art’s subordination to archaeology, but his disquiet was more profound than simply professional amour-propre. With respect to artistic or archaeological method, what was at stake for Nash was the possibility of apprehending the relics of another culture from a modern viewpoint without diminishing them. Despite enjoying brief but cordial relations with Stuart Piggott and Alexander Keiller, Nash felt that Keiller’s restoration work at Avebury in the later 1930s had robbed the site of its presence and its power. The controlled experience of prehistory offered by Keiller’s restoration (megalithic landscape gardening, as Stuart Piggott later described it) seemed to Nash wrong-headed in its attempt to retrieve what time had eroded. Keiller wanted clarity where Nash wanted mystery. As he put in 1942, looking back to his first visit in 1933, the great stones were in their wild state, so to speak. Some were half covered by the grass, others stood up in cornfields or were entangled and overgrown in the copses, some were buried under the turf. But they were wonderful and disquieting, and as I saw them then, I shall always remember them. Very soon afterwards the big work of reinstating the Circles and Avenues began, so that to a great extent that primal magic of the stones’ appearance was lost.35

Nash had revisited the complex in 1938, when the restoration work was in full swing, and although acknowledging Keiller’s dedication to the project, he nevertheless insisted that Keiller’s restoration was a form of sterilization: Avebury may rise again under the tireless hand of Mr Keiller, but it will be an archaeological monument, as dead as a mammoth skeleton in the Natural History Museum. When I stumbled over the sarsens in the shaggy autumn grass and saw the unexpected megaliths reared up among the corn stooks, Avebury was still alive.36

Nash’s insistence on the vitality of the past is, ultimately, a plea for another sort of knowing, an alternative, even a resistance, to empirical data and orthodox methodology. In their place Nash proposes a mode of

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engagement with prehistory that works with what can’t be known, what must be intuited. For Nash, the modern artist, precisely because s/he is free to abandon any literal representation of the world, can provide an imaginative avenue of approach to antiquity. His decision to avoid ‘‘the antiquarian suggestion’’ in Equivalents for the Megaliths and similar pictures is thus prompted by a very real understanding of the cognitive possibilities art possesses. By finding plastic equivalents for megalithic structures Nash can offer insights that are intimately linked to his means of representation. Writing about his painting Landscape of the Megaliths (1937), loosely inspired by the West Kennet Avenue, Nash talked of Keiller’s and Piggott’s reactions to it and how he had emulated artistically what they had achieved in reality: Yet it is odd to consider that in my design I, too, have tried to restore the Avenue. The reconstruction is quite unreliable, it is wholly out of scale, the landscape is geographically and agriculturally unsound. The stones seem to be moving rather than to be deep-rooted in the earth. And yet archaeologists have confessed that the picture is a true reconstruction because in it Avebury seems to revive.37

Similarly, in the slightly earlier Equivalents for the Megaliths (Figure 7.3), Nash takes from Avebury the idea of large structures, composed of simple and repeated elements, and how their orderly array negotiates a sense of place within a wider landscape. Yet, by the same token, the contrast between his geometrical forms and the overall environment exaggerates the assertiveness of any ordered intrusion into nature. Other elements in the landscape might suggest cultural continuities, from the stepped ridges of an Iron Age hill fort to the aftermath of modern agriculture, but their conjunction with one another is made palpable only at the level of form, as devices in a pictorial composition. Nash is patently not illustrating an historical thesis; if these geometrical solids are the equivalents of prehistoric megaliths they are so by virtue of his construction of metaphorical and formal contexts, not literal ones. Indeed, a sense of surprise and discontinuity is as much a presence here as any idea of transhistorical communion. Above all, perhaps, Nash seems to insist on the impossibility of any final understanding of such a mute and incomprehensible monument, which irrupts into consciousness as from a dream. At one level, of course, Nash’s affinities with Surrealism in this image insist on its modernity, its response to some of the dominant develop-

150 Sam Smiles ments in painting of his time: Giorgio de Chirico’s Pittura Metafisica and Andre´ Breton’s Surrealist movement. The sheer incompatibility of the constituent elements in Equivalents for the Megaliths is underscored by the way they come together with all the baffling matter-of-factness we associate with the arrays of unlikely objects in the paintings of de Chirico, Magritte, or Dali. Yet, at the same time, in insisting on the weirdness and imaginative inspiration of the megaliths Nash is returning to those more romantic responses to British antiquity associated with the later eighteenth century. Stuart Piggott famously characterized the work achieved in that era as having lost sight of the high standards of fieldwork and analysis associated with an earlier generation of scholarship. In place of valuable research a slew of credulous and fanciful investigations of Druidism infected British antiquarianism; poetic effusions in front of these enigmatic survivors from a dim and distant past was all the age had to offer. For Piggott, the resumption of sound archaeology in the later nineteenth century represented intellectual progress after a lengthy interval of crack-brained delusions.38 Nash, on the evidence of his paintings and writings, would probably have demurred from this assessment. Rational enquiry might help explain a long-standing puzzle, but it ran the risk of emptying the monuments of all but the most literal meanings.

Conclusion What, then, can we say about these two very different moments of artistic involvement with antiquity? Plainly there are many differences between them. Guest, if he is known at all today, is remembered only for this one episode of co-operation with Hutchins, whereas Nash has a secure reputation as one of the key figures in twentieth-century British art. When Guest is discussed, it is the archaeological information his images contain that matters; the artist himself is irrelevant. With Nash it is the other way round; most art historians would not consider the archaeological ramifications of his investigations of British antiquity to be a prime concern. Yet when we do attend to the interplay between art and archaeology, in both instances a fuller picture emerges. To restore some agency to Guest, in general terms as a provincial artist and more particularly in examining his artistic decisions, is to refute any interpretation of his paintings that would see them as objective records. Our understanding of his position in a particular time and place (a provincial artist in Salisbury; a recorder of

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two excavations at Winterslow) helps to reveal that the images we possess from him are inflected by the professional circumstances of his situation. They represent an attempt to dignify the relics of British antiquity through a process of considered choices regarding scale, medium, composition, and the invocation of an established trope, the still-life tradition. Guest’s images push archaeological illustration to the borders of the poetic; the plasticity of oils does more than record the grave goods, it asserts their physical presence in a fully realized understanding. The desideratum of a style-less, objective, and perfect visual record is, in any medium, a fantasy, but our normal experience of archaeological illustration is that the image is presented as though an objective record were attainable. Against this, Guest’s technical ability and experience, his knowledge of artistic traditions, and his choice of medium all assert themselves as discursive presences in the image. His oil paintings are perhaps all the more intriguing in allowing these discourses to become so apparent. The century or so that separates Guest from Nash also saw the rise of archaeology as a professional discipline and, from the early 1900s, a steady growth of interest in British prehistory. Improved methods of excavation and increasingly standardized approaches to documenting archaeological activity meant that a technical visual language to make excavation records grew up within archaeology, obviating the need to employ established professional artists for this purpose. The last well-known British artist involved with primary archaeological research was Heywood Sumner (1854–1940), who had begun his career in the Arts and Crafts movement as a book illustrator, designer, and sgraffito and stained-glass painter, but who turned to archaeology in 1911, excavating and publishing sites in the New Forest and Cranborne Chase.39 Thereafter, the artist’s role would be restricted to imaginative evocations of sites in earlier times, a specialism particularly associated in Britain with Alan Sorrell (1904–74), who began producing such images in the mid-1930s.40 The career of Paul Nash can be aligned with both artists. Like Sumner, Nash began his career as a devotee of Rossetti, while his work of the late 1930s and 1940s has been related to Neo-Romanticism, as has Sorrell’s. But Nash, ambitious to participate in the renewal of British art and to champion modern painting, would never have accepted the terms on which Sorrell worked. What makes his reaction to Avebury and other sites significant is his belief that art offered a viable alternative to archaeological research, a vital engagement with the past as opposed to the sterility Nash associated with empirical method. The cognitive power of the visual image offered a mode of apprehension at

152 Sam Smiles least as valuable as any excavation or other investigative technique. For Nash, the contribution art could make was not its provision of a documentary record of an object, but a response prompted by the object’s presence. Rather than the object being disciplined or made rational through archaeological research, Nash found a means of heightening the object’s ill-disciplined potential to disturb our rationality. As such, his approach to antiquity is marked by the same poetic qualities I have associated with Guest’s paintings. In one sense I have used Nash and his modernist sensibility to exhume Thomas Guest. I have done so not because Guest’s rediscovery occurred at precisely the time Nash was producing his own pictures inspired by British antiquity, but because Nash’s example exaggerates or hypostatizes what is immanent in Guest’s. In each case what seems significant is the place of breakdown in the image, the point at which the tension between creation and representation becomes critical. As the other chapters in this volume demonstrate, all forms of archaeological representation are subject to the same pressures. Yet, in exploring the interplay between archaeological knowledge, representation, and meaning, we are necessarily required to think about the poetics of these enterprises. Both Guest and Nash, by virtue of their chosen medium, emphasize the hand-wrought quality of their images, insisting on the artist’s contribution to the visual experience of the spectator. That contribution, properly attended to, betrays the mediating presence of technique, of training, of institutional expectations, and of creative decision-making. The creativity of images, their ability to construct a compelling representation, as opposed to working merely as a form of passive notation, is thus foregrounded in every stroke of the brush, every choice of pigment, and every compositional arrangement. But if we accept that the image is always and inevitably productive of its own meaning, should we therefore treat all archaeological imagery as suspect and tread warily whenever it is encountered? At one level, a healthy skepticism would be no bad thing, of course, particularly if it helped check any triumphalist feelings about how our contemporary imaging of archaeology has improved on past attempts. But perhaps we might go further than this and think of what such imagery tells us about archaeology itself. To adopt a somewhat Derridean standpoint, we might suggest that the creativity of images, their provision of aesthetic pleasure, their emotional and psychological suggestiveness, have been falsely opposed to the rigors of archaeology proper and the need for an objective record. Finally, then, I would like to invoke Derrida’s logic of the supplement, where he specu-

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lates on the intimate connections that hold between an entity (the ergon) and its seemingly inessential supplement (the parergon), as, for example, the drapery on a statue or a frame around a picture. Rather than seeing the supplement as subordinate to its host, a superfluous or ornamental addition, Derrida speculates that the supplement exteriorizes and completes what is lacking or obscured at the heart of the host.41 If we apply this idea to archaeological images, we might want to suggest that they are not archaeology’s ‘‘other,’’ but contribute intimately to its meaning and purpose. We might cease, then, to regard images as poor substitutes for material evidence, whose secondary role dooms them at best to the passive illustration of data, or at worst to be the inessential embellishment of research findings; we might even re-examine our suspicions about their unreliability as records because of their more intuitive and emotive response to antiquity. Instead, we might choose to think of them as supplements, in the Derridean sense, to positivistic research methodologies. In their very unreliability as ‘‘true’’ or ‘‘objective’’ records images suggest another form of apprehension; their technical devices, formal manipulation, and aesthetic concerns all call attention to the imaginative effort required to engage with antiquity. Such images might thus be understood as registering in visible form the contemporary mind’s attempt to negotiate a meaningful encounter with the past. In so doing they expose and lay bare the creative and imaginative project which lies at the heart of archaeology, the wish to reconstitute the past by the exercise of historical imagination, sympathetic intuition, and a deep personal involvement with the relics of past ages.

Notes 1 Frank Stevens and J. F. S. Stone, ‘‘The Barrows of Winterslow,’’ Wiltshire Archaeological Magazine, 168 (June, 1938), pp. 174–82. 2 J. Hawkes, Early Britain (London: William Collins, 1945). Hawkes followed Hutchins in referring to Guest in this manner. See his letter to Richard Colt Hoare, February 10, 1824, published in Sir Richard Colt Hoare, The History of Modern Wiltshire, vol. V, ‘‘Hundred of Alderbury’’ (London: John Bowyer Nichols & Son, 1837), p. 211. 3 The depicted items comprise a small beaker, the bronze blade of a knife, an archer’s slate wrist-guard, and two flint arrowheads. All of these items are now in the Ashmolean Museum.

154 Sam Smiles 4

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6 7 8

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The letter was published in Colt Hoare, The History of Modern Wiltshire, vol. V, ‘‘Hundred of Alderbury,’’ pp. 209–11. This account was later supplemented by an account of the opening of a bell-barrow at Winterslow Hut, written by Hutchins and published in the Archaeological Journal, 1 (1845), pp. 156–7, and a further account of this excavation, published in the Antiquarian and Architectural Year Book ([1844] 1845), p. 23, including information about Guest’s paintings, another painting by Guest which Hutchins had presented to his friend Colonel Hawker of Longparish House, and a sepia drawing of some of the finds made by Miss Sabina Heath of Andover, Hutchins’s niece. This last was owned by Charles Roach Smith, the secretary of the Archaeological Society of London, in the 1840s but does not appear to have survived. In due course Hutchins would bequeath his remaining four paintings by Guest to the Heath family, where they remained until acquired by the Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum in 1938. The Ashmolean Museum has some MS material by Hutchins in its collection. My thanks to Arthur MacGregor and Julie Clements for their help in my researches there. All of the paintings are approximately the same size, averaging 45.5 cm  60.5 cm (18 in.  24 in.). The two interior paintings show two biconical urns, now in the Ashmolean Museum. One shows them very plainly, inverted and next to one another, and has a painted text at bottom center, in a fine script: ‘‘The Position in which the Sepulchral Urns were found.’’ The other painting shows the two urns in a more complex display, together with the finds they contained, consciously arranged in a still-life composition. A painted scrap of paper appears below the smaller urn, its edges curled up – a device also utilized by Piranesi and James Douglas. It reads: ‘‘These Two Urns/and the other Antiquities/here represented were taken/ from a Bell Barrow 28 yards/ in Diameter on Winterslow/Down near Sarum by/Rev AB Hutchins/1814/ The largest 18 by 18/Smallest 12 by 11½ [inches].’’ My thanks to Mrs. Jane Standen, Assistant Curator of the Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum, for letting me examine the pictures and the Guest archive material. Frank Stevens to W. H. Heath, May 2, 1935. Letter in collection of Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum. Frank Stevens to W. H. Heath, May 30, 1935. Letter in collection of Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum. ‘‘I am writing to you to know what your views would be as to the value of the pictures, regarding the matter as one of record rather than an artistic production.’’ Letter from Frank Stevens to E. T. Leeds, February 26, 1936. Letter in collection of Ashmolean Museum. E. T. Leeds to Frank Stevens, February 27, 1936. Letter in collection of Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum. Colt Hoare. The History of Modern Wiltshire, vol. V, ‘‘Hundred of Alderbury,’’ p. 211. Hutchins also allowed James Forbes, FRS (author of Oriental

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21

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Memoirs, 1813, then on a visit to Hutchins’s friend, Sir Charles Malet of Wilbury House) to make drawings of the finds immediately after their discovery. See Hutchins, ‘‘Draft of a Communication to the Antiquarian and Architectural Year Book,’’ in the collection of the Ashmolean Museum. Hutchins’s recourse to images in 1814 was not unique. In 1793 he made his own drawing of a sword unearthed on his father’s estate at Porton, Wiltshire. He later recruited J. King of Chichester to record the ceiling frescoes of Chichester Cathedral, covered over in 1817. See his undated (but probably 1840s) letter to ‘‘Secretary [Charles Roach] Smith, Archaeological [Society]’’ in the collection of the Ashmolean Museum. Colt Hoare, The History of Modern Wiltshire, vol. V, ‘‘Hundred of Alderbury,’’ p. 209. For the enthusiasm for Dutch painting in this period, see Harry Mount, ‘‘The Reception of Dutch Genre Painting in England, 1695–1829,’’ Ph.D. thesis, University of Cambridge, 1991. For Naturalism, see John Gage, A Decade of English Naturalism: 1810–1820 (Norwich: Norwich Castle Museum, 1969). This is not to deny, of course, the extent to which some engravers made the production of engravings a highly self-reflexive activity, something seen especially in the work of Piranesi. Salisbury and Winchester Journal, December 29, 1800, p. 4. For Guest, see B. M. Little, ‘‘A Study of Libraries in Salisbury 1700–1850,’’ thesis for Fellowship of the Library Association, 1973, pp. 164–73. Typescript in Salisbury and South Wiltshire Museum. The Sketch Book used guidelines and numbers to help the sketcher frame the view s/he wished to reproduce. See T. R. Guest, A New Pocket Sketch Book, Containing an Easy Method of Drawing Landscapes, Figures, Cattle, &c. from Nature (Salisbury: B. C. Collins, 1807). See Trevor Fawcett, The Rise of English Provincial Art: Artists, Patrons and Institutions outside London, 1800–1830 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974). William Hazlitt, ‘‘On Living to One’s-Self,’’ in P. P. Howe, ed., The Complete Works of William Hazlitt (21 vols., London and Toronto: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1930–4), vol. 8, p. 94. The essay was written at Winterslow Hut, January 18– 19, 1821. Hazlitt had trained as an artist but made his living as a critic, so the remark is turned as much on himself as on others. In 1810 he exhibited N.E. View of the Druidical Temple of Stonehenge; S.W. View of the Druidical Temple of Stonehenge; North View of Salisbury from Harnham Hill, on the Great Western Road; and A West View of Salisbury from Melford Hill. In 1814 he exhibited an Ecce Homo and a Madonna. Guest’s son, Douglas, fared better, showing a total of 54 works at London venues (chiefly the Royal Academy and the British Institution) between 1803 and 1839. He concentrated on mythological subjects and biblical and classical history painting and wrote in defense of that branch of the art.

156 Sam Smiles 22 Richard Gough, Sepulchral Monuments in Great Britain (London: J. Nichols, 1786), p. 9. 23 See Sam Smiles, The Image of Antiquity: Ancient Britain and the Romantic Imagination (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1994). 24 Letter dated July 17, 1838, British Museum Central Archives, Original Papers (CE4/19), cited in Christopher Evans, ‘‘Natural Wonders and National Monuments: A Meditation upon the Fate of The Tolmen,’’ Antiquity, 88 (1994), pp. 200–8. Evans’s article is the most reliable published introduction to Tongue. 25 See Alain Schnapp, The Discovery of the Past: the Origins of Archaeology (London: British Museum Press, 1996); Sam Smiles, Eye Witness: Artists and Visual Documentation in Britain, 1770–1830 (Brookfield, VT and Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), especially Chapter Two. 26 The cabinet was originally intended for George Watson Taylor, MP for Devizes 1826–1832, but his financial difficulties saw it installed in Britton’s London house instead. It was sold to Devizes Museum in 1853. The three plaster models of Stonehenge, Stonehenge Restored, and Avebury were made about 1820 by Henry Brown, the first guardian of Stonehenge. The watercolors were produced circa 1800–20 by artists associated with Britton’s topographical work, including Samuel Prout, George Cattermole and, perhaps, John Sell Cotman. See Christopher Chippindale, ‘‘John Britton’s ‘Celtic Cabinet’ in Devizes Museum and its Context,’’ The Antiquaries Journal, LXV: part 1 (1985), pp. 121–37. The use of models for architectural understanding was widespread in this period; one thinks, for example, of the models of Stonehenge, as well as classical temples, produced by specialist modelmakers in cork or plaster and collected by Sir John Soane (now in the Soane Museum). See Peter Thornton and Helen Durey, A Miscellany of Objects from Sir John Soane’s Museum (London: Laurence King, 1992), pp. 66–8, 80, 118. 27 The burial mound shown immediately behind the relics is the one from which they were excavated. Of the other two, that on the far right is the barrow in which the Bronze Age objects were discovered, painted by Guest and illustrated in Figure 7.1 and on the cover of this book. 28 Plan of Tumulus I, excavated in 1779, illustrated in aquatint as Plate II in James Douglas, Nenia Brittanica: Or, a Sepulchral History of Great Britain (London: John Nichols, 1793). 29 As well as manipulating the finds for the sake of compositional impact, Guest also intervened in their representation: he ‘‘repaired’’ one damaged item (the beaker appearing whole in Figure 7.1 was in fact broken) and strung together the beads, found along with two funerary urns, to make a Bronze Age necklace in one of his interior still-life paintings.

Thomas Guest and Paul Nash in Wiltshire

157

30 See Sam Smiles, ‘‘Equivalents for the Megaliths: Prehistory and English Culture, 1920–50,’’ in David Peters Corbett, Ysanne Holt, and Fiona Russell, eds., The Geographies of Englishness: Landscape and the National Past 1880– 1940 (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2002), pp. 199–223. 31 For example, Stuart Piggott and others’ associations with Paul Nash and John Piper. See Sam Smiles, ‘‘Antiquity and Modern Art in England c.1930–50, Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 19:1 (April, 2004), pp. 81–98. 32 For a general overview of Nash and prehistory see Sam Smiles, ‘‘Ancient Country: Nash and Prehistory,’’ in Jemima Montagu, ed., Paul Nash: Modern Artist, Ancient Landscape (London: Tate Publishing, 2003), pp. 31–7. 33 See Andrew Stephenson, ‘‘Strategies of Situation: British Modernism and the Slump c.1929–34,’’ Oxford Art Journal, 14:2 (1991), pp. 30–51. For Nash’s essays on art and artists see Andrew Causey (ed.), Paul Nash: Writings on Art (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000). 34 Paul Nash, letter to Lance Sieveking, May 4, 1937, cited in Anthony Bertram, Paul Nash: The Portrait of an Artist (London: Faber & Faber, 1955), p. 243. 35 Paul Nash, Fertile Image (London: Faber, 1951), p. 11. 36 Paul Nash, ‘‘Landscape of the Megaliths,’’ Art and Education (March, 1939), p. 8. 37 Ibid. 38 See, for example, Stuart Piggott, Ruins in a Landscape (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1976). 39 See Margot Coatts and Elizabeth Lewis, eds., Heywood Sumner: Artist and Archaeologist 1853–1940 (Winchester: Winchester City Museum, 1986); Barry Cunliffe, Heywood Sumner’s Wessex (Wimborne: Roy Gasson Associates, 1985). 40 See, e.g., Alan Sorrell: Early Wales Re-created (Cardiff: National Museum of Wales, 1980). 41 See Jacques Derrida, The Truth in Painting, trans. Geoff Bennington and Ian McLeod (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), pp. 59–71. I have touched on this particular issue in Sam Smiles, ‘‘British Antiquity and Antiquarian Illustration,’’ in Martin Myrone and Lucy Peltz, eds., Producing the Past: Aspects of Antiquarian Culture and Practice 1700–1850 (Aldershot and Brookfield, VT: Ashgate 1999), pp. 55–66.

8

A Different Way of Seeing? Toward a Visual Analysis of Archaeological Folklore Darren Glazier Let’s not get lost in archaeology – a widespread and fatal tendency of the coming generation. – Gustave Flaubert, in a letter to Louis Bouilhet from Cairo, 1850

In recent years, a number of innovative scholars have highlighted the possibility of using the folklore of archaeological sites to understand how the past is experienced in the present.1 In this chapter, I endeavor to complement those discussions by examining how archaeological folklore contributes to the construction of identity within a local community. By focusing upon a specific case study, the archaeological folklore of Quseir al-Qadim, Egypt, I suggest that at least part of the power of folklore resides in the visual imagery that it creates: flaming-eyed demons, vanishing treasure, and foreboding tunnel entrances. Folklore has inspired many poets, authors, songwriters, and visual artists; indeed, many great works of art have been inspired by folktale, myth, and legend. The visual elements of the tales themselves have, however, never been examined. Throughout this chapter, I adopt a methodology derived from scholars of visual representation to understand the role of folklore within the specific context of modern Quseir. This is,

A Different Way of Seeing 159 I admit, a fundamentally Western approach: using theories derived from (mostly) Western scholars, images produced by a Western artist to understand the folklore of a ‘‘non-Western’’ community. My intention here, however, is merely to explore the potential of such an approach. I do not suggest that visual imagery is the only means through which folklore constructs knowledge, nor the only means through which this process is experienced; I simply suggest that a visual approach to archaeological folklore within certain contexts can provide us with fresh insights into the role of the past in the present. In what follows, I show how the visual dimension of folklore, once analyzed, can reveal some of the structuring devices, even the semiotic register, of a seemingly straightforward tale. In this way, the application of some theoretical models of visual analysis to the imagery of folklore offers the archaeologist new possibilities for research and understanding. This chapter is based on a major study being carried out on the perception of heritage in Quseir and draws upon data drawn from 170 taped interviews with residents of the city.2 The interviews began in 1999 in collaboration with members of the Quseir Heritage Preservation Society, and form one component of the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir. The interview process is ongoing, and addresses such issues as the perception of the past in Quseir; the potential or perceived social, cultural, and economic impact of archaeological investigations undertaken in the region; and potential benefits to both archaeology and the local community inherent in collaborative archaeological research.3 The city itself is located on the Red Sea coast of Egypt, 600 km south of Cairo and 150 km east of the Nile Valley. It is home to a resident population of approximately 26,000 people, many of them descendants of nineteenthand early twentieth-century economic migrants. Given the size of the population, it may therefore appear spurious to speak of the ‘‘community of Quseir’’ – the city certainly does not constitute an ‘‘ideal’’ homogenous community. There are a number of different interest groups within Quseir, all of which maintain their own social and familial identities.4 This does not, however, negate the discussion of a communal identity based upon appeals to a shared past: the history of Quseir appears to be significant to all those interviewed, regardless of familial origins, age, gender, social status, or level of education. For the purposes of this chapter, I therefore refer to the community of Quseir, though with a note of caution. At least in part, this interest in the history of the region has been fostered by the presence of Quseir al-Qadim, a Roman and Mamluk

160 Darren Glazier harbor situated some nine kilometers north of the modern city.5 Excavated partially by an American team in the late 1970s, archaeological investigations were reopened in 1999 by a team of archaeologists from the University of Southampton in the UK. Five seasons of excavation have confirmed the status of the site in antiquity as the Roman port of Myos Hormos – one of the great trading centers of the ancient world.6

Folklore and Archaeology None of the humanities, be it ethnography, history, linguistics or the history of literature, can do without folklore.7

The residents of modern Quseir have, however, long been aware of the historic nature of the region. Flaubert, in his visit to the city in 1850, was directed to the remains of ‘‘old Kosseir [sic], of which absolutely nothing remains,’’ while statements such as ‘‘this is the oldest city in the Red Sea’’ and ‘‘we know that the city was very important in the past’’ recur with frequency throughout the interviews themselves.8 This awareness of the antiquity of the region is reflected in the prevalence of archaeological folklore in Quseir – a great many of the folktales recounted within the city are set within Quseir al-Qadim, the archaeological site acting as a magnet for supernatural beings, terrifying curses, and mysterious disappearances. Yet folklore is a largely misunderstood phenomenon in modern archaeology. Unfortunately, it is also notoriously difficult to define: as late as the 1960s there remained little agreement amongst folklorists about ´ what folklore actually was.9 The historian of Irish folklore, Diarmuid O Giolla´in, highlights the scope of the term: ‘‘Folklore’’ is both subject matter and critical discourse, amateur enthusiasm and academic discipline, residual agrarian culture and the popular urban culture of the present; it is both conservative anti-modernist and radical counter-culture, the sphere of dilettantish provincial intellectuals and of committed nation builders, transmitted by word of mouth in intimate settings and negotiated electronically in the public domain.10

For the purpose of this chapter only, I therefore define folklore as oral traditions, tales, and stories, widely recounted within a specific social context.11

A Different Way of Seeing 161 Archaeological sites are not dead when they fall into disuse; they are not reawakened by their subsequent investigation by the archaeological community. They are organic creatures, constantly reused, renegotiated, and absorbed into different communities over time. Folklore, too, is a phenomenon that is constantly changing – it breeds, it spreads, some parts fail, but it has an amazing capacity to adapt to different circumstances.12 It is this fluid, dynamic nature that makes folklore relevant to the discipline of archaeology; the folklore of an archaeological site changes as its status within a particular society changes. The analysis of the folklore of archaeological sites is therefore essential if we are to understand how sites are negotiated, how they are experienced and understood in different communities in the present – one of the express aims of the modern archaeological project.13 Quseir al-Qadim is not simply a Roman or Mamluk harbor; it is also a harbor of cultural value and cultural meaning; of meaning generated within the landscape, through folklore, over generations. As Brown and Bowen suggest, we diminish the archaeological past, and ourselves, if we ignore the factors that make individual sites and monuments unique – including their folktales.14 A number of scholars have nevertheless recognized that folklore studies – a discipline whose professed aim is to understand the cultural meaning and significance of traditions – could potentially have a profound impact upon the way we practice archaeology.15 At the same time, archaeologists have become increasingly aware of the need for dialogue between practitioners of the discipline and local communities.16 The study of monuments in the present, the role that they play in the everyday life of a community, including their representation in folklore, may go some way to initiating that dialogue.17

Folklore and the Construction of Identity . . . Stories are important. People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it is the other way around. Stories exist independently of their players. If you know that, the knowledge is power . . . . Stories don’t care who takes part in them. All that matters is that the story gets told, that the story repeats . . . . Once upon a time . . . .18

162 Darren Glazier It is widely recognized that cultural meanings organize and regulate social practices and conduct. Cultural discourses create, shape, and legitimate distinctions between nations, regions, genders, sexualities, and ethnic groupings; our knowledge of the world is constructed through the negotiation of cultural symbols which shape the way we interact with others.19 This, too, has long been the central tenet of folkloric analysis in anthropology – the recognition that any group, whether a community in Egypt, an academic institution, or a football team, will have their own set of traditions through which they construct a sense of shared identity.20 Much of the research into this process has been conducted at the national level, through the analysis of folklore as a foundation for the construction of nations.21 Indeed, it has been argued that folklore scholarship itself has been central to the formation of a national cultural identity in many countries; the creation of a corpus of national folklore that emotes ‘‘memories’’ of a unified, idyllic past.22 It is clear that the essence of any oral testimony, including folklore, lies not in its relation to ‘‘facts’’ or ‘‘truths,’’ but in its symbolism, its interaction with imagination.23 The folklore of Quseir al-Qadim was not constructed or perpetuated with the explicit intention of creating a substantially different, quasi-homogenous identity for the modern city. Folklore never passively reflects a social reality directly, but constructs meaning through associations, symbols, and motifs – as Propp suggests, ‘‘we look in vain for an existential reality behind a folklore reality.’’24 Within Quseir, a sense of community is constructed through appeals to a common past, the folktales highlighting a shared heritage; just as folklore has been used to construct identity at a national level, so too the folklore of Quseir operates at a local level, emphasizing concepts and places with which the vast majority of the community are familiar. Yet as archaeologists we have tended to avoid the discussion of the role of archaeological folklore in the construction of identity, despite recognizing the often pivotal role of the past in the formation of nations. While some pioneers have highlighted the potential of folklore to construct identity at a more local level, analysis has been restricted to such statements as ‘‘collective identities are often connected with the folklore of archaeological sites . . . [t]his is very evident at the level of villages where the inhabitants are proud of ‘their’ monuments.’’25 For the remainder of this chapter, I therefore examine how archaeological folklore constructs a collective identity through one specific medium.

A Different Way of Seeing 163

Folklore and Visual Analysis A picture held us captive. And we could not get outside it, for it lay in our language and language seemed to repeat it to us inexorably.26

I suggested above that folklore functions as an alternative representation of the past – a representation that has the potential to construct collective identities for different communities. Throughout this section I begin to examine this process in more detail, exploring the potentials for analyzing folklore as a visual representation of the past. Though the vast majority of the folktales recounted within Quseir are transmitted verbally – all of the folklore discussed below can be regarded as ‘‘oral traditions’’ – I nevertheless argue that at least part of their power resides in the repetition of key scenes, symbols, and motifs that are inherently visual. One of the defining characteristics of narrative is its ability to construct vivid imagery; a good novelist, for example, provides us with the information through which we mentally construct a scene. This process has long been recognized within cognitive psychology, with researchers highlighting the intricate relationship between language and verbal and mental cognitive functions: we visualize what we hear. So, for example, if we hear the phrase ‘‘a red-haired boy is peeling an orange,’’ we visualize a redheaded male child peeling an orange.27 Words are transformed into symbols and images, images that act as a mental shortcut; to construct a mental representation that uses words only would require a potentially infinite number of sentences or inferences. In contrast, a pictorial representation requires a single image – a complex image, but a single one nonetheless.28 To understand the meaning of the sentence ‘‘it is snowing in the mountains,’’ we simply visualize snow falling on a mountain range, based upon our interpretation of the sentence and whether or not we have seen snow falling or mountains before. We literally take an active part in the construction of meaning by being asked to imagine the events. The manner in which we construct mental imagery is nevertheless a subject of some contention amongst cognitive psychologists.29 It is generally recognized, however, that mental imagery is intimately associated with both perceptual recognition and memory: ‘‘Visual [mental] imagery is regarded primarily as a parallel processing system, specialized for the storage and symbolic manipulation of information . . . capable of flexible and swift symbolic transformations.’’30

164 Darren Glazier If this is the case, then the language of a folktale is transformed into a mental image, pictures and symbols representing the main features of the narrative. That is not to say, of course, that we all understand and interpret the words in the same manner – our interpretation, and therefore our mental picture, are dependent upon our own social and cultural context. However, just as the same story can be retold differently while retaining the same basic vocabulary, a visual narrative can be depicted in a number of different ways while retaining a common theme.31 It is possible, therefore, to question the intellectual distinction between a photograph, a painting, and a mental image. A photographic image is constructed and framed mentally and transferred to paper through a mechanical process; a painting is conceived mentally and reproduced onto canvas from an image formed in the mind. Both are translations and interpretations of the mental image; only the physical act of transferal distinguishes them. It is true that a painting or photograph, once produced (and endlessly reproduced), becomes static and unchanging in a way that a mental image does not, yet our reactions to paintings and photographs are always subjective. As Freedberg demonstrates, we relate to images in different ways and respond emotionally to them.32 If we accept this, then it becomes clear that we can begin to use practices developed within the field of visual representation to analyze how folklore constructs meaning within societies. Interestingly, long descriptive narratives and hyperbole are utilized only rarely in folklore; the tale is recounted only to describe the events.33 In folklore it is the events that are important, not ‘‘the teeming beauty of the desert’’ or ‘‘the brooding clouds overhead,’’ mentally visualized as stark and striking images replete with iconic figures and motifs – demons, heroic rescues, and magical talismans, for example. Folklorists have long been obsessed with the analysis of such motifs in folklore. Traditionally, this has taken the form of cross-cultural comparisons, stripping folktales down to basic motifs to ascertain common themes and trends in global folklore, ‘‘those details out of which full fledged narratives are composed.’’34 Unfortunately, this serves only to remove the folktale from its original context, divorcing it from the society in which it was created and thus rendering the motifs themselves meaningless.35 In contrast, the Soviet linguist and folklorist Vladimir Propp emphasized the need to analyze folkloric genres, plots, and motifs within their own social and cultural milieu, an approach adopted by Le´vi-Strauss in his structural analysis of recurring motifs in myth.36 It is indeed possible, perhaps even probable, that folklore similar to that collected in Quseir is prevalent throughout

A Different Way of Seeing 165 Egypt, or that some of the motifs within the folktales can be found in other parts of the world. It is the context in which it is transmitted, however, and the location of the action within the tale that are significant. What is important is not that a folktale shares many of the same characteristics as those from Arnhem Land, from Maine, Manchester, or Tanzania, but what its motifs mean within their particular context.

The Archaeological Folklore of Quseir al-Qadim In the ancient wonderland of Egypt, according to the almost unanimous testimony of its inhabitants, there are still at the present day wonders; and phenomena from the region of the supersensual, which extends without any obvious boundary from the dominion of faith to that of superstition, are still of daily occurrence.37

It would not be an exaggeration to suggest that folklore is ubiquitous in Egypt, permeating all social and intellectual levels; throughout the interview process in Quseir there appeared to be no obvious distinction between individuals who recited folktales and those who did not. Indeed, many of the tales found within The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night are believed to have their origin in the folktales of Egypt, while in Quseir itself individual homes are adorned with ornate talismans to avert the evil eye. In the words of one interviewee, ‘‘If I tell you what I have seen with my own eyes, you will tell me that people go to the moon and yet you speak of Jinn and Afrites. But believe me, these things happen.’’38 The Egyptian folklorist Hassan El-Shamy distinguishes four main categories of Egyptian folklore – serious, non-serious, humorous, and undelineated narrative talk.39 Broadly speaking, the archaeological folklore of Quseir al-Qadim can be seen as an example of the fourth category, kala¯m or ha¯ky, narrative talk. This category includes tales that are recounted as fact and not delineated within the conversation by an indicatory prefix, a common trait in much folklore: what we recognize as folkloric is often not recognized or emphasized as such within the community, but constructed by outsiders.40 For analytical purposes, the folklore of Quseir alQadim can be divided into five main themes: The Greek; Folklore and fishing; Curses and supernatural beings; The sunken ship; and The site and the citadel. This chapter will nevertheless address just two tales, one taken from the theme of Curses and supernatural beings, the other from The site and the citadel.41

166 Darren Glazier

The Shaitan and the Amphora It is suggested by Champion and Cooney that the predominant form of archaeological folklore in Ireland is ‘‘the very many stories of the ill-luck and/or physical damage that befell people . . . who dared to break the taboo surrounding sites.’’42 This seems to be a common trend in much archaeological folklore; at Quseir al-Qadim also we find a vast number of tales of this genre, including the first of my case studies – The Shaitan and the amphora. The following is an extract from an interview transcript.43 During the building of the Mo¨venpick [a modern hotel at the eastern extent of Quseir al-Qadim] they found a hole and saw something underground. They called people to come and look at it, and soon everyone began to dig in this one place. One man found a room, a stone room, and they started to dig it out. They found these things . . . what do you call them? Pottery? They’re like a watermelon. DG: Amphora? I: Yes, amphora, like a watermelon. The man who went down didn’t know what they were, so he took one from the ground and put it down clumsily, breaking it. Something like smoke came out from it, black smoke, very black. After that he took the second one out and then the third, breaking all three. DG: When they get broken the smoke comes out? I: Yes, smoke came out of all three. Soon after this the man was travelling somewhere, I don’t know where but he was in his car. He had an accident and died – directly after breaking the pottery.44 I:

This tale would appear to be a contemporary retelling of the tale of the fisherman in The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, this time with a tragic ending.45 It therefore highlights both the organic nature of folklore, and serves to demonstrate its ubiquity within the modern city: the building of the Mo¨venpick was begun in the early 1990s, yet this tale deals explicitly with events surrounding its construction. To adequately contextualize this tale, however, it is necessary to acquaint ourselves with a number of supernatural beings. The black smoke would appear to be indicative of the presence of a Shaitan, an invariably evil subspecies of Jinn with an unfortunate propensity for becoming trapped in sealed vessels.46 Created by God some two thousand years before Adam, the Jinn exist as ‘‘an intermediate race of beings between angels and men,’’ their existence attested to by the Koran.47 The

A Different Way of Seeing 167 Jinn should not be regarded as the equivalent of fairies or elves in the Western world, but as angels and devils; just as a devout Christian will believe in the existence of the Holy Trinity, a devout Muslim recognizes the existence of Jinn. Masters of disguise, they endlessly shape-shift and can be distinguished only by their flaming, vertical eyes. Like people, the Jinn are neither inherently good nor intrinsically evil, capable of acts both of extreme benevolence and of frightening malevolence. It is possible to argue that the very presence of these demons at Quseir al-Qadim attests to the importance of the site in modern Quseir. The Jinn are known to inhabit ruins and wells, particularly those in the desert, their presence emphasizing the sacred nature of an area or region. As Mack and Mack suggest, ‘‘demons, like blazing stop signs, demanded attention and defined limits in earlier times.’’48

The Site and the Citadel The second case study, The site and the citadel, is a tale similar to others well documented within the realms of archaeological folklore. In this version, Quseir is linked to the site by a tunnel, stretching between the citadel, the most prominent and – crucially – the oldest landmark in modern Quseir, and the ancient harbor: I:

Here in the citadel we found a lot of rooms. We don’t know anything about the rooms but the citadel is connected to the site underground . . . . We found a tunnel leading from the rooms which we began to walk along, but we didn’t finish. We stopped, because people said it was too dangerous to go on. Maybe they were just trying to make us scared, but I think we made it to about halfway between the citadel and the Mo¨venpick . . . . . . . There was a big hole inside the Mo¨venpick when they started building it. They found a big hole, a very big one, like a well. We are sure about the connection between there and here [the Mo¨venpick and the citadel] . . . . When the rain comes, a very strong rain, it washes the road away and leaves the hole for all to see. The hole is an entrance to a tunnel that connects the area with the citadel. It was only this area, nowhere else, just this area that becomes a problem when it rains.49

I:

When the yearly rain comes, the road by the site is washed away. Some people have seen a hole where the road was and say it is connected to the citadel.50

168 Darren Glazier I:

There was a group of people just playing football in the citadel, and suddenly a hole appeared. It connected the citadel to Quseir al-Qadim.51

The site and the citadel is one of the most important themes for this analysis: it is the most frequently recounted folktale, and the only one that demonstrates an explicit connection between the old and the modern city. To the ‘‘Western’’ mind, it would perhaps be easy to dismiss these tales as meaningless superstition, amusing curios of little or no intellectual worth. This would, however, not only be extremely unethical in the current archaeological climate, but would also deny people beliefs that are – in many instances – essential to the creation and maintenance of identity. It is, of course, true that these beliefs are no longer held unanimously in Quseir: there is a marked skepticism toward such tales amongst the wealthier, college-educated members of the younger generation. Indeed, one interviewee, in response to a question regarding the oral history of Quseir al-Qadim, remarked disparagingly: ‘‘they speak of ghosts and magicians.’’52 This does not, however, negate the hypothesis that folklore constructs meaning (nor indeed that it is ubiquitous). An individual does not have to ‘‘believe’’ in a tale; they simply have to acknowledge its existence. The persistent repetition of the same or similar images is likely to produce a sympathetic reaction toward the meaning of those images, regardless of whether or not it is perceived as ‘‘truth.’’53

Toward a Visual Analysis of Archaeological Folklore I have argued above that the folklore of Quseir al-Qadim can be examined using practices developed in the visual analysis of archaeological representation. Throughout this section, I demonstrate the usefulness of this approach by applying it to two different folktales from Quseir. To assist in this process, I have commissioned two striking images from the archaeological illustrator, Julian Whitewright; illustrations based solely upon the artist’s interpretations of each folktale. It must nevertheless be emphasized that these illustrations function in a very different way to the other illustrations to be found within this book. They are designed primarily to be viewed as graphic elucidations of a mental process; they are not intended to objectify or reduce complex mental processes to static, twodimensional images, removed from their primary context.54

A Different Way of Seeing 169 Figure 8.1, a visual representation of The Shaitan and the amphora, focuses upon the breaking of the first amphora; black smoke pours from a broken amphora, a Shaitan gradually manifests from within. The two remaining amphora stand half-buried in the corner of the room, hinting at their archaeological context, while from within the smoke we can see two flaming eyes, the telltale sign of a Jinn. Figure 8.2 represents a scene from the tale of The site and the citadel. In this image, the area surrounding Quseir al-Qadim has been torn open, the foreground dominated by a series of steps that draw the viewer toward a forbidding stone-lined tunnel. If we analyze these scenes as archaeological representations then we can begin to see several themes emerging. In Figure 8.1, for example, we recognize the presence of the Jinn, represented within both the original tale and the illustration by swathes of black smoke. Smoke is understood within Islamic folklore to be indicative of the presence of Jinn; that it emanates from a broken vessel confirms to us that it is a Shaitan. Crucially, this is left unsaid in the recital of the tale (see above). Moser suggests that icons serve to communicate messages instantly and effectively, their repetition within different representational contexts reinforcing and legitimating their meaning.55 Both the smoke and the broken amphora may be understood as iconic, communicating to the audience the presence of a Shaitan non-verbally through a process of denotation and connotation: the smoke from the amphora (denotation) denoting the Shaitan (connotation).56 Yet the Shaitan itself is also an icon, an icon that symbolizes malevolence and pernicious evil. The juxtaposition of these icons with amphora, rather than a more modern sealed vessel, constructs a perception of the past as mysterious, shocking, and dangerous through the use of icons of Arabic and Islamic folklore. In Saussurean terms, the Shaitan acts as a signifier, a mysterious past the signified. It must, however, be recognized that this relationship is not fixed or immutable. The sign is arbitrary; the same sign can be constructed and interpreted in a number of different ways.57 The same is true of the reproductions of the folktales included here – though they are based upon the transcripts of the interviews themselves, they are undoubtedly influenced by both Whitewright’s interpretation of the tales and my transcripts. This is not necessarily problematic; both the original transcripts and the illustrations retain the key icons, motifs, and symbols found in the recital of the original tale. In essence, it matters little if the

170 Darren Glazier

Figure 8.1 The Shaitan and the amphora. ß Julian Whitewright

A Different Way of Seeing 171

Figure 8.2 The site and the citadel. ß Julian Whitewright

visualization of the tunnel in Figure 8.2 differs from individual to individual, whether in Quseir or elsewhere; some may visualize it and interpret it as foreboding, others as inviting. What is important is that the icons themselves are retained within each visualization – the site, the citadel, and the tunnel. The recycling of icons is common practice in archaeological representations, just as it is in folklore.58 Much of the folklore that relates to Quseir al-Qadim, for example, concerns the sea, fishing, or fishes, a theme constant throughout The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night. Similarly, interviewees speak of Jinn taking human form at Quseir al-Qadim and then disappearing suddenly, a trait attested to by Pliny in his Natural History: ‘‘one often meets men in the African deserts who belong to a quite peculiar human species and who suddenly disappear from sight.’’ Both the plume of smoke in Figure 8.1 and the Shaitan that it represents can be seen as examples of this process, motifs reused again and again in different

172 Darren Glazier contexts, their repetition enhancing their iconic status and thus their ability to construct meaning. A similar analysis of The site and the citadel also appears profitable. In Camera Lucida, Barthes argues that the ‘‘existence’’ of an image, its power to create an emotional response in the audience, derives from the co-presence of two different elements, the studium and the punctum.59 The studium refers to the image-maker’s intentions; it can consist of anything from action, landscapes, and portraits, but will always produce what Barthes describes as ‘‘an average effect.’’60 The punctum, in contrast, is the element of the image that grabs the viewer’s attention, forcing the individual to focus upon it, ‘‘the small detail that attracts.’’61 Always subjective, the punctum takes you beyond the image itself and leads you into deeper contemplation. For me, the punctum of The site and the citadel is not the tunnel entrance or even the stairs that lead us toward it, as dramatic as they are, but the archaeological site itself. It is the juxtaposition of the gaping crevasse with the extant ruins that demands my attention. The power of the punctum is often metonymic; the presence of these ruins – confirmed by oral history, folklore, and now archaeological excavation – evokes a sense of ancientness and emphasizes the importance of the past.62 The site has a living presence within its own folklore: there is no direct interaction with it, but it functions as the stage on which the action is set or, perhaps more pertinently, the canvas on which the action is depicted. This notion of place is essential to my analysis here. Archaeological sites attract folklore, folktales acquiring at least part of their power from their relation to physical locales, real places that can be visited and experienced.63 The folklore of Quseir al-Qadim, indeed of any archaeological site, is exclusive to the site itself: ‘‘folklore focuses on empirical space . . . anything that occurs outside this space does not become the object of narration . . . two theatres of action do not exist simultaneously.’’64 The representation of Quseir al-Qadim through dramatic folkloric scenes fixes the site in the mind, continually reinforcing the historic nature of the region. The narratives occur there, there is nothing outside of it. Through this process a shared sense of history and longevity is constructed for the modern inhabitants of Quseir – a stark contrast to the newer tourist-based economies of the Red Sea coast. Both The site and the citadel and The Shaitan and the amphora contain dramatic elements; the key scenes of each tale are visually spectacular. In Figure 8.2, for example, we are confronted with ravines and crevasses which emphasize the violence of the moment, the tearing open of the

A Different Way of Seeing 173 landscape to reveal a dark, foreboding entrance. In Figure 8.1, we see the outline of a Shaitan slowly forming in the smoke, its sinister, flaming eyes already apparent. Moser suggests that the presence of dramatic imagery in archaeological representations often serves to mask symbols that provide images with their archaeological context, and the same process may be at work here; we are so focused upon the action and the events that we fail to recognize those elements of the folktale that make it archaeological.65 In the background of Figure 8.1, for example, stand two unbroken amphora (their presence attested to by the original tale), subtly confirming the status of the area as an ancient site. The site and the citadel, however, also contributes to the construction of identity in Quseir in a more explicit manner. The folktale allows members of the community to visualize a physical connection between the old and the modern ports; the tunnel in Figure 8.2 represents a tangible link between Quseir and Quseir al-Qadim, it pulls us towards Quseir, drawing us into the stone-lined tunnel with the promise of adventure, movement, and continuity. The tunnel functions as a metaphorical umbilical cord, its mental representation reminding us symbolically of the perceived connection between the ancient and the modern city.66 It is important to recognize, in addition, that the social and cultural context of the listener will have a significant impact upon the manner in which an individual interprets folktales. The same is true of visual imagery: the way we construct mental imagery is dependent upon our own social milieu.67 The Jinn in Egypt are representative of religion, the supernatural, of mischief, and often of dread. To be understood as such requires that the audience be situated within a specific discourse – Islamic folklore – which renders particular symbols, icons, and motifs meaningful. Outside of this discourse, the Jinn have been transformed into the Ginn, a Disney commodity whose sole purpose is to entertain children for financial reward. Representations work only when they function within a particular context in which their meaning is recognized by all.68 What is significant here, however, is not that the meaning of the sign is culturally contingent, or even that the individual folktales will change with every retelling; new details will emerge, new features will be added, and old ones discarded. Though the details may change, the actual power of the folktale to construct a sense of community identity based upon an appeal to a common past does not – underlying all remains the site itself. As long as the site remains the focus of action and events, as long as Quseir al-Qadim functions as the tableau upon which dramatic scenes occur,

174 Darren Glazier scenes which require us to construct vivid mental imagery, as long as it is recognized as an archaeological site within the folktale, then it will continue to construct an identity based upon a sense of history and longevity within the modern city.

Conclusion Throughout this chapter I have demonstrated that the folklore of Quseir al-Qadim contributes to the construction of identity within modern Quseir through the creation of visual imagery; the juxtaposition of key scenes, icons, and motifs with archaeological symbols. This is certainly not the only means through which folklore constructs knowledge – several other factors, including the context in which the tale is recounted, the manner in which it is recited, and the ubiquity of the folktale within society are also significant. Nor is folklore the only medium through which a sense of community identity is constructed: the city is currently repositioning itself as a heritage tourist destination par excellence, based upon explicit appeals to the past. In reality, folklore is just one facet of a myriad of concepts, themes, and phenomena that contribute to the construction of a unique identity for Quseir. Yet, as this chapter has demonstrated, a visual analysis of archaeological folklore has the potential to provide us with a unique insight into how folklore contributes to this process in the present.

acknowledgments

I would like to express my sincere gratitude to the Mayor of Quseir, General Mohammed Amin, the manager of Quseir Heritage, Mr. Adel Aiesh, and its chairman, Mr. Farid Mansour, for permission to conduct this research in the city as one component of the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir, and for their useful comments on research design. Any work would, however, have been impossible without the assistance of Mohammed Saleh Mousa, Lamya Nasser al Nemer, Diaa Abdul Aziz Gad, and Eman Mohammed Attia, all of whom acted as translators and cultural advisors. Their assistance nevertheless went beyond that, and I am indebted to all of them for their friendship and perseverance. Thanks must also go to Professor David Peacock for his intellectual and logistical

A Different Way of Seeing 175 support during fieldwork and to Julian Whitewright for producing the images found within this chapter. Many of the ideas found within this chapter have developed during conversations with other members of the Community Archaeology Project, especially Alistair Jones and James Phillips, while Dr. Robert Wallis, Graeme Earl, and Mark Ryder have all read various drafts. It would not be right to end without offering my sincere thanks to all those in Quseir who gave so freely of their time to sit with me and discuss the issues contained above; I hope you will not be disappointed with the results. Finally, special thanks go to Dr. Stephanie Moser for discussions that led to the development of several ideas contained within this chapter, but more especially for providing me with the opportunity to conduct this research and for gently steering me in the right direction. Any oversights that remain are, however, my own.

Notes 1 E.g., contributions to Amy Gazin-Schwartz and Cornelius Holtorf, eds., Archaeology and Folklore (London: Routledge, 1999), and to R. Wallis and K. Lymer, eds., A Permeability of Boundaries? New Approaches to the Archaeology of Art, Religion and Folklore (British Archaeological Reports International Series 936, 2001). 2 The interviews are referenced within this chapter in the following manner: 1ff (indicating an interview undertaken in the first field season), 2.1ff (second field season), 3.1ff (third field season). 3 See S. Moser, D. Glazier, J. Phillips, L. N. El Nemer, M. S. Mousa, S. Richardson, A. Conner, and M. Seymour, ‘‘Transforming Archaeology through Practice: Strategies for Collaborative Practice and the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir, Egypt,’’ World Archaeology, 34:2 (2002), pp. 220–48 for a fuller discussion of the Community Archaeology Project at Quseir. 4 Ibid., p. 222. 5 In Arabic, ‘‘Old Quseir.’’ 6 See D. S. Whitcomb and J. H. Johnson, Quseir al-Qadim 1980 (Malibu, FL: Undena Publications, 1982); D. P. Peacock, L. Blue, N. Bradford, and S. Moser, Myos Hormos. Quseir al-Qadim. Interim Report (Southampton: University of Southampton, 2000). 7 Vladimir Propp, Theory and History of Folklore (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1984), p. 3. 8 Gustave Flaubert, Flaubert in Egypt (New York: Penguin Classics [1850] 1996), p. 190; Int. 3.2; Int. 2.3.

176 Darren Glazier 9 10 11

12

13

14

15 16

17

Alan Dundes, The Study of Folklore (London: Prentice Hall International, 1965), p. 1. ´ Giolla´in, Locating Irish Folklore (Cork: Cork University Press, 2000), p. 1. D. O I recognize that this definition is limiting. It is not my intention here, however, to discuss other aspects of modern culture that may be folkloric – place-names, ceremonies, rituals, art, and dance, for example. For this reason, I use the terms ‘‘folklore’’ and ‘‘folktales’’ interchangeably within this chapter. For a fuller definition of folklore, especially the relationship between archaeology and folklore, see Amy Gazin-Schwartz and Cornelius Holtorf, ‘‘ ‘As Long as I’ve Ever Known It . . .’: On Folklore and Archaeology,’’ in GazinSchwartz and Holtorf, Archaeology and Folklore, pp. 3–25. I. Opie and P. Opie, ‘‘Certain Laws of Folklore,’’ in V. J. Newall, ed., Folklore Studies in the Twentieth Century. Proceedings of the Centenary Conference of the Folklore Society (Woodbridge and Totowa, NJ: Brewer and Rowman & Littlefield, 1980), pp. 64–75. Nowhere is this more apparent than in modern Britain: not so long ago elves were dreaded; their touch and presence feared. Now – thanks in no small part to Disney and Coca-Cola – they have become ‘‘Santa’s little helpers.’’ Similarly, many pagans in contemporary Britain now see elves as wights of the land that may be engaged with for spiritual purposes. See Emma Blake, ‘‘Coming to Terms with Local Approaches to Sardinia’s Nuraghi,’’ in Gazin-Schwartz and Holtorf, Archaeology and Folklore, pp. 230–9; Gazin-Schwartz and Holtorf, ‘‘ ‘As Long as I’ve Ever Known It,’ ’’ pp. 3–25. Martin Brown and Pat Bowen, ‘‘The Last Refuge of the Faeries: Archaeology and Folklore in East Sussex,’’ in Gazin-Schwartz and Holtorf, Archaeology and Folklore, p. 261. E.g., contributions to Gazin-Schwartz and Holtorf, Archaeology and Folklore and to Wallis and Lymer, A Permeability of Boundaries? See, for example, contributions to N. Swidler, K. E Dongoske, R. Anyon, and A. S. Downer, eds., Native Americans and Archaeologists. Stepping Stones to Common Ground (Walnut Creek, CA: Altamira Press, 1997) and to Y. Marshall, ed., Community Archaeology. World Archaeology, 34:2 (2002). It must, however, be stressed that I do not look for archaeological ‘‘truths’’ in the folklore of Quseir al-Qadim, but at how people interact with and understand archaeological sites in the present. I do not suggest that the folklore of Quseir al-Qadim will ever ‘‘mark the spot,’’ but I do believe that it can give us valuable insights into how the past is negotiated, how it is experienced and understood in the present. For an alternative approach to archaeological ‘‘survivals’’ in folklore, see G. L. Gomme, The Handbook of the Folklore Society (London: Folklore Society, 1890); E. A. W Budge, Egyptian Tales and Romances: Pagan, Christian and Muslim (London: Murray, 1931); Propp, Theory and History of Folklore.

A Different Way of Seeing 177 18 Terry Pratchett, Witches Abroad (London: Corgi, 1992), pp. 8–9. 19 Roland Barthes, Mythologies (London: Vintage, 1993); Stuart Hall, ed., Representation. Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices (London: Sage, 1997). 20 E.g., R. T. Clark, Jr., Herder: His Life and Thought (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1969); Alan Dundes, The Study of Folklore (London: Prentice Hall International, 1965); Alan Dundes, Life is like a Chicken Coop: A Portrait of German Culture through Folklore (New York: Columbia University Press, 1984). ´ Giolla´in, Locating Irish Folklore, especially chapter three. 21 E.g., O 22 P. J. Anttonen, ‘‘Profiles of Folklore 2: Department of European Ethnology Lund University, Sweden,’’ NIF newsletter, 2 (1993). 23 A. Portelli, ‘‘What Makes Oral History Different,’’ in R. Perks and A. Thomson, eds., The Oral History Reader (London: Routledge, 1998), pp. 63–74, p. 68. 24 Propp, Theory and History of Folklore, p. 10. 25 Gazin-Schwartz and Holtorf, ‘‘ ‘As Long as I’ve Ever Known It,’ ’’ p. 17; see also J. A. Voss, ‘‘Antiquity Imagined: Cultural Values in Archaeological Folklore,’’ Folklore, 98 (1987), pp. 80–90. 26 L. Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, trans. G. E. M. Anscombe (New York: Macmillan, 1958), p. 48. 27 A. Paivio, ‘‘Imagery and Language,’’ in S. J. Segal, ed., Imagery. Current Cognitive Approaches (New York: Academic Press, 1971), p. 7. 28 M. Rollins, Mental Imagery. On the Limits of Cognitive Science (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989), p. 20. 29 E.g., A. Paivio, Imagery and Verbal Process (New York: Holt, Rinehart & Winston, 1971); J. Fodor, The Language of Thought (New York: Crowell, 1975); A. Lazarus, In the Mind’s Eye. The Power of Images for Personal Enrichment (New York: The Guildford Press, 1977); K. Carr and R. England, Simulated and Virtual Realities. Elements of Perception (London: Taylor & Francis, 1995). 30 Paivio, Imagery and Verbal Process, p. 9. 31 Rollins, Mental Imagery, p. 84. 32 D. Freedberg, The Power of Images. Studies in the History and Theory of Response (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989). 33 Propp, Theory and History of Folklore, p. 22. 34 Stith Thomson, Motif Index of Folk Literature (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1975), p. 10. For a similar approach, see also A. Aarne, The Types of the Folktale. A Classification and Bibliography (Helsinki: FF Communications No.184, 1961); K. Krohn, Folklore Methodology Formulated by Julius Krohn and Expanded by Nordic Researchers, trans. R. L. Welsch (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1971).

178 Darren Glazier 35 The problems of cross-cultural analysis of motifs in folklore are highlighted superbly in F. H. Cushing, ‘‘The Cock and the Mouse,’’ in Zuni Folk Tales, collected and trans. F. H. Cushing (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1931), pp. 411–22. 36 E.g., Propp, Theory and History of Folklore, pp. 10–11; Claude Le´vi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology (London: Penguin, 1963); Claude Le´vi-Strauss, From Honey to Ashes. Introduction to a Science of Mythology: 2, trans. J and D. Weightman (London: Jonathan Cape, 1973). 37 C. B. Klunzinger, Upper Egypt. Its People and its Products. A Descriptive Account of the Manners, Customs, Superstitions and Occupations of the People of the Nile Valley, the Desert and the Red Sea Coast, with Sketches of the Natural History and Geology (London: Blackie, 1878), p. 382. 38 Int. 3.19. 39 Hassan M. El-Shamy, Folktales of Egypt (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980). ´ Giolla´in, Locating Irish 40 L. Honko, The Folklore Process (Turku: FFSS, 1991); O Folklore, p. 174. 41 It must be recognized that these divisions are arbitrary and constructed for analytical purposes only. The folklore is never separated in a similar manner in the city itself. Any names given to individual folktales have been assigned by myself simply to differentiate the tales from one another. 42 S. Champion and G. Cooney, ‘‘Naming the Places, Naming the Stones,’’ in Gazin-Schwartz and Holtorf, Archaeology and Folklore, pp. 196–213, p. 197. 43 I ¼ interviewee, DG ¼ the author. 44 Int. 1.5. 45 The tale of The fisherman and the Jinii, recounted on the third and fourth nights of the Thousand Nights and a Night, describes a fisherman bringing up a sealed vessel in one of his nets. On opening the vessel, vast swathes of smoke pour forth, which eventually take on the form of a Jinee. The Jinee informs the fisherman he will suffer death at his hands, before being tricked back into the jar and cast once more into the sea. For the full tale, see J. C. Mardrus and P. Mathers, The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night (London: Folio Society, 1958), pp. 19–24. 46 Texts contain many different spellings, the most common being Jinn, Djinn, or the Europeanized Ginn (all plural). I favor Jinn (singular Jinee), adopted by Burton in his classic translation of The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night – widely regarded as one of the most accurate translations to date. See R. F. Burton, The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night. Volumes I–X (Burton Club for Private Subscribers, 1885). 47 Edward Lane, Account of the Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians (London: Murray, 1836), p. 73.

A Different Way of Seeing 179 48 C. K Mack and D. Mack, A Field Guide to Demons, Fairies, Fallen Angels and other Subversive Spirits (New York: Henry Holt, 1998), p. xiii. 49 Int. 1.1. 50 Int. 2.0. 51 Int. 3.1. 52 Int. 2.1. 53 P. Messaris, ‘‘Visual Manipulation: Visual Means of Affecting Responses to Images,’’ Communication, 13:3 (1992), pp. 181–95, p. 185. 54 Translation may not be the best medium for the visual analysis of folktales, as it is likely that certain aspects will be lost in the translation process. This chapter, however, proves at least that a visual analysis is both possible and profitable. 55 Stephanie Moser, ‘‘Archaeological Representation: the Visual Conventions for Constructing Knowledge about the Past,’’ in I. Hodder, ed., Archaeological Theory Today (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), pp.262–83, pp. 270–1. 56 See Roland Barthes, The Elements of Semiology (London: Cape, 1967) on denotation and connotation. 57 Quseir al-Qadim, for example, through different combinations of signifiers and signified, can be variously interpreted as a fishing port, as a site of indulgence and excess in a luxury hotel, or as an archaeological excavation. See Roland Barthes, Mythologies (London: Vintage, 1993) for further discussion of the arbitrary nature of signs. 58 See Moser, ‘‘Archaeological Representation,’’ p. 273 on icons in archaeological representations. 59 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida (London: Vintage, 1993). 60 Ibid., p. 26. 61 Ibid., p. 42. 62 Ibid., p. 45. 63 See, for example, J. Bord and C. Bord, A Guide to Ancient Sites in Britain (London: Paladin, 1978); C. Tilley, A Phenomenology of Landscape (Oxford and Providence, RI: Berg, 1994). 64 Propp, Theory and History of Folklore, p. 22. 65 Moser, ‘‘Archaeological Representation,’’ p. 279. 66 It is important to stress that much of this makes little sense ‘‘archaeologically’’. The modern city was not established until at least a hundred years after the abandonment of Quseir al-Qadim. Chronology is, however, largely irrelevant to folklore. In folklore, perception is everything. 67 J. Haugeland, Artificial Intelligence. The Very Idea (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press/ Bradford, 1985). 68 Hall, Representation.

9

Photography and Archaeology: The Image as Object Frederick N. Bohrer The field of vision has always seemed to me comparable to the ground of an archaeological excavation. – Paul Virilio1

My perspective on archaeology is that of a historian of European art, long concerned with the image of the peoples and cultures of the Middle East during the nineteenth century. I approach archaeology, that is, as an amateur, in much the same relation to it as that which characterized the wide-eyed public reception of the spectacular archaeological discoveries of the nineteenth century. Consequently, my conception of archaeology as a practice is simply the one still commonly held, which continues to captivate Western society (in ways that can make art historians envious). Key to this appeal, I think, is the power of archaeology as metaphor. Archaeology is so much a kind of cultural touchstone that a middlebrow art catalog, for instance, can recommend the work of a particular artist in the following terms: ‘‘Just as archaeologists and geologists uncover stories by digging through the earth, so Derek Lynch uses art to excavate his imagination.’’2 This bit of publicity contains the kernel of two related concepts in the popular image of archaeology, which continue to dominate the modern idea of archaeology. First, it holds that the archaeologist finds meaning in the earth by literally combing through it, amid its material and rubble. To be sure, much of this activity, in the nineteenth century anyway, took place

Photography and Archaeology 181 above ground as much as beneath it, but the – fundamentally materialist – principle is the same. Second, it suggests, by metaphorical extension, that there is some meaning to the idea of excavating an imagination, that human perception and consciousness may be seen to present a similar jumble to be probed, questioned, and perhaps better understood. Further, this second sort of excavation is presented as a question of art, or perhaps more generally, of representation. Tying these points together is a centuryold lineage, dating at least from Freud, who was not only fascinated by archaeological artifacts, but who used the very enterprise of archaeology as (in Donald Kuspit’s term) ‘‘a mighty metaphor’’ for psychoanalysis.3 As will become apparent, I too am interested in the psychological mechanics involved in the perception of archaeology, not least in the example of Freud himself. But at the same time, of course, archaeology is not only a metaphor, and I do not want to lose sight of its historical and material specificity. Rather, in approaching the archaeological photography of the nineteenth century, I want to look at the interplay between these two conceptions, between the semantics and poetics of archaeology. Auguste Salzmann’s unique photographs of Jerusalem were taken at the behest of Fe´licien de Saulcy, to buttress the truth of Saulcy’s dating of certain extant artifacts and architectural fragments to actual biblical times. Saulcy’s attribution of much greater age than had been previously thought to various Jewish, Islamic, and Christian structures and artifacts was quite controversial, and indeed largely rejected in his time. Saulcy’s argument was based less on the philological and textual evidence common to antiquarian scholarship, relying in large part instead on close visual examination and comparison. In a series of books and pamphlets, Saulcy supported his argument with meticulous notes, as well as his own detailed drawings of particular objects and structures. But part of the resistance to Saulcy’s argument, at least in his own perception of it, was focused on the ever-malleable nature of a drawing as objective evidence. This resistance to his own recordings is behind Saulcy’s support for Salzmann’s photographic tour of Jerusalem, published in a book in 1856. The camera’s putative objectivity was thus used to counter doubts about the subjectivity of a drawing. Salzmann himself was no doubt referring to this situation when he wrote in the book’s preface that ‘‘Photographs are more than tales [re´cits], they are facts endowed with a convincing brute force [une brutalite´ concluante].’’4 Notably, Salzmann’s rationale for photography’s usefulness to Saulcy focuses not only on its putative objectivity but also its rhetorical

182 Frederick N. Bohrer

Figure 9.1 Auguste Salzmann, Jaffa Gate, Inscription on the False Door, photograph, 1855–6, from Je´rusalem: E´tude et Reproduction Photographique des Monuments de la Ville Sainte Depuis L’E´poque Judaı¨que Jusqu’a´ Nos Jours (Ottawa: National Gallery of Canada, 1856)

force. The photograph does not just passively document, but actively argues for an interpretive position. More than any inherent objectivity, this convincing, indeed almost brutally overbearing force with which we continue to endow photography is at the heart of its continuing appeal and usefulness in Western society. In the case of Salzmann’s works, this force takes another form as well: that of art. For Salzmann’s uncommon images are often quite brilliant by the aesthetic standards which commonly apply to photography as art. His photographs, that is, fuse objectivity and invention, just as they combine factuality and force. Both, certainly, are essential to their function. To take an example, Salzmann’s photograph captioned Jaffa Gate, Inscription on the False Door (Figure 9.1), is centered on the material, structural, and historical features of the given subject. The gate’s ashlar blocks, arch spandrel, and inscription itself are not only visible in detail, but are almost palpable to the viewer as the arch goes in and out of the frame of the photograph itself. Surely this embodies the endowment with a convincing force mentioned by the photographer. Yet at the same time, this palpability is both augmented

Photography and Archaeology 183 and undercut by the aesthetic effect of the complex lighting within the archway, which obscures a portion of the inscription even as it demonstrates the depth of the structure. In a way that exemplifies Salzmann’s approach, this photograph fuses a factually minded, detailed antiquarian viewpoint with an aesthetically driven sense for surface and overall composition. This operation of fusing, which is perhaps especially obvious in Salzmann’s work, is much more widely applicable. Writing on the full range of interaction between archaeology and photography, Michael Shanks observes that ‘‘even when photographs are acknowledged as artifacts, they may also take on something of the status of found objects, harnessing the magic of the real.’’5 What begins as a copy of the real, then, acquires its own reality. In this sense, one might say that even as archaeology uses photography, indeed relies on it as an essential scientific tool, photography can also enact a certain operation on the things it records which resembles nothing so much as . . . archaeology. One example of this ‘‘archaeologizing’’ effect of photography, in fact, can be drawn precisely from one of photography’s most basic and straightforward uses in archaeology, and one for which it has been recommended starting with its very invention: namely the recording of ancient inscriptions. Here, for instance, is an excerpt from the 1839 report made by Dominique Franc¸ois Arago to the French Chamber of Deputies. Arago was charged with determining the positive value to the French state of Daguerre’s great invention, and this he enthusiastically did. One central use was for the study of Egyptian antiquity, then associated with the discoveries of French pioneers like Champollion. Arago notes: To copy the millions of hieroglyphics which cover even the exterior of the great monuments of Thebes, Memphis, Karnak, and others would require decades of time and legions of draftsmen. By daguerreotype one person would suffice to accomplish this immense work successfully. Equip the Egyptian Institute with two or three of Daguerre’s apparatus, and before long on several of the large tablets of the celebrated work, which had its inception in the expedition to Egypt, innumerable hieroglyphics as they are in reality will replace those which now are invented or drawn by approximation. These designs will excel the works of the most accomplished painters, in fidelity of detail and true reproduction of the local atmosphere.6

One hears in this the same hope for photography apparent with Saulcy: as a tool to substitute ‘‘reality’’ for what was known only by approximation

184 Frederick N. Bohrer or invention. Arago’s hope for photography as a method of rapid transcription and circulation for scholarly purposes was matched, and to some extent carried out, by Daguerre’s English counterpart, William Henry Fox Talbot. Though it is less recalled today than his role with photography, Talbot also played a central role in the successful decipherment of ancient Assyrian cuneiform in the mid-nineteenth century. He clearly had a related vision of the usefulness of photography for the promulgation of cuneiform inscriptions then accumulating by the thousands in the British Museum, making them available to distant scholars and thus engaging a far larger team in this huge task.7 And yet, a century later, after photography had long been turned loose on the project of recording inscriptions, it was not precisely valued for its realism, that is, for deliverance in every detail of a valued artifact’s appearance. Instead, a casual essay by Egyptologist Bernard Bothmer describes a slightly different state of affairs. Bothmer’s 1970 ‘‘Musings’’ appeared in the Newsletter of the American Research Center in Egypt, and described in detail both the mechanics and principles of recording ancient Egyptian sculptures in the Cairo museum for the sake of scholarly interests. Not surprisingly, much of it is devoted to the photography of the sculptures and how best to obtain them. But what is most telling in this essay is Bothmer’s counting it as ‘‘the greatest recompense’’ for the entire cumbersome photographic process when a philologist ‘‘admits that he can see a detail of an inscription better on the photograph than on the original.’’8 The philologist’s perhaps uneasy admission here of the photograph’s value is not an acknowledgment of the ‘‘true reproduction’’ vaunted by Arago. Rather than completely capturing or recording, the photograph’s value is its filtering, reorganizing, and fundamental improvement upon real conditions. This effect noted by Bothmer is not uncommon today in considering photographs as evidence, at least in art history. Straightforward as it may seem, this is, I submit, a prime example of the archaeologizing vision of photography, one in which the photograph is valued not so much for capturing or transcribing, as for going beyond (or beneath) an artifact’s superficial appearance, in order to capture what is deemed most valuable in it. This example of photography as archaeology, of the image as object, indicates how even a seemingly benign entity like the interpretive criteria of a philologist can effect a change of some sort in its very object of study. But the effect can also be far more drastic, testifying to the immense (in part because largely unacknowledged) power of photographic rendering. On this account, I offer a second visual example.

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Figure 9.2 Fe´lix Teynard, Rock-Cut Architecture-Tomb of Amenemhat, Beni-Hasan, photograph, 1851–2, from Egypt et Nubie (Washington, DC: Library of Congress, Division of Prints and Photographs, 1858)

At just about the same time as Salzmann, the Middle Eastern tour of the French photographer Fe´lix Teynard led to a work as striking in its own right. Teynard’s Egypt and Nubia (1858) presents a panoply of images quite distinct from others of its time, in part for their focus on the remains of ancient Egyptian buildings. Teynard had worked for years as a civil engineer, and many of his photographs are focused more on structure and massing than the historical and antiquarian interests, like inscriptions or ornamentation, that most concerned Saulcy. Thus Teynard’s photograph of the tomb of Amenemhat, near Beni-Hasan (Figure 9.2), highlights the blocky, elemental post-and-lintel entrance, its structure and materiality gleaming in the sunlight. Its accompanying text in Teynard’s book describes the layout of the space and gives its measurements. The shadowy inner darkness is a foil to the material facts on display, if anything serving to obscure the modern graffiti at the lower right. What is striking in this photograph is not just what Teynard focuses on but also what he obscures. For Teynard’s vision of Egypt, unlike

186 Frederick N. Bohrer Salzmann’s Jerusalem, was devoted almost exclusively to ancient monuments, and largely eschewed the more contemporary sights also to be found. Teynard, indeed, addressed this very fact in the preface to his book, in terms that can be deemed archaeologizing on many grounds. He states: All the monuments which predate Alexander the Great are grand and profusely decorated; the forms are simple and the ornamentation is appropriate to their severe character; it is pure Egyptian architecture, which developed naturally, without any foreign influence; it was the time of the Pharaohs, it was the great Egyptian age . . . [by contrast] . . . The Christian age produced only ephemeral buildings; the temples were mutilated, degraded, turned into churches; the painted reliefs which decorated the walls were hammered, defaced, plastered and whitewashed over; the statues were smashed: it was a barbaric age.9

Teynard’s camera, then, was clearly at the service of a vision one could call, in the terms we have adduced, archaeological. It is focused on the land’s early remains, while specifically excluding the later reality of the very same place. Of course, Teynard’s words are also redolent of many of the cultural topoi of Second Empire France: notably the anti-clericalism of the period and theories of cultural and racial purity. My point here is not merely that the photographer’s choice of images is related to his interests and prejudices, nor that the photographic image is thus not as innocent or objective as might have been claimed. More generally, it seems to me that Teynard’s ancient Egypt shares something important with Bothmer’s. Even as the nineteenth-century engineer and the twentieth-century scholar brought very different interests to the place, and worked with different kinds of cameras in different kinds of situations, both might be seen to have used photography as a device for fragmentation or isolation of a single aspect from a culturally organic whole. Photography served both as a way of leaving things out. If archaeology is, as in the popular definition with which we’ve begun, a questioning of things – a metaphorical, at least, digging beneath the surface – then this pair of photographic interventions demonstrates a range over which such archaeologizing can take place, from isolating the inscription within an artifact, to isolating a class of monuments to stand metonymically for an entire culture. I want now to shift away from the archaeological photograph’s relation to its objective content, and devote what little space remains to the other

Photography and Archaeology 187 essential node in the circulatory process of archaeological representation: that of the viewing subject. Here too, it seems to me, archaeology and photography offer ways to reinforce and remake each other. The potency of the archaeological subject for a viewer is well described by Freud, in a paper describing his visit to the Acropolis in 1904.10 The experience of the capital of Athenian antiquity was both revelation and challenge for Freud. Indeed, he acknowledges he waited until age 44 to make the trip, perhaps precisely because he understood at some level what difficulties would be involved. What Freud experienced on the Acropolis was not the tourist’s expected pleasure. Rather, it was a painful and wrenching split consciousness. He describes his reaction as divided into almost that of two different people. In his words, ‘‘The first behaved as though he were obliged . . . to believe in something the reality of which had hitherto seemed doubtful.’’ Upon further consideration, this first subject position is attributed by Freud to his early years, particularly learning in school about Athens and classical antiquity. As he says, ‘‘I do not simply recollect that in my early years I had doubted whether I myself would ever see the Acropolis, but I asserted that at the time I had disbelieved in the reality of the Acropolis itself.’’11 This subject position, then, embodies a conflict between present and past. It is based, as we learn later in more detail, on a pre-rational conflict in Freud’s particular upbringing. The second person in Freud, on the other hand, took the present sight on its own terms, and wanted to react more conventionally to it. This subject position, says Freud, ‘‘was justifiably astonished, because he had been unaware that the real existence of Athens, the Acropolis, and the landscape around it had ever been objects of doubt. What he had been expecting was rather some expression of delight or admiration.’’12 The actuality of the Acropolis, then, was a challenge to both subject positions, but in different ways. The place itself, from the viewer’s standpoint, floats between these two modes of apprehending it. Strangely enough, this very bifurcation in perception of reality corresponds interestingly and, I think, somehow profoundly to the fundamental structure of a premier study of photographic apprehension: Roland Barthes’s Camera Lucida (1981). Barthes sees photographs within a similarly doubled kind of apprehension: between what he terms studium and punctum. The studium, for Barthes, is the realm of the photograph as informant and tool of socialization. It is, in his words, ‘‘a kind of education,’’ in which one derives from an image fundamental visual and narrative information.13 For Barthes, the studium works also to ‘‘reconcile the

188 Frederick N. Bohrer photograph with society.’’ Freud’s second self, which simply took in as it saw ‘‘Athens, the Acropolis, and the landscape around it’’ (note the photographic descriptiveness of Freud’s language), clearly corresponds to the mode of apprehension embodied in the studium. Its only disappointment was the highly socialized one that a conventional delight was not registered at the time. Freud’s second self viewed the Acropolis within received opinion, and indeed wanted to take the occasion of the visit as an opportunity to reinforce its place within social and cultural norms, by means of ‘‘some expression of delight or admiration.’’ However, just as Freud’s second self was not alone or in control of the view of the Acropolis, for Barthes, the studium does not always control apprehension of photographs. Rather, there is also often present within a photograph a destabilized and destabilizing feature named by Barthes the punctum. The reading of the punctum is ‘‘brief and active.’’ Yet while ‘‘lightning-like . . . the punctum has, more or less potentially, a power of expansion,’’ it does not apply to a conventional code of signification, but rather works actively against a reading according to a dominant code. ‘‘The punctum,’’ Barthes elaborates, ‘‘is a kind of subtle beyond – as if the image launched desire beyond what it permits us to see.’’14 Surely this is the same kind of transaction of vision and desire as that involved in Freud’s initial response to the Acropolis. If Freud’s second self responded more or less conventionally to what was seen, his first self (in Barthes’s words) ‘‘launched desire beyond’’ (beneath, in this case) what was there to be seen. Freud’s response, further, was directed against what could be called, quite literally, the studium of his gymnasium days. It seems clear for Barthes that the punctum can be a sort of rebuke to the studium, insofar as the putative rational universality of the studium is disrupted by the private, personal, and distinctly pre-rational tendency of the punctum. More could be made of this conjuncture in visual response between Freud and Barthes. But I hope this is enough for the one basic point I want to make here, one complementary to my analysis above. Whereas above we noted how photography could be seen as a kind of archaeology, here, considering the beholder’s share, archaeology functions as a kind of photography. This is to say, first of all, that our visual response to archaeology itself involves a fixing of meaning with notable similarities to the basic rules of reception embodied for Barthes in photography. Archaeology, that is, may just be a paradigm of the challenge of decoding that reigns in photography. The sheer material reality of the object of

Photography and Archaeology 189 archaeology is the perfect theater for enactment of what, in Barthes’s terms, is photography’s ‘‘reality effect.’’ Second, this at least suggests that the archaeologist as viewer negotiates a similar array of subject positions as the pairings of Freud and Barthes. Much as the scientific literature of archaeology bears the mark of the position of rational disinterest associated with the studium, a notable portion of the literature of Middle Eastern archaeology, from Austen Henry Layard’s archaeological best-sellers of the mid-nineteenth century at least to those of Leonard Woolley in the 1920s and 1930s, are often narrated by the archaeologist as interested viewer. This presents a personal standpoint that seems hardly different in kind from that of Freud, and quite as likely to have an idiosyncratic, inner psychological import. Certainly in Layard’s case the figure of the archaeologist narrated in the pages of Nineveh and Its Remains bears specific marks of a highly personalized complex of interest and desire.15 Moreover, much as photography did (and does) serve in Ancient Near Eastern archaeology as the positivistic archive of information we have seen envisioned by its founders, its first actual use on an excavation is not at all confinable to a normative studium. The calotypes made by Gabriel Tranchand at the French excavations at Khorsabad in the 1860s do not serve only, or even mainly, to document the excavations themselves.16 Indeed, Tranchand’s many photographs of the most notable achievement of that project, excavation of an intact arched gateway flanked by two ancient Assyrian lamassu, or winged bulls, rarely display the stages of the excavation by itself. Rather, this excavation space is treated almost as the backdrop of a stage, before which stand members of the excavation party, in various groupings. In one photograph, figures identifiable with the two French leaders of the excavation, Victor Place and Fe´lix Thomas, even appear in positions of privilege corresponding to those of the winged colossi. Tranchand’s photographs are of a slightly different genre than those of Salzmann or Teynard, but a similar conclusion could be reached about them. Again, they disrupt the disinterested presentation of historical, narrative information on the excavation for the sake of a more particular contemporary interest. Instead, they are as much about process as product, as much about the diggers as things dug. The invention of photography coincides with the cultural development described by Alain Schnapp as ‘‘the invention of archaeology.’’17 As we view antiquities we view history itself, across the gulf of experience and

190 Frederick N. Bohrer agency enabled by photography. The history thus constructed and circulated through archaeology and photography plays out in many ways a form of experience characteristic of modernity. Seen as grounds for experiencing the past, this offers a way to examine, concretely and in detail, the very centrality of the archaeological metaphor with which we have begun. In particular, it brings to mind the words of Michel Foucault, for whom archaeology was both a central concept and a peripheral activity. As he wrote in The Archaeology of Knowledge: There was a time when archaeology, as a discipline devoted to silent monuments, inert traces, objects without contexts, and things left by the past, aspired to the condition of history, and attained meaning only through the restitution of a historical discourse; it might be said, to play on words a little, that in our time history aspires to the condition of archaeology, to the intrinsic description of the monument.18

From the standpoint of this essay, Foucault’s ‘‘condition of archaeology’’ can be seen not just as the product of a play on words, but rather a specific phenomenon which is also (even as part of its specificity) an overarching metaphor. As such, it, and even Foucault’s suggestive conception, might be probed and questioned anew. Indeed, a range of questions can be generated in the negotiations between public and private, interest and disinterest, past and present, inherent in the marriage of archaeology and photography.

Notes 1

Quoted in Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1990), p. 1. 2 Visualize: Art for Everyday Living, Holiday 2000 catalog, p. 55. 3 Donald Kuspit, ‘‘A Mighty Metaphor: The Analogy of Archaeology and Psychoanalysis,’’ in Sigmund Freud and Art: His Personal Collection of Antiquities (Binghamton: State University of New York Press, 1989), pp. 132–51. 4 Auguste Salzmann, Jerusalem (1856), quoted in Fe´lix de Saulcy (1807–1880) et la Terre Sainte (Paris: Editions de la Re´union des Muse´es Nationaux, 1982), p. 118. Cf. Abigail Solomon-Godeau, ‘‘A Photographer in Jerusalem, 1855: Auguste Salzmann and His Times,’’ in Photography at the Dock: Essays on

Photography and Archaeology 191

5

6 7

8 9

10

11 12 13 14 15

16

17 18

Photographic History, Institutions, and Practices (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991), pp. 150–68. Michael Shanks, ‘‘Photography and Archaeology,’’ in B. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images: Visual Representation in Archaeology (London: Routledge, 1997), p. 80. Dominique Franc¸ois Arago, ‘‘Report’’ (1839), in A. Trachtenberg, ed., Classic Essays on Photography (New Haven, CT: Leete’s Island Books), p. 17. Frederick N. Bohrer, Orientalism and Visual Culture: Imagining Mesopotamia in Nineteenth-Century Europe (New York and London: Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. 127. A. [Bernard Bothmer], ‘‘Musings of an A.R.C.E. Fellow at Work in Cairo,’’ Newsletter of the American Research Center in Egypt, 74 (July, 1970), p. 19. Fe´lix Teynard, Egypte et Nubie (Paris, 1858), pp. 3–4, reprinted in Fe´lix Teynard, Calotypes of Egypt: A Catalogue Raisonne´ (New York: Hans P. Kraus, Jr., 1992). Sigmund Freud, ‘‘A Disturbance of Memory on the Acropolis,’’ in The Standard Edition of the Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, ed. J. Strachey, 24 vols., vol. 22 (London: Hogarth Press, 1953–74), pp. 239–48. Ibid., pp. 241, 244. Ibid., p. 241. Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill & Wang, 1981), p. 28. Ibid., pp., 49, 45, 59. See Frederick N. Bohrer, Orientalism and Visual Culture: Imagining Mesopotamia in Nineteenth-Century Europe (New York and London: Cambridge University Press, 2003), especially chapters 4 and 5. Reproduced in Nicole Chevalier and Bertrand Lave´drine, ‘‘De´buts de la photographie et fouilles en Assyrie: les calotypes de Gabriel Tranchand,’’ in E. Fontan, ed., with N. Chevalier, De Khorsabad a´ Paris: La de´couverte des Assyriens (Paris: Editions de la Re´union des Muse´es Nationaux, 1994), pp. 196–213. See especially figure 2. Alain Schnapp, The Discovery of the Past (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1997), pp. 275–6. Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge (New York: Pantheon Books, 1972), p. 7.

10

Wearing Juninho’s Shirt: Record and Negotiation in Excavation Photographs Jonathan Bateman Archaeology has an intimate, almost loving, relationship with photography. It has accompanied the discipline throughout the twentieth century, becoming a tool that underpins our notion of the objectivity of the recording process. The technological nature of photography has endeared it to archaeology’s scientific aims – offering a perceived bedrock of objectivity to a discipline that has become consciously worried by the subjectivity of its endeavor.

Photographies in Practice Photography is an essential part of archaeological practice. It has become intricately linked to the processes of excavation and recording that help define what archaeology is. Photography is also deeply embedded within our everyday lives, playing a crucial role in our interactions and relationships with family, friends, and colleagues. These two understandings of photography are not exclusive to each other. Within archaeology, photography is one of the critical elements of the knowledge production practices of the discipline, helping to create shared remembrances and understandings of archaeological material. These are the formal photographs

Record and Negotiation in Excavation Photographs 193 produced as part of the excavation process. In a social context, photography can be seen to act in a similar way, helping to negotiate and establish social understandings through the creation and reiteration of shared memories. These are the snapshots of friends and colleagues, and of the excavation, taken as remembrances of people, events, and places. During a project to write an ethnography of archaeology through a photographic interaction with an excavation, I saw the relationships between these understandings of photography underlined by one particular event. The event saw my roles as participant, observer, and photographer intertwined within the social relationships of the excavation. It represented an event of enforced, yet welcome, reflexivity, illuminating both my role as an ethnographic observer and the role that photography has in structuring and negotiating social relationships. The project concerned was the Gardoms Edge Project (an excavation and survey project run by the Peak District National Park and the Archaeology Department at the University of Sheffield, UK), which brought together a wide range of participants, including professional archaeologists from both academic and non-academic backgrounds, both experienced and inexperienced students, and amateur volunteers. My role within the project was as a photographer and an observer, aiming to create understandings of archaeological practice and help the project’s participants come to understandings of the process of which they were a part. Photography became my tool in this project, as well as often being the subject of it. In summer field projects such as this, which witness a complex social and professional milieu, both the archaeological and the social understandings of photography referred to above can be seen in action. Many participants can be seen to produce photographs according to both codes – creating images as part of the official excavation narrative, and as personal narrative of their experiences. Many of my photographs revolved around attempts to utilize participants’ acceptance of these two familiar styles of photography to offer them ways of looking at, or coming to understandings of, the process of archaeology itself, and in particular how they were involved in that process of production.

194 Jonathan Bateman

Technology and Reality Photography taken as part of the excavation process is generally characterized by the absence of the means of production from the image. The formalized photograph of an excavated trench excludes the people who made it and the tools with which it was made. It is presented as an archaeological reality, unhindered by the means and technology of its production. The strict codes of archaeological photography forbid the inclusion of any equipment other than that strictly necessary for scale. This is strikingly reminiscent of Walter Benjamin’s thoughts on the nature of film: ‘‘The equipment-free aspect of reality here has become the height of artifice; the sight of immediate reality has become an orchid in the land of technology.’’1 It is the critical difference between watching the creation of the photograph (or in Benjamin’s case, a film) and seeing the photograph itself. When watching an excavation photograph being taken the social and technological means of its production, the reality of the excavation, crowd the view, surrounding both the photographer and their subject. When looking at the excavation photograph it is clear that a new, equipment-free, aspect of that reality has been created. The distance between the two views is what makes photography so valuable to archaeology, absenting the authors of the archaeology from its presented reality, increasing its objective distance. These aspects of archaeological reality have become one of the strongest visual languages of the discipline.2 This process of creation is deeply embedded within the social and material contexts of the excavation process. The taking of site photographs is part of the regular cycle of excavation work, and the nature of the photography dictates that work stops whilst the photographs are taken. This is nearly always the responsibility of someone toward the upper half of the professional excavation hierarchy. Access to the equipment associated with the photography is similarly restricted – camera bags are passed hand to hand between those authorized to use them. Many of the tools of excavation, such as trowels and drawing equipment, have become fetishized within the social structures of archaeological practice. This is particularly true where they are associated with skilled procedures that are often perceived of in terms of craft and craftsmanship. Photographic equipment also falls into this system. The use of cameras is controlled and restricted to certain excavation participants – leading to the

Record and Negotiation in Excavation Photographs 195 use of cameras being an aspirant goal of others. Restricted access to such tools adds to the mystique which surrounds them. Their technological (and inherently expensive) character, combined with their role as physical reservoirs of excavation record, only serve to increase the regard in which many participants hold photographic equipment and its use. The relationship between the sophistication (and perceived expense) of photographic equipment and those who use it is complex. As Bourdieu has noted, the technological sophistication of the camera has no direct bearing on the photographic intentions of the user – the quality and sophistication of the camera are more closely linked to the social aspirations of those who choose to use it.3 In this case we could analogize this as being more closely related to the professional aspirations of the discipline and its desire to validate the knowledge-creation structures of which photography forms such a crucial part. The use of high-quality, sophisticated photographic equipment is intrinsically linked to the need to associate archaeological practice with objective scientific study. On site affection for, and proprietorial claims over, tools are widespread. Personal toolkits become objects of individual expression. But while photographic equipment is part of this catalog of fetishized tools with which archaeologists establish and demonstrate professional identities, it is also set above this confusion of material culture owing to its critical position in the creation of an authentic archaeological record. So formal excavation photographs are explicitly images of record, but they have been produced through a complex of socially mediated actions. The images, their creation, and their associated material culture form an important part of the physical vocabulary through which participants negotiate the social milieu of an archaeological site. However, many people bring cameras to the site. Many people take photographs that do not form part of an official archaeological record. These photographs, and this photography, are of a very different character and actively involve far more people. This is photography at an explicitly social level. It involves a greater element of personal record, but it is the action of taking the photograph, the process of the photography itself, that has a greater influence than the images produced. The social negotiations revolving around people’s inclusion in, or exclusion from, a photograph have immediate effects upon the intra-relations of the site. In this way the action of photography is as, if not more, important than the snapshots of friends and colleagues that result. The later curation of these images – whether disregarded at the bottom of a drawer, taped to the

196 Jonathan Bateman fridge door for visitors to see, or lovingly ordered in albums – becomes less important than who the camera was pointed at, who it was pointed by, and who witnessed the inclusion or exclusion of people from others’ photographic memories.

A Photographic Ethnography Returning to the ethnography of archaeology which was the aim of this project – can we use the relationship between these two distinct photographic codes to further this project? Can the space between the codes and the common themes they share help in providing understandings of archaeology as a social product, involving and embodying those who create it? Can it offer other ways of telling stories of excavation? What became apparent during my work at Gardoms Edge was that the action of photography, and the social role of the photographer, were crucial elements in opening up this potentially elucidating space. Photography can be an intimate social activity. I found that working as an archaeologist on the site helped my acceptance as a photographer. This embracing of the participant observer role was essential, as the subjects of the photography were also its target audience. As part of a reflexive archaeological project, it required a distinctly self-reflexive methodology to maintain the delicate balance between illuminating and explaining practice. In my photographic methodology I was consciously intertwining the two accepted photographic codes of the site. I was using the formal arrangements of the excavation photograph to ‘‘record’’ archaeological practices and practitioners themselves, and subverting my socially recognized role as ‘‘photographer’’ by creating ‘‘snapshots,’’ casual images, of archaeological material and archaeological creation. The practice of archaeology is traditionally so delineated on site that explicitly bridging the gap between the two codes had a positive, possibly liberating, effect. Taking photographs of subjects that weren’t immediately perceived as suitable subjects for record brought about immediate and thoughtful engagement with the people around. By using both codes of photography I was ‘‘allowed’’ to break the rules of both codes. And by creating subjects of everything I was absolved from one of the traditional regulations of social photography, as identified by Bourdieu, that ‘‘nothing may be photographed apart from that which must be photographed.’’4 The

Record and Negotiation in Excavation Photographs 197 actions of photography were an active engagement with the population of the excavation, of which I was part, requiring the passive collusion of that population for the relationship to prosper. It is interesting to see this relationship more explicitly used in David Webb’s photographs of archaeologists, part of a quite considerable undertaking called the Diggers Project.5 This is a mass of portraits of archaeologists, presented on the internet, which seem to represent a direct social negotiation with the subject. Their distinctive portrait format leaves the viewer in no doubt that the subjects colluded in the photography, and that the poses were performed in a knowing manner, often seemingly in parody of the workers’ portrait, with the proudly displayed tools – which was a staple of archaeological photography in the discipline’s early use of the medium. But whilst these images are explicit social negotiations, they still feed from the archaeological tradition of record. The repeated ordering of the images in their online context appears as a typology of diggers, and the square-on alignment of the portraits emphasizes this character of record – apparently using these recognized codes of the archaeological visual language to offer an immediate way of entering, or reading the image.

Wearing Juninho’s Shirt It is the complex and personal relationship between photographer and subject that is at the heart of the event referred to in the title of this chapter. The event was the bringing to the excavation site of the shirt that had been worn by Juninho (the Brazilian international footballer) during a famous match between his then team Middlesborough, and Chesterfield, a much lowlier team and the ‘‘local’’ team to Gardoms Edge. To put this in the context of the excavation, many of those involved in the project lived in Sheffield, where football is of significant importance. In the season in which the match took place Juninho had won the hearts and minds of large numbers of football fans throughout the country, as well as winning numerous awards. He represented the epitome of football exotica. In contrast, the relationship that brought the shirt to the site was both prosaic and intimate. A young volunteer from Chesterfield was an avid Middlesborough fan, and her cousin, who played for Chesterfield, had presented her with the shirt he had exchanged with Juninho after the match at Hillsborough in Sheffield. On the insistence of a number of those working on site, she brought the unwashed garment to be examined.

198 Jonathan Bateman What the event became, a formal group portrait (see Figure 10.1), exemplified the duality of record and negotiation that characterizes archaeological photography. While explicitly an image of record, the implicit social negotiations involved in its production were illuminated by that recording process and the arrangement of the photograph itself. It became reminiscent of events recounted by Pierre Bourdieu and John Berger when discussing formal portraiture in rural societies, the marking of a rite of passage through a formal shared remembrance.6 As a photographer I was enlisted to record the event for posterity. I had cameras, and while they had not been set aside for official recording, they were still of high enough sophistication to be trusted with making a public record of the event. My negotiated position of recorder (and the practical limitations of the shutter timer) meant that I had a privileged position in the final frame, sitting within a network of obligations – both subject and author of the image. The event – the shared experience of an exotic and fetishized piece of footballing material culture – became a key allowing the usually unspoken, silent, social relationships of the excavation to be voiced and acted out. The shirt’s cultural value bore little relationship to its perceived social importance among those present. It was an object revered by some and an object of curiosity for others, but for many it simply represented the opportunity to be active in a familiar and enjoyable social process. Here the role of photographer explicitly bridged the gap between record and negotiation. It made clear that the position I was in, while independent of the formal illustrative codes of the excavation, was tightly bound in the social complexities of that excavation. And, correspondingly, the photograph that resulted is an image firmly rooted within that social network. The event allowed a degree of reflexivity to be expressed in my actions. The taking of a formal group photograph, but one instigated from outside the socio-professional network of the excavation, temporarily replaced the predominant photographic paradigm of the excavation with another mode of photographic negotiation. The recording of social events and relationships replaced the recording of archaeological events and relationships. In this transition my negotiated position, as one both within and without the excavation process, was both preserved and reinforced while simultaneously being made explicit. Social photographs are events; they reflect the complex negotiations that precede them and they influence and affect ongoing social dialogues

Figure 10.1

Group portrait of participants in the Gardoms Edge Project, with Juninho’s shirt, 1997 (Jonathan Bateman)

200 Jonathan Bateman between participants for long periods afterwards. Similarly, excavation photographs represent the culmination of a complex series of negotiations between individuals, the archaeology they seek to create, and the social and physical landscape in which they reside. These images, too, go on to influence and affect those relationships and negotiations for an indefinite period of time. The instantaneous act of photography itself is of critical importance in these ongoing understandings of the moment recorded, as it is the social act, the instance of capture, that is remembered by those present and perpetuated by the image that results. This is Berger’s concept of photographs that ‘‘quote from reality.’’7 For those involved, the group photograph quotes ‘‘at length’’ from the reality of the excavation. A large amount of information is presented in the appearance of the photograph to those who know the people in the image or know the event which it records. These people understand the event’s development (of which the image is an arrested moment) – they understand what might have gone before and what might have gone after. The image only quotes briefly to those who have no knowledge of the subject of the image – without insider knowledge, the meaning of the arrested moment is too ambiguous to create understandings of what went before and after.

Entwined Representations The photographs resulting from this project aim to quote at length from the reality of the excavation (see Figure 10.2). Through entwining familiar codes of photographic representation (the formal archaeological photograph and the informal snapshot), they offer the viewer a chance to extend the events represented beyond themselves – in Berger’s terms, ‘‘implicating other events’’ – allowing new ideas to be born out of the representation of the first.8 The switching of subjects and styles, and the gentle subversion of accepted and recognized forms of representation, offer up the full spectrum of the material and social elements of excavation for critique. Simple reversal of subject offers the social and material aspects of archaeological production recorded through the conventional codes of representation. Reusing accepted forms of photography gave the photographs the potential to quote at length from the reality of excavation, offering new meanings and readings of the subject.

Record and Negotiation in Excavation Photographs 201

Figure 10.2 Composite photograph, Gardoms Edge Project, 1996, 1997 (Jonathan Bateman)

202 Jonathan Bateman The aim of my photographic project had been to illustrate the material of archaeology, the site, and the landscape, in ways that reflected the archaeological negotiation with it – movements through and over it, the social landscapes created on it. It was an attempt to present ‘‘the site’’ not as an objectified resource, from which archaeology was extracted, but a complex arena through which archaeology was created. I had worried that such a self-reflexive exercise would have little to anchor it with those not already skilled in reading the codified, crafted, visual products of archaeology. The audience for the images was originally conceived of as those within or on the edge of archaeology, familiar with the visual cues I was using. The population of the site was a mix of academic, professional, amateur, and novice archaeologists – all with a declared interest in the subject. Presenting work beyond this group, however, elicited engaging and understanding responses. It was clear that, in Berger’s terms, the photographs could quote at length to those not familiar with the images’ subjects.

Illuminating Practice By taking existing, recognized forms of photographic representation, and entwining, confusing, and subverting them, blurring the accepted subject boundaries, it is possible to create alternative narratives of the archaeological process. The photographs quote from the visual language of archaeology. This language is simplified, illuminating and revealing the practice. If these ways of understanding archaeological production and the storytelling of excavation can be embedded in the formal archaeological product, then it can begin to inform the archaeological narrative. In becoming both a record of and a negotiation with the archaeological process, this photographic project offered a reflexive tool for understanding that process. It was the intervention of a football shirt that allowed this photographic storytelling to become reflexively informed.

Notes 1

W. Benjamin, ‘‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,’’ in H. Arendt, ed., Illuminations (London: Jonathan Cape, 1970), pp. 219–53, originally published in Zeitschrift fu¨r Sozialforschung, 5:1 (1936), p. 235.

Record and Negotiation in Excavation Photographs 203 2 See also J. Bateman, ‘‘Immediate Realities: An Anthropology of Computer Visualisation in Archaeology,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue8/bateman_index.html 3 P. Bourdieu, Photography: A Middle-Brow Art, trans. S. Whiteside (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1990, first published in French, 1965). 4 Ibid., p. 24. 5 David Webb’s Diggers Project is an ongoing web-based project recording the people involved in a number of archaeological excavations and projects. See http://www.archdiggers.co.uk/diggers, accessed July 3, 2003. 6 See Bourdieu, Photography, and J. Berger, ‘‘Appearances,’’ in J. Berger and J. Mohr, Another Way of Telling (Cambridge: Granta, 1989), pp. 81–129. 7 Berger, ‘‘Appearances.’’ 8 Ibid., p. 121.

11

Video Killed Engaging VR? Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen Graeme P. Earl The construction of computer graphic models based on archaeological data has a considerable history and has been the focus of increasing debates. Alternately derided and lauded, it remains an area of archaeological research dominated by a ‘‘coterie of technophiles’’.1 It is perhaps in this perceived segregation of computing practice from archaeological research that the root of this chapter is to be found – the production and incorporation of three-dimensional computer models into television documentaries. The chapter is founded on a personal interest in this area, extending into the production of computer graphics for documentary series, consultation on a number of production projects, and a number of years teaching the technologies commonly used in broadcast animation. The roots of archaeological computer modeling practice are diverse and bear close inspection, in particular in terms of the ways in which the visual metaphors, styles, and technologies used represent and encourage the envisioning of the past. Concentration on popular television presentations may provide an insight into one of the most accessible aspects of archaeology’s representation by others and of itself. Computer models broadcast on television, and increasingly supplemented on linked websites, tend to fall into one of three categories. First, commissioned work, which for programs with larger budgets tends

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 205 to be dominated by the work of computer scientists and professional animators. The bulk of the second category comprises the broadcasting of existing work – produced for museums and other purposes. These were and are contracted to multimedia companies in many instances, produced in-house or by specialist consultancies. Finally, some programs incorporate research models produced by or for archaeologists. The former tend to be of lower quality, in broadcast terms, and the latter are dominated by computer science – archaeology collaborations of which the Insite project at Bristol offers one example.2 In addition to specific research projects, such computing/archaeological collaborative work has as one root the consensual exploitation of archaeological data by graphics corporations, with archaeology offering an exciting and mysterious range of topics: experts with sufficient data to provide a hook for reconstruction, coupled with sufficient perceived vagary to promote visual extrapolations testing an unfolding range of technologies. The archaeological computing literature includes long-standing arguments that such early computer-based reconstructions of ancient remains were ‘‘little more than an archaeological flirtation with an exotic technology in search of a new application, and resulted in mere intellectual curiosities.’’3 Models of sites such as Stonehenge were defined as stylized and of little use to researchers.4 Such a critique continues to remain in place today.5 These critiques do not represent the entire impact of such collaborative or even computing-led projects where diverse inputs and motivations have prompted innovative research approaches. Similarly, the interaction between the documentary maker and the computer modeler has been varied, at times confrontational, and frequently stimulating. As Miller and Richards noted in 1995: ‘‘[To] date the catalyst for visualization in archaeology has not been the search for improved techniques for discovering new knowledge but rather for improved techniques for presenting existing knowledge to the public.’’6 The documentary maker is therefore not alone in identifying the visual potential of archaeological practice, and such appropriations of the past are not confined to the documentary visual or indeed to the documentary itself. The filmmaker John Sayles describes the past as ‘‘a story bin to be plundered, and depending on who you are and what your agenda is, it’s either useful or not.’’7 Indeed, the same modes of appropriation and negotiation can be seen in the systems of patronage and technology working in the incorporation of archaeological elements in cinema8 and in journalistic treatments of archaeological data.9

206 Graeme P. Earl The first means by which three-dimensional visuals are produced and reach our screens – the commissioned, one-off animation – has received comparatively little attention in the literature of archaeology and, indeed, more widely. In contrast, reconstruction for research purposes and for museums forms an element of a growing literature both within archaeological computing and implicated by debates in museology, including a diverse selection of papers in Internet Archaeology10 and the proceedings of the Computer Applications in Archaeology conference.11 This bias in the literature toward research applications of Computer Graphic Imagery (CGI) technologies may be attributed in part to a sometimes offhand attitude to the commissioned documentary per se. In a recent conversation with one documentary researcher it was noted that the archaeologists being represented by the programs commonly gave the impression of not caring at all what the television showed, and instead preferred their preconceptions of media hyperbole. This appreciation of the relationship between filmmaker and subject echoes the wider attitude toward popular or popularized archaeology that is criticized, despite encouraging debate amongst the now clearly defined non-professionals. As we have seen in recent years the public is not ‘‘the public,’’ just as the media are not ‘‘the media’’ and the opposition to the popular by an empowered establishment has been foregrounded.12 However, production of imagery continues to be described as a populist endeavor – the definition of fripperies overlying reasoned exegeses. C. Finn, in discussing the need for inspiration and dynamism in presentations of archaeological practice, a problem at the heart of much archaeological graphics writing, concludes that ‘‘[t]he caveat is, however, that bells, whistles and computer animation do not a good story make.’’13 Financial and publicity implications have reduced the stigma of a popularized academia, but to become involved in popular media continues to be problematic. Personal experience and discussions with others in the specific area of archaeological CGI confirm the atmosphere of academic distrust, emphasized more generally in the literature.14 Unfortunately such a situation runs against the considerable need for an active dialogue between commissioners, documentary practitioners, and archaeologists: those attempting to approach popular reconstructions from an archaeological perspective. This statement clearly begs the question: What is an archaeological perspective for televisual archaeology, and specifically, how might one fit informed computer modeling practice within the context of a documentary program? A growing corpus of academic work

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 207 considers the power of the visual image15 and the dynamics of commissioning but, when faced with a television director with specified visual requirements, how should the computer modeler respond? Increasingly, production companies devolve their graphics work. In some cases, an animation project might be commissioned and completed within a matter of days, incorporating no direct and little spoken contact between the parties involved. This dislocation between the compositors of television product and those creating the underlying elements is paralleled in that between the various subcontractors, of which the graphics consultant and the archaeologist or museum specialist are examples. In this reality few archaeological projects have the resources and expertise to hand to produce the reconstructions required by production companies, at least within the time constraints of television. A significant consequence of this tightly constrained production schedule is the lack of opportunity for research. To refer to the archaeological computing literature, critiques of CGI practice have emphasized the contingency of models on their production context. Traditionally this concentrates on authenticity and the relationship between data and image. A more interesting phrasing would emphasize the personal involvement with archaeological data as represented, the wider stylistic and theorized context within which computer models are created and are consumed, and the focusing of strategies and goals for specific presentational requirements. However, as Hywel Davies has commented, the realities of the television format do not mesh well with a need for extended self-reflexivity.16 The broadcaster understandably expects to commission, edit, and present rather than to allow for a reciprocal process that could entail months of research. To return to discussions with those commissioning television work, the perception behind the involvement of specialists is one in which learning is completed rather than ongoing. A graphic artist is commissioned to complete a task and that specialist is assumed to have invested time in technological development – he or she is proficient: can produce models of the required standard. If the production of archaeologically derived visuals is viewed to be a process rather than an action, then archaeologists may be seen to hold the necessary skills but also the desire to research and explore the context of their work. Similarly, if such reconstruction critiques should form only one aspect of a wider multivocal process – communication between excavator and illustrator, mediated by archaeological data in context – the impact of the commissioning structure seems significant. In considering television CGI it is therefore not sufficient to

208 Graeme P. Earl consider the content alone but also the specifics of its genesis. Wider possibilities for research-oriented approaches to modeling are possible in the limited examples where the use of complex visual imagery forms a key element of the narrative. Still, to date, the documentary considering in depth what it is to reconstruct and interpret graphically, whether via computer or paintbrush, remains unmade. Echoing Hargreaves’s discussion of the scientific documentary presentation,17 this touches on the very real issue of demand: Why is it that the documentary deconstructing the reconstruction process does not exist? Because no one wants to see it. In many cases graphics will be commissioned to fill predetermined parts of a program. This can define the length and style of animations produced, in addition to the starting and ending focus and any composites with other footage. Since reconstructions are not broadcast in isolation they must rather fit into the documentary form. Alternatively, for documentaries including small elements of computer graphics there is no need to define their interaction at an early stage and, as such, the modeling phase may be effectively divorced from the planning and production phases of the documentary. A design specification is likely to be precise, and will not allow for the broad-ranging explorations characterizing research reconstruction work. As James comments, a single documentary or segment is likely to form part of a wider, preconceived series.18 This will in many cases have an allocated broadcast slot defining its tone, structure, visuals, style, and a highly specific anticipation of viewer profile. However, the impact of this reality must at least in part owe something to archaeologists’ dialogues with those commissioning the work. Currently, and again drawing upon conversations with media professionals, the archaeologist who animates tacitly offers an additional academic credibility to the work produced. In an arena increasingly publicly critical of the extrapolations of documentary programming, a reconstruction produced by an archaeologist is of value. If in fact the visuals produced bear little relationship to the reality, then the archaeologist must of course accept this responsibility, realizing their role in the program as a whole. To return to Hargreaves and, specifically, a discussion of the British Medical Journal’s criticisms of media representation, ‘‘[t]he danger of the BMJ’s approach is not that it is too harsh on the press and television, but that it involves a certain blindness towards the medical profession’s own shortcomings in the area of communication.’’19 Returning to our own field, not only must archaeology better represent itself but must also play an active role in its representation in concert with and by others. If, as one researcher indicated to me, the

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 209 perception remains that an archaeological computer model will be ‘‘easy to produce because there is almost nothing left,’’ then the archaeological community should take responsibility for this view. One answer postulated to issues of documentary content and focus is autonomous production of programming, or program elements. Given the financial resources, archaeological consultancies could compete with their dedicated graphics media counterparts. If successful, the corollary of the heightened profile of archaeologists offering such a predictable, professional service might be that such consultancies would be considered early in documentary planning stages. However, one might question the value of such a specialization and ask at what point the archaeological computing specialist would become the multimedia designer, tied in to the same financial and temporal constraints. More generally, archaeologists may gain control of the documentary approach by producing their own work, and a number of examples demonstrate the validity of this.20 Still, in the context of a technologically constrained discipline such as CGI the success of personally orchestrated projects rests more on the context of image consumption – what it is that the viewer expects – than on the will of archaeological specialists to become involved. Illustrators and computer animators dealing with the past have a complex task: to maintain the academic basis in practice and to satisfy the needs of the documentary maker at the same time. Directors require photorealistic, animated visuals that combine effectively, if not seamlessly, with program structure and emphasis, with the specifics of shooting style and composition, whilst presenting the ideas and information contained in the program in an accessible way.21 The context of their consumption is one dominated by high-technology visuals. Our desktop computers today use the software developed for film graphics perhaps only two years previously, making the proliferation of these images rapid and uncomplicated, increasing their ubiquity. Just as James describes the context of slavery as a factor in the promulgation of the galley slave myth,22 so the technological slant of modern programming encourages the myth of a scientific answer to archaeological questions, and encourages explicitly technical products. In fact, Wyke defines the historical documentary explicitly as providing ‘‘an excellent insight into contemporary culture, more so than many other art forms.’’23 Such complex requirements in terms of program graphics may be subdivided and addressed in the light of more general critiques. Technically, the graphics community is on the cusp of producing totally

210 Graeme P. Earl constructed photographic reality. Although, as Gillings has said, archaeological animators are chasing the technology tail (this volume), this tail is now becoming shorter and shorter, at least in the case of the un-interactive models incorporated by television. The CGI animator aiming to present a past world, believable in a perceptual sense, concentrates on the simulation of reality.24 A documentary model frequently forms the bridge between a reality of consumption (the television set in the modern sitting room) and the projections of this reality onto the past. By seeming real it encourages engagement using understood, innate ways of modeling the real world. Each new development in CGI technology has allowed additional degrees of complexity, perceptual stimulus, and interactivity to be explored. One need only compare the Winchester and other solid modeling techniques of the late 1980s25 to the parallel processed results of more recent photorealistic projects26 to gain an impression of the vast improvements seen in only a few years. The significance of this fidelity has been challenged on two fronts within archaeological computing, both impacting on the incorporation of models into documentary formats. First, perception of modeled environments as realistic, and hence as stimulators of natural perceptual responses in the viewers, is challenged. Secondly, identification of the computer image as a graphical technique better able to deceive than any other. Not only do scenes appear real but the physical properties underlying their construction are in many respects identical to those in operation in our perceived world.27 This presents difficulties for a discipline at pains to present its uncertainty. Such uncertainty is an archaeological currency. Given the impact of visual presentation on archaeology, the processes through which extrapolation from theoretically circumscribed knowns and unknowns to visual models occurs are significant. In the computing literature the value (in terms of visual appreciation) of a reconstruction has been taken to be inversely proportional to the perceived quality of evidence, as was the integrity of any reconstruction. Ryan noted that ‘‘we now have the problem that for some purposes our images may be too realistic.’’28 Such an emphasis on realism has been at the core of debates in computational archaeology, with a division between those emphasizing the burden of disproof and transparency, and those keen to exercise every possible graphical deceit in order better to present internal and collaborative reproductions of past spaces and times. Such arguments are not restricted to the visual content of documentaries, with Piccini noting that ‘‘[a]ll film

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 211 is film; Indiana Jones and National Geographic documentaries are all products of various selective and situated gazes. What is problematic is the passing off as truth that which is neither fact nor acknowledged fiction.’’29 Still, critiques of media representations of complex problems are in themselves complex. As Hargreaves states: ‘‘[a]lthough headline writers mostly deal with the appearance of certainty, they know that there is no such thing as a single, indivisible ‘truth’, any more than there is a single ‘media’ or ‘public’. But the communication of uncertainty doesn’t sit easily with three-word, 72-point headlines.’’30 Recording the process by which virtual pasts are constructed has been attempted through a wide range of techniques. However, in the context of a short documentary, with perhaps ninety seconds of CGI, presentation of ambiguity may be confusing. If the page were to be turned now to reveal a simple picture of a site, made from a mesh of lines or a collage of solid objects, perhaps color-coded according to certainty of interpretation, the viewer might accept that what had been attempted was the presentation of one empirical archaeological reality. There is so much one does not know. However, if on switching to an archaeological documentary the same viewer were presented with an interesting, attractive view of a site, would it be critiqued for all its extrapolations? In terms of the sensational past, minor ambiguities surrounding, for example, the location of a column or the roofing material are unlikely to figure. Attempts to demonstrate the subjective construction of such architectural forms are limited by the requirements of the modeling project and are not commonly possible even beyond the clipped documentary format.31 The number of successful implementations of authenticating strategies on a large scale is small and it is perhaps not then surprising that television has been slow to adopt the suggested strategies. Thus, the models seen on television are largely unqualified and presented in an objectifying light – despite years of criticism on these grounds leveled at static reconstructions32 – and the authenticity of models considers only a narrow range of the context of representation. However, a contrasting opinion might be that providing the modeling process is recognized as subjective, any technique which brings the observer into as close contact as possible with the subject, allowing an intuitive link to develop, can be of value. As Uotila and Sartes note in their renderings of medieval Turku, ‘‘there is nothing wrong in giving the audience visual stimulus and letting their imagination work freely afterwards.’’33 Wyke, in discussing the Roman film, suggests that ‘‘[w]hatever the attention paid to

212 Graeme P. Earl accurate reconstruction in an historical film’s surface texture – the antiquarian aesthetic, for example, manifest in set designs . . . – all such films partake of fiction.’’34 Contextualizing reconstruction cannot move toward an objective modeling science, despite the power of visual stimuli to convince, since visualization itself is a subjective phenomenon. It relies on interpretation: contextual cues derived from common experience which is neither guaranteed to be common nor commonly integrated into personal experience. Visualization is resistant to the systematic evaluation and assessment procedures common to science; it still remains difficult to ascertain if a particular instantiation has been ‘‘successful’’ (a term very variable in its application). A measurement of the value of representation of the archaeological realities, contingent upon reconstruction processes bearing a clear relationship to the material, is only one such possible index. An alternative might be the stimulation of any emotional response, coupled with an acceptance that the medium of computer graphics is not best suited in the documentary format for accurate presentation of informed archaeological interpretation. [The] tempting aspect of this cinematic procedure is one of evoking this world not through the fruit of bookish, scholastic documentation, a literal fidelity to the text, but rather in the way an archaeologist reconstructs something alluding to the form of an amphora or a statue from a few potsherds. Our film, through the fragmentary recurrence of its episodes, should restore the image of a vanished world without completing it . . . . What is important . . . is not descriptive precision, historical fidelity . . . but that the characters and their adventures live before our eyes as though caught unawares.35

However much concentration is placed on the need for authenticity of reconstructions, demonstration of underlying evidence, separation of data from different degrees of extrapolation, and so on, this need for beautifully crafted graphics will continue to exist. Conversations suggest that such a view is supported by the expectations of directors themselves. A valuable output is one that is visually stunning. Most recently the question of authenticity has been made more significant by the development of software mimicking artistic processes, such as watercolor filters, or penand-ink trace algorithms. The technology has now become so adept at creating a reality that it may fake, to ever increasing degrees, the extrapo-

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 213 lations from that reality mediated through human action. One may take a Roman street, render it with a particular artistic effect in mind, filter it through a number of processes, and add appropriate noise, blemishes, and underlying background texture, and the result may be extremely realistic: this time as a realistic, unreal artist’s impression – a term itself couching the visual in a specific context. It would only be when encountering the image close up that the regularizing hand of the computer was seen. Carr has defined constructors of reality utilizing such advanced technologies as by definition ‘‘concerned with the stimulations of human perceptual experience to create an impression of something which is not really there.’’36 However, the extent to which perception of a real-looking modeled environment parallels experience in the world has been extensively critiqued. Particularly in this context, the directed passage through space provided by the animation camera is contrasted with the interactive vitality of a virtual world. The prescriptive documentary format does not lend itself easily to interaction – notably even in associated websites. However, leaving the details of the argument aside, it seems clear that an animated encounter with archaeological space can have a profound impact. As Wheatley noted in 1996: ‘‘The disparaging of such techniques as animated walk-through and photorealistic rendering is misguided, and based on an irrational avoidance of aesthetic and personal experience.’’37 One need only to glance at Barthes or at a cinematography text38 to see that the alignment of images in paths and cuts actively promotes engagement – these provide the vistas which prick, grab, or interest the viewer. To follow the film camera through a real or virtual street, to rest just the right number of seconds on a passer-by is to define the blind field in which the characters and places interacted with live, and lived before. The history of the scenes and its futures are made accessible through the motion of the camera. The virtual camera pretending to be the film lens is able to create realities, framed as a moving picture. However, when the virtual documentary camera tries to replicate the human eye it confronts the viewer with the truth of their experience – as the film implies a life outside (that actors walk on from somewhere and off to somewhere else; that places are occupied and used in different ways when the film crew leave), so the virtual world proves that there is no life at all, other than that constructed for the viewer. The computer-generated trackway, then, is an emotional and stimulating path. It is not, however, without its own problems. In Bricken’s words, computers are not only symbol processors, they are ‘‘reality generators’’:39

214 Graeme P. Earl CGI has to be constructed and, through this construction, incorporate meaning, and only then through the reading of its material presence. Following Duncan, applied to virtual cameras: ‘‘A camera is a machine constructed to produce an image based upon artificial perspective. Only if one accepts the claims of the naturalness of Renaissance artificial perspective can we accept photography as a mimetic representation of the world,’’40 and comparing Mumford: ‘‘glass helped put the world in a frame: it made it possible to see certain elements of reality more clearly and it focused attention on a sharply determined field – namely that which was bounded by the frame.’’41 Thus, the definition of animated reconstructions, produced in context and drawing considerably from the experience of film, is made powerful by the familiarity of the medium. An archaeological animation does not require cuts, just as the digital elements of modern cinematography do not require them, simply because there is no need to change the film, and the camera operator never becomes tired. Cubitt applauds the computer’s provision of this continuous narrative,42 but it may be suggested that this is no narrative that we currently understand, providing the imagery is consumed in a way analogous to film. The viewer expects altering perspective, approach, cut, encounter. It is only when the uncut animation is perceived as reality that the continuous narrative changes to one approaching life experience, but a television animation cannot achieve this. Indeed, the efforts of animators preclude a changed appreciation of directed motion by the incorporation of cinematographic deceits such as the long track or adjustments to depth of field, themselves oriented to achieve emotional responses. Perversely, the segmentation of approaches to a modeled past avoids a break in the broader documentary narrative. Narrative flow is key to the functioning of the documentary format. Indeed, a narrative emphasis forms so much a part of archaeological practice, being a means of understanding43 or of conceptualizing and partitioning the past. Comparisons of the storytelling modes and plot, or ‘‘metahistory,’’44 in studies of the past when compared in different media, confirm common themes and methods. These are present as much in documentary filmmaking as in a conventional history and animation can draw from their background. The literature has explored how the artist socially constructs such representations in whatever medium chosen,45 but interestingly, much computer modeling of archaeological sites attempts to strip out every trace of humanity – making the models stand alone and encouraging the

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 215 viewer to enter them alone. It is no longer sufficient to argue that reconstructed spaces are uninhabited as a consequence of the constraints of technology, although this certainly constrained earlier modeling attempts. Despite the use of narrative devices and utilizing the full range of photorealistic imagery, continuing presentation of models as sterile shells suggests that in some cases they are to be consumed as such – a means of visualizing a space rather than of defining a place. In this they fall within the stylistic conventions more commonly associated with the architectural oblique rendering. Such perspectives, in turn, serve to define the archaeological model as a model – something to admire and consume – and as a consequence, the underlying archaeological processes modeled risk being understood in terms of objects in space, as opposed to very real human spaces. These views undoubtedly give a clear impression of layout in cartographic terms, but they distance the viewer from an understanding as gained through archaeological process. One stimulus for these views is that they represent the considerable work of the modeler in an impressive, complete light. But, in addition, they explicitly define methods of understanding. Architectural design theory shows that illustrative styles serve to draw the eye in different directions, to include particular elements and to emphasize features and intersections. Crucially, Ching’s description of the kinds of influences these drafting decisions – transferred to reconstruction models through the architectural background of computer-aided design and animation systems – have are identical to those in similar practical works on photography.46 Given this, it should not then be surprising that a number of architectural theorists, notably Lefebvre, critique the free hand of the architect, suggesting rather that the stylistic metaphors and tools of the architect constrain spatial thought to linear perspective and to other representational modes.47 Entering an occupied personal space or one which has been so personally, explicitly defined as to be rendered private carries with it a different set of perceptual responses – the viewer or explorer becomes the intruder. The sites or monuments visited are not to be touched or changed – they are correlates for the rooms of a stately home, sanitized, artificial, trapped in time, and dissected from a public.48 One might argue that this bears not only on the style of presentation – the model as simulacrum – but also on the sterility of the environments explored and their lack of inhabitants. Not all computed environments are without simulated human occupants, and the most recent and impressive documentaries utilize the

216 Graeme P. Earl human form as much as a demonstration of their ability to do so as for particular effect. Combinations of character animation and live action are increasing, but the ways in which the addition of human bodies leads to an alteration in the structure of animations remain to be seen. If the language surrounding such imagery is considered then the personal will have an increasing part to play. More generally the documentary language, paralleling that seen so prevalently on the web, defines the viewer as a visual time-traveler visiting modeled environments.49 The program, with its attendant visuals, enables the viewers to become eyewitnesses to the past. The reconstruction enterprise is exciting, fascinating, technically demanding, absorbing rather than challenging. Its practitioners apply ‘‘cutting-edge technology’’ through which past worlds may be ‘‘re-created as they were.’’ The scientific basis thus acts to support and objectify the uncertainties and conscious subjectivities of the likely arguments expressed in the course of archaeological debate.50 Archaeology should perhaps remain unsurprised by an optimism on the part of the media toward the sorts of scientific techniques employed, given archaeologists’ espousing of technology’s value: ‘‘As [scientific] progress marches on, we will be able to reconstruct ever larger segments of our most distant past, leading to a more accurate understanding of the macrocosm of the ancient world. The problem for archaeology is to retrieve the maximum possible information from the material culture, so as to recapture its non-material aspects as well.’’51 The media presentation of scientific practice seen in the context of archaeology can incorporate the definition of apparent oppositions between ostensibly ‘‘scientific’’ objective archaeology and artificially mysterious, human, almost ‘‘natural’’ archaeologies. The blurring and complexity of these distinctions is clear to those engaged in archaeological practice, but graphics mediate the bifurcation. The television eyewitness may be presented with interpretation through reconstructions which, with their inherent technological aspect, offer single, scientific access to the whole range of archaeological practice and exemplify Eiteljorg’s double-edged sword.52 The documentary context – for example, a laboratory and a computer screen – sets up oppositions between science and interpretation; modernity and academe. In these terms reconstruction should offer a fantastic mixture and an opportunity for exploring and representing the range of practice but, as James notes in the general context of reconstruction, there is a tension between this and aiding the understanding of information.53 The single-scenario presentation so criticized by those

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 217 interested in authenticated reconstruction finds its most ideal format in the documentary, and these methodologies continue to be advanced as new means for offering a version of the past for public consumption. It is not enough and all too easy to criticize the status quo, particularly since ‘‘crude oversimplification about the media is as damaging as crude oversimplification about science. Examples of such crude argument can be witnessed any day in the British media.’’54 The documentary structure and its commissioning context define practice and are as much a medium with which to engage as a target for attack. In terms of authenticating reconstruction work, the alternatives extrapolated from current archaeological computing debates appear incompatible with documentary requirements. Sparse models would fit poorly in the context of a modern media in which CGI is commonplace: the instinctive reaction to a sparse model is more likely to see it as of poor quality rather than as a demonstration of uncertainty. An alternative would be only to reconstruct what is accepted, through some process of archaeological mediation. However, as suggested above, the unknown frequently adds a vital element to the documentary as a whole. Given the opportunity to generate the visuals identified as so significant in the generation of internalized views of the past, archaeologists must consider and work within the frameworks of the media. Examples such as the ‘‘Negotiating Avebury’’ project demonstrate an interest in presenting the technology behind the visuals.55 Success in this area has been as much a consequence of offering tools as an exciting visual device, as of the intrinsic value of such techniques to the research questions approached and summarized by a number of documentary makers. Still, if archaeology can draw the media into novel approaches and varied views, it may lead on along interesting paths through our virtual pasts. Alternatively, despite the growing technological potential, computer graphics may decrease in relevance. The technologies that were once new will become increasingly difficult to present as such, perhaps in part as a consequence of their ubiquity. Increasingly, documentaries incorporate mixed visuals, using painted and drawn views in response to viewer interest. This reincorporation of the personal may emphasize the need for more fluid and engaging artistic applications of CGI. Archaeology today approaches different pasts with vibrant, living color, but the imagery tends to sanitize, constraining output to simulations of the real. The artist Benjamin Britten makes a rare attempt to introduce variety, having much in common with Barthes’s photographic surprise, and forces an appreciation of the constructed

218 Graeme P. Earl nature of the image as well as offering a novel perspective.56 Immediate, visually compelling variety of this sort should be a natural by-product of modeling practice, and when it is, there is a chance that directors will take notice.

Notes 1

2

3

4

5

6

7 8 9 10

J. Bateman, ‘‘Immediate Realities: An Anthropology of Computer Visualisation in Archaeology,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue8/bateman_toc.html A. Chalmers, S. Stoddart, M. Belcher, and M. Day, ‘‘An Interactive PhotoRealistic Visualisation System for Archaeological Sites,’’ available from http://www.cs.bris.ac.uk/
alan/Arch/INSITE/research/comvis/insite2.htm P. Reilly, ‘‘3d Modelling and Primary Archaeological Data,’’ in P. Reilly and S. Rahtz, eds., Archaeology in the Information Age (London: Routledge, 1992), pp. 147–76. Cf. N. R. Burton, ‘‘Virtual Stonehenge: A Fall from Disgrace,’’ in L. Dingwall, S. Exon, V. Gaffney, S. Laflin, and M. van Leusen, eds., Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology 97 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 1999), p. 265 and CD-ROM. B. Frischer, F. Niccolucci, N. Ryan, and J. A. Barcelo´, From CVR to CVRO: The Past, Present, and Future of Cultural Virtual Reality (2001), available from http://www.cvro.org P. Miller and J. Richards, ‘‘The Good, the Bad, and the Downright Misleading: Archaeological Adoption of Computer Visualisation,’’ in J. Huggett and N. Ryan, eds., Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology 1994 (Oxford: BAR International Series, 1995), pp. 19–22. M. Carnes, Past Imperfect: History According to the Movies (New York: Henry Holt, 1995). M. Wyke, Projecting the Past (London: Routledge, 1997), p. 29. C. Finn, ‘‘Mixed Messages: Archaeology and the Media,’’ Public Archaeology, 1:4 (2001), pp. 261–8. E.g., J. Bateman, ‘‘Immediate Realities: An Anthropology of Computer Visualisation in Archaeology,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue8/bateman_toc.html; V. Cummings, ‘‘The World in a Spin: Representing the Neolithic Landscapes of South Uist,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/ issue8/cummings_toc.html; R. Daniels, ‘‘The Need for the Solid Modelling of Structure in the Archaeology of Building,’’ Internet Archaeology, 2 (1997), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue2/daniels_toc.html;

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 219

11

12

13 14 15

16

M. Edmonds and G. McElearney, ‘‘Inhabitation and Access: Landscape and the Internet at Gardom’s Edge,’’ Internet Archaeology, 6 (1999), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue6/edmonds_toc.html; H. Eiteljorg II, ‘‘The Compelling Computer Image – A Double-edged Sword,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), available from: http://www.intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue8/ Feiteljorg_index.html; M. Gillings and G. T. Goodrick, ‘‘Sensous and Reflexive GIS: Exploring Visualisation and VRML,’’ Internet Archaeology, 1 (1996), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue1/gillings_index.html); J. Huggett and C. Guo-Yuan, ‘‘3D Interpretative Modelling of Archaeological Sites – A Computer Reconstruction of a Medieval Timber and Earthwork Castle,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/ journal/issue8/huggett_toc.html; B. Larkman, ‘‘Debriefing the Land: The Use of Non-immersive Virtual Reality Technologies to Record, Navigate and Analyse Artefact-rich Landscapes,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue8/larkman_toc.html; M. Terras, ‘‘A Virtual Tomb for Kelvingrove – Virtual Reality, Archaeology and Education,’’ Internet Archaeology, 7 (1999), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/ issue7/terras_index.html E.g., L. Krasniewicz, ‘‘Immersive Imaging Technologies for Archaeological Research,’’ in J. Barcelo´, M. Forte, and D. Sanders, eds., Virtual Reality in Archaeology (Oxford: BAR International Series, 2000), pp. 163–9; D. H. Sanders, ‘‘VR for Archaeological Research and Education,’’ in L. Dingwall, S. Exon, V. Gaffney, S. Laflin, and M. van Leusen, eds., Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology 97 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 1999), p. 265 and CD-ROM; S. Hall, ed., Representation: Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices (London: Sage, 1997). I. Hargreaves, Who’s Misunderstanding Whom? An Inquiry into the Relationship Between Science and the Media, Economic and Social Research Council report, July 2000, available from www.esrc.ac.uk C. Finn, ‘‘Mixed Messages: Archaeology and the Media,’’ Public Archaeology, 1:4 (2001), pp. 261–8. A. Piccini, ‘‘Filming through the Mists of Time,’’ Current Anthropology, 37 (1996), pp. 87–111. Notably S. Moser, ‘‘Archaeological Representation: The Visual Conventions for Constructing Knowledge about the Past,’’ in I. Hodder, ed., Archaeological Theory Today (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2001), pp. 262–83; S. Moser and C. Gamble, ‘‘Revolutionary Images: The Iconic Vocabulary for Representing Human Antiquity,’’ in B. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 184–212. Hywel Davies’s commentary in A. Piccini, ‘‘Filming through the Mists of Time,’’ Current Anthropology, 37 (1996), pp. 87–111; Norman provides an interesting commentary from a different archaeological context: B. Norman,

220 Graeme P. Earl

17 18 19 20 21

22 23 24

25

26

‘‘Archaeology and Television,’’ Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 2 (1983), pp. 27–32. Hargreaves, Who’s Misunderstanding Whom? S. James, ‘‘The Roman Galley Slave: Ben-Hur and the Birth of a Factoid,’’ Public Archaeology, 2 (2001), pp. 35–49. Hargreaves, Who’s Misunderstanding Whom? Ruby’s commentary in Piccini, ‘‘Filming through the Mists of Time.’’ As a point of interest Fleming provides a list of ten factors, of which eight should be present for an image to be considered photorealistic. These are: ‘‘clutter and chaos, personality and expectations, believability, surface texture, specularity, dirt dust and rust, flaws scratches and dings, bevelled edges, object material depth and radiosity.’’ In C. L. Ogleby, From Rubble to Virtual Reality: Photogrammetry and the Virtual World of Ancient Ayutthaya, Thailand, available from http://snap.lut.ac.uk/PhotSoc/abs/phroct99/Ogleby.pdf James, ‘‘The Roman Galley Slave.’’ M. Wyke, Projecting the Past (London: Routledge, 1997), p. 12. A complex point, much debated; see, e.g., J. Barcelo´, M. Forte, and D. Sanders, eds., Virtual Reality in Archaeology (Oxford: BAR International Series, 2000); J. Duncan and D. Ley, eds., Place/Culture/Representation (London: Routledge, 1993); M. Gillings and G. T. Goodrick, ‘‘Sensous and Reflexive GIS: Exploring Visualisation and VRML,’’ Internet Archaeology, 1 (1996), available from http:// intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue1/gillings_index.html; M. Gillings, ‘‘Engaging Place: A Framework for the Integration and Realisation of Virtual-reality Approaches in Archaeology,’’ in L. Dingwall, S. Exon, V. Gaffney, S. Laflin, and M. van Leusen, eds., Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology 97 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 1999), pp. 247–54; M. Heim, Virtual Realism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998); M. Heim, The Metaphysics of Virtual Reality (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993). For example, P. Reilly and S. Shennan, ‘‘Applying Solid Modelling and Animated 3D Graphics,’’ in S. P. Q. Rahtz, ed., Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology 1988 (Oxford: Bar International Series, 1989), pp. 265–94; P. Reilly, Recent Advances in Application of Graphics Systems to Archaeology (Winchester: IBM UKSC Report 185, 1988). Barcelo´, Forte, and Sanders, Virtual Reality in Archaeology; A. Chalmers, S. Stoddart, M. Belcher and M. Day, ‘‘An Interactive Photo-Realistic Visualisation System for Archaeological Sites’’, available from http://www. cs.bris.ac.uk/
alan/Arch/INSITE/research/comvis/insite2.htm; B. Collins, D. Williams, R. Haak, M. Trux, H. Herz, L. Genevriez, P. Nicot, P. Brault, X. Coyere, B. Krause, J. Kluekow, and A. Paffenholz, ‘‘The Dresden Frauenkirche – Rebuilding the Past,’’ in J. Wilcock and K. Lockyear, eds., Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology 1993 (Oxford: BAR International Series, 1995), pp. 19–24.

Computer Visualizations on the TV Screen 221 27 G. Lucet, ‘‘Visualisation of Virtual Environments of Ancient Architecture: The Problem of Illumination,’’ in Barcelo´, Forte and Sanders, Virtual Reality in Archaeology, pp. 37–46. 28 N. Ryan, ‘‘Computer Based Visualisation of the Past: Technical ‘Realism’ and Historical Credibility,’’ in T. Higgins, P. Main, and J. Lang, eds., Imaging the Past (London: British Museum Press, 1996), pp. 95–108. 29 Piccini, ‘‘Filming through the Mists of Time.’’ 30 Hargreaves, Who’s Misunderstanding Whom? 31 J. C. Roberts and N. Ryan, Alternative Archaeological Representations within Virtual Worlds, available from http://www.cs.ukc.ac.uk/people/staff/nsr/arch/ vrsig97/vrsig.html 32 S. James, ‘‘Drawing Inferences,’’ in B. L. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 22–48; S. James, ‘‘How Was It for You?,’’ Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 12:2 (1993), pp. 85–100; B. L. Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images (London: Routledge, 1997). 33 K. Uotila and M. Sartes, ‘‘Medieval Turku: The Lost City,’’ in Barcelo´, Forte, and Sanders, Virtual Reality in Archaeology, pp. 219–23. 34 Wyke, Projecting the Past, p. 10. 35 Fellini 1978: 18–19 quoted in ibid., p. 192. 36 K. Carr and R. England, eds., Simulated and Virtual Realities: Elements of Perception (London: Taylor & Francis, 1995), p. 5. 37 D. W. Wheatley, ‘‘Spatial Technology and Archaeological Theory Revisited,’’ in K. Lockyear, T. Sly, and V. Mihailescu-Birlitsa, eds., Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology 96 (Oxford: Bar International Series, 2000), pp. 123–31. 38 Particularly R. Barthes, Camera Lucida (London: Random House, 1993). For cinematography examples, B. Brown, Cinematography (Oxford: Focal Press, 2002); B. Winston, Technologies of Seeing: Photography, Cinematography and Television (London: British Film Institute, 1996). 39 W. Bricken, ‘‘Virtual Reality: Directions of Growth,’’ in T. Feldman, ed., Proceedings of the First Annual Conference on Virtual Reality 91 (London: Meckler, 1991), pp. 1–6. 40 Duncan and Ley, Place/Culture/Representation, p. 48. 41 1934, quoted in D. Foster and J. F. Meech, ‘‘Social Dimensions of Virtual Reality,’’ in Carr and England, Simulated and Virtual Realities, pp. 209–28. 42 S. Cubitt, Digital Aesthetics (London: Sage, 1998). 43 M. Shanks, Experiencing the Past: On the Character of Archaeology (London: Routledge, 1992), p. 186. 44 Hayden White, quoted in Wyke, Projecting the Past, p. 12. 45 For example, in photography, C. Clarke, The Photograph (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997); M. Shanks, ‘‘Photography and Archaeology,’’ in Molyneaux, ed., The Cultural Life of Images, pp. 73–107.

222 Graeme P. Earl 46 F. Ching, A Visual Dictionary of Architecture (New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1995). 47 N. Leach, Rethinking Architecture (London: Routledge, 1997), p. 145. 48 M. Shanks and C. Tilley, Re-constructing Archaeology, 2nd edn. (London: Routledge, 1992), p. 79. 49 G. P. Earl, ‘‘Virtual Archaeologists, Re-constructors, Virtual Realists: Who Do We Think We Are?,’’ paper presented at the Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology UK Conference 2003, University of Southampton. 50 Piccini, ‘‘Filming through the Mists of Time.’’ 51 M. Forte and A. Siliotti, Virtual Archaeology: Great Discoveries Brought to Life through Virtual Reality (London: Thames & Hudson, 1997), p. 9. 52 Eiteljorg, ‘‘The Compelling Computer Image – A Double-edged Sword.’’ 53 James, ‘‘How Was It for You?’’ 54 Hargreaves, Who’s Misunderstanding Whom? Similarly, when stand-up comedians such as Al Murray, Eddie Izzard, and Marcus Brigstocke offer a pastiche of archaeology and specifically of reconstruction it becomes clear that many of the issues archaeologists consider to be of such importance are present and understood in a wider consciousness. It suggests an awareness that measurement of a reconstruction’s value is tied in to data and its definition. 55 J. Pollard and M. Gillings, ‘‘Romancing the Stones: Towards a Virtual and Elemental Avebury,’’ Archaeological Dialogues, 5 (1998), pp. 143–64; G. P. Earl and D. W. Wheatley, ‘‘Virtual Reconstruction and the Interpretative Process: A Case-study from Avebury,’’ in D. W. Wheatley, G. P. Earl, and S. J. Poppy, eds., Contemporary Themes in Archaeological Computing (Oxford: Oxbow, 2001), pp. 5–15. 56 B. Britten, ‘‘Virtual Lascaux,’’ in Barcelo´, Forte, and Sanders, Virtual Reality in Archaeology (Oxford: BAR International Series, 2000), pp. 100–12; see also M. Heim, Virtual Realism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998).

12

The Real, the Virtually Real, and the Hyperreal: The Role of VR in Archaeology Mark Gillings There’s a Lot of It About As I write, people are if not precisely ‘‘living’’ in, then at least conducting and developing social relations within, virtual worlds. Academics are busy mapping and exploring them; they have their own museums, myths, and folklore. They even have their own ruins and deserted sites to investigate and explore.1 Like many other disciplines, archaeology has been quick to fasten on to Virtual Reality (VR) modeling, recognizing within it a potential to greatly enhance or develop our existing range of techniques for the representation and illustration of the past.2 However, while VR is generally perceived as a ‘‘good thing,’’ I intend to argue that currently we are not only failing to realize the potential of such approaches but run the risk of actively constraining its development. At present VR applications have fallen into a very specific niche within the overall practice of the discipline – a technologically sophisticated means of creating ingenious pictures, what might be thought of as a form of flexible reconstruction drawing. This is a role that is both lacking in imagination and limiting in its scope. The present discussion seeks to highlight the shortcomings of this agenda and suggest a more productive way forward. As a result, its concerns are neither with technical definitions nor the mechanics of the

224 Mark Gillings production process.3 Instead, my interests lie with issues of epistemology and the range of new possibilities for envisioning and interpreting the past that VR offers us. The reason why VR has found itself in this cul-de-sac is because archaeologists have to date tended to apply VR techniques first and then think about them later. The lack of any sustained body of critical theoretical discussion of VR by archaeologists is curious. It may be a result of the rather esoteric nature of the means of production of such models, dependent upon a knowledge base confined to what Bateman has described as a ‘‘coterie of technophiles.’’4 It may equally reflect a more general sense that virtual realities are somehow self-evident, needing no more theoretical justification than a reconstruction drawing or site photograph. Whatever the precise reason, the result is a situation where the methodological tail has been firmly wagging the dog. Where critical discussion has taken place it has tended to take place after the virtual models have been created rather than before, a form of post-hoc justification rather than guiding rationale. You build it because you can, then (and only then) you think about the uses to which the model can be put. This has been fueled and compounded by an almost irresistible tendency to seek solace in the future that has resulted in a strong emphasis being placed upon the technical sophistication of models and degrees of verisimilitude achieved. This, I would argue, is a product of the ubiquity of all things virtual in contemporary Western society, which has had the effect of persuading researchers not to think of VR in terms of its current capabilities, but instead in terms of what they think VR can, or should, routinely do. For example, we find archaeologists extolling the potential of VR to bring archaeological sites ‘‘to life’’ and claiming that VR enables archaeologists to ‘‘walk back into the past’’ and ‘‘see the past through the eyes of the original people.’’5 This tendency to characterize VR in terms of some projected, idealized functionality has been described by Penny as a unique type of yearning, whereby society tends to describe VR as if it could already yield wholly convincing, fully immersive virtual experiences, indistinguishable from everyday life.6 Rather than being studied and explored, present-day limitations are instead offset against the solid belief that they will inevitably be resolved. Describing the application of VR in these terms invariably leads to disappointment and disillusionment when the VR model always fails to live up to the claims of its proponents and the expectations of the viewer. I have previously characterized this situation as resulting in a spiral of

The Role of VR in Archaeology 225 suspicion. Increasingly complex models encourage more fastidious viewers, which in turn fuels the belief that increasing sophistication in the process of model construction is required to satisfy their demands. All this succeeds in doing is precipitate more suspicion on the part of the viewers, and on the cycle goes.7 It also encourages researchers not to look critically at what VR can achieve at present, but to seek recourse in the even more distant future, when the deficiencies inherent in the current models will eventually be rectified and addressed, providing we invest our resources in increasing the technical sophistication of the production process. It is my intention here to argue that while VR has undoubtedly enormous potential to radically transform the ways in which we envision the past, it also has the potential to alter and give rise to new ways of thinking about and interpreting that past. To do this we need to prize it from the disciplinary dead end into which it has been guided and renegotiate its position within archaeological practice. To do this, and give the dog at least a modicum of control over its flailing appendage, we need to establish a firm theoretical and conceptual base upon which to build and develop approaches.

Thinking about VR This is not to say that discussions explicitly concerned with the epistemology of all things virtual have not already taken place. Earl and Wheatley have recently claimed that VR, in common with many computer-based approaches, is currently moving through a three-stage process of assimilation into the discipline. In the first stage the techniques are adopted and applied. This application is largely uncritical, more a proof of potential than structured application. This is followed by a stage of sustained analysis, evaluation, and critical reflection, before moving to the final stage whereby the techniques become fully embedded within the discipline.8 According to their analysis, VR is currently sitting somewhere in the middle of these three stages, with archaeologists beginning to move beyond creating models largely for the sake of it (and then thinking about what to do with them afterwards), to thinking proactively about the theoretical basis of VR modeling and the potentials it encodes before embarking upon the laborious process of model construction. In short, a number of researchers within the discipline have begun to pose and explore the question: ‘‘What does it mean to describe something as virtually real?’’9

226 Mark Gillings Drawing upon theoretical debates in the wider humanities and social sciences, the latter discussions have attempted to step back and look critically at the place of VR within the broader fields of illustration, reconstruction, and interpretation, with the aim of establishing a firm platform upon which its potentialities and possibilities can be explored. However, there is a very real fear that a number of the ground-rules established in the first, uncritical stage of the process of disciplinary adoption have already become sedimented, and are so thoroughly embedded within current practice that they have the potential to constrain and shape this second, more reflective stage.

The Received Orthodoxy So what are these pervasive ground-rules? The first is an overriding equation between the value of a model and the levels of realism and accuracy it achieves. The second is that VR models are solely a means of representing archaeological remains, something that is created at the end of the archaeological process when all the data have been collected, quantified, and analyzed. The third is that VR is somehow theoretically neutral, a tool which brings no conceptual baggage with it. The first influential building block in this orthodoxy derives from the definition offered by Reilly in his seminal work on virtual archaeology.10 This emphasized the role of the VR model as a sophisticated form of archaeological illustration or reconstruction drawing. In this model the relationship between the model and reality is tangible – the model represents some object, structure, or thing that is, or was, real and ‘‘out there.’’ The degree of realism possessed by any given model lies somewhere on a sliding scale, dictated in part by the quality and quantity of information that has gone into its creation and partly by the technological capabilities and skills of the software, hardware, and author. Such models are quantitative insofar as the greater the amount of information and effort put in, the closer the match between the VR model and the reality it purports to represent. In addition, the assumption that VR techniques are somehow atheoretical has led to the belief that the question of theory only arises in the context of the specific application to which the models are put.11 When we couple these factors with the general tendency to describe VR not in terms of its present functionality, but in terms of some projected, future functionality, the result is a powerful orthodoxy. This is an ortho-

The Role of VR in Archaeology 227 doxy that promotes the view that VR models are sophisticated end products in a continual state of becoming rather than a useful heuristic that is already here. Rather than challenge or question the veracity of this assumption, researchers have tended to use this as a foundation upon which to build, resulting in a set of applications rich in irony and tension.

Flying High In response to the need to revitalize the Egyptian gallery of the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasgow, Scotland, a VR model of an Egyptian tomb was constructed, the whole process of problem formulation, model construction, and implementation published in admirable detail by M. M. Terras.12 However, running throughout the discussion is a series of tensions. First there was a desire to unleash the perceived potential of VR, capturing the essence of experience, stimulating the imagination, and giving the viewer the sense of ‘‘being there.’’13 At the same time it was held as critical that the model remained entirely faithful to the empirical archaeological entity it purported to represent, the latter concordance being subject to careful vetting.14 A theme that runs throughout the discussion is the idea that VR models carry an authority that can be misused by the irresponsible. They are so realistic that they may be confused with the ‘‘real thing’’ rather than seen as an interpretation of it, and as a result they must be as painstakingly accurate as possible. Needless to say, the archaeological database used as the basis of the model was far from complete, and compromises had to be effected. For example, in a bid to maximize authenticity, realistic sand and stone textures were used on the building materials, yet at the same time structural modifications were made to the tomb as a result of limitations within the modeling environment. A clear example is the removal of a step that would otherwise have blocked movement (virtual rather than actual).15 In addition, in areas where detail of frescoes and hieroglyphs were lacking, the decision was made to repeat schemes found in other areas of the tomb to ensure that the model remained ‘‘convincing’’ whilst not compromising its archaeological integrity. Having completed the model to the highest possible standards of archaeological accuracy achievable, and going through much hand-wringing in the process, what is the most effective way of displaying it? Answer: an animated fly-through, where the viewer is placed on the digital equivalent of a flying carpet and whisked silently through the structure.

228 Mark Gillings

Is That It? A good illustration of the tendency to consider the uses to which models can be put only after they have been generated can be seen in the increasingly sophisticated approaches being advocated in archaeology for the solid modeling of complex architectural structures. These approaches advocate the simulation of past structures on a virtual stone-by-stone basis, through a process of, in effect, virtual rebuilding.16 However, the levels of technical detail and sophistication that go into the creation of such virtual reconstructions are as impressive as the received benefits are minimal. The object of analysis becomes reduced to a sterile architectural shell. Questions relating to the volume, mass, and center of gravity of the structure can be answered, and factors relating to the economics of construction, such as quantities of material and labor cost per cubic meter, can be explored. While no doubt interesting, this seems scant reward for the enormous efforts expended in the creation of the model. Who, after all, needs to know the mass, or center of gravity of a building to be able to experience and dwell within it?

Just Say ‘‘Cheese’’ Put simply, the camera is a machine designed so that, in its ‘‘normal’’ functioning, it will reproduce the geometrical perspective of quattrocento painting.17

The final example concerns the ‘‘vetting procedures’’ mentioned in the case of the Kelvingrove Museum display and the way in which the authenticity or accuracy of virtual models are judged. When the ‘‘realism’’ of a VR model is judged, it is rarely against the physical world of things and processes, but instead against photographs. Within the realm of archaeological VR, for realism one is actively encouraged to read ‘‘photorealism.’’18 Walter Benjamin was convinced that the arrival of photography and the resultant widespread dissemination of photographic images demanded a new set of standards against which the reality of a given reproduction could be assessed. Photography quite literally represented a new vision of reality that pre-existing notions as to what constituted the real had no capability to test. In McQuire’s words, ‘‘the invention of the camera marks

The Role of VR in Archaeology 229 a threshold beyond which representation is itself irreversibly transformed.’’19 Benjamin went on to argue that there existed no a priori natural standard against which all representations could be assessed. Instead, the standards we use to judge the veracity of any claim to realism are fluid and inherently historical. The advent of photography demanded one such point of change in the historical transformation of these standards.20 Although photographs are a familiar and ubiquitous aspect of modern Western life, it is important to remember that they do not offer a transparent window onto the objectivity of the thing being photographed. Far from simply representing, photographs teach a particular way of seeing, and as a result they have to be carefully read.21 Simply put, they are not self-evident. With our high degree of photographic literacy we fail to see or recognize the oddness of the photographic representation. However, this is brought into sharp focus when groups unfamiliar with the grammar and syntax of the photograph are presented with such images. A good example can be seen in the problems the anthropologist Nigel Barley encountered in his quest to learn the correct names for lions and leopards in the language of the Dowayo, a group living in the North of Cameroon. Thinking he had come up with the ideal solution, he passed photographs of the animals around the village elders and then waited for the names to follow. He watched patiently as the elders stared at the photographs, pondered, and turned them through all angles before handing them back with the phrase, ‘‘I do not know this man.’’22

An Alternative View If we are to overcome these inherent tensions we need to challenge the ground-rules upon which current applications of VR are founded and, through a careful consideration of the theoretical underpinnings of virtuality, fashion a new place for VR within the discipline. In doing so the aim is not to replace an existing, restrictive orthodoxy with another but instead sketch out the shape of a framework within which VR-based approaches can develop and evolve.23 First, we must accept that the direct equation that is drawn between visual concordance and realism reflects a profoundly ocularcentric approach to the world, an approach which reifies vision as the prime means by which people understand and evaluate their world.24 It must

230 Mark Gillings be realized that this represents only one means of evaluation, one which, it could be argued, is profoundly historical and peculiar to modern Western society. Current implementations of VR depend upon culturally acquired knowledge in order to be intelligible. In particular, modern, Western, male-gendered cultural knowledge. With respect to the issues of authenticity and realism, rather than treating VR models as wholly objective simulations that should always aim to replicate some source reality as faithfully as possible, VR models should instead be seen as constructs which can never be wholly authentic. However craftily they have been put together, and regardless of the quality of the empirical base upon which they have been created, whatever VR models envision, it is not the past, nor can it ever be. Rather than assessing the success or quality of a model on the grounds of visual concordance, it may be more profitable to follow instead the phenomenologist Dovey in asserting that authenticity is not solely a property of form, but is instead a property of process and a relationship, or connectedness, between people and their world.25 This is not to deny the importance of verisimilitude, but to effectively decenter it, casting visual approximation as but one factor influencing the faithfulness of any representation. This notion of experiential depth is critical and has a parallel in Benjamin’s ideas regarding what he termed the ‘‘aura’’ of a work of art.26 The aura is that facet which is lost when an artwork is reproduced. It relates to factors such as the location and history of the artwork and the way in which it has gradually become embedded in social practice. In a study of the famous re-creation of the Lascaux cave rock-art, Lascaux II, Diamond has explored this issue of aura through a discussion of ‘‘sacralization.’’ This is the mechanism whereby certain things and places undergo a complex process of social constitution, what we might think of as ‘‘aura evocation,’’ so as to define them as ‘‘authentic’’ and ‘‘worth seeing.’’27 If we accept that authenticity is as much about process, biography, and embeddedness as it is about verisimilitude, then the critical point to emphasize is that VR representations, however stunning and detailed their appearance, can never be wholly authentic. However, saying that a given re-creation is inauthentic is not to say that it is either actively deceiving us or that it is not useful. Virtual representations can serve to facilitate new modes of engagement and interpretation through laying emphasis upon this notion of process rather than critical attention to details of form. For instance, to return to the example of the Egyptian tomb, one of the key limitations of the model was seen to be the frustra-

The Role of VR in Archaeology 231 tion generated by the navigation system employed to explore the virtual structure.28 However, rather than a problem to be addressed, the fact that the vagaries of the navigation system employed could leave viewers feeling irritated and disoriented should be as important an aspect of the model as the attention that has gone into ‘‘realistically’’ weathering the texture of the stones. We can engage with VR models, but perhaps not in the ways we might think. This is as much through the way in which VR can conjure emotions and feelings through jarring, anachronism, and the use of constructive ambiguity, as with any notional ‘‘presencing’’ or collapse of viewpoint into that being viewed. An excellent example is Ruth Tringham’s ‘‘Chimera’’ project, which actively employs elements of play, surreality, ambiguity, and non-realism to challenge and engage viewers, provoking alternative responses, modes of engagement and, ultimately, interpretations of later Neolithic settlement processes.29 The key point I would like to emphasize is that, like photography, VR represents another point of transformation in the standards we use to assess representations. Like photographs, VR models demand new ways of seeing and, also like photographs, they have to be carefully read. The challenge to us becomes one not of fitting VR into our existing disciplinary language, but instead seeking out the boundaries of this new mode of communication.

Moving Forward So how might we proceed? One approach has been to embed VR within broader theoretical discussions within the discipline. The second has been to develop a wholly new theoretical framework not only for VR, but the broader project of envisioning and representing the past. In the remainder of this discussion I will look at each of these approaches in more detail.

What You See Is All You Get A number of researchers have sought to ally VR with the growing body of studies deriving from the phenomenological works of philosophers such as Merleau-Ponty and Heidegger.30 To the phenomenologist, all experience is created and mediated through bodily engagement with the physical world and, as a result, phenomenological approaches have sought to foreground the understanding and description of things as they are

232 Mark Gillings experienced by an active subject. An important characteristic of the phenomenological critique within archaeology has been the challenge it has presented to the notion of the disembodied external analyst and the validity of the traditional interfaces, such as maps and plans, that archaeologists place between themselves and the thing they seek to interpret. For example, as an embodied individual moves through a building or landscape, he or she sees the world from a particular perspective, interpreting each locale in a sequence that shapes understanding. Factors such as placement, orientation, and movement are central in structuring this interpretation. Memory is also an important concern, leading to an emphasis upon notions of place and places as opposed to abstracted space. People are immersed in a world of places, locales that have distinct values and meanings. The relationships people hold with the world in which they dwell are frequently expressed, constructed, and maintained through myths and stories which serve to imbue places with significance.31 However, one of the as yet unresolved consequences of the phenomenological ‘‘turn’’ is the question of how we explore these concepts in practice. In short, with what do we replace our traditional methodologies? For example, knowledge of places cannot be read from a map, or derived from a series of statistical tests. It derives from human experience, memory, and encounter. How are we to begin to approach the study of such locales in the past? To some the answer lies firmly with VR.32 In such studies the assumption is made that in a VR model the traditional distance between the observer and what is observed is collapsed.33 The view taken in a VR model is embodied. It is also partial and contingent insofar as it is only as the viewpoint moves around and through a given model that you gain an understanding of it. To return to the issue of places, it is certainly the case that the application of VR is leading to the development of new techniques of chorological analysis within archaeology. Chorography is concerned with discerning the history of places in relation to memory, seeking to isolate and identify a subject-centered sense of place.34 Archaeology has had a long tradition of chorographic analysis, clearly evident in the work of pioneering antiquarians such as William Stukeley. Stukeley, for example, attempted to evoke a sense of the places he visited through the construction and manipulation of carefully drawn prospects and striking

The Role of VR in Archaeology 233 circular views, often resulting in illustrations that flouted the accepted rules of perspective and scale in an attempt to wrap the landscape around the viewer.35 VR-based techniques have been employed to continue this tradition through the development of 360-degree schematics and techniques of panoramic illustration, to conceptualize and communicate a sense of place. By digitally stitching together a series of photographic images of the views possible from a given viewpoint, views, incidentally, that can be derived from nature or a virtual simulation, viewers are permitted to ‘‘occupy’’ the site in question and ‘‘look around.’’36 Whilst such approaches are both challenging and stimulating it could be argued that, by slotting VR into the existing framework offered by archaeological applications of phenomenology, we are still failing to realize the full potential of such approaches. Indeed, in advocating a place for VR within more experiential approaches to the past we must be careful that we do not once again fall into the trap of articulating a more sophisticated version of the deeply uncritical ‘‘bringing the past to life’’ or ‘‘enabling you to be there’’ school of thought that characterized early applications. Not only do the specters of ever greater verisimilitude and technological sophistication still haunt such applications (e.g., the smoke and dust modeled by Chalmers and Stoddart), but also they are still predicated upon an assumption that vision equates directly with perception.37 Further to this, leaving aside the critiques that have been offered with respect to the broader theoretical project, in claiming to be taking an ‘‘embodied’’ perspective we are faced with the question as to whose body it is that we are inhabiting.38 In constructing interactive models or viewable panoramas, are we really collapsing the neutral, external scientific observer with the representation or simply changing their existing male, Western academic viewing perspective? It has been argued that the virtual body with which VR presents us is culturally specific, intimately bound up with modern Western conceptions of space, perspective, and relative scale.39 This not only has implications for the way in which contemporary, nonWestern societies engage with our virtual realities, but also raises some serious questions about the use of VR as a mechanism for exploring the perceptions of such societies, and those of the long-dead peoples of the past.40 Despite some attempts to suggest profitable ways forward, such issues need to be addressed if VR is to be successfully engaged as a methodological adjunct to phenomenology.41

234 Mark Gillings

Conclusion – Building New Frameworks Placing digitally produced images, particularly ‘‘high technology’’ 3D visualization, in a spectrum of archaeological illustration reveals that the traditional boundaries in that spectrum are rooted in outmoded conceptions of meaning and interpretation.42

Whilst a complete refashioning of our existing approaches to the envisioning of the past is beyond the scope of the present discussion, I would like to build upon the body of critique so far presented by offering a conceptual framework within which applications of VR within archaeology can be further explored and developed. What is required is a framework that can accommodate the relentless quest for verisimilitude that occupies one end of the application spectrum, and the more playful, creative applications (where any visual resemblance to a notional past is of less importance than the emotive responses and questions the model provokes) that sit at the other. In doing this, rather than introduce a wholly new set of terms, I would like to retrieve a very old one from the postmodern scrapheap and suggest that VR has the potential to offer, for the very first time, a truly mimetic means of representing and investigating the past.43 The term ‘‘mimesis’’ has its origins in the Greek world, achieving prominence in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE. In its original formulation the term was awarded a very general set of definitions, encompassing such characteristics as: . Miming – the direct representation of the looks, actions, and/or utterances of animals or men through speech, song, and/or dancing . Imitation – the imitation of the actions of one person by another . Replication – the production of an image or effigy of a person or thing in material form.44

With Plato, and more markedly Aristotle, these broad definitions were replaced by a much more restricted reading of the term that laid particular emphasis upon the notion of imitation in the aesthetic sphere. It is this definition that has persisted most forcibly into the present. As a result, mimetic modes of representation have been equated directly with issues of empirical measurement and the general aim of representing as accurately as possible. This has led to mimesis being identified as a key

The Role of VR in Archaeology 235 characteristic of positivist science, a key target of much postmodern critique.45 At this point the reader may well be wondering what the term mimesis has to offer in light of the orthodox approach to VR in archaeology I have sought to criticize throughout the course of this discussion. Traditional VR models seem to be profoundly mimetic, through their painstaking attention to detail and continual quest for methodological sophistication. Indeed, it could be argued that the aim of traditional models has been to generate representations which repeat one of what Duncan has called the central tropes of mimesis, the ‘‘persuasive claim to represent the nature of a place as accurately and objectively as is possible.’’46 Following this argument to its logical conclusion, it would seem that as a working concept, mimesis has little to offer. However, it has to be realized that the definition of the concept so readily attacked by Duncan and Ley represents only a partial, and highly specific, reading of the term. This is a reading which, following Aristotle, emphasizes solely those aspects that concern copying and mimicry. As a number of researchers have noted, such understandings neglect to acknowledge the complex nature of mimesis and the wide range of meanings that have been afforded to it during the course of its historical development.47 Even Aristotle, whose characterization has proven so lasting and influential, appears to have assigned a dual meaning to the term. The first emphasized the creation of images, whereas the second, more interestingly for us, concerned the creation of a plot or fable, in effect, a fiction.48 In the first instance mimesis denotes imitation; in the second a palpable and sensuous connection between the perceiver and that being mimetically reproduced. This is, to quote Taussig: ‘‘the two-layered character of mimesis: copying, and the visceral quality of the percept uniting viewer with the viewed.’’49 This duality of meaning is also evident in the traditional mimetic theory of art, which asserts that not only is an artwork something that copies or imitates an object, but is also something that acts as a source of knowledge of the object copied in order ‘‘to provoke in viewers the feelings provoked in them by the thing copied.’’50 The key point is that mimesis as much embodies creativity as it does fastidious imitation. Postmodern characterizations, such as that adopted by Duncan and Ley, have sought to deny or deprive it of this creative element. It is in this much richer and less restrictive set of definitions that I believe the term has a constructive role to play in helping us to reformulate our

236 Mark Gillings understanding of the role of VR within archaeology. Looking to the examples discussed earlier, the modeling of motes of dust and smoke particles in the temples of Malta and the surreal realms of the Chimera web are both profoundly mimetic, sitting at either end of a spectrum that incorporates the Kelvingrove tomb, the chorographies and other examples touched upon during the course of the discussion. It is my claim that if a criticism can be leveled at VR applications to date, it is not that they have been mimetic per se, but that their mimetic faculty has been focused exclusively on issues of mimicry and imitation.

Notes 1

2

3

4

5

6 7

M. Dodge, ‘‘Explorations in Alphaworld: The Geography of 3D Virtual Worlds on the Internet,’’ in P. Fisher and D. Unwin, eds., Virtual Reality in Geography (London: Taylor & Francis, 2002), pp. 305–31. M. Dodge and R. Kitchin, ‘‘There’s No There There: Virtual Reality, Space and Geographic Visualisation,’’ in P. Fisher and D. Unwin, eds., Virtual Reality in Geography (London: Taylor & Francis, 2002), pp. 341–61. There are a number of recent discussions on defining VR and the technicalities of creating virtual simulations. See K. Brodlie, J. Dykes, M. Gillings, M. Haklay, R. Kitchen, and M-J. Kraak, ‘‘Geography in VR: Context,’’ in P. Fisher and D. Unwin, eds., Virtual Reality in Geography (London: Taylor & Francis, 2002), pp. 7–16; J. A. Barcelo´, ‘‘Visualizing What Might Be: An Introduction to Virtual Reality Techniques in Archaeology,’’ in J. A. Barcelo´, M. Forte, and D. H. Sanders, eds., BAR International Series 843: Virtual Reality in Archaeology (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2000), pp. 9–36. Presumably unversed or disinterested in matters of theory. See J. Bateman, ‘‘Immediate Realities: An Anthropology of Computer Visualisation in Archaeology,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), Section 3, available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue8/bateman_index.html See M. Forte, ed., Virtual Archaeology: Great Discoveries Brought to Life Through Virtual Reality (London: Thames & Hudson, 1996); J. Bintliff, ‘‘The Role of Science in Archaeological Regional Surface Artefact Survey,’’ in D. Dirksen and G. von Bally, eds., Optical Technologies in the Humanities (Berlin: Springer, 1997), pp. 9–28. See S. Penny, ‘‘Virtual Bodybuilding,’’ Media Information Australia, 69 (1993), pp. 17–22. See M. Gillings, ‘‘Engaging Place: Exploring the Potential of VR in Experiential Landscape Studies,’’ in L. Dingwall, S. Exon, V. Gaffney, S. Lafflin, and M. van

The Role of VR in Archaeology 237

8

9

10

11 12 13 14 15 16

17 18

19 20

Leusen, eds., BAR International Series S750: Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology: Proceedings of the 25th Anniversary Conference, University of Birmingham, April 1997 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 1999), pp. 247–54. See G. Earl and D. W. Wheatley, ‘‘Virtual Reconstruction and the Interpretative Process: A Case-study from Avebury,’’ in D. W. Wheatley, G. Earl, and S. Poppy, eds., Contemporary Themes in Archaeological Computing (Oxford: Oxbow, 2002), pp. 5–15, esp. p. 6. See J. Bateman, ‘‘Immediate Realities,’’ Section 3; M. Gillings, ‘‘Virtual Archaeologies and the Hyper-real: or, What Does It Mean to Describe Something as Virtually Real?’’ in P. Fisher and D. Unwin, eds., Virtual Reality in Geography (London: Taylor & Francis, 2002), pp. 17–34; G. Goodrick and M. Gillings, ‘‘Constructs, Simulations and Hyperreal Worlds: The Role of Virtual Reality (VR) in Archaeological Research,’’ in G. Lock and K. Brown, eds., On the Theory and Practice of Archaeological Computing (Oxford: Oxbow, 2000), pp. 41–58. P. Reilly, ‘‘Towards a Virtual Archaeology,’’ in K. Lockyear and S. Rahtz, eds., BAR Supplementary Series 565: Computer Applications and Quantitative Methods in Archaeology 1990 (Oxford: BAR, 1991), pp. 133–40. Barcelo´, ‘‘Visualizing What Might Be,’’ p. 28. See M. M. Terras, ‘‘A Virtual Tomb for Kelvingrove,’’ Internet Archaeology, 7 (1999), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue7/terras/index.html Dare we say yearned for? Terras, ‘‘A Virtual Tomb for Kelvingrove,’’ Section 2.3. Ibid., Section 6.2. R. Daniel, ‘‘The Need for the Solid Modelling of Structure in the Archaeology of Buildings,’’ Internet Archaeology, 2 (1997), available from http://intarch. ac.uk/journal/issue2/daniels_index.html See S. McQuire, Visions of Modernity: Representation, Memory, Time and Space in the Age of the Camera (London: Sage, 1998), p. 24. A. Chalmers and S. Stoddart, ‘‘Photo-realistic Graphics for Visualising Archaeological Site Reconstructions,’’ in T. Higgins, P. Main, and J. Lang, eds., Imaging the Past (London: British Museum Press, 1997), pp. 85–94. Here the impact of individual particles of soot and smoke on lighting are being modeled in an attempt to recreate as realistically as possible prehistoric Maltese tomb structures. See McQuire, Visions of Modernity, p. 13. J. Snyder, ‘‘Benjamin on Reproducibility and Aura: A Reading of ‘The Work of Art in the Age of its Technical Reproducibility,’ ’’ in G. Smith, ed., Benjamin: Philosophy, Aesthetics, History (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), pp. 158–74.

238 Mark Gillings 21 D. Ihde, Postphenomenology: Essays in the Postmodern Context (Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 1993), p. 48. 22 N. Barley, The Innocent Anthropologist: Notes from a Mud Hut (London: Penguin, 1983), pp. 96–7. 23 An accusation that could be leveled with some justification at my earlier attempts to think critically about VR. 24 Jay, quoted in D. Gregory, Geographical Imaginations (London: Blackwell, 1994), pp. 340–1. 25 K. Dovey, ‘‘The Quest for Authenticity and the Replication of Environmental Meaning,’’ in D. Seamon and R. Mugerauer, eds., Dwelling, Place and Environment: Towards a Phenomenology of Person and World (Dordrecht: Martinus Nijhoff, 1985), pp. 33–49. 26 Snyder, ‘‘Benjamin on Reproducibility and Aura,’’ pp. 162–3; H. Caygill, A. Coles, and A. Klimowski, Walter Benjamin for Beginners (Cambridge: Icon Books, 1998), pp. 134–7. 27 S. J. Diamond, ‘‘Replicating Rock Art: The European Appropriation of a Palaeolithic Past at Lascaux II,’’ MA Dissertation, University of Southampton, 1996, p. 6. 28 Terras, ‘‘A Virtual Tomb for Kelvingrove,’’ Section 11. 29 At the time of writing Chimera Web was under construction – see http:// www.bmrc.berkeley.edu/people/tringham/chimera.html 30 See C. Tilley, A Phenomenology of Landscape (Oxford: Berg, 1994); J. Thomas, Time, Culture and Identity (London: Routledge, 1996); O. E. Jensen, ‘‘Between Body and Artefacts. Merleau-Ponty and Archaeology,’’ in C. Holtorf and H. Karlsson, eds., Philosophy and Archaeological Practice (Gothenburg: Bricoleur Press, 2000), pp. 53–62. 31 See J. Bruck and M. Goodman, ‘‘Introduction: Themes for a Critical Archaeology of Prehistoric Settlement,’’ in J. Bruck and M. Goodman, eds., Making Places in the Prehistoric World (London: UCL Press, 1999), pp. 1–19, p. 8. 32 J. Pollard and M. Gillings, ‘‘Romancing the Stones: Towards an Elemental and Virtual Avebury,’’ Archaeological Dialogues, 5:2 (1998), pp. 140–64; V. Cummings, ‘‘The World in a Spin: Representing the Neolithic Landscapes of South Uist,’’ Internet Archaeology, 8 (2000), available from http://intarch.ac.uk/journal/issue8/cummings_index.html; Earl and Wheatley, ‘‘Virtual Reconstruction and the Interpretative Process.’’ 33 Where the observer gets effectively to see everything at once from nowhere in particular. 34 G. L. Ulmer, Heuretics (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), p. 39. 35 R. Peterson, ‘‘William Stukeley: An Eighteenth-century Phenomenologist?’’ Antiquity, 77:296 (2003), pp. 394–400.

The Role of VR in Archaeology 239 36 Cummings, ‘‘The World in a Spin’’; J. Gidlow, ‘‘Rock Art and ‘Bubble Worlds,’ ’’ in D. W. Wheatley, G. Earl, and S. Poppy, eds., Contemporary Themes in Archaeological Computing (Oxford: Oxbow, 2002), pp. 16–21. Interested readers are also referred to the work of the ‘‘Scotland’s early Medieval sculptured stones’’ (SEMSS) project, available from http:// www.gla.ac.uk/archaeology/projects/SSEMS_web/index.html 37 Chalmers and Stoddart, ‘‘Photo-realistic Graphics for Visualising Archaeological Site Reconstructions.’’ 38 For an excellent summary see J. Bruck, ‘‘In the Footsteps of the Ancestors: A Critical Review of Christopher Tilley’s A Phenomenology of Landscape,’’ Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 15:1 (1998), pp. 23–36. 39 See Penny, ‘‘Virtual Bodybuilding.’’ 40 I cannot help but wonder how much more interesting and challenging the recent paper ‘‘Native American Virtual Reality Archaeology: An Architect’s Perspective’’ would have been if we had been given a Native American’s perspective rather than that of an architect. See D. R. Holloway, ‘‘Native American Virtual Reality Archaeology: An Architect’s Perspective,’’ in J. A. Barcelo´, M. Forte, and D. H. Sanders, eds., BAR International Series 843: Virtual Reality in Archaeology (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2000), pp. 53–8. 41 See Goodrick and Gillings, ‘‘Constructs, Simulations and Hyperreal Worlds.’’ 42 Bateman, ‘‘Immediate Realities.’’ 43 A fuller and more detailed discussion of the history of the term and substance of critiques leveled against it can be found in Gillings, ‘‘Virtual Archaeologies and the Hyper-real.’’ 44 G. Gebauer and C. Wulf, Mimesis: Culture – Art – Society (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), p. 28. 45 J. Duncan and D. Ley, ‘‘Introduction: Representing the Place of Culture,’’ in J. S. Duncan and D. Ley, eds., Place/Culture/Representation (London: Routledge, 1993), pp. 1–24, p. 2. 46 J. Duncan, ‘‘Sites of Representation: Place, Time and the Discourse of the Other,’’ in J. S. Duncan and D. Ley, eds., Place/Culture/Representation (London: Routledge, 1993), pp. 39–56, p. 40. 47 See E. Auerbach, Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1953); Gebauer and Wulf, Mimesis, p. 1; M. Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity: a Particular History of the Senses (London: Routledge, 1993), p. 70. 48 Gebauer and Wulf, Mimesis, p. 55. 49 Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity, p. 24. 50 G. W. S. Bailey, Art as Mimesis (1998), http://ecuvax.cis.ecu.edu/~pybailey/ mimesis.html, accessed April 29, 1998.

Index

Note: Page numbers in italic type refer to illustrations.

2001: A Space Odyssey 18–20 Addison, Joseph 95 Africa (evolutionary images of) 29–31, 32–4 in natural history museums 30–1, 33, 35, 39–47 visitors’ perceptions of 39–45, 46 African ape-man image 34, 40–1 African landscape 42–3 African peoples 30, 40–1 African Worlds exhibition 38–9 Alberti, Leon Battista 97 American Indians (visualizing the past through) 51–2, 66–8 de Acosta’s work 58 Hariot’s work 59–61, 63–5 Lafitau’s work 52–5, 56–7, 60–5 Lahontan’s work 63, 65–6 Le Jeune’s work 59 Lescarbot’s work 58–9 Montaigne’s work 54–6 Thevet’s work 57 animations see CGI antiquity see British antiquity; classical architecture; Egyptian antiquities ape-man image 34, 40–1

ape-man movies 17 Arago, Dominique Franc¸ois 183–4 archaeological imagery 1–3, 72 evolution of 4 –5, 51–2, 126 –7, 151 manipulation of 119–26, 227, 228 neglect of 6 see also American Indians; British antiquity; CGI; evolutionary images; folklore; Glastonbury Lake Village; Il Campo Marzio; photography; VR modeling archaeological narratives 75–6 archaeological subject 187–8 archaeology concepts of 180–1 ethnography of 193, 196–202 relationship with art 135, 146, 150–3 see also Guest; Nash relationship with folklore 160–1 relationship with photography 183–5, 188–90, 192–3 architectural design theory 215 architectural history gendered discourse of 93–4, 96–7, 100, 108

Index 241 inconsistencies of Ichnographia 118–22 multiple representations 106–8 normative building 95–9 Palladio’s images 99–101 politics of representations 127–8 representation of Veduta 122–6 and taste 109–10 Villa Madama 101–7 architecture, VR modeling of 228 art photography as 182–3 relationship with archaeology 135, 146, 150–3 see also Guest; Nash art history, and archaeological imagery 3 authenticity and CGI 210 –13, 217 chronological manipulation 119–27 of VR models 226, 227, 228–9, 230 –1 see also naturalism; objectivity Avebury 146–50 Barley, Nigel 229 Barthes, Roland 26, 172, 187–8 Benjamin, Walter 228–9 Berger, J. 200 Borlase, William 5 Bothmer, Bernard 184 British antiquity Guest’s images 133–9, 144 –6, 150–2 Nash’s images 136, 146–52 Tongue’s images 143–4 traditional depiction of 143 British Museum of Natural History 35, 36–7, 45 visitors’ perceptions of 39–45, 46 Britton, John 144 Bulleid, Arthur 73–4, 77–8, 79, 83 Burlington, Lord 107 Campbell, Colen 108, 109

Campo Marzio, Il 116 –18 Ichnographia 118–22 politics underlying 127–8 Veduta 122–6 cartography 119 Celtic warrior images 80–3 CGI (computer graphic imagery) research applications 206 in television documentaries archaeological specialists 209 camera perspective 213–14 nature of 204–9 novel approaches 217–18 production context 207–8 realism and uncertainty 210–13, 217 technological requirements 209–10 as uninhabited space 214–15 see also VR modeling chorography 232 chronological representations 119–27 cinematic origin narratives 17–20 civilization of Iron Age 78–9, 82–5, 86 and Rome 94–5 cladistics 36 classical architecture eighteenth-century interest in 94–5, 108–10 Palladio’s images 99–101 veneration of 96–9 Villa Madama 101–7 see also Campo Marzio, Il computer graphic imagery see CGI ‘‘cradle of mankind, ’’ Africa as 29–31, 41–4 cross-cultural comparisons see origins imagery cultural maps 23 Darwin, Charles 19–20 de Acosta, Jose´ 58

242 Index Derrida, Jacques 152 d’Hancarville, Baron 94 Diggers Project 197 documentaries see television Douglas, James 4 drawings as subjective evidence 181 see also engravings Duperac, Etienne 119 Earl, G. 225 Egyptian antiquities photographs of 184, 185–6 VR models of 227, 228, 230–1 Egyptian folklore see Quseir al-Qadim El-Shamy, Hassan 165 engravings 139–40 Equivalents for the Megaliths 136, 146, 147, 149–50 ethnography of archaeology 193, 196–202 European antiquity, visualization of see origins imagery evolutionary images 31–2 of Africa 29–31, 32– 4 in natural history museums 30–1, 33, 35, 39– 47 visitors’ perceptions of 39–45, 46 in British Museum of Natural History 36–7, 45 in Horniman Museum 37–9, 45 see also origins imagery excavation, concepts of 180–1 films, origin narratives in 17–20 folklore defining 160 of human origins 14 –15 and identity 161–2, 173–4 local context of 164 –5, 172, 173 of Quseir al-Qadim 165

background 159–60 Shaitan and the Amphora, The 166–7, 169, 170, 171–2, 173 site and the citadel, the 167–8, 169, 171, 172–3 visual analysis 168–74 relationship with archaeology 160–1 visual analysis of 158–9, 163–5 Forestier, Ame´de´e 72, 76–85, 86–7 Foucault, Michel 26, 190 Freud, Sigmund 120–1, 187, 188 game-based origin models 20–3 Gardoms Edge Project 193, 196, 197–202 gender roles 84 gendered discourses 93–4, 108 Palladio’s images 100 Vitruvius’ treatise 96–7 Glastonbury Lake Village 72, 73–4 Forestier’s illustrations 76, 77–8, 79, 86–7 aim of 78–9 roundhouse image 81, 83–5 warrior image 80–3 Gombrich, Ernst 3 Gough, Richard 143 Guest, Thomas Robert accuracy of paintings 138 –9 artistic approach to archaeology 146, 150 –1 compared with Nash 150 –2 importance of paintings 136–7 life and career 141–3 representation of Winterslow 140 –1 responses to images of 145–6 use of oil paints 138, 139–40, 145 work rediscovered 133–5, 146 Hariot, Thomas 59– 60, 63–5 Hawkes, Jacquetta 133

Index 243 Heath, W. H. 137 hieroglyphics 63–5, 183–4 Horniman Museum 35–6, 37–9, 45 visitors’ perceptions of 39–45, 46 human origins see origins imagery Hutchins, Reverend A. B. 136, 137–8, 145 Ichnographia 118–22 identity, folklore and 161–2, 173–4 ideology, of origin narratives 13, 23 Illustrated London News (ILN) 74–6 Forestier’s illustrations 72, 76, 77–8, 79, 86–7 aim of 78–9 roundhouse image 81, 83–5 warrior image 80–3 imagery mental construction of 163–4 see also archaeological imagery; evolutionary images Ingram, Sir Bruce 75 inscriptions 63–5, 183–4 Iron Age village see Glastonbury Lake Village Jaffa Gate, Inscription on the False Door 182–3 Jerusalem, photographs of 181–3 Jesuits 55, 57, 59, 66 Jinn 166–7, 169, 173 Juninho’s shirt 197–200 Keiller, Alexander 148 Keller, Ferdinand 73 Kelvingrove Museum 227, 228, 230–1 Kent, William 107, 108 Kropotkin, Pyotr 21 Kubrick, Stanley 18–20 Lafitau, Pe`re Joseph Franc¸ois 52–5, 56–7, 60–5

Lahontan, Baron de 63, 66 Lanciani, Rudolf 127 language of architectural history 93–4 multiple representations 106–8 normative building 95–9 Palladio’s images 99–101 Le Jeune, Father 59 Leeds, E. T. 137 Leoni, Giacomo 98, 108–9 Lescarbot, Marc 58–9 linearity, in museums 35 Lost World, The 17 Man’s Genesis 17 maps, Ichnographia 118–22 Masai 42 mental imagery 163–4 mimesis 234–6 modern art 147 Nash’s work 134–5, 146–52 modernity, and museums 35 Moeurs des sauvages ame´riquains compare´es aux moeurs des premier temps 52–4, 56–7, 60–6 Montaigne, Michel de 55–6 Morgenstern, Oskar 20 Moser, Stephanie 32 movies, origin narratives in 17–20 museums see Kelvingrove Museum; natural history museums Nash, Paul 134–5, 136, 146–50 compared with Guest 150–2 native Americans see American Indians natural history museums anthropological dogma in 35–6 British Museum of Natural History 35, 36–7, 39–45, 46 evolutionary images of Africa 30–1, 33, 35, 45–7 Horniman Museum 35–6, 37–45, 46 visitor studies 33, 39–45, 46

244 Index natural selection 20, 22 naturalism 138–9 Neanderthal image 34 Nolli, Giambattista 119 ´ Giolla´in, Diarmuid 160 O objectivity of photographs 181 see also realism oil painting 138, 139–40, 145 origin narratives 13–14 game-based and sociobiological 20–3, 27 ideological nature of 23 patterns of 14–16 popular constructions 16–20 originary 23–7 origins imagery critiques of 31, 32 vizualisations based on American Indians 51–2, 66–8 de Acosta’s work 57–8 Hariot’s work 59–60, 63–5 Lafitau’s work 52–5, 56–7, 60–5 Lahontan’s work 63, 65–6 Le Jeune’s work 59 Lescarbot’s work 58–9 Montaigne’s work 54–6 Thevet’s work 57 see also evolutionary images orthogonal representation 100 Palladio, Andrea 92, 98–101, 106, 108–9 phenomenology 231–2 photographic equipment 194–5 photographic ethnography 193, 196–202 photographs entwining formal and informal 200–2

as excavation record 192–3, 194–5, 196–7, 200 interpreting 229 objectivity of 181 as social narrative of excavation 193, 195–202 Teynard’s 185–6 Tranchand’s 189 viewer’s response to 187 VR judged in relation to 228–9 photography as art 182–3 relationship with archaeology 183–5, 188–90, 192–3 social understandings of 193, 194–202 phylogenetic reconstruction 36 Picts 63–5 Piggott, Stuart 2, 148, 150 Piranesi, Giovanni Battista 116–17 see also Campo Marzio, Il postmodernism 23–7 power, and language 93–4 prehistoric tribal movies 17–18 punctum 172, 187, 188 Quennell, C. H. B. 77 Quseir 159–60 Quseir al-Qadim 159–60, 161 archaeological folklore of 165 and identity 162, 173–4 Shaitan and the Amphora, The 166–7, 169, 170, 171–2, 173 site and the citadel, The 167–8, 169, 171, 172–3 visual analysis 168–74 racial misconceptions 30, 35, 37–8, 40–1 Raphael 92, 104–6

Index 245 realism chronological manipulation of 119–27 and uncertainty in documentaries 210–13, 217 of VR models 226, 227, 228–9, 230–1 see also naturalism; objectivity Reilly, P. 226 religious beliefs and archaeological imagery 55, 57, 59, 66 of human origins 14, 15 Reynolds, Sir Joshua 109 Roman antiquities see Quseir al-Qadim Romans, images of ancient Britons and 82 Rome eighteenth-century interest in 94–5 images of see classical architecture; Campo Marzio, Il roundhouse image 81, 83–5 Salzmann, Auguste 181–3 Saulcy, Fe´licien de 181–2 scientific narratives of human origins 15 Shaitan and the Amphora, The 166–7, 169, 170, 171–2, 173 Shanks, Michael 9, 12 site and the citadel, The 167–8, 169, 171, 172–3 social roles 84–5, 86 social understandings of photography 193, 194–202 sociobiological origin models 20–3, 27 Sorrell, Alan 151 Speed, John 63 Stafford, Barbara 124 Stevens, Frank 137 still-life tradition 140, 145 studium 172, 187–8

Stukeley, William 232–3 Sumner, Heywood 151 Surrealism 149 Talbot, William Henry Fox 184 taste 109–10 television (Computer Graphic Imagery in) archaeological specialists 209 camera perspective 213–14 nature of 204–9 novel approaches 217–18 production context 207–8 realism and uncertainty 210–13, 217 technological requirements 209–10 as uninhabited space 214–15 Temple of Apollinis 123–4, 126 Teynard, Fe´lix 185–6 Thevet, Andre´ 57 Tongue, Richard 143 Tranchand, Gabriel 189 Vasari, Giorgio 97–8 Veduta 122–6 Villa Madama 101–7 virtual reality see VR modeling visual analysis of folklore 158–9, 163–5, 168–74 visual representation, VR focus on 229–31 Vitruvius 96–7, 98, 105 Von Neumann, John 20 VR (virtual reality) modeling alternative approach to 229–31 of architecture 228 of Egyptian tomb 227, 228, 230–1 expectations for 224–5 limited application of 224 manipulations in 227, 228 new frameworks 234–6 realism of 226, 227, 228–9, 230–1 received orthodoxy 226–7

246 Index VR (cont’d ) theoretical context of 231–3 thinking about 225–6 see also CGI warrior images 80–3 Webb, David 197 Weber, Karl 126–7

Wheatley, D. W. 225 Whitewright, Julian 168 Winckelmann, J. J. 98 Winterslow, Guest’s representation of 140–1 Winterslow excavations, Guest’s images of 133, 135–9, 144–6 Wright, Robert 22