N-TAG TEN: Proceedings of the 10th Nordic TAG conference at Stiklestad, Norway 2009 9781407309941, 9781407339726

Table of contents :
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Nordic TAG 1985-2009: Past and Future
Introduction
Quartzite at a sieidi: a new life of an offering site?
Without a trace? Rituals and remembrance at rune stones
Reused rock art: traces of Iron Age activities at Bronze Age rock art sites
Material memories among pre-Christian graves in Iceland
What can a little bird tell if all good things come in threes? Triple cups and bird-shaped pottery as representations of ritualized feasting goods
Images of the non conceivable: on pictorial mimesis within rock art research
Accompanying the stone ships: Circular stone settings in relation to the Gotlandic ship settings
Hard rock studies - cup marks in Eastern Svealand
Material culture and the construction of religious niches
Theory for the a-theoretical: niche construction theory and its implications for environmental archaeology
Cultural evolution and archaeology. Historical and current trends
Close encounters of the copper kind
Import vs. imitation? Towards an understanding of Early Bronze Age weapons in Southern Scandinavia
Enter the Gripping Beast. Innovations and actor-networks in Viking Age towns
Cultural heritage tourism in the North: Making information about vulnerable Sámi heritage sites accessible to the public or not?
The values archaeologists ascribe to archaeological artefacts: the impact of workplace
Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption. An archaeological study of tobacco consumption, with special reference to seventeenth century Trondheim
The introduction of sails to Scandinavia: Raw materials, labour and land
A technological momentum? Changes in lithic technology during the Mesolithic-Neolithic transition in Scandinava
Iron production in Østerdalen in medieval times ― A consequence of regional technological change?
Mobility, points and people. Technological and social changes towards the Neolithic of Southern Norway
The (sluggish and modest) introduction of iron in southern Sweden –insufficient technology or unprepared receivers? A case study from iron usage in Halland
Dealing with consequences: The importance of placement
On war and memory and the memory of war – the Middle Bronze Age burial from Hvidegården on Z ealand in Denmark revisited
Merovingian men – fulltime warriors?
‘ Painful Heritage’. Cultural landscapes of the Second World War in Norway: a new approach
Tools of lethal play. Weapon burials reflecting power structures and group cohesion during the Iron Age in Ostrobothnia, Finland

Citation preview

BAR S2399 2012

N-TAG TEN BERGE, JASINSKI & SOGNNES (Eds)

Proceedings of the 10th Nordic TAG conference at Stiklestad, Norway 2009 Edited by

Ragnhild Berge Marek E. Jasinski Kalle Sognnes

N-TAG TEN

B A R

BAR International Series 2399 2012

N-TAG TEN Proceedings of the 10th Nordic TAG conference at Stiklestad, Norway 2009 Edited by

Ragnhild Berge Marek E. Jasinski Kalle Sognnes

BAR International Series 2399 2012

ISBN 9781407309941 paperback ISBN 9781407339726 e-format DOI https://doi.org/10.30861/9781407309941 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

BAR

PUBLISHING

Contents Kristian Kristiansen Nordic TAG 1985-2009: Past and Future................................................................................................ iii Ragnhild Berge, Marek E. Jasinski and Kalle Sognnes Introduction..............................................................................................................................................xi Excavating Iconic Features and Symbols: Materiality of Monuments, Imagery, Texts, Structures, and Artefacts Tiina Äikäs Quartzite at a sieidi: a new life of an offering site?...................................................................................1 Cecilia Ljung and Susanne Thedén Without a trace? Rituals and remembrance at rune stones........................................................................9 Per Nilsson Reused rock art: Traces of Iron Age activities at Bronze Age rock art sites............................................19 Þóra Petursdóttir Material memories among pre-Christian graves in Iceland.....................................................................31 Christian L. Rødsrud What can a little bird tell if all good things come in threes? Triple cups and bird-shaped pottery as representations of ritualized feasting goods............................................................................41 Ylva Sjöstrand Images of the non-conceivable. On pictorial mimesis within rock art research......................................53 Joakim Wehlin Accompanying the stone ships. Circular stone settings in relation to the Gotlandic ship settings..........59 Roger Wiksell Hard rock studies: cup marks in Eastern Svealand..................................................................................71 Evolutionary Dimensions of Technical Change Mads Dengsø Jessen Material culture and the construction of religious niches........................................................................79 Felix Riede Theory for the a-theoretical: Niche construction theory and its implications for environmental archaeology..............................................................................................................................................87 Felix Riede, Jan Apel and Kim Darmark Cultural evolution and archaeology. Historical and current trends..........................................................99 Innovations: Novel Ways in the Past Vesa-Pekka Herva, Janne P. Ikäheimo, Jari-Matti Kuusela and Kerkko Nordqvist Close encounters of the copper kind ....................................................................................................109 Zsófia Kölcze Import vs. imitation? Towards an understanding of Early Bronze Age weapons in Southern Scandinavia.............................................................................................................................117 Søren M. Sindbæk Enter the gripping beast. Innovations and actor-networks in Viking Age towns...................................129

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From Foreign Country to Big Business: Socio-Economic Perspectives on Heritage/the Past Göril Nilsen Cultural heritage tourism in the North: Making information about vulnerable Sámi heritage sites accesible to the public or not?................................................................................................................137 Atle Omland The values archaeologists ascribe to archaeological artefacts: the impact of workplace......................145 The Materiality of Modernity: Archaeology and the Rise of Modern Society Lise Loktu Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption. An archaeological study of tobacco consumption with special reference to seventeenth century Trondheim...............................................157 Social Dimensions of Technological Change Lise Bender Jørgensen The introduction of sails to Scandinavia: Raw materials, labour and land............................................173 Lotte Eigeland A technological momentum? Changes in lithic technology during the Mesolithic– Neolithic transition in Scandinavia....................................................................................183 Bernt Rundberget Iron production in Østerdalen in medieval times ― a consequence of regional technological change? ...........................................................................................................................191 Steinar Solheim Mobility, points and people. Technological and social changes towards the Neolithic of Southern Norway...............................................................................................................................205 Per Wranning The (sluggish and modest) introduction of iron in southern Sweden: insufficient technology or unprepared receivers? A case study from iron usage in Halland. .................................................... 217 Ulla Zagal-Mach Dealing with consequences. The importance of placement...................................................................229 War and Society Joakim Goldhahn On war and the memory of war – the Middle Bronze Age burial from Hvidegården on Zealand in Denmark revisited................................................................................................................237 Doris Gutsmiedl-Schumann: Merovingian men – fulltime warriors? Weapon graves of the continental Merovingian Period of the Munich Gravel Plain and the social and age structure of the contemporary society – a case study............................................................................................................................................251 Marek E. Jasinski, Marianne N. Soleim and Leiv Sem Painful heritages. Cultural landscapes of the Second World War in Norway: a new approach ...........263 Jari-Matti Kuusela: Tools of lethal play. Weapon burials reflecting power structures and group cohesion during the Iron Age in Ostrobothnia, Finland........................................................................................275

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Nordic TAG 1985-2009: Past and Future Kristian Kristiansen Gothenburg University

Introduction The early history of Nordic TAG is the history of the rise of a new generation of archaeologists in the Nordic countries that wanted to practice a different, theoretically informed archaeology. From this perspective the beginning of the Nordic TAG conferences can also be seen to represent the incorporation of Scandinavia into the Anglo-American theoretical tradition, and the inspiration was of course from the English TAG, which had started 6 years earlier in 1979. Since the days of C. J. Thomsen it has been understood that innovating research is conditioned by participating in larger collegial networks, be they Nordic, European or global. C. J. Thomsen was among the first to develop and maintain a European wide network with colleagues through letters ― the Internet of that day. In this way he gradually persuaded his colleagues to adopt his ideas, not only of the threeage system, but perhaps more importantly his ideas about how to organize museums. His successors J. J. Worsaae from Denmark, Ingvald Undset in Norway and Oscar Montelius in Sweden were the first generation that travelled, using the new trains and steam boats, in order to visit museum collections and colleagues around Europe, forming the first international archaeological congresses. One of these early congresses was held in Copenhagen in 1869. When these meetings stopped during the First World War, a series of Nordic archaeological meetings took over; this series lasted until recently. In this historical perspective Nordic TAG continued a long tradition of renewing and revitalizing the personal networks and academic exchange within Nordic archaeology. It promoted the new theoretical ideas that had prevailed internationally, and it gave Scandinavian archaeology a forum for critical theoretical discussion. The increasing importance of Nordic TAG corresponds to a major shift in archaeological thinking. This shift has been accompanied by a reorientation of archaeological publications, just as it led to the death of the traditional Nordic archaeology meetings that started in 1916 (Baudou 2004, 226). After some decline of participants during the 1920s (Baudou 2004, 229ff.) these meetings were reinvigorated from the late 1930s onwards by an ― at that time new generation of archaeologists ― and they were continued by the next generation of archaeologist that met at Öland, Sweden after the Second World War at Morten Stenberger’s and Ole Klindt- Jensen’s Valhalla excavations and some years later at Anders Hagen’s excavations at Hunn in Østfold, Norway. This reinforced Nordic collaboration among archaeologists. It was the generation of Mats Malmer, Ole Klindt-Jensen, Bertha Stjernqvist, and Anders Hagen that were the dominant professors during the 1970s and well into the 1980s (Baudou 2004, 237). When they retired there was no one to carry on the traditional Nordic Archaeology meetings (the last was held in Umeå in 1998), the role of which had been taken over by the growing Nordic TAG meetings. The roots of Nordic TAG, however, are older than the first conference in 1985. We can trace the new spirit of a theoretically informed archaeology back to the Nordiske Kontaktseminarer (Nordic Contact Seminars), which was founded in 1969 in Århus, with the first official meeting in Bergen 1970. At this time the Archaeology departments at the universities of Gothenburg and Bergen in particular came under influence from the Anglo-American New Archaeology. An interest in debating archaeology ― theory, methods and results ― was part of the background for the international journal Norwegian Archaeological Review, which started in 1966 (cf. the introduction to volume 1). The student contact seminars were economically supported by the Nordic Council, and published the series Kontaktstencil, which has continued up until this day (Goldhahn 1999). In this new underground movement of archaeology students got to know each other, and gradually came into positions during the late 1970s. It was thus the very same generation that had started the ‘Kontaktseminarer’ (Contact Seminars for Nordic archaeology students), who from their now more senior positions wanted to continue meeting their colleagues debating theoretical issues. Thus, Nordic Tag is also about Nordic interaction, networking and meeting colleagues outside your own realm.

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This became important with the increasing number of archaeologists from the 1970s onwards. Therefore the Nordic Tag meetings were planned to take place every second year, although this was not always done. However, with the increasing number of theoretically informed archaeologists the pressure increased to have meetings more often, and therefore it was decided to hold them annually from 2010 onwards at the Stiklestad meeting. From 1985 to 2007 The first Nordic TAG meeting took place at Helsingore north of Copenhagen in 1985 (Kristiansen 1987). It became highly successful, and it was decided to continue with new meetings every second year, the following to be held in Umeå under the auspices of Evert Baudou. The Helsingore meeting showed some trends of things to come: Oslo had a very strong representation of graduate students, and the first ‘post processual’ theories were advocated. In Denmark all representation was from Århus, virtually none from Copenhagen, with the exception that professor C. J. Becker drove up to the meeting to place the publications of his department’s new monographic series on display. This dichotomy between a theoretically engaged department in Århus and a theoretically passive department in Copenhagen was to continue. Sessions at Helsingore: • • • • • •

Archaeology as identity producer (Torsten Madsen) Historical archaeology (Stig Welinder) Archaeology and language (Bjørn Myhre) Territorial organization (Åke Hyenstrand) Center and periphery (Kristian Kristiansen) Ideological and economic reproduction (Ulf Bertilsson)

In the second meeting at Umeå in 1987 (Baudou 1991) came the first clash between processual and postprocessual theories. Bjørnar Olsen declared that he found most archaeology boring and that we needed a new post-processual theory. Stig Welinder, Mats Malmer and Frans Herschend presented variations of processual theory. In Umeå Evert Baudou had succeeded in creating a highly stimulating meeting. A conference photo remains an interesting documentation (Figure 1, plus appendix of participants at photo). Sessions in Umeå: • • • •

Social theory and archaeology Symbolism and archaeology Sex roles in prehistory Theory of testing archaeological hypotheses

At the Bergen meeting (N-TAG 3) in 1990 (Prescott and Solberg 1993) three international guest lecturers had been invited: Ian Hodder and the anthropologists Maurice Bloch and Fredrik Barth. Many looked forward to hear and meet Ian Hodder, but for Ian Hodder the most exciting moment was to meet with one of his idols: Fredrik Barth! At this meeting Nordic Tag became truly interdisciplinary and international. The number of participants now had passed one hundred. Sessions in Bergen: • • • • •

Archaeology and the theory of science Archaeology-anthropology-history Ideology and symbolism Theory and the practice of archaeology Perspectives for the 1990s

The following meeting (N-TAG 4) took place in Helsinki in 1992 (Tusa and Kirkinen 1995). At this meeting too some internationally recognized scholars were invited as guest lecturers: Michael Shanks and Ezra Zubrow. For some reasons the invitation to this meeting had not reached all possible participants. However, it was a small and well-organized meeting. Themes at Helsinki included ‘The concept of culture’, ‘Hermeneutics’, ‘Interpretation and critical Romanticism’, and ‘Semiotics and archaeology’.

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Now followed a 5 year pause; the Århus department was unable to produce their planned meeting. Instead Gothenburg took over and hosted the fifth meeting in 1997 (N-TAG 5). This meeting was organised by a group of PhD students, who did a terrific job, and created the largest Nordic TAG meeting so far with around 230 participants. A total of 77 papers were presented during 12 sessions. Further the organizers edited a large post-meeting publication (Andersson 1998). Sessions in Gothenburg • • • • • • • • • •

Interdisciplinary archaeology The Mediation of Archaeology Evolutionism and Archaeology The epistemology and Ontology Gender The History of Archaeology Cultural Identity Centre and Periphery Time and Space Archaeology and Religion

From now on Nordic TAG entered a new flourishing period of regular meetings, well organized and with a huge attendance around 200. The Oslo meeting (N-TAG 6) in 2001 was no exception (Bergstøl 2003). Since then Nordic TAG meetings have been held every second year until the Stiklestad meeting in 2009. Nordic TAG had become the major archaeological meeting for all archaeologists in the Nordic countries. In Oslo 87 papers were presented at 13 sessions. Sessions in Oslo • • • • • • • • • • •

Material Culture & Social Identity Body and Identity Ethnicity and Material Culture Prehistoric Agency Scientific and Popular Pasts Archives and archaeology From Racism to Ethnic Cleansing Cultural Landscapes-theories/models Outfield archaeology Contract archaeology: theory and practice Computer technology and archaeology

The seventh meeting took place in Uppsala in 2003 (N_TAG 7). The proceedings from this meeting are the only ones so far not to have been published. However, 150 participants presented papers in 8 sessions. Sessions in Uppsala • • • • • • •

Cultural heritage and social dialogue History of archaeology Postcolonial archaeology Creative Heresies on Tour Archaeology and action theory Archaeological biographies The construction of landscapes and heritage in the Zoo

At the following meeting (N-TAG 8) in Lund in 2005 more papers were presented in English, which has become the standard since. The proceedings were published conventionally in books (Ekengren and Nilsson 2009, Ersgård 2007, Petersson and Skoglund 2008, Benz and Rudebech 2007) but also on the web. In Lund 104 papers were presented in 11 sessions. Sessions in Lund: •

Archaeology and identity

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• • • • • • • • • •

Modernity and archaeology Violence – threat or possibility? The body and liminality Picturing the past History in archaeology in practice From houses to households Gender relations What is urbanism? The diversification of archaeology-new roles Archaeology between humanities and science

By hosting the N-TAG 9 meeting Århus and Denmark was back on the theoretical scene in 2007, after 22 years of absence. The proceedings from this meeting were published on the web (pure.au.dk/portal/ files/15978513/ix_ nordic_tag.pdf, edited by Peter Jensen, Søren Sindbæk and Helle Vandkilde; see also Bjurström 2008). 117 papers were presented in 11 sessions. Sessions in Århus • • • • • • • • • • •

Social life and things The travels of humans and things Animals in archaeology The archaeological agenda Contemporary archaeology – why excavate the recent past? Time and chronology Political conflicts, ethics and archaeology Intentionality and unintended consequences Resources and regions Archaeology and monastic culture Gender and beyond

The tenth Nordic TAG (N-TAG 10) meeting was organized by the department of Archaeology and Religious Studies at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) in Trondheim, being held at Stiklestad Natural Culture Centre in Verdal around 90 kilometres to the north of Trondheim – a museum and information centre located near the battlefield where Norway’s patron saint and ‘perpetual’ king Olav Haraldsson, was slain in 1030. Around 85 persons participated in the meeting, which was divided into eight parallel sessions, where 68 papers were presented: Nordic TAG: conclusions and perspectives The early TAG meetings represented a response to the needs of a ‘new’ generation of Nordic archaeologists then in their thirties. The first meetings were rather small with around one hundred participants. The meetings from 1997 onwards responded to the need of a new generation of archaeologist with no bonds to the previous tradition. This generation was familiar with the British TAG and the annual meetings of the European Association of Archaeologists (EAA). This was also the time when the traditional Nordic Archaeological meetings came to an end. The last of the old Nordic Archaeological meetings took place in Umeå 1998. Nordic TAG then took over as the central meeting place for Nordic archaeologists. It signals a more international orientation of Nordic archaeology. Now more than two hundred students and scholars participate in the Nordic TAG meetings. Theory with a Nordic Flavour? During the first TAG meeting (1985-92) there was a fight for theoretical dominance between different archaeologies with foci on ethnicity, centre-periphery, Marxism, post-processual archaeology, ideology, symbolism, and epistemology. Particularly in 1987 and 1990 there was a clash between processual and post-processual archaeology. From 1997 on theoretical pluralism was accepted, with foci on gender, history of archaeology, body and identity, politics and ethics, historical and contemporary archaeology, evolution, modernity and globalization. Welinder continuously updated an ecological approach with some impact. Structural Marxism became a Swedish/Danish speciality in the 1980s, just a post-processual theory later became a hallmark of

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Stockholm, Oslo and Tromsø. History of archaeology, heritage, and contemporary archaeology dominated in Gothenburg as did historical archaeology with a post-processual flavour in Lund and Uppsala during the 1990s and early 2000s. This Nordic flavor has not led to an independent theory of archaeology. Rather, it represents the anchoring of Anglo-American theory in a strong empirical database, which gave interpretations solidity and international standing. The theoretical leadership has been located in Sweden and Norway during most of the period of Nordic TAG. Some possible explanations: •The role of diversified education in many departments in Sweden and Norway with more regular recruitment of young lecturers •Sweden and Norway educated a large number of students in 10-12 departments (now 7 in Sweden and 5 in Norway), while Finland and Denmark had 5 departments, 2 in Denmark 3 in Finland, and they educated fewer students to fewer jobs. •Rescue archaeology in Sweden and Norway is research based, and in Sweden final publications are paid for (in opposition to other Scandinavian countries). In Norway large regional museums are university based. •This has raised the demand for archaeologists with a PhD. A large number of PhDs were educated during the last 10-15 years in Sweden, now also in Norway and Denmark (PhD schools). •In recent years Denmark has seen a boom in rescue funded archaeology and jobs. What are the implications for archaeological theory? These structural changes in Nordic archaeology in tandem with new theoretical perspectives are also manifested in the formation of new journals and monographic series, most of them from Sweden and Norway. •KAN 1985 •Current Swedish Archaeology 1993 •Arch. Fennoscandia 1993 •Primitive Tider 1998 •Archaeological Review from Lund 1995 •In Situ 1998 •Many new monographic series from departments, such as OAS, UBAS, and many new monographs from rescue archaeological projects. During the same period some journals were terminated, such as MLUHM, Tor, and Meta while Journal of Danish Archaeology witnessed a rather prolonged publication stop. The future of Nordic TAG Graduate students and young researchers have organized most of the Nordic TAG meetings. Organizing and participating in these meetings have been seen as a chance to influence current archaeology and to get your name promoted, not only as participants but also by being published in the following proceedings. As long as the meetings are considered as a relevant career opportunity for young archaeologists Nordic TAG may continue successfully. A second important issue is represented by the links the organizers have had with international research communities. Most organizing groups have been active participants also in English TAG meetings, in EAA congresses or have studied abroad. Therefore Nordic TAG has always presented cutting edge theory. As long as these international links are kept alive and vibrant, Nordic TAG will continue to do so even in the future. ******* TAG priorities (decided at N-TAG 9 in Århus) • archaeology must reach out and strengthen cross-disciplinary work • we need to critically evaluate the models we use and consider they are biased by politics.

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• we need to take actions on human destruction and dependency of resources • in modern society the role of archaeology and archaeologists needs a social and political dimensions. • to the students; be creative and try something new. Acknowledgement I wish to thank Kalle Sognnes, for patience and for help in completing this article. References Andersson, A.-C. 1998. The kaleidoscopic past: Proceedings of the 5th Nordic TAG conference Gøteborg 1.-5. April 1997. GOTARC series C 16. Gothenburg. Baoudou, E. (ed.) 1991. Nordic TAG: Report from the 2nd Nordic TAG conference, Umeå 1987. Archaeology and Environment 11. Umeå. Baudou, E. 2004 Den nordiska arkeologien historia och tolkningar. Stockholm, Kungl. Vitterhets och Antikvitets Akademien. Benz, E. and E. Rudebech (eds.) 2007 Arkeologins många roller och praktiker. Två sessioner vid Nordic TAG. Lund 2007 Bergstøl, J. (ed.) 2003. Scandinavian archaeological practice – in theory. Proceedings from the 6th Nordic TAG, Oslo 2001. Oslo Archaeological series 1. Oslo Bjurström, M. (ed.) 2008. Samtidsarkeologi: varför gräva i det näre förflutna. Rapport från en session vid konferensen IX Nordic TAG i Århus 2007. Huddinge, Södertörns högskola. Ekengren, F. and L. Nilsson Stutz (eds.) 2009. I tillvarons gränsland: Perspektiv på kroppen mellan liv och død. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia series in 8º 60. Lund. Ersgård, L. (ed.) 2007. Modernitet och arkeologi: artiklar från VIII Nordic TAF i Lund 2005. Stockholm, Riksantikvarieämbetet. Goldhahn, J. 1999. Fællesnordisk Råd for Arkæologistuderende. Några personliga reflektioner kring et 30-årigt fenomen inom nordisk arkeologi. In A. Gustafsson and H. Karlsson (eds.). Glyfer och arkeologiska rum – en vänbok til Jarl Nordlbladh. Gotarc Series A 3, 719-742. Gothenburg. Jensen, P., S. Sindbæk, and H. Vandkilde (eds.) 2008 IX Nordic TAG. Århus 1012 May 2007. Globalization, identity, material culture and archaeology. Århus 2008. Web download at pure.au.dk/ portal/files/15978513/ix_nordic_tag.pdf Kristiansen, K. (ed.) 1987. Nordisk TAG: Rapport fra den første nordiske TAG konference i Helsingør 1517. november 1985. København, Københavns universitet. Petersson, B. and P. Skoglund 2008. Arkeologi och identität: VIII Nordic TAG Lund 2005. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia Series in 8º 53. Lund. Prescott, C. and B. Solberg (eds.) 1993. Nordic TAG. Report from the third Nordic TAG conference 1990. University of Bergen. Tusa, M. and T. Kirkinen (eds.) 1995. Nordic TAG. The archaeologist and his/her reality. Report from the fourth Nordic TAG conference Helsinki 1992. Helsinki Papers in Archaeology 1997 (7). Helsinki.

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Introduction Ragnhild Berge, Marek E. Jasinski and Kalle Sognnes Norwegian University of Science and Technology

The tenth Nordic TAG conference was organized by the Department of Archaeology and Religious Studies at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) in Trondheim. The meeting took place at Stiklestad National Culture Centre in Verdal 90 km to the north of Trondheim 26th to 29th of May 2009. About 85 scholars and students participated. A total number of 68 papers were presented, which give a high percentage of active participants. The papers were sorted into eight parallel sections. Most participants came from Norway and Sweden, followed by Denmark and Finland and Iceland. Participants outside the Nordic countries came from Germany, United Kingdom, and USA. Presentations and discussions were all held in English, as are the papers presented here. The Sessions of the X Nordic TAG Conference The sessions at Stiklestad were as follows: • Excavating iconic features and symbols: Materiality of monuments, imagery, texts, structures, and artefacts. • Maritime archaeology: The investigation, interpretation, and historical significance of shipwrecks. • Evolutionary dimensions of technological change. • Innovation: Novel ways in the past. • From foreign country to big business: Socio-economic perspectives on heritage and the past. • The materiality of modernity: Archaeology and the rise of modern society. • Social dimensions of technological change. • War and society. Why was the conference held at Stiklestad? The choice of The Stiklestad National Culture Centre as location for the conference had several motivations. We sought to create a condensed and intensive atmosphere outside of urban context which hopefully would strengthen and provoke dialogue and interaction between participants. Stiklestad also represents a landscape rich in archaeological heritage sites. It was arena for the famous battle, where King Olav Haraldsson, who later became the patron saint of Norway, was killed in 1030. This battle marks the end of the Viking Period and the beginning of the Middle Ages in Norway and at the same time the end of Paganism and the beginning of Christianity and it is an important symbolic event in the early stages of the formation of the Norwegian state. It was our intention that placement of the conference in such surroundings may, among other topics, have inspired to discussions on the significance of heritage sites in today’s society and in the continuous creation of the stories of the past. As such we saw Stiklestad as the ideal gathering place to present and discuss important topics based in all three legs of archaeology: research, heritage management and dissemination. Whether we succeeded or not is up to the participants to judge. Why a peer reviewed publication? All papers in this volume have been subject to peer reviews. We would like to take this opportunity to thank our many peer reviewers warmly for their hard work. Publishing on high standard is a time consuming process. As many publishing projects in academia it is a task done on top of a heavy everyday workload. Quite some time has admittedly gone from end of the conference to the completion of this volume. We do, however, believe that all the hard work and the time put into it is a well worth the investment. Publishing with peer review may firstly make it more attractive and rewarding to contributors. Secondly it may contribute to keep N-TAG on a high academic level. Thirdly a peer reviewed publication in English may appeal to a broader international audience. Why a conference concentrated on theory? Theories may in broad terms be seen as fundamental for our choice of material and our interpretations, reflections and subjective opinions upon it. A wide specter of theories and a continuous testing of new

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ideas are important in the creation of new knowledge about the past. It is of importance for the way we shape our research questions and for which questions we pose to our archaeological material. Theories may, among many aspects, form basic ideas on how to interpret a material, on relations in society, human relations and the creation of collective and individual strategies. Theories are shared by many disciplines, both humanistic and social sciences. However, the modification of theories and their application on an often fragmented archaeological material is owed by archaeology alone. The Nordic TAG conferences are meant to be a source for new ideas ad theories in archaeology and a laboratory for testing them. On the one hand the Nordic TAG conferences unite traditions from archaeological institutions in the Nordic countries. On the other hand it also accentuates contrasts and ideas specific to the different countries or scholarly traditions. As a whole The Nordic TAG conferences may be seen as an expression of a specific Nordic tradition also concerning the theoretical aspects of archaeology. This is a result of long scholarly traditions and ideas developed at Nordic archaeological institutions and an ongoing interaction between them. Further this builds on tradition at antiquarian institutions several places in the Nordic countries, where antiquarians already in the 19th century made lasting methodical contributions concerning classification, chronology and stratigraphy. Awareness on how theory and theoretical perspectives are established is important in order to create a continuously renewed research on the past society and on topics as regionalism, nationality and culture and ethnicity. Considering this we may also ascribe NTAG the mission of maintaining and recruiting interest in the theoretical aspects of archaeology. It may also lead to a consciousness of the cognitive and subjective aspects of archaeology. This is, as shown, fundamental on how we create the knowledge about the past. Outside the Nordic countries, Nordic TAG also has its mission in communicating theories and theoretical ideas developed in the Nordic archaeological society. The conference publications thus become important carriers of Nordic archaeological traditions to global archaeology. The Nordic TAG has been established from the role model of the British TAG or just TAG. The importance of these kinds of conferences is shown by the recent formation of TAG USA. The papers in this volume The sessions contained more papers than those being published here. The participants in the Maritime archaeology session preferred to organize a topically specific publication. However, most sessions are represented in this publication. Most complete are the sessions on Excavating Iconic Features and Symbols and Social Dimensions of Technological Change. Unlike most other archaeological conferences the Nordic TAG conferences have a tradition for letting the speakers suggest the sessions’ themes. This was also the case for the meeting at Stiklestad. Three sessions were devoted to innovation and different aspects of technological change, which perhaps is a marker of contemporary trends in research interests. The session on Social Dimensions of Tehcnological Change focused partly on questions related to lithic (Eigeland and Solheim) and iron (Rundberget and Wranning) technologies. The papers on sails (Bender Jørgensen and Zagal-Mach) may be seen as closely related to the latter, as representing a prerequisite for travel and trade during Late Iron Age and later periods. We may see the session on Evolutionary Dimensions of Technological Change to the social dimensions of change (Densgø Jessen, Riede, and Riede et al.). Here the niche concept is brought back into contemporary archaeology. The session on Innovations: Novel Ways in the past dealt with changes too. Kölcze and Herva et al. write about the introduction of copper and Bronze Age weapons, while Sindbæk writes about the introduction of the ‘gripping beast’ in Viking Age visual culture. Change in human behavior is also the topic of Loktu’s study on the introduction of pipe smoking in post-Medieval Trondheim . The main topic of the session Excavating Iconic Features was prehistoric rock art in Sweden (Nilsson, Sjöstrand, Wikell), but other aspects of prehistoric visual culture were brought into this sphere too; Swedish rune stones (Ljung and Thedéen), stone ships in Sweden (Wehlin), pre-Christian graves in Iceland (Petursdóttir), and bird-shaped pottery in Norway (Rødsrud). To these should be added a paper on more recent human behavior on an ancient ritual site – a sieidi (Äikäs). The session on War and society deals with a topic that seems never to go out of fashion. Chronologically this was the most dispersed of the Stiklestad session, dealing with Bronze Age (Goldhahn), Iron Age (Gutsmiedl-Schumann and Kuusela) but also with painful aspect of World War II memories (Jasinski et al.).

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Finally, the session on Socio-Economic Perspectives on Heritage and the Past is represented by two papers; on cultural heritage tourism in northernmost Norway (Nilsen) and the values archaeologists ascribe to artefacts (Omland). Yes, we get by with a little help from our friends Another milestone of the Stiklestad conference was the decision that from the 11th meeting onwards the conference will be held annually and not every second year. Writing this, the 11th Nordic TAG conference has already been held by the Linnaeus University in Kalmar, Sweden in April 2011 and the 12th conference in Oulu, Finland in April 2012. For the first time Nordic TAG will go to Iceland as the 13th conference will be held in Reykjavik. The Department of Archaeology and Religious studies at NTNU sends its best regards to future organizers of The Nordic TAG conferences. It has been a very rewarding and fruitful experience for us hosting this conference and working with the publication following it. Dreams seldom come true without hard work. We would like to thank our excellent staff at the Department for their efforts and support. We also want to say a big thank you to the irreplaceable staff of volunteers who worked hard during three hectic conference days. Last but not least a great thank you to the sponsors of the Stiklestad meeting: Stiftelsen Clara Lachmanns Fond and the Faculty of Humanities, Norwegian University of Science and Technology. Trondheim 1st of June 2012

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Quartzite at a sieidi: a new life of an offering site? Tiina Äikäs

University of Oulo Abstract The offering places of the Sámi people have a long tradition of use. Written sources and archaeological finds give a picture of offerings from the late Iron Age to the beginning of the 20th century. But even today these places are meaningful and filled with memories for various reasons and for various groups of people. In this article six sieidi offering stones from Finnish Lapland are approached in the light of more recent finds that were documented during the excavations in the years 2008 and 2009. These included: coins, personal objects, candles, quartzite, and flowers. Some of them might have been left by tourists that have visited the site and used the sieidi in a similar way to a wish well. Other objects might be left by local people who experience the place in the frame of their cultural identity. Especially quartzite, flowers and candles might also indicate visits of neo-pagans, who can hold the place to be sacred. These different groups might have different and even conflicting interests. Nevertheless a multivocal interpretation of the offering sites is important if we want to construct a full picture of their importance.

Introduction

excavations was to gather evidence of ritual behavior during the period under study. However, at some of these sites animal bones were not the only marks of people visiting the places.

In Lapland there are sacred places that seem to be visited for centuries. Dating of these sites might nevertheless be problematic. Not all ritual activities leave traces and in some cases meanings and values attached to these sites might have been intangible in their nature. But when it comes to offering places, e.g. the offering stones, sieidi, the gifts that are left at the place give at least a partial timeline of their use. In Sweden metal finds from sieidi sites date their use to mainly between AD 900 and 1300 but there are also some finds that are substantially older. On the other hand when the offering of metal ceases the offerings of bone and antler are still to be found from 1450–1650 AD (Fossum 2006, 108; Mulk 2005, passim) In Finland metal finds from sieidi are rare. The most well known example is the silver ornament from the 13th century which Arthur Evans found from Ukonsaari Island while visiting the site. Later excavations have revealed a Russian coin from the 17th century and bones that were dated to the 14th century and the beginning of the 17th century (Okkonen 2007, passim). Bone finds from other sieidis in Finland date between the 10th and the 17th century (Salmi et al. in press).

The excavations were conducted in different parts of what is nowadays Finnish Lapland. The excavated sites in 2008 were Sieiddakeädgi at Utsjoki, Näkkälä at Enontekiö, and Taatsi at Kittilä and in 2009 Koskikaltiojoen suu at Inari and Porviniemi and Kirkkopahta in Muonio (Fig. 1). All of these sites were known from written records as well as from modern oral tradition. At each place there stood a sieidi in a shape of a rock or a rock formation. Näkkälä, Taatsi and Kirkkopahta are the most well-known and easy to reach by car where as Sieiddakeädgi and Porviniemi acquire some walking or in latter case a boat and a knowledge of their location. Each stone was in some way peculiar of shape or dominant in the landscape. The purpose of the excavations was twofold: to study the traces of ritual activities and to define the area of these activities. The first question was approached by opening excavation areas of various sizes in the close vicinity of the sieidi. The size of the excavation areas depended on the topography and the vegetation of the site. In most cases excavation areas were no bigger than 2 square meters. The extent of the offering practices was studied by opening smaller test pits (30 x 30 centimeters) around the sieidi. In most cases the offerings were confined to the close vicinity of the sieidi. In Näkkälä offering were not found further than 2,5 meters from the stone and in Koskikaltionjoen suu all finds came under the projections of the stone. In Sieiddakeädgi, however, the finds from the vicinity of the sieidi were rare. But the test pits of the southwestern side of the stone revealed scattered bones on the hill descending from the sieidi. A concentration of bones was revealed c. 11 meters from the sieidi. This could be explained by the cleaning of the sieidi. At some point the amount of bones by the sieidi stone must have grown so much that the bones were thrown downhill from the sieidi.

But these finds might not give a full picture of the use of sieidi sites. Written sources mention persons who still gave offerings in the turn of the 20th century (Kjellström 1987:24–33; Paulaharju 1932, passim;). Hence the bone and metal finds seem to represent only one period of the long use of sieidi sites (cf. Bradley 2000, 5). Excavations at sieidi sites During the summers 2008 and 2009 six sieidi sites were excavated as a part of an ongoing project Human-Animal Relationships among the Finnish Sàmi 1000–1800 AD,1 funded by the Academy of Finland. The purpose of the 1

  Project number: 122623.

1

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Figure 1. A map showing the excavated sieidi sites. (Map:T. Äikäs)

The bones were analyzed in the field and the bones that were not needed for further analyses were left at the sieidi. The offerings at the excavated sites consisted mainly of animal bones. No ancient metal objects were found. The species diversity at the sites varied. In Sieiddakeädgi only reindeer was found whereas in Taatsi the offerings

consisted of reindeer, gallinaceous birds, waterfowl, pike, trout and perch. Reindeer was the most prominent and was also found in Näkkälä and Koskikaltionjoen suu but in Näkkälä also bear bones were found and in Koskikaltiojoen suu a large number of bones of gallinaceous birds were found. (Puputti 2008a; 2008b; 2008c; 2009)

2

Tiina Äikäs: Quartzite at a sieidi: a new life of an offering site? The dated bone samples indicated that the sites seem to have been used for a long period of time. The radiocarbon dates of bone finds range from 290±25 BP to 830±25 BP (Hela1889–1898) in Sieiddakeädgi, from modern to 900±25 BP in Taatsi (Hela-1878–1880), from modern to 830±25 BP (Hela-1881–1887) in Näkkälä, and from 259 ± 30 BP to 655 ± 30 BP (Hela-2194–2201) in Koskikaltionjoen suu.

by bone offerings. Four 19th century coins from Näkkälä and Sieiddakeädgi and 19th century bottle glass from Sieiddakeädgi indicate 19th century use of sieidi. In addition two personal objects that could not be dated were found: an antler button from Näkkälä and a bone ring from Taatsi. The most dominant find group after the bones was nevertheless modern finds dating to the end of the 20th century and the beginning of the 21st century. These included: coins, personal objects, candles, and flowers. I will present here these different modern find groups and consider their meaning in the next chapter.

Two of the sites, Porviniemi and Kirkkopahta, revealed no ancient bones. The most obvious conclusion one might draw from this would be that these sites were not used for offering rituals. Nevertheless both of them are frequently mentioned in oral tradition and are also known from written sources even though the status of Porviniemi was already unclear at the time of the written sources (Paulaharju 1932, 4). Another explanation for the lack of finds might be that the stones have been cleaned at some stage of their use, as had been done in Sieiddakeädgi (for more details see Salmi et al. in press). In Porviniemi and Kirkkopahta there were nevertheless no marks of the cleaned bones in the vicinity of the sieidi. In the future the results of phosphate analyses can shed some light into the use of these sites.

Coins were the most prominent find group from the 20th and 21st century. Coins were found from all sieidi sites: 119 (1960–2005) from Taatsi, 329 (1921–2007) from Näkkälä, and 190 (1960–2005) from Sieiddakeädgi. Fewer coins were found from Koskikaltionjoen suu, Porviniemi and Kirkkopahta. The coins were mostly from Nordic countries but there were also single coins from Estonia, Germany, and Switzerland. At Sieiddakeädgi which is situated by the Norwegian border the Norwegian coins were more prominent than at other sites.

Modern offerings?

The coins were usually found from the holes of the sieidi stones where they were out of sight. In some cases it seemed like it was important that one had to take extra trouble to be able to leave the coins. Coins were situated

During the excavations all the marks of human activities were recorded. The earlier centuries were only represented

Figure 2. Coins left in a niche in a cave-like formation at Sieiddakeädgi. (Photo: T. Äikäs) 3

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Figure 3. Coins laid on the surface of the sieidi at Näkkälä. (Photo: T. Äikäs)

Figure 4. A small bouquet that was tied with a string and left at Kirkkopahta. (Photo: T. Äikäs)

4

Tiina Äikäs: Quartzite at a sieidi: a new life of an offering site? on top of high stones or in deep cave like hollows. At Sieiddakeädgi apart from three coins that were found in front of the stone all the coins were left in a deep hollow on the south-eastern side of the stone. One could crawl inside this cave-like feature and put the coins inside small niches engraved by water (Fig. 2). There is no way of doing this without getting your clothes dirty. In other places coins were sometimes squeezed so tightly into the narrow holes that they could not be taken out. Other coins made ornamental motives on the surface of the stone were they were laid (Fig. 3). Hence there seems to be two traditions on leaving coins: one where it is important to hide them or make it impossible for others to take the coins away from the sieidi and other where the coins are used as decorative elements. Nevertheless, at all sites there were also coins that were found from the ground. Some of these had dropped from the stone but other might have been thrown there.

Also personal objects were found. These included a ring with an engraving ‘1953’ and a pendant from Taatsi, an earring from Näkkälä and a yoyo and a lens from Sieiddakeädgi. Of some personal meaning might also be the bouquet of spray that was left at Kirkkopahta (Fig. 4). A single site might also have a tradition of its own. An example could be the small candles that were left at Taatsi. These were not found from any other sites. At Taatsi there were altogether 29 candles that were laid on small platforms (Fig. 5). All of them were burned and there were also matchboxes at the site. All the candles were similar which indicates that whoever brought them was familiar with the tradition or that they were all brought at the same time. There was also another peculiar find group from Taatsi: quartzite. Pieces of quartzite were laid similarly to candles on small platforms. Quartzite was also found from Kirkkopahta. In both cases quartzite was not typical to the surroundings and it was clearly laid on its place by human hand. At Taatsi one could not reach the platform from ground so whoever put the quartzite there had to make certain effort to do it. Mika Sarkkinen has noticed a similar phenomenon while doing a survey at the sieidi in Keivitsa Sodankylä. There one has laid big pieces of split quartzite on a stone close by the old sieidi (Sarkkinen 1993).

According to Sköld (1999) liquids were the most important offering after animals but alcohol offerings were a relatively late phenomenon that began in the 17th century (Sköld 1999, passim). Apart from the 19th century bottle glass also a small bottle of Underberg was found. This was laid on top of the rock formation at Taatsi and was still unopened. In addition to alcohol also cigarettes and a small amount of hashish were found.

Figure 5. Burned candles on a platform at Taatsi. (Photo: T. Äikäs)

5

N-TAG TEN Who left them and why

quartz is held to be significant. (Blain & Wallis, 2007:42; Informant, female, 28 years, pers. comm. 2009) It can be seen as a symbol of the Goddess or an object related to initiation. On the other hand quartz was also important in Sámi tradition. Milky quartz has been found at offering sites. (Manker 1957, 211, 224; Vorren and Eriksen 1993, 181; Wennstedt Edvinger and Broadbent 2006, 29)

The amount and variety of finds from the 20th and 21st century proves that these sites were of special importance also in recent years. They were visited and remembered and given meanings in the minds of people. But who where the people visiting these sites and what were their motives? I approach this question from the perspective of different find groups.

In Britain neo-pagans have left offerings e.g. at megaliths. Offerings consist of flowers, tobacco, food, beverages, and more durable object such as crystals, coins, feathers, unusual stones, and personal ritual objects. Offerings were given for different reasons. Some hoped that the spirits would benefit from them; other wished that someone else would take in use ritual objects that the offerer didn’t need anymore or that the offerings would encourage others to similar behavior. (Wallis 2003, 170)

In Finland the oldest coins from sieidi date to the 17th century (Okkonen 2007, passim) but in Norrland the coins that are found from offering places are dated from the end of the 10th century to the 13th century. All last-mentioned coins are perforated and hence their primary function is interpreted to be a pendant instead of currency (Hedman 2003, 164–165). Thus their value as offerings would be as personal objects. Nevertheless there are also written records of money offerings. Paulaharju is of the opinion that money was usually offered for other purposes than success in reindeer hunting (Paulaharju 1932, 17). Ilmari Itkonen has recorded a tradition of coin offerings from the beginning of the 20th century. He states that still in his days a coin could be thrown to the water in order to get wind. But coin offerings were not to be made in jest. Itkonen tells of a man who offered a coin to Ukonsaari in Inari for fun but became ill afterwards. According to Itkonen this should be a warning for all tourists (Itkonen 1910). Nevertheless the purpose of many coin offerings seems to be turned into tourist performance (Myrvoll 2006, 45). In some cases coins are left at sieidi sites in the same way as they are left at fountains at main tourist attractions all over world.

In Finland neo-pagans respect sieidi stones even if they seldom are part of rituals due to their location in distant places. They are nevertheless visited and during these visits offerings are left. Offerings consist mainly of food, which is left in the vicinity of sieidi so that animals can benefit from it and the offering becomes thus part of the life cycle. (Informant, female, 28 years, pers. comm. 2009) Especially the finds at Taatsi and Kirkkopahta might be interpreted in the frame of reference of neo-pagan tradition. At Kirkkopahta quartzite, spray, and a personal hoard were left at the sieidi stone. At Taatsi quartzite and candles created a unique assemblage of what might be ritual behavior. Both sites are well known and easy to reach since they are situated in the vicinity of a road. On the other hand the candles left at Taatsi might be a mark of a more commercial activity. When I introduced the finds in a seminar for Finnish archaeologists I was told that there is a shaman enterpriser who takes tourists to Taatsi and he might have left the candles.3 This would explain the similarity of all the candles. In this case tourism and spiritual experiences might go hand in hand.

Alcohol and tobacco are another type of offerings that have their roots in Sámi tradition but are also used by tourists. Tobacco was part of old offering rituals (Paulaharju 1932, 14) but is also left by modern visitors. Hashish might continue the tradition of giving stimulants as offerings but it might also be buried without an offering purpose. As mentioned before beverages and alcohol were important in offering rituals. Äimä tells how Skolt Sámi gave an offering or took a drink when passing by a sacred site (Äimä 1903, 116). Hence drinking together has been part of offering rituals. Also in the modern folklore the social use of alcohol, for example as part of fishing trip, is associated with sieidi offerings. Alcohol and fishing has also been connected in the Sámi tradition (Sammallahti 1975, 114–115). Also the flies for fishing that are found from e.g. the stone at Porviniemi, connect modern fishing and sieidi tradition (cf. Hirvonen 2007, 85). These kinds of offerings can be left by tourists as well as locals.

Apart from tourists and religious groups there are of course also other visitors at these sites. Local people might connect to these sites on cultural as well as family history level. Archaeologists visit the sites and see them in the perspective of their research interests. Even animals leave their marks at these sites which can be seen for example in the presence of modern bones. Discussion The marks of recent visits add a new layer into the palimpsest of the use of sieidis. The use of these sites is not static but their biographies include stages of different kinds of use and abandonment, as well as re-use (Fig. 6). During every stage of use new meanings are attached

Mika Sarkkinen associated the quartzite he found from Keivitsa with neo-shamanistic tradition. In neo-pagan2 tradition, especially those connected to witchcraft or wicca,   Neo-paganism can be seen as modern day’s natural religion, the roots of which are in the European pre-modern tradition. Aarnio defines neopaganism as a religion, in which nature is sacred and human is part of nature. (Aarnio 2001, 197)

2

  On the other hand tourism doesn’t always leave any marks. Veikko Siitonen stated that he collected every garbage and took it away after a shamanistic performance (Siitonen pers. comm. 2011).

3

6

Tiina Äikäs: Quartzite at a sieidi: a new life of an offering site? to the sieidi. The biography of the sieidi is founded on relations between the sieidi and different groups of visitors. The social interactions between people and sieidi create meaning (cf. Gosden and Marshall 1999, passim).

2nd  offering …

1st offering

All these visitors relate to the sieidi stones at a different level. They have different, sometimes overlapping interests. Sieidi stones can be seen as tourist attractions, as sacred places, as objects of research, as places connected to cultural identity, or still something else. All groups do not always visit these sites in harmony. Other groups can see the modern offerings as rubbish tainting the place (Wallis 2003, 170). Some archaeologist might want to preserve the place as it was hundreds of years ago. Locals might want to close the site from tourists. And for those holding the place sacred archaeological excavations might appear as disturbance of the peace of the place (Colley 2002, 75).

End of the  use /  destruction  of the sieidi

Beginning  of the use

Re‐use

The justification for certain type of use is often based on the concept of authenticity. Places created for tourists are often seen as inauthentic and they are defined by commerciality, entertainment, and conventionality. (Keskitalo-Foley 2006, 132; Relph 1986, passim) On the other hand, also the concept of inauthenticity has received criticism. (Edensor 2006, 3; Holtorf 2005; Lovata 2007) According to Richard Prentice there are many forms of authenticity, some of which are overlapping. An authentic experience can be created by original object or place; natural environment; location where something significant has happened or is believed to have happened; connection to one’s own or someone else’s ethnic background: learned authenticity that is based on teachings of experts; or built authenticity on a place that simulates history (Prentice 2001, 15–22). All the above mentioned conditions can also be related to sieidi places. Authenticity can be experienced in relation to the location of the sieidi stone, impressive natural environment, ritual activities connected to the stone, connection to ancestors, or the story created by tourist guides or information tables. Authenticity is not given in the object but it is created by the relations between people, places and objects as a part of their biography.

Figure 6. The biography of a sieidi.

 

Conclusion The long history of the use of sieidi sites includes not only animal and metal offerings from the 10th century to the 17th century but also contemporary finds. Coins, quartzite, bouquets, and personal objects indicate a more recent use of these sites. During the biography of the sieidis meanings attached to these places have changed. New finds tell about use and meanings in connection tourism and neopaganism but also continuation of old tradition, e.g. alcohol offerings. The new offerings at the stones become part of the biography of the sieidi. It is a cycle where a beginning of the use, new offering traditions, a possible abandonment or even destruction and again a beginning of the use and new offerings follow each other. The changing nature of the meanings attached to the sieidi challenges the concept of static authenticity. The authenticity of these places is not bind to the objects themselves but lives in the relations between visitor, places, and activities connected to the places. Hence the multiple meaning of these places can only be reached by a multivocal research.

Archaeological sites are not just research material for archaeologists. They have a life of their own. While visiting these sites people can relate to the past in different ways. Shanks and Tilley (1987) have used the term “multiple pasts” to describe the way how ethnic, cultural, social and political viewpoints actively create not just one but many pasts. Families, individuals and groups experience and define the historical truth in different ways (McDavid 2003, 50–62). Hence there is a need for a multivocal research that accepts different ways to explain and interpret the past (Nicholas and Hollowell 2007, 4–5). Alternative worldviews and histories can be seen as valid ways to give meanings. The past cannot be owned. It lives as people visit the sites and give new meanings to them.

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N-TAG TEN Colley, S. 2002. Uncovering Australia. Archaeology, Indigenous people and the public. Crows Nest, Allen & Unwin. Edensor, T. 2006. Tourists at the Taj. Performance and Meaning at a Symbolic Site. 2. edition. Oxford-New Uork, Routledge. Fossum, B. 2006. Förfädernas land. En arkeologisk studie av rituella lämningar i Sápmi, 300 f.Kr.–1600 e.Kr. Studia Archaeologica Universitatis Umensis 22. Umeå. Gosden, C. and Y. Marshall 1999. The cultural biography of objects. World Archaeology 31(2), 167–178. Hirvonen, V. 2007. Paikan muisti ja muistot paikoista. In T. Elo and P. Magga (eds.), Eletty, koettu maisema – näkökulmia saamelaiseen kulttuurimaisemaan. Suomen ympäristö 34, 77–89. Hedman, S. D. 2003. Boplatser och offerplatser. Ekonomisk strategi och boplatsmönster bland skogssamer 700– 1600 AD. Studia Archaeologica Universitatis Umensis 17. Umeå. Holtorf, C. 2005. From Stonehenge to Las Vegas. Archaeology as Popular Culture. Walnut Creek, Altamira Press. Itkonen, I. 1910. Muinaisjäännöksiä ja tarinoita Inarijärven ympäristöltä. National Board of Antiquities, Archaeology, Topographical Archives. Keskitalo-Foley, S. 2006. Kolme näkökulmaa Lapin paikkana kokemiseen. In S. P. Knuuttila, P. Laaksonen and U. Piela (eds.), Paikka. Eletty, kuviteltu, kerrottu. Kalevalaseuran vuosikirja 85, 129–146. Kjellström, R. 1987. On the continuity of old Saami religion. In T. Ahlbäck (ed.), Saami Religion. Based on Papers Read at the Symposium on Saami Religion Held at Åbo, Finland, on the 16th–18th of August 1984. Scripta Instituti Donneriani Aboensis XII, 24–33. Lovata, T. 2007. Inauthentic Archaeologies. Public Uses and Abuses of the Past. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press. Manker, E. 1957, Lapparnas heliga ställen. Kultplatser och offerkult I belysning av nordiska museets och landsantikvariernas fältundersökningar. Acta Lapponica XIII. Uppsala, Gebers. McDavid, C. 2003. Collaboration, Power, and the Internet. The Public Archaeology of the Levi Jordan Plantation. In L. Derry and M. Malloy (eds.), Archaeologists and Local Communities. Partners in Exploring the Past, 45-66. Washington DC, Society for American Archaeology. Mulk, I-M 2005. Viddjavárri – en samisk offerplats vid Rávttasjávri i ett samhällsperspektiv. In R. Engelmark, T. B. Larsson and L. Rathje (eds.), En lång historia… festskrift till Evert Baudou på 80-årsdagen. Archaeology and Environment 19, 331-348. Robertsfors. Myrvoll, E. R. 2008. Samiske helligsteder. Tradisjon – registrering – forvaltning. NIKU Rapport 24. (Retrieved 13. October 2009 from http://www.niku.no/ index.asp?strUrl=//applications/System/publish/view/ showobject.asp?infoobjectid=1001476) Nicholas, G. and J. Hollowell 2007. Ethical Challenges to a Postcolonial Archaeology. The Legacy of Scientific Colonialism. In Y. Hamilakis and P. Duke (eds.),

Archaeology and Capitalism. From Ethics to Politics, 1-23. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press. Okkonen, J. 2007. Archaeological investigations at the Sámi sacrificial site of Ukonsaari in lake Inari. Fennoscandia Archaeologica 24, 29–38. Paulaharju, S. 1932. Seitoja ja seidan palvontaa. Helsinki, Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seura. Prentice, R. 2001. Experiental cultural tourism: museums & the marketing of the new romanticism of evoked authenticity. Museum Management and Curatorship 19 (1), 5–26. Puputti, A-K 2009. Inari Koskikaltiojoen suu. Kesän 2009 luuaineiston analyysi. Unpublished report. University of Oulu, Laboratory of Archaeology. Puputti, A-K 2008a. Kittilä Taatsi. Kesän 2008 kaivausten luuaineiston analyysi. Unpublished report. University of Oulu, Laboratory of Archaeology. Puputti, A-K 2008b. Enontekiö Näkkälä. Kesän 2008 kaivausten luuaineiston analyysi. Unpublished report. University of Oulu, Laboratory of Archaeology. Puputti, A-K 2008c. Utsjoki Seitala. Kesän 2008 kaivausten luuaineiston analyysi. Unpublished report. University of Oulu, Laboratory of Archaeology. Relph, E. 1986. Place and Placelessness. 3. edition. London, Pion. Salmi, A-K, T. Äikäs, and S. Lipponen (in press). Animating rituals at Sámi sacred sites in Northern Finland. Journal of Social Archaeology. Sammallahti, P. 1975. Sodankylän saamelaisten entistä elämää Elsa-Marja Aikion kertomana. Castrenianumin toimitteita 14. Sarkkinen, M. 1993. Sodankylä 27 Petkula Keivitsa. Seitapaikan tarkastus. Unpublished report. National Board of Antiquities. Department of Archaeology, Topographical archives. Shanks, M. and C. Tilley 1987. Re-Constructing Archaeology. Theory and practice. London, Routledge. Sköld, P. 1999. Seime staembe. Brännivinet I den samiska religionen. Oknytt 20, 63–84. Vorren, Ø. and H. K. Eriksen 1993. Samiske offerplasser i Varanger. Tromsø Museums skrifter XXIV. Tromsø, Nordkalott-Forlaget. Wallis, R. J. 2003. Shamans / Neo-Shamans. Ecstasy,Aalternative Archaeologies and Contemporary Pagans. London and New York, Routledge. Wennstedt Edvinger, B. and N. D., Broadbent 2006. Saami Circular Sacrificial Sites in Northern Coastal Sweden. Acta Borealia 23, 24–55. Personal communications: Informant, female, 28 years. E-mail interview, July 2009 Siitonen, Veikko. E-mail interview, January 2011. Tiina Äikäs Archaeology, University of Oulo P.O. Box 1000 SF 90014 Oulu, Finland [email protected]

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Without a trace? Rituals and remembrance at rune stones Cecilia Ljung and Susanne Thedéen Stockholm University

Abstract The space and use of the immediate area around rune stones has, with a few exceptions, not been studied. Runic inscriptions commemorate diseased relatives but the creation of the memorial may also have evoked practices leaving material traces. The aim of this article is to explore whether other activities than carving and erecting rune stones can be linked to the practice of remembrance and the rune stone tradition. It will be discussed in what way the space and place around rune stones was created, used and possibly reused. To answer these issues we carried out a small excavation at a rune stone (U 60) in Norra Ängby, Stockholm. Based on the results of the excavation we suggest two aspects and plausible interpretations: First, the possibility of constructing an enclosed place around rune stones which may be linked to making a memorial. Second, the evidence of late Viking Age practices of remembrance at rune stones such as ritual meals, or signs of reuse during medieval periods to mark boundaries between farms.

Introduction

the short side shows similarities to that of early Christian grave monuments, so called Eskilstuna cists (Figure 1).

Rune stones and runic inscriptions have been studied from a variety of angles during the last 400 years (cf. Andrén 2000). Focus has mainly been on the rune stone itself, the inscriptions and the ornamentation or the placing of rune stones in the landscape. But the space and use of the immediate area around rune stones has, with a few exceptions, not been studied. Runic inscriptions commemorate diseased relatives but the creation of the memorial may also have evoked practices leaving material traces. The aim of this article is to explore whether other activities than carving and erecting rune stones can be linked to the practice of remembrance and the rune stone tradition. Furthermore, it will be discussed in what way the space and place around rune stones was created, used and possibly reused.

The rune stone is situated on the edge of a small ridge, sized 16x7 m, which has been interpreted both as a roadside and a stone-setting. According to Richard Dybeck, in the 19th century, the rune stone was erected on a small hillock beside the road on the estate of the farm of Ängby. Erik Brate writes in the beginning of the last century that the rune stone stands on the west side of the road with the ornamented front side facing away from it (Wessén and Jansson 1940-58 1, 82). A map from 1901-06 shows the old road, the small ridge and the rune stone. From the map we can tell that the ridge originally was more extensive, only a part of it is now preserved in the spared plot between the houses (Figure 2). Since the rune stone is carved on two sides, the front side and one of the short sides, one gets the impression that it faces in one direction and that it should be approached from the south west and not from the north as the road did in historical times.

To elucidate on this issue we initiated the research project “Rituals at rune stones?” and carried out a small excavation at a rune stone. The place and object chosen for the excavation was the Ängby-stone, U 60 in Upplands runinskrifter (RAÄ 72), in Norra Ängby a suburb northwest of Stockholm, Sweden (Wessén and Jansson 1940-58 1, 82f). It has been chosen as the stone is in situ and because of the interesting stone-formation surrounding the stone. The inscription on the stone cites that:

There are several remains from the Iron Age in the vicinity of the Ängby-stone. Iron Age and Viking Age cemeteries with mounds and stone-settings are located south (RAÄ 62 and RAÄ 107) and east (RAÄ 63 and RAÄ 64) of the rune stone (Figure 3). There are also indications of graves around the rune stone. One stone-setting (RAÄ 106) is registered in a garden 25 m south of the stone and information in the archives tells about an additional stonesetting of considerable size, now disappeared (Rydh and Schnittger 1922, 27). There may also have been a stonesetting, possibly ship-formed, in the garden only 10 m north east of the stone, now lost (S. Lehnberg pers. comm. 2009-05-14).

kirRþu þRir utr × lRt + rnesn × s=tnea + iftRr + bira fnþur + RkRkriþnr × hna × ohr × irfRkR uRþa × h...-...þ Uddr let ræisa stæin æftiR Biorn, faður IngiriðaR. Hann vaR ærfingi Viða ... ”Oddr had the stone raised in memory of Björn, Ingifríðr’s father. He was Viði’s/Víði’s heir ...”

Excavating iconic features

The beginning of the inscription has no clear interpretation and the end is lost. According to the ornamentation the stone derives from the late 11th century (Gräslund 1991; 1992). It is carved on two sides; the ornamentation on

Excavations at Gotlandic picture stones from the Iron Age as well as at Bronze Age rock carving sites have shown the potential of excavating iconic features (Andreeff pers. comm.;). Bengtsson 2004, 105ff; Lindqvist 1942, 36ff, 9

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Figure 1. The Ängby-stone (U 60) with ornamentation on two sides. Photo: Cecilia Ljung and Susanne Thedéen.

Figure 2. Excerpt from the economic map of the hundred dated 1901-1906 showing the ridge and the Ängby-stone (U 60) marked with an R. 10

Cecilia Ljung and Susanne Thedéen: Without a trace? Rituals and remembrance at rune stones

Figure 3. Excerpt from the property map showing Ängby with Iron Age cemeteries and the Ängby-stone (U 60) © Lantmäteriet Gävle 2011. Printed with permission I 2011/0766.

83ff; Nordström 1995; Wennersten 1973). Excavations at Gotlandic picture stones have given indications of constructions, depositions as well as graves. In connection to picture stones at Buttle Änge in Buttle, unburnt animal bones and pottery were recovered. The picture stones at Stora Hammars in Lärbro, were raised in stone-settings where several concentrations of unburnt animal bones were found (Lindqvist 1942). At Visnar ängar in Alskog two cremation graves with numerous finds were recovered by two picture stones (Wennersten 1973). Recently, Ph D student Alexander Andreeff, Gothenburg university excavated a picture stone at Stenstugu in Fröjel. The stone was raised in a small stone-setting next to a road. The excavation by the picture stone revealed objects and cremated bones (Andreeff pers.comm.). Thus, experiences from the picture stone tradition on Gotland point to a possibility of rune stone sites also containing remains.

of this is an excavation beneath a rune carving (U 114) at Runby in Ed, where a bridge was cited, but no structures were unearthed (ATA dnr 2530/90). However another excavation at Vickeby in Knivsta, close to a rune carving on a rock slab, revealed a stone construction interpreted as a bridge foundation, which is cited in the inscription on U 475 (ATA dnr 421-4546-1994). These examples suggest that the nature of the questions may have resulted in other structures or material culture being overlooked in connection with the excavations. An excavation at Broby in Täby in Uppland was more successful. During the excavation of three burials from the 11th century massive posthole-like constructions were found (Andersson, L 1999). The burials were situated by a rune stone bridge which originally had two rune stones on each side of the bridge. One of the rune stones (U 135), originally placed by the bridge, cites that “Ingefast and Östen and Sven raised these stones in memory of Östen, their father and they made this bridge and this mound” (Andersson, L. 1999, 3). The size and the depth of the posthole constructions have led Lars Andersson to interpret them as possible foundations for rune stones. Furthermore, their placing in a row is an indication of the postholes being remains of the bridge stones mentioned in the runic inscriptions (Andersson, L. 1999, 28f). One of the foundations, with a diameter of around 1 m, consisted of a large construction with stone-packing and clay layer. In the bottom of the foundation depositions of unburnt animal bones were recovered. The animal bones derived from sheep, cattle and possibly horse (Andersson, L. 1999:47).

Regarding rune stones there are also some examples of excavations. Rune stones were excavated at Kvarnbo in Läby (U 902) and at Ängeby in Lunda (U 356) already during the first half of the 20th century. No remains were found (Ekholm 1938 1948; cf. Mattsson1996). When rune stone sites have been examined the main focus has often been other than studying practices around the rune stone. Questions that have been addressed amongst others concern finding missing fragments of a rune stone and/ or to explore the possibility of the stone being erected in a grave. This was the case when a large area around the Järsberg stone in Varnum (Vr 1) was excavated, although no finds were recovered (Ödmark 1995). Another issue has been to find the foundation for a bridge mentioned on rune stones placed next to a water course. One example

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N-TAG TEN The examples of excavations at rune stone sites have thus yielded a mixed picture of what one can expect to recover. Further excavations are consequently needed to receive a better understanding of the way the places around rune stones have been used.

Beskow 1994). These prayers may have been read out loud in connection with the commemoration of the dead. Some rune carvings urge the viewer to read, interpret or decipher (ráða in Old Norse) the inscriptions which request the reader to actively work out the meanings of the monument (Andrén 2000, 10). These kinds of requests may also indicate that runic inscriptions were recited. Commemorations such as praying, singing and reciting are however not likely to be revealed archaeologically.

Rune stones and memory The numerous Scandinavian rune stones are clear material evidence of the practice of commemoration of the dead in the late Viking Age society (cf. Jesch 2005). As a point of departure we argue that the primary understanding of rune stones should be as memorials and obituaries recording the posthumous reputation of dead relatives (Ljung 2009; Thedéen, 2009). Other functions ascribed to rune stones such as documents of inheritance and property rights, Christian monuments and manifestations of political power and allegiances (von Friesen 1913; Palm 1992; Sawyer 1988; 2000, 16ff, 146ff; Zachrisson 1998, 126ff, 149ff) are also significant but should be conceived of as secondary meanings (cf. Jesch 2005).

Ritual meals performed during the funeral, offerings and depositions to be used in the realm of the dead, like pottery and food, are on the other hand likely to leave material traces. A general difference between immaterial and material practices linked to funeral rituals has long been acknowledged when comparing Christian with Old Norse traditions (Gräslund 2001; Nilsson, B. 1996; Trotzig1969; Williams, He. 1996; Zachrisson, 1998, 148f;). Lately this dualistic view has been questioned as early Christian funeral rituals also seem to have included depositions of material objects, for example suggested by the occurrence of knives or burial rods in graves (Andersson, G. 2005, 115ff; Jonsson, 2009, 111ff). Rune stones are highly interesting in this context. They are expressions of the Christian faith, which is demonstrated through the many incised crosses and runic prayers in the inscriptions, but other aspects of them refer to older traditions, as for example the animal ornamentation and the view of which death causes, deeds and qualities where the most honorable for a Viking Age man (Thedéen 2009; Zachrisson 1998). Accordingly, rune stones can be understood as interlinked traditions or as hybrids and we expect that practices of remembrance at rune stones can exhibit both immaterial and material dimensions with allusions to both Christian traditions and Old Norse mentalities.

The theoretical perspective taken in this study is to explore practices of remembrances associated with the rune stone tradition. Memory should not be considered as an internal process of human thoughts in which reminiscences of past events are preserved in an immaterial symbolic storage. Rather memory can be conceived of as a process of dialogic encounter between people and things (Jones 2007; Williams, Ho. 2006, 2). Material objects provide a basis for humans to experience memory. They function as indices or reminders of past persons and events and are thereby providing means by which people are able to re-experience the past. Thus objects actively evoke remembrance (Jones2007, 22ff; Williams, Ho. 2006, 20). Rune stones were erected to commemorate deceased relatives, but Andrew Jones asserts that the durability of monuments does not alone guarantee the endurance of memory. In fact memories are emerging from the use of monuments in social and cultural practices, in the active process of remembering (Jones 2007, 39ff). Commemoration is a formalised activity and a practice where individual and collective memories are interwoven with material culture. Commemorative performances often take place through a medium, an object or a place which recalls past persons and events (Jones 2007, 44f; see also Connerton 1989, 61, 71). We argue that rune stones and their immediate surrounding may be perceived as such mediums of remembrance. The rune stone tradition is in itself highly formalised, expressed in the stereotype formula of the inscriptions and the design of the ornamentation. Furthermore, if rune stones are understood as mnemonic devices, the placing of the memorials would most likely have comprised practices and rituals.

The Excavation The excavation encompassed a 9 meter square large trench around the rune stone and a narrow trench right across the small ridge on which the rune stone is situated. The purpose of the narrow trench was to get a section of the ridge and to determine whether it consisted of a natural moraine till or was a man-made construction such as a roadside. The stratigraphical method of single context recording was used in order to document different structures and layers representing various activities around the rune stone. The excavation revealed several layers filled with modern remains demonstrating that intense activities had taken place around the rune stone during the last century. Unfortunately the rune stone had been straightened up in the end of the 1960s and the area closest to its base was destroyed as a result of this. The most interesting result of the excavation was the discovery of a stone-packing covering the area around the rune stone. The stone-packing seems to be contemporary to the rune stone (Figure 4). The extension of the stone-packing could not be determined as it continued outside the main trench, but it possibly covers the whole end of the hillock on which the rune stone is

Practices of remembrance for dead relatives can have both material and immaterial dimensions. The numerous runic prayers indicate that rune stones were meant to evoke Christian intercessions for the soul of the deceased (cf.

12

Cecilia Ljung and Susanne Thedéen: Without a trace? Rituals and remembrance at rune stones situated. This assumption is supported by the fact that the stone-packing did not continue in the narrow trench in the lower area beneath the ridge. Several stones and boulders are situated around the east edge of the ridge. These stones encircle the rune stone in a construction alluding to a kerb, with a diameter of ca. 7 m (Figure 5). A probable hypothesis is that the stone-packing reaches as far as the stones encircling the end of the hillock. In connection with the stone-packing two pieces of unburnt animal bone were found, one of which has been determined as horse (Figure 6). The animal bones were recovered close to the disrupted area at the base of the rune stone which makes the find context somewhat problematic. However, unburnt animal bones did not occur in any of the layers containing modern remains which make it likely that they originally were deposited in or close to the stone foundation of the rune stone. As has been mentioned there are indications of the rune stone being placed in a cemetery, although most of the remains have not been preserved. Yet, the excavation revealed no indications of the rune stone being placed in an older Iron Age grave as no signs of a cremation layer or human bones were found. Nor were any remains of a road construction recovered and the ridge must therefore be interpreted as a natural moraine till. This assumption is supported by the historic map from 1901-06, showing that the moraine till originally, before the building of the residential area in the 1930s, was more extensive. Thus, the end of the moraine till may have been modified in connection with the erection of the rune stone. Beneath the stone packing there was at least half a meter of thick

Figure 4. The Ängby-stone (U 60) and the stonepacking. Photo: Cecilia Ljung.

Figure 5. Possible kerb or stone-setting enclosing the Ängby-stone (U 60). Photo: Cecilia Ljung.

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Figure 6. Animal bones found in the stone-packing. Photo: Cecilia Ljung. Estate Rune stone Context Inscription Bällsta, Vallentuna sn (U 225+226) squared stone-settings made assembly-place, no memorial will be more great raised stones and staff Gnista, Vaksala sn (U 972) squared stone-setting erected the stone Replösa, Ljungby sn (Sm 35) possible ship-setting made these monuments Stora Lundby, Lid sn (Sö 131) ship-setting raised the stone Stora Lunger, Götlunda sn (Nä 31) ship-formed stone-setting made Tibble, Husby-Långhundra sn (U 496) squared stone-setting made these memorials Tystberga, Tystberga sn (Sö 173) stone circle raised these monuments Örby, Rasbo sn (U 1011) stone circle on grave cut the memorial, cut stone

Figure 7. Examples of enclosed rune stones: U 496, Tibble in Husby-Långhundra (left), U 225+U 226, Bällsta in Vallentuna (above right), and Nä 31, Stora Lunger in Götlunda (below right). Modified after Bautil 14

Cecilia Ljung and Susanne Thedéen: Without a trace? Rituals and remembrance at rune stones clay layer. Because of the limited size of the trench the clay layer could not be excavated in full and therefore it is not certain whether it was a natural layer or if it was deposited in connection with preparing the ground before the erection of the rune stone. The clay layer as well as the stone-packing, and possibly also the larger kerb-like stones encircling the east end of the moraine till, may be interpreted as remains of the construction of an enclosed place around the rune stone (Ljung and Thedéen 2009).

as it occurs on Early Christian grave monuments (Palm 1992, 236). In total mærki are cited in 93 runic inscriptions (Peterson 2006). 22 of these are mentioned in plural form. 24 of the inscriptions are carved on rock slabs, a practice that is more common in Södermanland than in Uppland as Rune Palm has concluded (Palm 1992, 184f). In general we agree with other scholars that the concept mærki can be understood as expressing a memorial in a wide sense. It may also have been used to differentiate the language or to denote inscriptions on rock slabs in contrast to raised stones (cf. Palm 1992, 241). However, sometimes additional information in the inscriptions citing mærki can guide us to an understanding of the concept as signifying something additional, representing more than only one or two raised stones. Two inscriptions mention [M]unu æigi mærki mæiRi verða, translated as “no memorial will be more great” (U 225, U 69). Other stones cite phrasings such as mykit mærki, “great memorial” (Sö 41, U 102), mærki mærkilikt, “monumental/praiseworthy memorial” (U 773, G 188) and mærki sirun, “rune-decorated memorial” (Sö 86, Sö 111). Another clue to an understanding of the concept is the expression let sysla mærki vel, “had the memorials arranged well” (U 1107).

Enclosing a place for practices of remembrance and the making of a mærki In the following we will focus on two aspects and possible interpretations of the results of the excavation. First, the possibility of constructing an enclosed place around the rune stone which may be associated with making a memorial (mærki). Second, the evidence of late Viking Age practices of remembrance at rune stones such as ritual meals, or the evidence of reuse of rune stones during medieval periods to mark boundaries between farms. The stones encircling the Ängby-stone can be compared with other examples of rune stones being placed in stone constructions that may be squared, ship-formed or circular stone-settings (cf. Klos 2009, 86f). It has been suggested that rune stones erected within the kerb of a stone-setting is to be understood as erected in a grave (Gräslund 1987, 256f). There are a number of such examples where most of them can be connected to pre-Christian cemeteries that also contain squared or rectangular stone-settings indicating early Christian graves (cf. Gräslund 1987). What is significant with these constructions is that they do not always contain a burial. Ship-settings, stone circles and rectangular and squared stone-settings may be empty or cenotaphs. This may signify other forms of use and meanings of these structures. In some cases already existing features have been reused, in other cases new settings were made in connection to the erection of the stone. The original contexts are often lost or disturbed but the drawings of Peringsköld are in many cases illustrative and helpful (Figure 7). Some examples are mentioned below:

Another aspect is that mærki in most cases is used alone as a monument marker and not together with other activities. There are however examples of rune stones with other monument markers where several actions are mentioned in the inscriptions that include additional events beside carving and erecting a stone. The most common combination is to raise a stone and make a bridge. But some inscriptions cite further actions as for example Sö 174 at Aspö church, where it is mentioned that a monument, a sarcophagus/hospice (líkhus) and a bridge are made. Another example is the previously mentioned excavation close to rune stone U 135 at Broby in Täby. The inscription tells that stones are raised, a bridge and a mound are made. This difference in use is interesting as it opens up for a distinction between the meaning of raising a rune stone and making a memorial. Also the above mentioned examples of “made these memorials” in plural form may reveal monuments consisting of several components. It has been suggested that mærki as well as kumbl refer to rune stones being erected together with several boulders, to cover a rune stone and a mound in association or to denote the making of a stone and a bridge (Hellberg 1967, 86; Klos 2009, 225; Nielsen 1953). These arguments are in line with the results of our study.

The examples of rune stones in various kinds of stonesettings show some common features: They are often found in cemeteries, they show a tendency to have inscriptions mentioning the concept “made this memorial” or “made this monument” instead of the more common “raised the stone”. Finally the concept “made these memorials” sometimes is expressed in plural form.

Meals of remembrance or marking of boundaries Turning to the recovered animal bones and an understanding of them it is possible to suggest two alternative interpretations depending on the dating of the bones: A contemporary deposition of the animal bones can be explained if Gotlandic picture stones are used as comparison. In connection to the previously mentioned excavation of two picture stones at Buttle Änge unburnt animal bones (no osteological estimations) and pottery

This leads to a discussion of the meaning of the concept “memorial” (cf. Klos 2009, 221ff; Palm 1992). The concept “memorial” is above all used in Eastern Sweden. In southern Scandinavia the concept monument (kumbl) is common (Palm 1992, 181ff). Furthermore, mærki is primarily used for late rune stones from the last half of the 1100th century and is a tradition with continuity in early Christian times 15

N-TAG TEN were recovered. Several concentrations of unburned animal bones at depths of 50-70 cm below the surface were also unearthed at the Lärbro picture stones placed in stone-settings. These finds have been interpreted as indications of meals of remembrance in connection to the erection of the stones (Lindqvist1942). This is also a plausible understanding of the animal bones from horse at the Ängby-stone.

probably has been located. Unfortunately the area has been damaged as it is situated in a residential district. Another example is U 69 from Eggeby in Spånga where an early rune stone cites that RagnælfR let gærva bro þessi æftiR Anund, sun sinn goðan. Guð [hial]pi hans and ok salu bætr þan hann gærði til. Munu æigi mærki mæiRi verða, moðiR gærði æftiR sun sinn æiniga .”Ragnelfr had this bridge made in memory of Ônundr, her good son. May God help his spirit and soul better than he deserved. No memorial will be more (great). The mother made in memory of her only son”. Also in this case a stone has been raised although not mentioned in the inscription. Furthermore a bridge has been made and the monument is referred to as no memorial will be more great. As has already been noted ”make a memorial” occurs primarily on late stones from the second half of the 11th century in contrast to early stones with other monument markers. This may imply a change in the rune stone tradition and besides erecting a stone it comprised additional practices.

Another possibility is that the animal bones represent a reuse of the place and the stone. At the excavation at Broby in Täby in Uppland, cited earlier in the paper, two of the posthole-like constructions were suggested to be foundations for rune stones. The foundations contained stones, clay layer and animal bones from sheep, cattle and maybe horse. Lars Andersson argues that the rune stones at Broby bro can be connected to boundaries of historical farms and that the deposits of animal bones at the foundation of the rune stones is a medieval reuse and a ritual marking of the boundaries between estates (Andersson, L. 1999, 29). This practice is mentioned in the Upplandic law from 1296 (Holmbäck and Wessén 1979, 175f). In our opinion this explanation is less probable concerning the Ängby-stone as it cannot be connected to historical boundaries between farms. A dating of the bones will of course be necessary to answer the question regarding a contemporary or reuse of the rune stone.

Finally returning to the Ängby-stone we suggest that the rune stone can be conceived of as a mærki although the word is not explicitly mentioned in the inscription. The Ängby-stone is situated in a stone enclosure and shows several similarities with rune stone monuments citing mærki placed in various forms of stone-settings. The clay layer and the stone-packing found during the excavation indicate that the erection of the rune stone was preceded by a preparation of the ground as well as a modification of the natural ridge. In addition to the stones encircling the rune stone these features can be interpreted as part of the creation of space for commemoration of the dead. The recovered unburnt animal bones in the immediate surroundings of the Ängby-stone reveal other activities than carving and erecting the rune stone, possibly ritual meals or offerings. This demonstrates that the rune stone tradition also included practices and rituals leaving material traces in the archaeological record. Indeed, it is rewarding to excavate jointly iconic symbols and linguistic features!

Conclusion We would like to put forward the idea that the concept of mærki, in addition to designate a rune stone together with boulders or a mound or a bridge (Hellberg 1967, 86; Klos 2009, 225; Nielsen 1953), can be linked to stone architecture enclosing rune stones as shown in the examples above. These structures may signify enclosed spaces and places for commemoration of the dead. Furthermore, mærki may refer to other actions/practices/ rituals being performed in the immediate surroundings of rune stones. These activities can have included depositing animal bones, conducting ritual meals in memory of the dead and making a bridge for the soul of the dead.

Acknowledgement We would like to give our special thanks to Magnus Källström for his interest in our project as well as visiting the excavation and giving constructive comments on this paper.

One example where mærki is used and the inscription also cites other actions and practices is the rock carving U 102 in Viby, Sollentuna. The carving is dated to the last half of the 11th century. The inscription reads: Kali let haggva hælli þessa æftiR syni sina tva, ok þau Ingiþora br[o] æina giærðu, mykit mærki fyriR margum(?) manni. “Kali had this rock slab cut in memory of his two sons, and he and Ingiþóra made one bridge -- a great memorial for many(?) men”. This inscription cites both that a father was responsible for the cutting of the rock while he and his wife together made a bridge. These two actions are mentioned as a great memorial for many men. Mærki in this case can be understood as the carving and the bridge. Maybe mærki also included the rectangular stone-settings lying in a row on the hill above the carving as well as a rectangular stone-setting below where the bridge over the water course

References Andersson, G. 2005. Gravspråk som religiös strategi. Valsta och Skälby i Attundaland under vikingatid och tidig medeltid. Stockholm, Riksantikvarieämbetet. Andersson, L. 1999. Jarlabankeättens gravplats vid Broby bro. Arkeologisk undersökning av gravplats med tre skelettgravar vid Broby bro. Täby socken och kommun. Uppland. Rapport 1999:4. Stockholm, Stockholms Läns Museum. 16

Cecilia Ljung and Susanne Thedéen: Without a trace? Rituals and remembrance at rune stones Uppsala, 9.-15. August 2009, 595-602. Gävle, Gävle University Press. Ljung, C. and S. Thedéen 2009. Ritualer vid runstenar. En arkeologisk undersökning invid Ängbystenen i Bromma. SAR. Rapport. Stockholm, Stockholms universitet. Mattson, Ö. 1996. Bautastensgravfält. Diskuterande utvärdering av undersökningar av gravfält med resta stenar i Uppsalatrakten. CD-uppsats, Arkeologiska institutionen, Uppsala universitet. Nielsen, K-M. 1953. Kuml. Kuml, Årbog for jysk arkæologisk selskab 1953, 7-14. Nilsson, B. 1996. Från gravfält till kyrkogård. Förändringar och variation i gravskicket. In B. Nilsson (ed.), Kristnandet i Sverige. Gamla källor och nya perspektiv, 349-385. Projektet Sveriges kristnande, publikationer. Uppsala, Lunne böcker. Nordström, P. 1995. Arkeologiska undersökningar invid hällristningar. Analys av 16 utgrävningar i Sverige och Norge. Uppsats i påbyggnadsarkeologi, Stockholms universitet. Nä, NäR = Närkes runinskrifter. Granskade och tolkade av Sven B. F. Jansson. Sveriges runinskrifter. Band 14. KVHAA. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell international 1975. Ödmark, M. 1995. Undersökning RAÄ 12, Järsberg 1:2, Varnum socken, Värmland. UV Hk rapport december 1995. Stockholm, Riksantikvarieämetet. Palm, R. 1992. Runor och regionalitet. Studier av variation i de nordiska minnesinskrifterna. Runrön 7. Uppsala, Uppsala universitet. Peterson, L. 2006. Svenskt runordsregister. Runrön 2. Uppsala, Uppsala universitet. Rydh, H. And B. Schnittger 1922. Där fädrens kummel stå - En utfärdsbok för Stockholmstraktens fornlämningar. Stockholm, Tisell. Sawyer, B. 1988. Property and Inheritance in Viking Scandinavia. The Runic Evidence. Occasional Papers on Medieval Topics 2. Aligsås, Viktoria bokförlag. Sawyer, B. 2000. The Viking-Age Rune-Stones. Custom and Commemoration in Early Medieval Scandinavia. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Sm, SmR = Smålands runinskrifter. Granskade och tolkade av Erik Kinander. Sveriges runinskrifter. Band 4. KVHAA. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell international 1935-1961. Sö, SÖR = Södermanlands runinskrifter. Granskade och tolkade av Erik Brate och Elias Wessén. Sveriges runinskrifter. Band 3. KVHAA. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell international, 1924-1936. Thedéen, S. 2009. A desirable, deceitful and disatrous death – memories of men and masculinities in Late Viking Age runic inscriptions. In E. Regner, C. von Heijne, L. Kitzler Åhfeldt and A. Kjellström (eds.), From Ephesos to Darlecarlia. Reflections on Body,Space and Time in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, 5782. The Museum of National Antiquities, Stockholm. Studies 11 & Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 48.

Andrén, A. 2000. Re-reading embodied texts – an interpretation of rune-stones. Current Swedish Archaeology 8, 7-32. Bengtsson, L. 2004. Bilder vid vatten. Kring hällristningar i Askum sn, Bohuslän. Gotarc Serie C. Arkeologiska skrifter 51. G¨teborg, Göteborgs universitet. Beskow, P. 1994. Runor och liturgi. In P. Beskow, P. And R. Staats (eds.), Nordens kristnande i europeiskt perspektiv: tre uppsatser. Occasional papers on medieval topics, 7. Skara, Victoria bokförlag. Connerton, P. 1989. How Societies Remember. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Ekholm, G. 1938. Ett uppländskt gravfält från La Ténetiden och andra fornlämningar i trakten vid Läbyvad. Fornvännen 33, 69-99. Ekholm, G. 1948. Runstensmonumentet i Ängby hästhage. Tor 1, 29-33. von Friesen, O. 1913. Upplands runstenar. En allmänfattlig öfversikt. Uppsala, Akademiska bokhandeln. G, GR = Gotlands runinskrifter. Granskade och tolkade av Sven B. F. Janson, Elias Wessén och Elisabeth Svärdström. Sveriges runinskrifter, Band 12. KVHAA. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell international 1978. Gräslund, A.-S. 1987. Runstenar, bygd och gravar. Tor 21, 241- 262. Gräslund, A.-S. 1991. Runstenar. Om ornamentik och datering. Tor 23, 113-140. Gräslund, A.-S. 1992. Runstenar. Om ornamentik och datering II. Tor 24, 177-201. Gräslund, A.-S. 2001. Ideologi och mentalitet: om religionsskiftet i Skandinavien från en arkeologisk horisont. OPIA 29. Uppsala, Uppsala universitet. Hellberg, L. 1967. Kumlabygdens ortnamn och äldre bebyggelse. Kumlabygden, forntid-nutid-framtid 3. Kumla, Kumla kommun. Holmbäck, Å. And E. Wessén 1979. Svenska Landskapslagar. Östgötalagen och Upplandslagen. Tolkade och förklarade för nutidens svenskar av Åke Holmbäck och Elias Wessén. Stockholm, Geber Jesch, J. 2005. Memorials in speech and writing. Hikuin 32, 95-104. Jones, A. 2007. Memory and Material Culture. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Jonsson, K. 2009. Practices for the Living and the Dead. Medieval and Post-Reformatorian Burials in Scandinavia. Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 20. Stockholm, Stockholm University. Klos, L. 2009. Runensteine in Schweden. Studien zu Aufstellungsort und Funktion. Ergänzungsbände zum Reallexikon der germanischen Altertumskunde 64. Berlin, De Gruyter. Lindqvist, S. 1942. Gotlands Bildsteine II. Gesammelt und untersucht von Gabriel Gustafson und Fredrik Nordin. Stockholm, Wahlström & Widstrand. Ljung, C. 2009. Gendered memory – Rune Stones, early Christian grave monuments and the Sagas. In A. Ney, H. Williams and F. Charpentier Ljungqvist, F. (eds.), Á austrvega. Saga and East Scandinavia. Preprint Papers of The 14th International Saga Conference,

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N-TAG TEN Stockholm, Statens historiska museum and Stockholms universitet. Trotzig, G. 1969. Gegensätze zwischen Heidentum und Christentum im archäologischem Material des 11. Jahrhunderts auf Gotland. Unprinted thesis. University of Lund. U, UR = Upplands runinskrifter. Granskade och tolkade av Wessén, E. & Jansson, S.B.F. Sveriges runinskrifter. Band 6-9. KVHAA. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell international, 1940-1958. V, VrR = Värmlands runinskrifter. Granskade och tolkade av Sven B. F. Jansson. Sveriges runinskrifter. Band 14. KVHAA. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell international 1978. Wennersten, M. 1973. Aktuellt. Bildstensundersökning vid Visnar ängar i Alskog. Gotländskt arkiv 1973, 117-118. Wessén, E. and S. B. F. Jansson 1940-58 = U, UR. Williams, He. 1996. Runstenstexternas teologi. In B. Nilsson (ed.), Kristnandet i Sverige. Gamla källor och nya perspektiv, 291-312. Projektet Sveriges kristnande. Publikationer. Uppsala, Lunne böcker. Williams, Ho. 2006. Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Zachrisson, T. 1998. Gård, gräns, gravfält. Sammanhang kring ädelmetalldepåer och runstenar från vikingatid och medeltid i Uppland och Gästrikland. Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 15. Stockholm, Stockholms University. Other sources Andreeff, A. personal communication May 2009. ATA (Antikvarisk-topografiska arkivet). Unpublished document. Bromma socken, Ängby, RAÄ 72. Dnr 005452 1967, Dnr 000275 1969. ATA (Antikvarisk-topografiska arkivet). Unpublished document. Knivsta socken, Vickeby, RAÄ 134. Dnr 421-4546-1994. ATA (Antikvarisk-topografiska arkivet). Unpublished document. Ed socken, Nedre Runby, RAÄ 45. Dnr 2530/90 1967-68. Lehnberg, S. Bromma Hembygdsförening and resident in the area, personal comment, 2009-05-14. [email protected] [email protected]

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Reused rock art: traces of Iron Age activities at Bronze Age rock art sites Per Nilsson

Swedish National Heritage Board, UV øst

Abstract In recent years a number of excavations at rock art sites have been conducted in southern Scandinavia. The rock art in this region is mainly dated to the Bronze Age, but many of the finds and features found at these excavations have been dated to the Iron Age. This raises some questions: How did people during the Iron Age relate to rock art sites? Were they regarded as pictures from an ancestral past, were they abandoned or perhaps simply forgotten? In this article it is proposed that the finds and features found in close connection to rock art sites can be seen as the material remains of a dialogue with the past. It is also suggested that in a time of change in society the past can become the ‘Other’. I will give some examples of reused rock art sites from different parts of southern Scandinavia, with a focus on the rock art region of Himmelstalund in the southeastern part of Sweden.

Introduction

The figurative rock art in this region has been dated to the Bronze Age, so the dating of the hearths gave rise to some questions: If the hearths had been dated to the Bronze Age the connection between them and the panel had seemed pretty clear. What, then, was the role of the rock art sites during the Iron Age? Were they abandoned, reused or perhaps simply forgotten?

In the spring of 2007 a small excavation was conducted beneath one of the major rock art panels at the rock art site of Himmelstalund, situated west of the town of Norrköping in the southeastern part of Sweden (fig. 1). Two hearths were found in close connection to one of the panels and they were both 14C-dated to the Early Iron Age.

Figure 1. Map showing the location of the Himmelstalund region.

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N-TAG TEN One of Scandinavia’s densest concentrations of rock art is to be found around the now regulated rapids in the river Motala Ström, west of the town of Norrköping. The best known site is Himmelstalund, with some 60 panels featuring more than 1,700 figures (Selinge 1985, 110f; Nilsson 2008a). What makes this region special is the connection between the rock art sites and contemporary grave fields such as Fiskeby, Ringeby and Klinga and the nearby settlement at Pryssgården (Borna-Ahlkvist et al. 1998; Kaliff et al. 1995; Lundström 1965; 1970; Stålbom 1994). During the last decade several dissertations on different aspects of the Bronze- and Early Iron Age societies in this region have been published, as well as more detailed studies and excavation reports (Borna-Ahlkvist 2002; Broström and Ihrestam 1993; Coles 2003; Kaliff 1997; Ericsson and Nilsson 2007; Fredell 2003; Helander 2005; Nilsson 2005a; 2005b; 2007; 2008a; 2008b; Stålbom 1998; Tilley 2008; Wahlgren 2002). Although the rock art at the Himmelstalund site was discovered during the first half of the 19th century, the first scientific investigation did not take place until 1871 (Nordén 1925). In 1903 it was documented by Oscar Almgren and the then Crown-Prince Gustav Adolf, and during the 1910-20’s more thoroughly by Arthur Nordén. The rock art at Himmelstalund has been documented on several occasions since then (Burenhult 1973; 1980; Selinge 1985). But Nordén’s dissertation, “Östergötlands bronsålder” [Östergötland´s Bronze Age], published in 1925, is still the most comprehensive study of the county’s – and especially the Norrköping area’s – rock art.

art sites and contemporary (or later) finds and features have been rare (cf. Lødøen 2006, 5). The Himmelstalund site Nordén noted that some of the panels at the Himmelstalund site were covered by a layer of fire-cracked stones and black sandy soil and that several of the figures had been damaged by fire (Nordén, 1925:48f). When the panel beside the two Iron Age hearths (fig. 4) was documented in the beginning of the 20th century, at least a part of it was covered by a thick layer of soil (Prince Gustav Adolf 1904). Unfortunately it is not possible to determine whether this layer also contained fire-cracked stones. About 100 meters to the north of the rock art site some hearths, post holes and cultural layers have been discovered (Persson 1998). Two of the features, a hearth and a small posthole, were dated to the transition between the Late Neolithic and the Early Bronze Age, 3520+60 BP, 3370+60 BP (1920-1740 BC, 1740-1530 BC, Cal 1 Sigma, Beta-75425, 75426). The oldest figures in the Norrköping area consists of weapons such as swords and axes, and the oldest swords should probably be dated to the transition between the Early Bronze Age Period I and II, i.e. ca. 1600 BC (Wahlgren, 2002, 178, 254). If this is accurate these settlement remains could be contemporary with, or perhaps even older than

Excavations at rock art sites In recent years there has been an increasing interest in performing excavations at rock art sites in Scandinavia (BengtssoN 2004; Goldhahn 2006; Kaul 2006). The south Scandinavian rock art tradition has mainly been dated to the Bronze Age, and several of the finds and features discovered at these excavations can be dated to this period. But there are also a significant number of finds and features from later periods, mainly from the Early Iron Age. In the following I will present some examples of excavations at rock art sites in southern Scandinavia, beginning with excavations from the Himmelstalund region. Only a few excavations at rock art sites have been conducted in the Himmelstalund region since Arthur Nordén’s ground breaking research in the 1910-20’s. When Nordén was searching for new rock art he, in many cases, had to remove the existing topsoil to find the figures. In quite a few cases he noted that the motifs were covered with a layer of fire-cracked stone, charcoal and soot. He also excavated several heaps of fire-cracked stones (burnt mounds), at some of the rock art sites. The main aim for Nordén though, as well as for most of the rock art scholars working in this area, has been to bring about new documentations of earlier known sites and/ or discovering new rock art. Later excavations with the expressed ambition to study the relationship between rock

Figure 2. Map over the Himmelstalund rock art site showing the location of the hearths and the settlement remains.

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Per Nilsson: Reused rock art: traces of Iron Age activities at Bronze Age rock art sites

Figure 3. A house from the Early Iron Age was found between the rock art site and the nearby river Motala Ström. Photo Per Nilsson.

the oldest rock art motifs at Himmelstalund. Nevertheless, it is interesting to note the existence of remains from a Late Neolithic/Early Bronze Age-settlement, as well as a more substantial settlement from the Early Iron Age. What we haven’t found yet is finds or features from the period when the rock art activity was most intense, e.g Bronze Age Per III-VI (1300-500 BC, Wahlgren 2002, 238f). Perhaps a settlement from this period is yet to be found, but it is also possible that the Himmelstalund site is yet another example of a major rock art site with no or few finds and features that are contemporary with the rock art (Goldhahn 2006, 92).

from one of the post holes inside the house was dated to 2010+30 BP, (45BC-25AD, Cal 1 sigma, Ua-27989). Settlement remains were also discovered some 100 metres to the west of the rock art site. Five 14C-datings from this sites indicated that the settlement had been in use between 350BC and 235AD (Cal 1 sigma, Ua-27987, 27988, 2799127993). The two hearths mentioned in the beginning of the article were found about a metre or so away from one of Himmelstalund’s best known motifs (fig. 4); a deeply carved geometrical figure (or perhaps a net?) associated with a human carrying a spear. The two hearths were dated to the Pre-Roman and Early Roman Iron Age, 2030+30 BP and 1825+30 BP (90BC-20AD, 135-230 AD, Cal 1 sigma, Poz-21228, 21229). One question that arises relates to the connection of the two hearths with the adjacent rock art panel. Were they connected in any way, or had the motifs been forgotten or lacked significance when the fires by the rock were lit? The time interval between the two hearths is too great for them to be contemporary with each other, so the hearths belong to two chronologically separate occasions. As the two hearths are both contemporary with the settlement remains to the south and west of the rock it is reasonable to suggest that they can be associated with

In recent years the Swedish National Heritage Board has carried out archaeological excavations at Himmelstalund (Broström 2007; Ericsson and Nilsson 2007; Nilsson 2008a; 2008b). A ca. 7,5 x 3 metre large three-aisled house was found on a natural ledge between the rock and the river Motala ström (fig. 2-3). The house consisted of three pairs of trestles and two pits filled with burnt clay were found along its walls. A row of post holes, which might have signified a confined area between the rock and the river, were found at the western gable end of the house. Charcoal

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N-TAG TEN

Figure 4. Two hearths were found beneath one of the panels at Himmelstalund. Photo Per Nilsson.

Figure 5. Rock art covered with fire-cracked stones at Leonardsberg. From Nordén 1925.

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Per Nilsson: Reused rock art: traces of Iron Age activities at Bronze Age rock art sites Fiskeby

activities carried out in connection with these settlements, regardless of whether or not the activities were of a ritual or more everyday nature.

At Fiskeby a large grave field with more than 500 burials was excavated in the 1950’s (Lundström 1965; 1970). The grave field was established in the Late Bronze Age and it continued in use until the Late Iron Age. What is especially interesting about this grave field is that it was located just beside a rock art site. The excavators were explicitly searching for rock art during the excavation but only one of all the graves covered a rock art panel. They also noted that almost no graves were placed on the flat rock surfaces that divided the grave field in two parts. When more graves were added during the Iron Age the grave field expanded to the opposite direction of the panels (Lundström, 1970:116). It therefore seems likely that the motifs were known and in a sense also respected during the Bronze Age as well as during the Iron Age (fig. 6).

Leonardsberg Traces of fire-related activities such as layers of firecracked stones covering rock art and figures damaged by fire were found by Arthur Nordén at Leonardsberg - another major rock art site situated about a kilometre to the west of the Himmelstalund site (fig. 5). Since Nordéns excavations in the 1920´s only one excavation has been performed at this site. A few years ago a burnt mound beside one of the panels was excavated (RAÄ 29, Wahlgren 2002, 152153). During the excavation the burnt mound turned out to be a grave from the Late Iron Age. Under the grave five hearths were found and they were interpreted as parts of a larger system of hearths. Two of the hearths were dated to the Roman Iron Age, 1750+30BP, 1690+30BP (240-340 and 206-410AD, Cal 1 sigma, GrN-324793, GrN-24794). But a layer of soot, situated on top of the panel, was dated to the Late Bronze Age, 2080+40BP (900-800 BC, Cal 1 sigma, GrA-13578). It is interesting to note that the site has been repeatedly used since the Bronze Age up to the Late Iron Age.

Rock art excavations from other regions There are many examples of possible reuses of rock art sites from different parts of southern Scandinavia. In a study from 2005 Lasse Bengtsson presents a list of 30 excavations at rock art sites in Sweden and Norway (Bengtsson 2005; cf. Nordström 1995). The list below is based on both Nordströms and Bengtssons studies and it

Figure 6. The grave field at Fiskeby. Map by Per Lundström, copy from the Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities. 23

N-TAG TEN only includes finds and 14C-datings from periods later than the Bronze Age. Bengtsson’s survey is based on different categories of finds or features, and the examples below are therefore presented in the same way:

hearth was dated to 200 BC–130 AD. A bead from the Roman Iron Age was found in a layer of fire-cracked stones at the same site. Bengtsson suggests that the layer could have been placed by the rock art more by chance, but also points out the possibility of a contextual relationship between the rock art and the layer of fire-cracked stone during the Roman Iron Age. What is interesting is also that only one of the hearths found at rock art sites in Bohuslän have been dated to the Bronze Age, according to Bengtsson. Another example is from Drottninghall in Scania where a hearth was found beneath one of the panel. The hearth was 14 C-dated to 560-780AD (Cal 1 Sigma). Layers of firecracked stone were found at 12 of the locales. Bengtsson notes that there seems to be a clear connection between rock art and fire-related activities such as hearths and fire cracked stone.

Pot sherds were found at 18 of the 30 excavations. The sherds that were found at the excavations in Bohuslän were all dated typologically to the Early Iron Age. But it is important to note that it can be hard to separate Late Bronze Age ceramics from Early Iron Age ceramics. At three of the sites; Drottninghall (Scania), Kalleby (Tanum in Bohuslän) and Hällby (Uppland), there were also found sherds that probably should be dated to the Early Iron Age/ Migration Period (Nordström 1995, 31). Stone pavings/constructions were found at 14 of the locales. Two carbon samples from a stone paving in Högsbyn in Dalsland (RAÄ 11) were dated to the Pre-Roman Iron Age/Early Roman Iron Age, (350 BC-60AD, Cal 1 sigma) and the Early Middle Age (1060-1400AD, Cal 1 Sigma). In Bohuslän two stone pavings were possible to date, and they were both dated to the Iron Age; RAÄ 1371 in Tanum (390-170 BC) and RAÄ 446 in Tossene (50BC – 180 AD).

Further excavations have been conducted during recent years at the Tossene site in Bohuslän (Bengtsson and Ling 2007). There are many interesting results from these excavations, but what is especially important for my own concern is the possible reuse of the site during the Iron Age. At one of the panels there is a fascinating motif of a warrior caught in an acrobatic pose and in front of this panel two hearths were found. The hearths were dated to the Late Roman Iron Age (250-410 AD and 250-420 AD,

Hearths and layers of fire cracked stones were found at nine of the 30 locales. At the site RAÄ 897 in Tanum a

Figure 7. At Lille Strandbygård on the Danish island of Bornholm, two houses were found beside the rock art. From Sørensen 2006:72.

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Per Nilsson: Reused rock art: traces of Iron Age activities at Bronze Age rock art sites Bengtsson and Ling 2007, 45). The similarity between the latter site and the hearths found at Himmelstalund is striking. In recent years a number of excavations at rock art sites have been carried out on the Danish island of Bornholm (Kaul 2006; Kaul et al. 2005; Sørensen 2006). At Madsebakke a cultural layer at the ‘entrance’ to the panel was dated to the Early Roman Iron Age (0-150 AD). Pot-sherds from the same period were also found. During the later part of the Iron Age, about 200-600 AD, a grave field was established on top of the rock at Madsebakke. A house structure from the Late Iron Age was also found in close connection to the rock art. House structures were also discovered at a minor excavation at Lille Strandbygård, on the southern part of the island. Here, two successive house structures dated to the Iron Age were found just beside the rock art. The entrance to the house(s) was most probably placed just by the decorated panel (Sørensen 2006, 73; cf. Lindgaard 2006) (fig. 7).

to rock art sites, for instance at Borgs Säteri (RAÄ 1617) where there is a complex relation between Iron Age barrows, burnt mounds and rock art panels (Nordén 1925, 82f; Wahlgren 2002, 149). Worth noting is that several of the barrows classified as burnt mounds turned out to be Iron Age graves after excavation. To add some complexity to this, there are also examples of burnt mounds from the Bronze Age/Early Iron Age that have been reused as graves during the Late Iron Age (Nordén 1925, 83). Iron Age rock art The rock art tradition in the Himmelstalund region has been dated to the Bronze Age, with a possible continuation throughout the Pre-Roman Iron Age (Wahlgren 2002, 179). Perhaps a few of the motifs in the Himmelstalund region can be dated to the very Late Bronze Age or Early PreRoman Age. But a brief survey of the panels documented by Nordén shows few chronological traits from this period, such as horse riders with rectangular shields or ships with bifurcated stems (Kaul 2004, 310, 394f). In other areas, such as Tanum in Bohuslän, Bornholm and Trøndelag, there are several examples of ship figures that can be dated to the Pre-Roman Iron Age (Kaul 2004, 394f). Johan Ling has recently shown that at least 130 of the ship figures from the parish of Tanum could be classified as ships from the Pre-Roman Iron Age (Ling 2008, 196). If this dating is correct, it is also conceivable that other, older motifs could have been recarved and revived during this period.

Relating to rock art sites during the Iron Age The examples above have shown that in many cases there exists a clear spatial relationship between rock art sites and later remains, such as barrows, grave fields and settlements. But is it possible to determine whether this spatial relation also reflects a contextual relationship? In some of the above mentioned examples the excavators were convinced of a contextual relationship between the rock art and the adjacent remains during the excavation. But when the 14C-datings arrived the idea of such a contextual relationship was questioned. To determine whether the relationship is contextual and not only spatial is of course always a challenge and it is important that each site is studied within its own specific context. But I do believe that we should be more open to the possibility of the existence of such a relationship, especially when it comes to excavations at rock art sites. In the following I will present some more examples of a possible reuse of rock art sites during the Iron Age:

Runic inscriptions on rock art panels An interesting example of an early approach (or dialogue?) with the rock art at Himmelstalund is the line of runic inscriptions carved on the same rock as the geometrical figure, some metres to the northwest of the hearths (Nordén 1925; 1936). The line of runes consists of 5-6 (reversed) characters of the older futhark and has been interpreted in several different ways (fig. 8). The most likely interpretation is Braido or Brajdo, which could refer to a woman’s name meaning “the wide or the broad” (Svante Lagman and Patrik Larsson, runologists, personal communication 2007). Another alternative is Buajdo, i.e. “I did”. The authenticity of the runes has been discussed, but if genuine they could have been carved as early as 200300 AD – although a later dating to 400-500 AD is also reasonable. Other examples of runic inscriptions on rock art panels can be found in Tanum and Utby on the Swedish West Coast, as well as in Kårstad in Norway (Gerdin and Munkenberg 2005; Ling, 2008, 72-73: Mandt 2005).

Rock art and Iron Age graves In a dissertation from 1987 Ulf Bertilsson states that the location of Iron Age graves on or adjacent to rock art panels in Bohuslän was a conscious act (Bertilsson 1987, 149). This relationship is also discussed by Bengtsson and Ling, who admits that they are a bit puzzled by the strong reminiscence of Iron Age activity at rock art sites in Bohuslän (2007, 48). The disappearance of the figurative rock art coincides with the first general impact of agriculture in Bohuslän. Bengtsson and Ling regard the rock art sites as reflections of mobile/seasonal activities during the Bronze Age, and propose that this system was altered during the Iron Age when a more agrarian system was established. They suggest that the rock art sites were then reused or revitalized within the agrarian tenure system, although no new (figurative) motifs were made (Bengtsson and Ling 2007, 48-49). There are several examples from the Himmelstalund region of what can be interpreted as a conscious location of grave mounds close

Rock art and traces of fire Traces of fire-related activities have been found at many rock art sites. In the parish of Askum in Bohuslän no less than 71 of the 247 sites showed traces of fire damage (Bengtsson 2004, 37). In some cases rock art has even been destroyed by fire. Whether these damages should be regarded as contemporary with the rock art or not can be hard to determine. One possible explanation for some 25

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Figure 8. The runic inscription from Himmelstalund. Photo Per Nilsson.

Towards a more problematic past

of these damages is that they are traces from Bronze Age cremation ceremonies (Goldhahn 2007, 261f). But the number of fire-related activities dated to the Iron Age at rock art sites indicates that some of the damage could have been made during this period too. One specific topic is the relation between rock art and layers/heaps of fire-cracked stones (burnt mounds). Nordén found traces of fire-related activities at many of the rock art sites he investigated; for example at Leonardsberg, Himmelstalund, Skälv, Egna Hem and Borg (Nordén 1925; cf. Wahlgren 2002, 258). At one of the sites he excavated a large burnt mound that partly covered a panel with rock art. During the excavation he found a button from the Late Bronze Age. For Nordén this was a clear indication that many of the burnt mounds could be dated to the Bronze Age (RAÄ 46, Nordén 1925, 64). During the Early Iron Age there seems to be an emphasis on different aspects of fire, and hearths and other features are found in large numbers not just at rock art sites but also at settlements and grave fields. One alternative is that the hearths found at rock art sites ought to be regarded as remains from resting shepherds. This has recently been suggested as a possible explanation for the large number of isolated hearths dating back to the Late Bronze- and Early Iron Age (Petersson 2006, 169). I think it is reasonable to interpret the main part of the hearths and layers/heaps of fire-cracked stones at rock art sites as consciously located (cf. Kaliff 2007, 105). There is of course also the possibility that some of the hearths were lit by shepherds. The large scale herding system was established during the Bronze Age and it is therefore likely that the rock art sites located within the grazing areas were connected with special beliefs or perhaps myths during the Iron Age too.

The southern Scandinavian Bronze Age societies have most often been interpreted as hierarchic and stratified (Kristiansen and Larsson, 2005). In this society the older (monumental) structures, such as barrows, cairns and major rock art sites played an important role for the reproduction of the existing society. But what role did these monumental places play when the Bronze Age culture came to an end? During the Early Iron Age the thousand year’s old tradition of making figurative rock art ended. How long did the memory of this tradition and the places connected with it remain in the minds of the people during the Iron Age? Since the early 1990’s there has been an increasing interest in discussing how and why monumental remains were used and/or reused during later periods, a field of research also known as “The past in the past” (Bradley 2002). This field can also be seen as a subdivision of a broader discussion concerning different conceptions of time within archaeological and anthropological research (Lucas 2005). Another subdivision is the biographies, or life-histories of certain types of prehistoric remains, mainly different kinds of monuments (e.g. Holtorf 2000; 2007-2008). A number of articles and monographs have been published and the history of research on the subject is now quite extensive (see Bradley 2002; Jones 2007; Lucas 2005; Thäte 2007). In Sweden, the discussion has mainly focused on the way barrows or grave fields were used or reused during later periods (e.g. Artelius 2004; Artelius and Lindqvist 2007; Larsson 2005; Munkenberg 2004; Strömberg 2005; Tegnér 2007; Thäte 2007). One exception to this is BornaAhlkvist’s discussions of how people during the Late Bronze Age related to older houses, or house ruins at the Pryssgården settlement (Borna-Ahlkvist 2002; cf. Gerritse

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Per Nilsson: Reused rock art: traces of Iron Age activities at Bronze Age rock art sites 1999). Another aspect of this is the reuse of house sites for Iron Age graves discussed by Thäte (2007, 102f).

use of the ‘Other’ as a philosophical concept has a long history and it was used already by Hegel, in describing how ones Self is always constituted by the ‘Other’. Within post-colonial theory the concept has been used to describe how the West treated, or understood, the people in the colonized countries (e.g. Bhabha 1994; Fanon 1962; Said 1978). With influences from post-colonial theories, the concept has also been used within Swedish archaeological research. One example is a discussion regarding cultural meetings and different uses of the concept of the ‘Other’ by Cornell and Fahlander (2002, 27). The term has also been used to discuss how archaeology has given the past an exotic touch, as something fundamentally different to ourselves (Källén 2004, 22). Another influential concept that was introduced by Homi K Bhabha is the notion of “the third space” (Bhabha 1994). The third space can be defined as an area where an encounter of two distinct (and unequal) social groups takes place, and where culture is disseminated and displaced from the interacting groups, making way for the invention of a hybrid identity. Within rock art research different aspects of the use of the ‘Other’ and the third space have been discussed by Lise Nordenborg Myhre (2004) and Johan Ling (2005). In an article from 2005 Ling discusses if the cultural meetings that took place at some of the maritime rock art concentrations on the West Coast could be interpreted as a kind of third space: “A space in between dominant social formations where cultural identity was being created, transmuted, articulated, communicated by the making, reading, interpretation and misinterpretation of rock art carvings” (Ling 2005, 455).

The reuse of, or depositing/sacrifices at older graves and settlements have most often been interpreted as a legitimizing act, as a way of demonstrating the rights to use or inhabit a certain area (Thäte 2007, 31f). But these places could also have been regarded in a different way. There are some interesting discussions of other, perhaps more problematic views of the past. One example is Borna-Ahlkvist’s discussion of how older house ruins could be regarded as still inhabited by the feared spirits of the ancestors (Borna-Ahlkvist 2002, 189; cf. Holtorf 1999, 443f; Tegnér 2008; Tilley 2008, 251f). Another view is given by James Whitley in the article “Too many ancestors”, where he gives a critical response to the widespread use of the ancestors in explaining why monuments were reused in Britain. He suggests that we should look at alternative hypothesis for the reuses and depositing at monuments, which includes the offerings to and worshipping of aliens and previous races Whitley (2002, 124). Another interesting point of view is presented by Andrew Jones. In an essay called “Memory and Material Culture” he discusses different aspects of how we remember (Jones 2007). One of his points is that material culture could be viewed as mnemonic traces, and as such act as aids for remembering. What is especially interesting from my point of view is Jones discussion of indexicality: “Each event, whether the production of an artefact, its deposition, the act of building monuments, or the act of inscription, is an index related to other events as part of an indexical field” (Jones 2007, 226).

This definition of the third space could perhaps also count as a good description of the rock art sites that were being reused in different ways during the Early Iron Age, the difference being that the dialogue was now conducted between the living and the places and figures from the past (c.f Jones 2007, 3). It is also likely that people during the Iron Age could have regarded the figures as symbols made by the ancestors.

These indexes can also relate to past events, and I believe that the deliberate placing of for example Iron Age graves and layers/heaps of fire-cracked stones on top of or beside the rock art could be interpreted as such an indexical relation to the past. The ‘Other’

The disappearance of the south Scandinavian Bronze Age culture, as well as the adjoining tradition of making figurative rock art, has been explained as the effect of a number of combined factors. Kaul suggests that the disappearance of the rock art tradition was caused by a number of societal changes combined with, or caused by, massive changes in the societies north of the Alps. He also puts the disappearance in connection with possible religious changes at the end of the Late Bronze Age (Kaul 2005, 43). I would like to add another aspect to this by regarding the disappearance not only as a passive adjustment to external factors, but rather as a conscious act, performed by different groups on different occasions. For example, there are several rock art motifs from the West Coast of Sweden that can be dated to the Pre-Roman Iron Age while the tradition seems to have vanished in the Himmelstalund region by this time. By the conscious act of not making (figurative) rock art anymore the Early Iron Age societies in the Himmelstalund region dissociated

During the Bronze Age as well as during the Early Iron Age, a number of grave fields and settlement sites are established, while others are abandoned (Petersson 2006, 20ff). This holds true for many of the rock art sites as well. Not all of them were used during the whole of the Bronze Age, or at least no new figures were made. There are also examples of rock art figures where additions have been made during the course of the Bronze Age (Fredell 2003, 229). How are we to understand these abandoned places and remade figures? Were some of them connected, or loaded, with negative connotations? Could the deliberate covering of rock art panels with layers and heaps of fire cracked stones be interpreted as an example of a more problematic relation to the past? One way of discussing this relation to the past is to consider if the past sometimes could have been regarded as something unwanted, or at least as something one no longer wanted to be associated with. This can also be described with a philosophical term - the ‘Other’. The 27

N-TAG TEN Bertilsson, U. 1987. The rock carvings of northern Bohuslän. Spatial structures and social symbols. Stockholm: Stockholm Studies in Archaeology No 7. Bhabha, H.. K. 1994. The location of culture. London and New York: Routledge. Borna-Ahlkvist, Helene. 2002. Hällristarnas hem. Gårdsbebyggelse och struktur i Pryssgården under bronsålder. Lund: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Arkeologiska undersökningar. Skrifter 42. Borna-Ahlkvist, H., L. Lindgren-Hertz, and U. Stålbom, Ulf. 1998. Pryssgården - från stenålder till medeltid. Arkeologisk slutundersökning RAÄ 166 och 167, Östra Eneby socken, Norrköpings kommun, Östergötland. Linköping: Riksantikvarieämbetet, Avd. för arkeologiska undersökningar. Rapport UV Linköping 1998:13. Bradley, R. 2002. The past in prehistoric societies. London & New York: Routledge. Broström, S-G. 2007. Himmelstalund. Del av RAÄ nr 1 i Östra Eneby socken, Östergötland. BOTARK. Rapport 2007:22. Broström, S-G. and K. Ihrestam 1993. Rapport över inventering och dokumentation av hällristningar utefter väg E4:as nya sträckning förbi Norrköping, sträckan Borgs kyrka – Åby. Stockholm. ATA. Unpublished report. Burenhult, G. 1973. The rock carvings of Götaland (excluding Gothenburg County, Bohuslän and Dalsland). Part II. Lund: Acta Archaeologica Lundensia. Series in 4°. No 8°. Burenhult, G. 1980. Götalands hällristningar. Stockholm: Del I. Theses and Papers in North-European Archaeology 10. Coles, J. 2003. And on they went… processions in Scandinavian Bronze Age carvings. Acta Archaeologica 74, 211-250. Cornell, P. and F. Fahlander 2002. Social praktik och stumma monument. Introduktion till mikroarkeologi. Inst. för Arkeologi, Göteborgs universitet. Göteborg: Gotarc Serie C. Arkeologiska Skrifter No 46. Ericsson, A. and P. Nilsson. 2007. Hus och brunnar vid Himmelstalunds hällristningar. Inför ny gångoch cykelväg. Arkeologisk förundersökning, del 2 och slutundersökning. Östra Eneby socken, Norrköpings kommun, Östergötland. Linköping: Riksantikvarieämbetet, UV Öst. Rapport 2007:64. Fanon, F. 1962. Jordens fördömda. Göteborg. Fredell, Å. 2003. Bildbroar. Figurativ bildkommunikation av ideologi och kosmologi under sydskandinavisk bronsålder och förromersk järnålder. Göteborg: Gotarc Serie B. Gothenburg Archaeological Thesis no 25. Gerdin, A-L. and B-A. Munkenberg 2005. Från mesolitisk tid till järnålder – Tanum, inte bara hällristningar. Arkeologisk undersökning. Riksantikvarieämbetet, UV Väst. Västra Frölunda. Rapport 2005:7. Gerritsen, F. A. 1999. The cultural biography of Iron Age houses and the long-term transformation of settlement patterns in the southern Netherlands. In C. Fabech and J. Ringtved (eds.). Settlement and landscape.

themselves from the old tradition. But the rock art – or the rocks themselves - continued to be important during the Iron Age, as shown by the reuse and revisits at many of the rock art sites. This renegotiation of the meaning of the sites can also be viewed as a kind of dialogue with the past, probably understood by the Early Iron Age people as a dialogue with the ancestors. My point is that in times of cultural change places connected with the ancestors, such as grave fields and rock art sites can become loaded with both positive and negative meanings. In other words - the past can become the ‘Other’. As we have seen, the dialogue with the past – and perhaps also with the ancestors - could be performed in many different ways. Some places were fully abandoned, some were continuously used and some were revisited. A few possible reasons for this have been proposed by Ulf Bertilsson, when it comes to the location of Iron Age graves at rock art sites: “First: the act expresses the striving for connection with old beliefs and cults. Second, it expresses respect for the ancestors and third, it expresses the continuous claim to adjacent territories” (Bertilsson 1987). Besides these possible reasons for the reuse of rock art sites I would like to add one more possibility, and that is that the rock art sites could have played a problematic role, especially during the end of the Late Bronze Age and the Early Iron Age. Some of them were covered with thick layers of fire-cracked stones or soot and some of them were perhaps even destroyed. The graves or burnt mounds erected on top of some of the panels can also be viewed in this context, as a deliberate covering. All of these possible approaches can be regarded as different dialogues with the past, dialogues that resulted in that the actual place, what we now call the rock art site, continued to hold a meaningful, yet transformed meaning during the Iron Age. And it was through the dialogue with the past that this altered meaning was created.

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Per Nilsson: Reused rock art: traces of Iron Age activities at Bronze Age rock art sites Proceedings of a conference in Århus, Denmark, May 4-7 1998. Højbjerg. Jutland Archaeological Society. Goldhahn, J. 2006. Hällbildsstudier i norra Europa. Trender och tradition under det nya millenniet. Institutionen för arkeologi, Göteborgs universitet. Göteborg: Gotarc Serie C. Arkeologiska skrifter No 64. Goldhahn, J. 2007. Dödens hand – en essä om brons- och hällsmed. In J. Goldhahn and T. Østigård (eds.). Rituelle spesialister i bronse- og jernalderen. Institutionen för arkeologi. Göteborgs Universitet. Göteborg: Gotarc Serie C. Arkeologiska skrifter No 65. Gustav Adolf, Prince. H K H (H. R. H.) 1904. Fornlämningar i trakten kring Norrköping. Linköping Utgifna av O. Klockhoff. Meddelanden från Östergötlands fornminnesförening 1904, 1-6. Helander, A. 2005. Kv Sällskapsdansen, St Johannes socken, Norrköpings kommun, Östergötland. Linköping: Riksantikvarieämbetet, UV Öst. Rapport 2005:47. Holtorf, C. 1999. Megaliths L. In H. Gustafsson and H. Karlsson (eds.). Glyfer och arkeologiska rum – en vänbok till Jarl Nordbladh. Göteborg: Gotarc Series A vol 3, 441–452. Holtorf, C. 2000-2007. Monumental past: The life-histories of megalithic monuments in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (Germany). Electronic monograph. University of Toronto: Centre for Instructional Technology Development. http://hdl.handle.net/1807/245. Holtorf, C. 2008. The life-history approach to monuments: an obituary? In J. Goldhahn (etc.). Gropar & monument. En vänbok till Dag Widholm. Kalmar: Kalmar Studies in Archaeology IV, 411–427. Jones, A. 2007. Memory and material culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaliff, A. 1997. Grav och kultplats. Eskatologiska föreställningar under yngre bronsålder och äldre järnålder i Östergötland. Uppsala: Inst. för arkeologi. AUN 24. Kaliff, A,, V. Björkhager, T. Carlsson and M Sköldebrand 1996. Ringeby. En grav och kultplats från yngre bronsålder. Linköping: Riksantikvarieämbetet, UV. Rapport 1995:51. Kaul, F. 2004. Bronzealderens religion - studier af den nordiske bronzealders ikonografi. København: Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab. Nordiske Forntidsminder Serie B, Bind 22. Kaul, F. 2005. Arkæologiske undersøgelser ved helleristningerne. In F. Kaul, M. Stoltze, F. O. Nielsen, and G. Milstreu (eds). Helleristninger. Billeder fra Bornholms bronzealder. Rønne: Bornholms Museum/ Wormanianum, 134–40. Kaul, F. 2006. Udgravninger ved helleristninger på Bornholm. Adoranten 2006, 50–63. Kristiansen, K. and T. B. Larsson 2005. The rise of bronze age society. Travels, transmissions and transformations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Källén, A. 2004. And through flows the river. Archaeology and the pasts of Lao Pako. Uppsala: Institutionen

för Afrikansk och jämförande arkeologi. Uppsala university. Studies in Global Archaeology 6. Larsson, L. K. 2005. Hills of the Ancestors. Death, Forging and Sacrifice on two Swedish Burial Sites. In T. Artelius and F. Svanberg, F. (eds.). Dealing with the dead. Archaeological perspectives on prehistoric Scandinavian burial ritual. Riksantikvarieämbetet, Arkeologiska Undersökningar, Skrifter 65, 99-124. Lindgaard, E. 2006. A petroglyph site in Nord-Trøndelag, Norway. A preliminary presentation. Adoranten 2006, 86-108. Ling, J. 2005. The fluidity of Rock Art. In J. Goldhahn (ed.). Mellan sten och järn. Del II. Rapport från det 9:e nordiska bronsålderssymposiet, Göteborg. Göteborg: Gotarc Serie C. Arkeologiska skrifter No 59, 437–460. Ling, J. 2008. Elevated Rock Art. Towards a maritime understanding of Rock Art in northern Bohuslän, Sweden. Göteborg: Gotarc Serie B. Gothenburg Archaeological Thesis 49. Lucas, G. 2005. The archaeology of time. Themes in archaeology. Ed: Julian Thomas. Routledge. Lundström, P. 1965. Gravfälten vid Fiskeby i Norrköping I. Studier kring ett totalundersökt komplex. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetsakademien. Lundström. P. 1970. Gravfälten vid Fiskeby i Norrköping II. Studier kring ett totalundersökt komplex. Stockholm: Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antikvitetsakademien. Lødøen, T. 2006. Exploring the contemporary context of rock art. Adoranten 2006, 5–18. Mandt, G. 2005. Kårstad i Stryn – møte mellom to kulttradisjonar. In T. Lødøen and G. Mandt, G. Bergkunst. Helleristningar i Noreg. Oslo: Det Norske Samlaget. Munkenberg, B-A. 2004. Monumentet i Svarteborg. In P. Claesson and B-A. Munkenberg (eds.). Gravar och ritualer. Uddevalla: Bohusläns museum, 17–70. Nilsson, P. 2005a. Om boplatslokalisering inom Bråbygdens hällristningsområden. In J. Goldhahn (eds.). Mellan sten och järn. Rapport från det 9:e nordiska bronsålderssymposiet. Göteborg: Gotarc Serie C. Arkeologiska skrifter No 59, 419–435. Nilsson, P. 2005b. Fem hus från yngre bronsålder. Arkeologisk undersökning för fjärrvärmeledning vid Bråvallaområdet. Östra Eneby socken, Norrköpings kommun, Östergötland. Linköping: Riksantikvarieämbetet, UV Öst. Rapport 2005:59. Nilsson, P.. 2007. Fiskebyboplatsen. Arkeologisk förundersökning. Linköping: Riksantikvarieämbetet, UV Öst. Rapport 2007:28. Nilsson, P. 2008a. Härdar och nyupptäckta hällristningar vid Himmelstalund. Arkeologisk förundersökning/ antikvarisk kontroll. Östra Eneby socken, Norrköpings kommun, Östergötland.Linköping: Riksantikvarieämbetet, UV Öst. Rapport 2008:5. Nilsson, P. 2008b. New discoveries of rock carvings and settlements at Himmelstalund. Adoranten 2007, 20–28. Nordén, A. 1925. Östergötlands bronsålder. I beskrivande förteckning med avbildningar av lösa fynd i offentliga och enskilda samlingar, kända gravar samt

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N-TAG TEN Whitley, J. 2002. Too many ancestors. Antiquity 76, 119– 126.

hällristningar – översikt. Linköping: Henric Carlssons Bokhandels Förlag. Nordén, A. 1936. Hällristningstraditionen och den urnordiska runskriften. Ett östgötskt runfynd i hällristningsmiljö och dess skrifthistoriska betydelse. In B. Thordeman et al. (eds.). Arkeologiska studier tillägnade H.K.H. Kronprins Gustav Adolf. Stockholm: Svenska Fornminnesföreningen. Nordenborg Myhre, L. 2004. Trialectic archaeology. Monuments and space in Southwest Norway 1700-500 BC. Stavanger: AmS-Skrifter 18. Nordström, P. 1995. Arkeologiska undersökningar vid hällristningar. Unpublished undergraduate thesis in archaeology. Stockholm: Stockholm university. Persson, H. 1998. Himmelstalundsparken. Norrköping (f d Östra Eneby socken), Östergötland. Arkeologisk förundersökning, april-juli 1994. Linköping: Östergötlands länsmuseum. Dnr: 326/93. Petersson, M. 2006. Djurhållning och betesdrift. Djur, människor och landskap i västra Östergötland under yngre bronsålder och äldre järnålder. Uppsala: Inst. för arkeologi och antik historia, Uppsala universitet. Said, E. W. 1978. Orientalism. London. Selinge, K-G. 1985. Om dokumentation av hällristningar. Metodiska synpunkter med östgötska exempel. Fornvännen 1985/2, 97–120. Strömberg, B. 2005. Gravplats - gravfält: platser att skapa minnen vid - platser att minnas vid. Institutionen för arkeologi, Göteborgs universitet. Göteborg: Gotarc Series B, Gothenburg archaeological theses, 35. Stålbom, U. 1994. Klinga. Ett gravfält: slutundersökning av ett gravfält och bebyggelselämningar från bronsålder och äldre järnålder. Linköping: Riksantikvarieämbetet. Byrån för arkeologiska undersökningar. Rapport UV Linköping 1994:11. Stålbom, U. 1998. Waste or what? Rubbish pits or ceremonial deposits at the Pryssgården site in the late bronze age. Lund: Lund Archaeological Review 1997, 21–35. Sørensen, P. Ø. 2006. Arkæologiske udgravninger på Bornholm. Adoranten 2006, 64–73. Tegnér, M. 2008. Nya gravar vid gamla högar. Bruket av det förflutnas platser vid järnåldens Öresund. In A. Carlie (ed.). Kulturella kontakter och samhällsutveckling i Skåne och på Själland under järnåldern. Lund: Centrum för Danmarksstudier, Lunds universitet. Thäte, E. S. 2007. Monuments and minds. Monument re-use in Scandinavia in the second half of the first millenium AD. Lund: Acta Archaeologica Lundensia Series in 4º No. 27. Tilley, C. 2008. Body and image. Explorations in landscape phenomenology 2. Walnut Creek: Left coast press. Wahlgren, K. H. 2002. Bilder av betydelse: Hällristningar och bronsålderslandskap i nordöstra Östergötland. Stockholm: Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 23.

Archives The Royal Swedish Academy of Letters, History and Antiquities (Antikvarisk Topografiska Arkivet, ATA, Stockholm). Per Nilsson Riksantikvarieämbetet Avd. för arkeologiska undersökningar UV Öst Roxengatan 7 582 73 LINKÖPING Tel 010-480 81 61 Fax 013-10 13 24 E-mail [email protected] Swedish National Heritage Board

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Material memories among pre-Christian graves in Iceland Þóra Petursdóttir

Institute for Archaeology, Akureyri, Iceland Abstract Despite the amount of research devoted to Pre-Christian graves in Iceland the graves themselves, as monuments, or the (ritual) performances that created and retained them, have rarely been the actual focus. Monument, as a concept, becomes somewhat problematic when dealing with this material, as a general characteristic of the graves seems to have been their rather modest and undistinguished appearance in the landscape. Thus, the monumental aspect of these graves may have been founded more or less on the burial performance itself and the, somewhat, abstract monumentality it created. Visibility, of grave internments, during this performance must have been of central importance. Although we can never know whether or how grave interments relate to the interred their physical proximity in the grave forges a relationship between them and creates a material and ‘symbolic text’ (Williams, 2005) which’ appraisal was an important part of the ritual performance, and the construction and revision of social memory.

Introduction

antiquity, yields far from an equal share when it comes to antiquities and other archaeological remains; and in terms of the quantity of the finds and the number of preserved artifacts, this country will probably always stand far behind most other Nordic regions (Kålund, 1882:57 [author’s translation]).1

There are currently over 320 recorded Viking Age graves in Iceland, found on approximately 160 localities across the country. These remains are among the most studied in Iceland and their research history reaches back to the dawn of Icelandic archaeology in the mid 19th century. Many have alluded to this material in their work and others performed thorough studies on categories of artefacts of which the majority comes from graves. The most extensive work in this relation is Kristján Eldjárn’s doctoral thesis Kuml og haugfé: Úr heiðnum sið á Íslandi, first published in 1956 and republished in 2000. However, a closer look at this research reveals that the focus has often been on something else than the graves themselves and what they tell us about burial practices, rituals or the relations between the humans, animals and objects buried.

A similar example is found in an article written by the Norwegian archaeologist Haakon Shetelig who visited Iceland in 1936 to study the collection of Viking Age artefacts in the National Museum in Reykjavík. Shetelig analysed the artefacts by means of typology and came to the conclusion that they confirmed the known historical chronology of the settlement, as well as the predominant Norwegian origin of the settlers (Shetelig 1939, 10). At the same time Shetelig was very concerned with how the Icelandic burial tradition deviated from the Norwegian, for example in the absence of cremation burials and big mounds, and the ‘poor’ and generally ‘unprepossessing’ appearance of the graves. The Icelanders, Shetelig claimed, have in this sense been entirely devoid of any ambition, as it is the simple and modest type of burial that characterizes the period (Shetelig 1939, 8).

Antiquarian curiosity and research in the early days of Icelandic archaeology was to a great extent driven by the strong Nationalist/Romantic atmosphere culminating around the struggle for independense in the last three decades of the 19th century. A strong confidence in the Icelandic Sagas became a coherent and enduring theme and until rather recently the agenda of Icelandic Viking Age research was to a large extent confined to questions regarding the origin of the settlers and the timing of the settlement (cf. Friðriksson 1994). The graves were considered as providing important clues to these questions – in particular as a means to either verify or modify the documentary sources on these matters. As an outcome the material is in these works rarely considered on its own terms, but rather as a subtext to the ‘splendid literary sources’, and likewise, always in comparison with burial remains from other Nordic countries, most often Norway.

These tendencies are no less apparent in the work of archaeologist Kristján Eldjárn. In the preface of his doctoral thesis, Kuml og haugfé (Graves and grave goods), Eldjárn declared that it was his aim to conduct archaeology in strict terms and hence he would not endeavour to place the material within the historical corpus or relate it to characters or events known from the Sagas (Eldjárn 1956, 9). Nevertheless, Eldjárn often revealed his disbelief in archaeology’s potential in contrast to the historical record and despite his efforts to bring out the material he still conceived of it as of secondary importance: “It is only natural that sparse and scattered archaeological finds cannot compete with these splendid and unique

This perspective is affirmed in the work of Danish philologist Kristian Kålund, an eminent figure in Icelandic archaeology at the end of the 19th century.

  ‘Island, der ved sin ældre litteratur har så stor betydning for studiet af Nordens oldtid, yder med hensyn til oldsager og andre fortidslævninger langtfra noget tilsvarende; og i henseende til fundenes mængde og de bevarede genstandes antal vil dette land vel altid stå betydelig tilbage for de fleste andre egne af Norden’ (Kålund, 1882:57). 1

Iceland, which through its ancient written sources achieves such an important role in the study of Nordic

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N-TAG TEN literary records as sources for our oldest history” (Eldjárn 1958,25).

certain degradation of burial practices, evident in Eldjárn’s words cited above, as if they were acts of rather trivial importance and the grave goods selected ad hoc.

Eldjárn’s study of the pre-Christian graves is both extensive and thorough and provides an important frame of reference to Icelandic Viking age research today. His approach to the material was, however, grounded on typology and categorization, systematically ‘sorting it out’ in order to make it comprehensible and comparable with reference to the classic questions of settlement and origin. The graves themselves, therefore, as they appear and as constructions of social importance, did not really engage him. In his comparative analysis Eldjárn, as others, emphasized how the Icelandic material in many ways differed from the Norwegian. The most obvious being the overall ‘modesty’ of the graves and the absence of cremation burials. “An overall characteristic of the Icelandic graves is the carelessness in their arrangement” (Eldjárn 2000, 295) he claimed, and “whatever the noble origin of the settlers, their graves, and those of their pagan descendants, are modest and simple” (ibid., 297 [authors’ translation and emphasis]).2 The graves’ ‘poorness’, he proclaimed, was however demonstrated through the quantity of objects rather than their low quality. And the paucity of grave goods should therefore not be seen as a consequence of poverty but rather as a conscious reluctance to forfeit valuable objects in this way (Eldjárn 1956, 243).

It seems obvious that there has to be something more to this material. At the same time it is undeniable, as previous research has continuously stated, that there is ‘a lack’ of big mounds or other impressive superstructures, and a general characteristic of the graves’ topography truly seems to be their rather modest and inconspicuous appearance in the landscape. However, I would like to argue that the ‘poorness’ and ‘lack’ of monumentality generally proclaimed is not a result of the graves’ actual nature but more of how they have been percieved. In fact, monumentality, as a prescribed concept, becomes somewhat problematic when dealing with this material – because it seems that the monumentality in this case has to lie in something else than big(er) mounds and rich(er) graves. The material at hand In general, grave goods are what most evidently distinguish a pagan grave from a Christian one, although this is not without exceptions. In the average grave in Iceland the dead is accompanied by three to five items, and often an animal, a horse or dog. Less common is to find graves with only one single thing while a few graves also outdo the average in terms of furnishing (Eldjárn 2000, 301–304). Listed in table 1 are the various types of artefacts or animals found in Icelandic graves as well as the number of graves they have been found in.

As an obvious and predetermined conclusion of this “othering” the Icelandic graves have generally become conceived as poor and simple, and the main emphasis has been on explaining why: Why doesn’t the Icelandic corpus contain cremation burials, bigger mounds, richer graves, and more variety – why aren’t the graves more monumental? The Norwegian material has constituted the ‘norm’ against which the Icelandic corpus has been measured and evaluated. So, rather than acknowledging as significant the actual inherent characteristics of the Icelandic material itself it has been seen as something marginal and derivative; in short, as a deviation from something else. Instead of engaging with what the corpus has to bear the emphasis on comparative analysis has facilitated a tendency to focus on what it lacks, as evident in Vésteinsson’s statement (2000, 169 [with ref. to Eldjárn]): “The grave goods support the general impression of material poverty among the first generations of Icelanders…[and hence]…the Icelanders were very much the poor cousins, compared with Norway, when it came to personal objects taken to the other world.”

Looking at these figures (table 1) it is interesting to note the number of categories and variety of grave goods, while recalling that the corpus has generally been described as homogenous, poor and simple. Relatively few categories can in fact be defined as common while a far larger proportion are uncommon and even occur in four graves or less. Another immediately striking attribute is the number of graves containing horse(s). This most evident characteristic has not been given much thought by scholars and has more often been explained away as a meaningless trait, again reflecting the general poorness and simplicity of the corpus. That is, that their abundance is most likely reflecting the large quantity of horses from early on in the settlement, which made them economically affordable to deposit in the graves with the dead (cf. Eldjárn 1981, 4; Vésteinsson 2000, 170).

Another telling aspect of this research is the lack of consideration given to burials as parts of socially significant ritual practices. It is generally regarded that people’s belief in an afterlife urged for objects, or “necessities”, to be sacrificed with the deceased without the need for any further considerations of this practice, the objects used or their probable social meaning. Rather, one can observe a

Reducing the abundance of horses, or other characteristics of the material, to economical conditions is, however, far too restrictive. If that alone was the impetus it would hardly have been done so carefully and elaborately as evident in some of the exclusive horse graves, as e.g. grave 1 at Hrífunes (Figure 1) – not to mention the common deposition of saddles and other “valuable” equipment with the animals, which alone contradicts a general reluctance to “forfeit” objects as grave goods (as proposed by Eldjárn 1956, 243). However, moving

  ‘Einkenni íslenskra kumla er hirðuleysi í umbúnaði líkanna’ (Eldjárn 2000, 295). ‘Hvað sem líður höfðinglegum uppruna landnámsmanna eru kuml þeirra og heiðinna niðja þeirra yfirlætislaus’ (Eldjárn 2000, 297). 2

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Þóra Petursdóttir: Material memories among pre-Christian graves in Iceland Type of grave goods Horses Spear heads Knives Beads Saddle remains Whetstones Axes Bridles Oval brooches Weights and scales Dogs Combs Textile fragments Swords Strike-a-lights Shield bosses Cauldrons and vessels Disc brooches Ringed pins Shears Chests and keys Trefoil brooches

No. of graves 117 57 54 43 41 29 24 23 23 22 21 19 17 17 14 14 9 9 8 8 7 6

Type of grave goods Sickles Arm rings Spindle whorls Bells Finger rings Forging tools Fish hooks and line sinkers Gaming pieces Pendants Belt buckles and strap ends Penannular brooches Iron spits Arrow heads Tongue-shaped brooches Weaving implements Bone pins Crampons Horse crampons Buttons Hobbles Sword chapes Quernstones

No. of graves 4 4 4 3 3 3 3 3 3 3 2 2 2 2 2 2 1 1 1 1 1 1

Table 1. Grave goods documented in Pre-Christian graves in Iceland. (Based on Eldjárn, 2000:301–302, 596–597 and research conducted since 2000)

Figure 1. Grave 12 at Brimnes in Dalvík, N-Iceland, contained the remains of one individual (female, 18-25 (Gestsdóttir, 1998)), a dog and horse. Both horse and human were accompanied with grave goods, represented by a whetstone, a knife, a couldron, 19 gaming pieces and a bridle bit (Eldjárn, 2000:167).

age

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N-TAG TEN away from economic rationalizations, I believe the the characteristics presented in the table do tell us something else. Firstly, they indicate an obvious tendency or trend in the deposition, materialized in the abundance of horses. Secondly, they also indicate a clear tolerance for personal preferance, signaled through both the variety of grave goods and the number of categories that may be defined as uncommon. This is important to keep in mind when studying the material further, and underlines that such a study needs to be based on the material as it appears and not on systematically sorted categories – in other words, it needs to be sensitive to the material itself and what it is trying to tell.

there are occasions where an individual is buried with two horses. How horses are deposited varies, but can overall be divided in two categories; the horse is either buried with the person or in a separate grave, the latter being less common. Instances where a horse and person are buried together also vary as there is either one large grave compartment containing both individuals or there are two connected grave compartments, separated by a small barrier or section, but covered with one heap of soil and stones. Where horse and human are buried together the horse usually rests in the foot end of the grave and most often with its back against the interred. Generally the horse lies on one side with its back slightly curved and the feet either clenched under the belly or straight. In the burial grounds at Dalvík (Eldjárn 2000, 162–163) and Brimnes (Bruun and Jónsson 1910) in Northern Iceland, as well as in a few single graves, the animals’ heads were cut of and placed up against the belly or neck. However, the tradition seems to have been to place whole animals in the graves and not parts. As with dogs deposited, the proximity between horse and human is often very close and in some instances such that the two cannot possibly be disentangled and viewed separately.

The arrangement of grave goods in the grave has unfortunately often been disturbed before archaeologists are consulted. This because until recently most preChristian graves have been discovered through some sort of disturbance or construction and not through systematic survey or research. However, it can be stated that the deposition and arrangement followed certain traditions, and was far from being a random procedure. Each item was assigned its own significant place in the grave collective, and some clear patterns may be defined. Weapons, swords, spears and axes, usually lie beside the dead with blades pointing down towards the foot end. Shields are generally placed over the deceased’s head. Knifes, along with smaller items like whetstones, strikea-lights, combs or weights are often found by the person’s waistline and do sometimes indicate the presence of small leather or textile pouches. When undisturbed, jewellery and clothing articles like pins are most often found on the body indicating that it was fully dressed.

Exclusive horse graves, where a horse is buried alone and in no direct relation to a human grave, occur in at least nine instances (Eldjárn 2000, 308–309). These horse graves have, however, invariably been interpreted as belonging to a known or unknown human grave in their vicinity. Yet, even if there usually is a human grave close by, the distance between the two varies from less than 2 m up to at least 14 m. Whether the horse should be considered as belonging to a human burial rite, or be perceived as part of the grave goods of the individual in the closest grave, is therefore not at all self-evident. Not the least when considering the fact that the horse is often equipped with grave goods itself, a saddle and/or bridle.

Where animals, a horse or dog, are buried with the dead they are generally placed by or in the foot end of the grave. In two instances a dog is even described as lying between the deceased’s feet (Eldjárn 2000, 311–312). Most often one horse is deposited with the deceased but

Figure 2. Horse grave at Hrífunes in SE-Iceland. An unusual and elaborate stone setting of small water worn stones was arranged arround the oval grave. The horse was equipped with some grave goods, represented by an iron buckle and bridle bit (Eldjárn, 2000:254). 34

Þóra Petursdóttir: Material memories among pre-Christian graves in Iceland Thus, shifting focus from dubious parallelism to the material itself reflects that there is in fact nothing that suggests that the burial and the deposition of things was a random, meningless, or ad hoc practice. Not only does the careful arrangement of all the constituents in the grave collectively demonstrate the close and entangled relations between the items and the deceased; it also indicates the significance this display may have had for those constructing the grave – and I think that may be where the main memorial/mnemonic or monumental aspect of the material lies. Although later concealed, the grave internments were visible during part of the burial performance – and those present may have known, or at least they were made aware of the entangled life histories on display.

death the social relations and institutions that person was part of were left unbalanced. It was therefore important that the survivors gathered around the deceased’s body to reconsider, reconstruct and reinforce these relations, for example through the formal way of transferring objects. Thus, the burial was not necessarily a sacred gathering as we would define it today. Decisions had to be made concerning the fate of the powerful or valuable things in the deceased’s possession. Who were to take his/her place in these relations by being bestowed this sword or brooch? Or, alternatively, which objects or animals were to follow the deceased to the other side? That these gatherings could last many days or even weeks, as described in the Sagas, is understandable as there was hardly consensus on how to act.

Objects in circulation

Drawing attention to these issues is useful because it indicates a different relation to material culture and underlines how objects work; – how they could be indispensable parts of political alliances, friendships and persons and through their social lives gained a biography and identity of their own. I think this is important when interpreting the graves – because it prohibits us to simply assume what the isolated parts are, and instead encourages us to to try to understand how they came to be parts of just this collective (cf. Holtorf 2002, 55). Because, the attraction of the open grave – and the message it materialises – cannot stem from its isolated parts but from the collective magnetism of the body-things-animals and the unity they materialize.

The much debated written sources are not to much help when it comes to burial customs or rituals surrounding the burial performance. However, they do give us valuable information on something that is important to keep in mind when interpreting the graves – namely, the significant role material objects played in this pre-Christian society and the apparent close relations between people and things – also expressed in the graves. Objects of various kind feature in many of the written sources. Some objects can even be described as central characters – granted with names and reputation – arround which stories evolve. Furthermore, these objects are often described as personifying some of their owners’ characteristics and qualities or even to contain a part of the person who used them (Gurevich 1992, 180), and hence had a personality. Hávamál and the Sagas, moreover suggest that gift exchange was an integral component of the early Icelandic social structure (cf. Gurevich 1992; Hauken 1991; Samson 1991; Vestergaard 1991), and a means to build and withold alliances and social relations – obviously important in a dispersed settlement as that of early medieval Iceland. I think the sources also make it clear that the objects bestowed as gifts were not merely symbolic substitutes, or “stand-ins”, representing abstract social relations, but were themselves of fundamental importance, as constantly engaged concrete manifestations.

Speaking of objects as persons or parts of persons is not unproblematic. In modern thought there is a deeply embedded fear of becoming too intimately involved with things, a superstitious and fetishistic inclination incompatible with rational behaviour. It is considered shameful and unacceptable to be emotionally attached to material things because it ascribes to them some of the attributes we want to reserve for humans only. We tend to presume, as Daniel Miller (1987, 11) has pointed out, that peoples relations to things are “…in some way vicarious, fetishistic or wrong; that primary concern should lie with direct social relations and “real people”.” This attitude has been propelled by modern social theory and philosophy, where technology, mass production and massive consumption have become the incarnations of our alienated and inauthentic modern lives (Olsen 2003, 94). In tandem with this, the material culture of burial deposits has repeatedly been reduced to a social, symbolic essence or a form of ‘accessory’, distinctly different and subordinated to the human remains. And although many recent studies have emphasized the symbol’s ambiguous and contested meaning, it is mainly as symbols that the material culture of graves has been considered. So, the material culture is important in the grave (and ritual) to make present that which isn’t physically there – as a ‘stand in’ for some other essence and largely without any significance in itself, beyond representation. I think, as for the matter of Icelandic graves and grave goods, this is a far too constraining and narrow position. What meets the

The transfer of objects is apparent in many contexts but also seems strongly connected to the rituals performed during transitional moments in a person’s life – what Arnold van Gennep (1960 [1909]) called ‘the rites of passage’. These are sacred arenas in relation to moments like birth, marrige and death, where a person’s identity and relations to other persons and entities are transformed. These transitions often call for the gathering of the community concerned in order to reinforce or alter the various relations within it – as is the case with mortuary rites in most societies. This was probably the case in Viking Age Iceland where many graves can be related to specific farms (Friðriksson 2004) and, according to written sources, the burial was usually handled by the deceased’s close relatives. Upon a persons 35

N-TAG TEN

Figure 3. Grave 2 at Vað in Skriðdalur, E-Iceland, contained a well preserved human 36-45 (Gestsdóttir, 1998)) along with the remains of a dog. A colourful rhyolite slab covered the upper part of the individual’s body and a whetstone was placed by his head. A similar slab had obviously covered the lower part as well but was shattered (Kristinsdóttir 1988:93).

skeleton (male, age

eye in an open grave is a collective of human and nonhuman remains entangled in a complex and even chaotic nature that often makes little immediate sense to us. This is not to say that the objects do not, or can not have a symbolic meaning, but simply that their material quality and physical proximity to the buried individual may be of at least as much significance.

determine the value of things in relation to economic aspects only is really to devalue them and underestimate the complex relations they are parts of. In many cases the value of an object is its very materiality, the fact that it is there and is seen, for example in an open grave, and moreover that it will last as a material reminder/part of a relation, person, event or other. To think of these objects as ‘time capsules’ reflecting a moment in a past is therfore not to understand what they are or mean. Their temporality is more complex than so and requires us to see them not as (gone) momments in isolation but to focus on the networks they compose and are themselves composed by.

In her ethnographical research among the Kodi in eastern Indonesia Janet Hoskins (1998) discovered just how ordinary objects could ‘contain’ the stories of peoples lives. Through her efforts to record the life histories of her informants it became ever clearer to her that their stories could not be collected separately from the stories of the everyday objects they surrounded themselves with. By being constantly and intimately entangled in people’s everyday lives ordinary possessions became vehicles for self definition and identity – a set of “memory boxes” holding on to the passing moments, memories of people and relations, and a means to bring them back through their appearance, smell and touch as well as their practical use (Hoskins 1998, 2–5). An ordinary object was therefore not simply a ‘metaphor for the self’ but “…a pivot for reflexivity and introspection, a tool of autobiographical self-discovery, a way of knowing oneself through things” (Hoskins 1998, 198). Importantly, however, through their transactions with people objects not only come to contain or anchor the life histories of people, as biographical things, but also accumulate histories of their own – become subjects of their own biographies (Kopytoff 1986).

Collective material memory Obviously, we can never be certain about how things in a grave relate to the interred. Grave goods may have been possessed and used by the deceased in life and thereby, through their shared lives, achieved a biographical significance also crucial to his/her identity construction. Grave goods may also include items given to the deceased by the living, at the time of burial, as a means to withhold or build relations that reached beyond life and death. Or they may have been thought of as equipment to be employed in the afterlife awaiting the deceased (cf. Parker Pearson 2003, 7). It is well possible that many or all factors affected when, how and what was placed in the grave – living and dead, animals and things may all have have insisted, restricted or enabled actions. The relationships between people and things are complex, and their integral constituent roles have often been ignored or overlooked. However, their literally enmeshed relations in a Viking Age grave urge us to rethink. In the grave collective the physical proximity of things, body, and animals can be argued to forge a relationship between them

The identity of an object is therefore not a direct result of its singularity, uniqueness or use value but will have “…emerged from a background of materials, persons, practices and histories” (Thomas 1996, 155). Hence to

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Þóra Petursdóttir: Material memories among pre-Christian graves in Iceland (Thomas 1996, 169). Not the least because their gathering (the creation of the collective) was accomplished through the kind of performative practice that the act of burial normally constitutes. In other words, what characterizes the Viking Age burial is not merely the use of grave goods, but more importantly the visual demonstration of those objects in relation to the dead body. The grave collective, composed by the body, animals and artifacts, formed as proclaimed by Williams (2005, 256-257) a ‘symbolic text’ which’ reading would have been an important part of the ritual performance, as well as the construction of social memory. What all funerals have in common is that they are driven by the death of a person and gathered around his or her material remains. In a modern Western perspective the dead body is generally regarded as inert, vulnerable and defenceless matter. Deprived of the mind/self that once occupied and animated it, the corpse is thought of as a numb and empty shell incapable of action (Hallam and Hockey 2001, 133). However, as the ‘object’ around which the collective practice circulates the physical presence of the dead body may be argued to affect those burying, not only emotionally but by tying them together, temporarily at least, in an actor-network (e.g. Latour 1999; 2005; Law 1999) and insist on that the action is fulfilled. As pointed out by Hallam and Hockey (2001, 109) the dead body may thus be conceived of as a ‘boundary being’ – it is simultaneously the material residue of life and the physical indicator of death. Moreover, through its ambiguous status, the physical remains of a deceased person can be considered as an archetype of a biographical or memory object as it stands “…not only as a material reminder of the embodied, living person, but as a medium through which the dead might communicate directly with the living” (Hallam and Hockey 2001, 134).

Figure 4. Grave 3 at Ytra-Garðshorn in Svarfaðardalur, N-Iceland, contained the remains of one individual (female, age 36-45 (Gestsdóttir, 1998)) and a horse. The horse was lying completely up against the person’s feet in one undevided grave. The horse’s

Howard Williams (2004) has criticized how, despite the emphasis on agency, recent archaeological research on burial and death rituals have tended to be “mournercentred”, and thus failed to recognize the centrality of the dead body in this social and mnemonic act. However, as argued by Williams and others (e.g. Fowler 2001; 2004) societies may have different conceptions of death and its affect on the body and personhood. Through the transition of death the body and identity may, in some contexts, continue to be closely entangled, and the ‘corporeal presence’ of the dead person can thus allow it to affect the living, their experience and the act of burial. Therefore, although the dead do not bury themselves, we can not think of them as clay in the hands of the living. The ambiguous and demanding presence of the deceased during a Viking Age burial ceremony may have bestowed him or her with an ability to communicate and manipulate the living. The dead body may have silently insisted that the things or animals that were part of the person’s identity in life – with and through whom it formed networks – should be deposited alongside it. Through her ethnographical research Marilyn Strathern (1981, 219) has actually recognized that funerals often “remember” the

grave goods were represented by a few nails and two buckles.

Other grave goods were two glass beads, a

strike-a-light, a knife, shears, and a possible wooden chest

(Eldjárn, 1966:37).

dead through such reconfigurations. That is, by bringing together the parts the individual demonstrated in life and thereby unite or re-member an otherwise ‘distributed person’. Thus, the contents of an excavated grave can not simply be conceived as “…osteological data, artefacts or symbolic resources, but as holding material agency influencing the selective remembering and forgetting of the deceased’s personhood” (Williams 2004, 263 [italics added]). Clearly, all the constituents of a grave were brought to the place of deposition by the living. However, it is equally true that all the living were brought there due to the grave and the significance of the burial as well as the place it occupied and transformed. So, we cannot think of the dead body, the things or animals as passive materials. All were bringing with them a life history involving networks of significance, 37

N-TAG TEN social relations and the personal histories of other people and things. Moreover, many of the more elaborate objects of the Icelandic corpus are of such character or rarity that their identity, even their name, and their reputation may have been known by many. The fact that the corpus comprises few such elaborate things – and is in fact poor in this respect – can only strengthen such an argument – that objects or animals were not just there but were recognized and remembered. It is therefore not difficult to see how the selection of artifacts for internment (remembering), and the disassociation of others (forgetting), would have contributed to the collective displayed, as well as to the memories evoked (Williams 2005, 254).

or next to the deceased’s body, their presence was not symbolic but material and real. The immediate significance of the object or animal was therefore not simply related to some external essence but to its literal presence – the fact that just this sword, horse or brooch was there, was seen and was recognized, and could evoke memories, emotions or strengthen relations. Rather than being a metaphor for something else and absent, it was the object itself and its life history of gathered relations that was of significance, and brought meaning to the collective material memory it became part of.

What we learn about Nordic mythology through written sources indicates that death was not considered a final end but rather the beginning of a journey into a new existence, and grave goods are often perceived of as symbolic expressions of this. But if death was not final but rather a transition or displacement it may be suggested that grave goosd were not only ment to symbolize travel but were objects of transitional nature. In his article Mementoes as Transitional Objects in Human Displacement David Parkin (1999) discusses the significance of things in cases of human displacement and in relation to refugees in particular. He has registered that under conditions of flight or immediate departure people do not just grab what they absolutely need for subsistence “…but also, if they can, articles of sentimental value which both inscribe and are inscribed by their own memories of self and personhood” (Parkin 1999, 304). So, when faced with total dispossession people hold on to their precluded identity and cultural knowledge by “…merging it in the materiality of concrete objects…” from where it may be retrieved when the circumstances allow (Parkin 1999, 318). Without proclaiming that the settlers of Iceland were refugees Parkin’s ideas around human displacement may be a relevant perspective when discussing death as transition. Where mundane artefacts of everyday life, elaborate weapons and jewellery or small personal items carried in ones belt, served as transitional objects merging mementoes of personal identity, relations and belonging. Through the transitional and often precarious voyage between worlds the materiality of these things would hold on to those memories and on safe arrival allow for their re-articualtion. Grave goods uncommonly appear unused. More often things are described as ‘old and worn’ or otherwise bear signs of long use – they have been broken, fixed and modified. These items bear the visual imprints of their long life in people’s service, which gives us reason to believe that their story or identity is not told by our classification and recognition of them as ‘a knife’ or ‘a pebble’. Rather, it is only when we acknowledge the person-thing relation displayed as real and valid that we can start to infer their entangled life histories and how they in tandem composed the identity of both.

On closer inspection it is clear that the proclaimed poorness of the material is more a result of the way it has been perceived than of its actual nature. The significance or richness of a grave does not emerge from its distinct parts – things, bodies or animals in isolation – but from their collective and entangled material presence. The way the graves have usually been handled, split up and sorted out, has therefore prevented one from seeing their immediate complexity and interpretive potential. What the characteristics of the corpus actually indicate is, firstly, an obvious tendency or trend in the deposition, materialized in the abundance of horses. Secondly, it indicates a clear tolerance for personal preferance, signaled throgh the variety of grave goods. Moreover, these items bear the visual imprints of their long life in people’s service, and their story or identity is not grasped through our recognition of them as objects or ‘types’ from defined moments in a past. These items, or the grave collective, were not created as time capsules. All parts of the collective brought with them a life history including a complex web of realtions involving other objects, persons and places at a ‘spatiotemporal distance’ (Witmore 2005). Comprehending one will only happen with reference to the other parts, and together they formed a meaningful material unity wich affected the memories evoked, or overlooked, among those present. The burial may therefore be thought of as an act of re-membering, where a distributed whole was gathered and remembered, and then concealed in a grave which was not meant to challenge but complement the place it occupied. And the memorial aspect of the grave was not (only) about its apperance in the landscape but rather about the processes of remembering and forgetting brought about through the material memories gathered, displayed and concealed.

Conclusion

References Bruun, D. and Jónsson, F. 1910. Dalvík-fundet. En gravplads fra hedenskabets tid på Island. Aarbøger for nordisk oldkyndighed og historie 25, 62-100. Eldjárn, K. 1956. Kuml og haugfé úr heiðnum sið á Íslandi. Akureyri, Bókaútgáfan Norðri. Eldjárn, K. 1958. Viking Archaeology in Iceland. Þriðji Víkingafundur. Third Viking Congress. Árbók Hins íslenzka fornleifafélags 1958. Reykjavík.

The presence of things, or their performative significance in the open grave, would therefore not have been of a symbolic nature only. Although gender, status or power may have been expressed through their placement on 38

Þóra Petursdóttir: Material memories among pre-Christian graves in Iceland Eldjárn, K. 1966. Kuml úr heiðnum sið, fundin á síðustu árum. Árbók hins íslenzka fornleifafélags 1965, 5–68. Eldjárn, K. 1981. Orð í belg um íslenska hestinn og uppruna hans. Eiðfaxi 4, 4-6. Eldjárn, K. 2000. Kuml og haugfé úr heiðnum sið á Íslandi. 2nd edition. In A. Friðriksson (ed.), Fornleifastofnun Íslands, Mál og menning and Þjóðminjasafn Íslands. Reykjavík. Fowler, C. 2001. Personhood and Social Relations in the British Neolithic with a Study from the Isle of Man. Journal of Material Culture 6(2), 37-163. Fowler, C. 2004. The Archaeology of Personhood. An Anthropological Approach. London and New York, Routledge. Friðriksson, A. 1994. Sagas and Popular Antiquarianism in Icelandic Archaeology. Worldwide Archaeology Series 10. Aldershot, Avebury. Friðriksson, A. 2004. Haugar og heiðni: Minjar um íslenskt járnaldarsamfélag. In Á, Björnsson and H. Róbertsdóttir (eds.), Hlutavelta tímans: Menningararfur á Þjóðminjasafni, 57-63. Reykjavík, Þjóðminjasafn Íslands. Gestsdóttir, H. 1998. Kyn- og lífaldursgreiningar á beinum úr íslenskum kumlum (FS055-98151). Reykjavík, Fornleifastofnun Íslands. Gurevich, A. 1992. Wealth and Gift-Bestowal among the Ancient Scandinavians. In J. Howlett (ed.), Historical Anthropology of the Middle Ages, 177-189. Cambridge, Polity Press. Hallam, E. and J. Hockey 2001. Death, Memory and Material Culture. Oxford and New York, Berg. Hauken, Å. D. 1991. Gift-Exchange in Early Iron Age Norse Society. In R. Samson (ed.), Social Approaches to Viking Studies, 105-112. Glasgow, Cruithne Press. Holtorf, C. 2002. Notes on the life history of a pot sherd. Journal of Material Culture 7(1), 49-72. Hoskins, J. 1998. Biographical Objects. How Things Tell the Stories of People’s Lives. New York and London, Routledge. Kålund, K. 1882. Islands fortidslævninger. Aarbøger for nordisk oldkyndighed og historie, 57-124. Kopytoff, I. 1986. The cultural biography of things: commoditization as process. In: A. Appadurai (ed.), The social life of Things. Commodities in Cultural Perspective, 64-91. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kristinsdóttir, G. 1988. Kuml og beinafundir á Austurlandi. Árbók hins íslenzka fornleifafélags 1987, 89–97. Latour, B. 1999. Pandora’s Hope. Essays on the Reality of Science Studies. Cambridge (MA), Harvard University Press. Latour, B. 2005. Reassembling the Social. An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford, Oxford University Press. Law, J. 1999. After ANT: complexity, naming and topology. In J. Law and J. Hassard (eds.), Actor Network Theory and After, 1-14. Oxford, Blackwell. Miller, D. 1987. Material Culture and Mass Consumption. Oxford, Blackwell.

Olsen, B. 2003. Material Culture after Text: Re-Membering Things. Norwegian Archaeological Review 36(2), 87104. Parker Pearson, M. 2003. The Archaeology of Death and Burial. Stroud, Sutton Publishing. Parkin, D. 1999. Mementoes as Transitional Objects in Human Displacement. Journal of Material Culture 4(3), 303-320. Samson, R. 1991. Economic Anthropology and Vikings. In R. Samson (ed.), Social Approaches to Viking Studies, 87-96. Glasgow, Cruithne Press. Shetelig, H. 1939. Íslenzkar dysjar og fornleifar frá víkingaöld. Árbók hins íslenzka fornleifafélags 193739, 5-18. Strathern, M. 1981. Death as exchange: two Melanesian cases. In S. Humphries and H. King (eds.), Mortality and Immortality: The Anthropology and Archaeology of Death, 205-223. London, Academic Press. Thomas, J. 1996. Time, Culture and Identity. An Interpretive Archaeology. London, Routledge. van Gennep, A. (1960 [1909]) The Rites of Passage. Chicago, The University of Chicago Press. Vestergaard, E. 1991. Gift-Giving, Hoarding, and Outdoings. In S. Ross Samson (ed.), Social Approaches to Viking Studies, 97-103. Glagow, Cruithne Press. Vésteinsson, O. 2000. The Archaeology of Landnám. Early Settlement in Iceland. In W. F. Fitzhugh and E. I. Ward (eds.), Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga, 164174. Washington and London, Smithsonian Institution Press. Williams, H. 2004. Death Warmed up: The Agency of Bodies and Bones in Early Anglo-Saxon Cremation Rites. Journal of Material Culture 9(3), 263–291. Williams, H. 2005. Keeping the dead at arm’s length: Memory, weaponry and early medieval mortuary technologies. Journal of Social Archaeology 5(2), 253–275. Witmore, C. 2005. A brief manifesto for a symmetrical archaeology (Paper read at the Annual Conference of the Theoretical Archaeology Group (TAG), Sheffield, December 2005). (Retrieved 30. January 2007 from http://traumwerk.stanford.edu:3455/symmetry/817) Þóra Petursdóttir Institute for Archaeology Þórunnarstræti 99, 600 Akureyri Iceland [email protected]

39

What can a little bird tell if all good things come in threes? Triple cups and bird-shaped pottery as representations of ritualized feasting goods Christian L. Rødsrud University of Oslo

Abstract This paper explores the function and symbolic significance of two rare groups of pottery from Norwegian graves of the five first centuries AD: triple cups and bird-shaped beakers. These beakers are part of an old tradition of drinking rituals with interesting ethnographic parallels connecting them to the feasting of the farming communities of 16th and 17th Centuries. The vessels point back to the life-giving drink, brought to humankind by the gods and thereby playing an important part in both social and religious life. The triple-cups relate to the Trinitarian symbolism that can also be found in iconography and written sources, representing cosmological totality. Bird-shaped beakers relate to the bird as a helping animal, but also to their power of healing and collectors of wisdom and information from other worlds. Both kinds of vessels are interpreted as primary symbols in funerary feasting of the early Iron Age society.

In this article I will focus on two rare groups of pottery from Norwegian graves of the five first centuries AD: triple cups and bird-shaped beakers (figure 1). They are part of an old tradition of drinking rituals with interesting ethnographic parallels connecting them to the feasting of the farming communities of 16th and 17th Centuries. These vessels are hardly crafted for daily use, but are mostly for drinking on special occasions such as weddings and funerals or for other cultic activities (Gjærder 1975, 181). The vessels point back to the life-giving drink, brought to humankind by the gods and thereby playing an important part in both social and religious life. Both types of objects are loaded with meaning traceable to a wide spectre of written sources. Linking to recent writings on materiality (Gell 1998; Glørstad and Hedeager 2009; Miller 2005a; Tilley 2006), I will, by the use of analogy, try to show how these artefacts are primary symbols in funerary feasting of the early Iron Age society. If an object refers to a myth, form and meaning are vital to making a metaphorical connection. The concrete symbol’s objective qualities and apparent suitability to its actual meaning are essential (Tilley 1999, 8). Because of their shape, triple cups and bird-shaped beakers are thus more obvious metaphors than other pots, becoming key objects for the whole category of vessels. Parallels from different times and places are included because I believe the symbolism imbedded in these artefacts is the reason why special forms are kept over centuries. They become tradition bearers and symbolize former praxis and cosmological beliefs.

Figure 1: Map of triple cups and bird-shaped pottery found in Southern Norway. Illustration: Magne Samdal, KHM.

The pottery discussed in this paper is all from graves and often combined in groups, forming sets of drinking equipment for ritual use. Archaeological finds from the late Hallstatt/early La Tène periods (about 600-400 BC) and onwards feature the concept of the otherworld feast, with grave goods including provisions and utensils for food and drink (Arnold 2001). Documentary sources (Mediterranean ca. 300 BC-AD 200 while British and Scandinavian ca. AD 600-1200) also refer frequently to communal drinking. When combining archaeological finds and written sources the socio-political role of drinking

and feasting stands forth as continuous for 1000-1500 years (Arnold 1999; Qviller 2004). Such a long timeframe surely includes some ideological changes, but the central place of feasting is fundamental. The featured items in this article should be seen as important symbols in such a wide-reaching concept of funerary feasting, and indicates that quite distant parallels could be used as analogies to interpret these rare cups. 41

N-TAG TEN

Figure 2: Triple cups of pottery (1-3) and wood (4-5). Illustrations are not to same scale. 1. Mus.no. C21408, Hedrum parsonage, Larvik, Vestfold, Norway, AD 350-450. Drawing: S. Krafft. 2. Mus.no. C30491g, Trålum, Fjære, Aust-Agder, Norway, AD 350-450. Drawing: unknown. 3. Mus.no. C29860b, Ula, Fredrikstad, Østfold, Norway, probably AD 100-300. Reconstructed. Drawing: Tone Strenger. 4. Telemark, Norway. 18th century. After Gjærder 1975, fig 242. 5. Telemark, Norway. 17-18th century. Photo: The author. Triple cups

new shapes. These ceremonial vessels are also fashioned and embellished with artistic care, while the vessels for everyday use have vanished on account of tear and wear or inferior quality (Christie 1986; Gjærder 1975; Midtun 1921).

Triple cups consists of three cups joined together, internally connected by small holes at the base (figure 2:1-3). The holes denote that the contents of the cups should be liquid, flowing from one cup to another. The cups from Hedrum and Trålum are dated between the fourth and fifth centuries AD, while the one from Ula is undated but probably earlier. Despite the gap in time, these finds have close parallels in wood carved Norwegian folk art from the 16th and 17th Centuries, sharing the exact same shape and function as the pottery (figure 1:4-5). The wooden bowls are believed to be based on Medieval Norse traditions (compare with bird-shaped vessels), but there is no obvious link between the Iron Age ceramics and the wooden bowls (Gjærder 1975,122-123, 478). Similar bowls are also found in Prehistoric and Medieval Europe (Grohne 1932, 32), and an independent production of such forms without a common idea would be surprising. Their primary function is probably ceremonial use on special occasions like weddings and funerals. This is documented in the folk culture up until the 19th century, when they were replaced by vessels of other materials and

Most research predates WWII, probably because few vessels have been discovered after 1900. On the basis of known research, I will her try to shed new light upon this group of finds. Triple cups have been crafted as early as the late Neolithic and can be found in many cultures up until modern times (Gjærder 1975, 122-124, 176-179, 478, 481; Grohne 1932, 32-55; Kaye 1914). I will mainly focus on fully published Norwegian (to some extent other Scandinavian and North-European) examples, that can be dated to the five first centuries AD, but examples are also known from other parts of Europe, in particular Germany, Britain and Italy (Grohne 1932; Haberey 1953; Kaye 1914; Veeck 1931, 28, taf. C, fig. 25 and taf. 17, fig.12). The finds from the southern part of the continent usually dates to the last centuries BC, while most British vases are dated to the roman period. The German examples have the latest dating, ca. 500-700 AD (Bøe 1931, 13042

Christian L. Rødsrud: What can a little bird tell if all good things come in threes? craftsmanship of brewing and the wisdom and healing gained from the drink. These three different spheres also reflect the lifecycles and abilities of alcohol in mythology (Davidson 1988, 39, 1993, 112, 1998, 35-37, 67, 88, 135; Green 1989, 170, 1992, 50-51, 214; Hutton 1991; Schimmel 1994, 66; Tresidder 2004, 78, 475). Within the framework and customs of ritual feasting, the Trinitarian aspects of religion could lead to the construction or materialization of different kinds of tools and objects, such as the triple cups discussed here. Divine trinities like the fates can be linked to the cult of the dead (Green 1992, 95; Tresidder 2004, 178-179), making the presence of these cups in graves even more interesting.

131; Fingerlin 1964, 32-33; Grohne 1932; Kaye 1914: all with further references). The triple cups are too unusual and complicated to be suitable for ordinary use and bear witness of a highly specialized handicraft. The original meaning In Britain triple-cups often go by the name “fuddling cups”, named after a tavern game of the 17th century, where the drinker is supposed to empty the cup without spilling or splitting the contents (Monson-Fitzjohn 1927). This drinking game offers a humorous explanation to the function of the cup, but many customs can trace their origins to cultic or magical beliefs. The example shows that customs may be context-specific, but I will here try to find clues to the original meaning behind these vessels.

The importance and symbolic role of the number three or multiplicities of three seems to be omnipresent worldwide (Hopper 1969, 4-8; Schimmel 1994, 58-85; Tresidder 2004, 475) but particularly common in Indo-European tradition (Green 1989, 169-204, 1992, 214; Lexow 1958, 55; Mallory and Adams 1997, 577-581). Three is a positive and desirable number; representing synthesis, reunion, resolution, creativity, versatility, omniscience, birth and growth. The expression “third time lucky” is ancient, possibly of Greek origin, and in mythology folklore and legend heroes or heroines are often granted three wishes or trials (Evensberget and Gundersen 1986, 16; Green 1992, 214-216; Tresidder 2004, 475). There seems to be a common desire to give religious beliefs and sacred actions a triplicate form, or performing it thrice (Hopper 1969; Schimmel 1994) .

Ernst Grohne (1932, 43-57) holds that these cups may have originated in very ancient libation rites or drinking/ feasting ceremonies. During the medieval and modern periods they are known to be used by brotherhood groups, where arms were also linked while drinking. This practice might be related to the intertwined handles that can be found on many modern examples (Grohne 1932, tafel 7; Haberey 1953, 82). The brotherhood aspect is most clearly exemplified by a Roman first-century cup from Colchester, Essex, England where a human arm is rising from the foot of one cup, to grasp the centre of an adjacent cup (Haberey 1953, 81; Kaye 1914, 175-176). Michael Enright (1996, 107-112) is the latest contributor, linking triple cups to the uniting role of the aristocratic lady serving at feasts.

The contexts of the triple cups place them in a milieu where they can be connected to banqueting or feasting with analogy to life in the hall (see also Fredriksen 2005), where the beaker also operate as a symbol of royal power (Bauschatz 1978, 290; Enright 1996; Pollington 2003). In Celtic mythology many connections are made between tripleness and feasting or drinking. Multiples of three form the preparations for banquets or feasts, the quantities of food and drink, numbers of guests, and length of time for consumption in Irish and Welsh literature (Arnold 1999, 76-78). Special items like the triple cups may reflect a connection to divinity, cosmology and the importance of drinking similar to the ideas surviving in mythology. Given the ritual and socio-political significance of drinking in ancient society (Arnold 2001; Dietler 1990), it would not be surprising to see feasting goods with a deeply embedded symbolic meaning finding it’s place in a grave where it has been displayed ritually for the last time (see also Douglas 1972; Sherratt 1995, 11-12).

From the High Middle Ages these cups were also linked to the Trinitarian symbolism and iconography where Christ is depicted as triple-headed (Grohne 1932, 32-43; Lexow 1958, 77-99). This can on the other hand also relate to much older customs, for triplicates of different forms (i.e. triads, triple headed deities, figures and items) are known from previous periods in many areas (Arnold 1999, 77; Green 1992, 114-116, 149-150, 214-216, 1998; Grohne 1932, 44-48; Kirfel 1948; Lexow 1958, 55-77; Ross 1967, 123; Schimmel 1994, 58-85; Tresidder 2004, 475). Worth mentioning as parallels are also the ‘planetary’ pots of Belgic Gaul where triple faced images appear (Green 1989, 175-176; Lexow 1958, 62). Scandinavian examples include the triad Odin, Hönir and Lodur, the norns, the roots of Yggdrasil and the statue depicting Thor, Odin and Frey, in Old Uppsala, Sweden (Davidson 1982, 74; Hopper 1969, 203; Schimmel 1994, 61). On the Danish horns of Gallehus there is a naked man with three heads (Brøndsted 1954, 54, 75, planche II og III; Müller and Jiriczek 1897, 55, Abb. 99), and in Skírnismál/Sayings of Skírnir verse 31 (see Holm-Olsen 1985) Skírnir meets a three-headed troll.

The association between the archaeological record and the literature is in fact most intriguing. If we go back as early as 550 BC, the Hochdorf Chieftain buried in a princely grave in Germany may serve as the first example. The chief had nine drinking horns, nine plates and three serving basins in his chamber grave (Arnold 1999, 77). Another example of triplicate symbolism connected to drinking in found on the Snoldelev rune stone, Copenhagen, Zealand in Denmark. Besides the runic inscription and a swastika a type of

The Celtic pantheon is formed by several triadic groups, for example, three craftsmen gods (Green 1992, 214). The Celtic Goddess, and later Christian Saint Brigid, controlled three spheres; healing, crafts and poetry. Interestingly, the making of a brew includes natures own ingredients, the 43

N-TAG TEN Museumnumber C21408 C29860b C30491g

?

?

Farm/County/ Country Hedrum parsonage, Larvik, Vestfold, Norway

Date

Other Finds

Literature

300-400 AD

Out of context, but from a mound in a large cemetery with other rich finds.

Unknown, Caulking resins, iron ring, fragment of sickle?, burnt probably 100-350 bones (male) and bear claws AD Trålum østre, Two concentrations of finds (possibly double grave): Grimstad, Aust300-400 AD 6 pottery vessels, caulking resins, bone comb, bone Agder, Norway pin, burnt bones and bear claws Female: necklace with beads and 3 gold bracteates, Güttingen, Thurgau, 4 fibulas, gold fingering, belt, knife, amulets, 2 disc Switzerland/ Kreiss 500-600 AD brooches, spindle whorl, scissors, bell, spoon sieve, Konstanz, Germany ladle, bronze pan, bronze kettle, glass bowl and bucket. Pit-house: Pottery fragments, silver fragment (from Vestra Karaby, 500-700 fibulae?), 3 spindle whorls, whetstone, bronze thread Scania, Sweden and loom-weights. Ula, Fredrikstad, Østfold, Norway

Oldtiden VI 1917:200-201, no. 21; Bøe (1931, 130-131, footnote 142) Universitetets Oldsaksamlings Årbok 1958-59:202-203; VibeMüller (1987, 39, 59) Skjelsvik (1965, 253-254); Winther (1881); Bøe (1931, 130131, footnote 143) Fingerlin (1964)

Jeppson (1996)

Table 1 Contexts of triple cups mentioned in the text.

triskele is outlined in the form of three drinking horns. It has been argued that it can be related to drink offerings at the site (Nielsen 1983, 73-75). My own preliminary study of graves in East-Norway indicates that combinations of three vessels are a common phenomenon. In addition, the triangle is used as a decorative element on ceramics, and the zigzag or chevron pattern, forming a row of triangles, is amongst the most common decorative elements on both Germanic (Ekengren 2009, 141-144) and Norwegian (Bøe 1931) pottery from the first five centuries AD .

drinking vessels see Hansen 1987). A discovery from Västra Karaby, Scania, Sweden shows that triple cups also appear in settlement-contexts (Jeppsson 1996). Old Norse literature also contains many references to multiples of three that I will use as analogies to reach a deeper understanding of the artefacts discussed here. These written sources are much younger than the finds discussed above, but they seem to include ideas that are older than the time of compilation and might be related to the triple cups. Terje Gansum (1999, 459-461, 467-468) has examined number-magic in Norse mythology, and concludes that it connects to aspects of cosmology, fate, origin and life/ death. Supported by three roots that reach into distant lands while the branches reach heaven, Yggdrasil was a cosmological symbol binding everything in the world together. It had to be kept alive to avoid Ragnarok, and furthermore it was in Yggdrasil Odin hung for three days and three nights to obtain wisdom and knowledge of the runes. Most importantly here is the strong connotations to the number three and its obvious cosmological value. The tree was probably reproduced symbolically in many ways, for example by star-shaped stone settings (Andrén 2004). Triple cups or groups of three vessels in graves are here understood as representations of the same cosmological symbolism where the number three is uniting and essential to sustaining life or handling death. This symbolism would easily transfer to ritual use at burials, where the life/death-transformation is essential. Triple cups also act as symbols of the funerary feast unifying the living in a time where social positions need to be re-negotiated, as well as uniting the living with the ancestors in order to continue life as it was. Repetitive ritual praxis would also help sustain organization of society as the categorization of dispositions for understanding the world has roots in the unconscious (Bourdieu 2000 [1977], 164; Bourdieu and Wacquant 1995 [1993], 39).

Obviously caution is important when analyzing such a fragmentary material as the Norwegian triple cups. Pairs seem to be similarly significant, but in the following chapters I will try to show that multiples of three had a particular meaning. The three Norwegian triple cups (figure 1, no. 1-3 & table 1) are from three different counties in southern Norway. The vessel from Hedrum parsonage in Vestfold is from a mound in a large cemetery with other rich finds, but the other equipment from the grave has been lost or mixed with other finds more than 100 years ago. The second find from Ula in Østfold comes from a simple cremation grave. The third triple cup, from Trålum in Aust-Agder originates from a grave that contained typical feasting goods with six pottery vessels and caulking resins from a wooden bowl. It is not easy to find prehistoric parallels to the Norwegian finds with triple cups from well documented contexts, but the high status grave from Güttingen on the border of Switzerland and Germany (Fingerlin 1964) is dated to the sixth century AD and places the triple cups within a milieu of specialized drinking equipment (spoon sieve, ladle, bronze pan, bronze kettle, glass bowl and bucket among the finds). The Güttingen-grave was like the Norwegian graves part of a Pre-Christian burial ground, with other similar finds of both imported and locally produced drinking-equipment from AD 100-600 (for imported

44

Christian L. Rødsrud: What can a little bird tell if all good things come in threes? I would also like to draw attention to myth of the mead of inspiration (Snorri’s Skaldskaparmál) in which the number three is central. In short the story goes like this:

sneaks into Gunnlød’s lair by crawling through a hole in the mountain in the form of a worm. Once there he sleeps with her for three nights. After that she allows him three drinks of the mead, and he empties all three vessels. Odin brings the mead to gods and humans by escaping Gunnlød and Suttung in the form of a bird (eagle).

The god Kvasir was made from the saliva of the Aesir and Vanir making him the wisest of all. Kvasir meets the two dwarves, Fjalar and Galar. They kill Kvasir and empty his blood in three vessels (a kettle called Odrører and two beakers, Son and Bodn). His blood is mixed with water and honey making the mead of inspiration.

Three or multiples of three are essential metaphors for the role of the drink in mythology, adding meaning to the triple cups. The shape supports the triple cups metaphorical connection to mythology, making it even more suitable than other vessels in a ritual setting. I here recognize the triple cups as items of ritual importance, and when used for feasting in either real life or the funerary feast it reminds the participants of the strong symbolic connotations of the number three. This symbolism relates to the sacred

The mead is given to the giant Suttung and his daughter Gunnlød who guard it inside a mountain. After passing a trial where he has to do the work of nine men for Suttung’s brother Bauge, Odin wants a drink of the mead as payment, but Suttung will not allow it. Odin

Figure 3: Bird shaped beakers. 1. Mus. No. S1413-1422, Bjerkreim, Helleland, Rogaland, Norway, AD 350-450. Photo: Museum of Archaeology, University of Stavanger. 2. Mus. No. C29264, Ås østre, Sande, Vestfold, Norway, AD 300-400. Photo: the author. 3. Vimose, Funen, Denmark, AD 150-300, After Engelhardt 1869, pl. 16, fig 11. 4. Bryggen (the Wharf), Bergen, Norway, 14th century. After Gjærder 1975, fig 255. 5. Nissedal, Telemark, Norway. 18th century. After Gjærder 1975, fig 256. 45

N-TAG TEN drink it held but also to a divine trinity and to the unifying connotations of drinking from integrated cups. The cups also display a connection to feasting, often combined with other vessels in early Iron Age graves. The feasting aspect and the unified cups both work as metaphors for the important role of the drink for making political and social alliances (Enright 1996), and after the death of an important member of society alliances needed to be renegotiated to stabilize the social order (Oestigaard and Goldhahn 2006). In the words of Miranda Green (1989, 170) triplism may be seen as a sign of totality, or: “the exaltation of the forces of nature, an expression of extreme potency”.

Although reconstructed, a narrow channel through the neck indicates that the head has served as a spout. The opening in the head seems to be for pouring liquid in both examples, so once again the connection to drinking is unmistakable, even though similar vessels previously have been interpreted as lamps (Friis 1975). Both finds are dated between 300-450 AD (Bøe 1931, 131; Sjøvold 1957). Similar bird-shaped vessels of both metal and ceramics are known from Denmark, Sweden and Holland, but especially from Silesia (mainly in present-day Poland) (Bøe 1931, 131). Other animals are also observed (Friis 1975). The Scandinavian examples are listed in table 2. In addition a vessel interpreted as a boat from Glarkrog, Bindslev, Vendsyssel, Jutland, North Denmark (Friis 1971, 36-37) seems to have a birds head. It is shaped in the same way as Norwegian woodcut vessels (kane/kjenge) from the 1617th centuries (Gjærder 1975, 207-259). Worth mentioning are also two vessels with bird-figures as ornamental motives from Møllegårdsmarken, Funen, Denmark grave

Bird-shaped pottery The next category is the bird-shaped vessels, of which there are two in Norway (figure 3:1-2). The bird-shaped vessel from Bjerkreim in Rogaland is hollow, with an opening in the forehead and the body decorated with lines imitating feathers. The other one from Ås, Sande in Vestfold, has a richer decoration of feathers and an opening at the back. Museumnumber/ Name

Farm/County/Country

Date

Other Finds

Literature

350-450 AD

Aarsberetning for foreningen til norske fortidsmindesmærkers bevaring (Ab. 1882, Fragmentary pottery (approximately 10 140); Møllerop (1962); Petersen (1973); vessels) and a fibula. Possible double grave. Lund (1973); Magnus (2005); Bakkevig (2005) Universitetets Oldsaksamlings Årbok 195859 (UOÅ 1960, 216-217); Sjøvold (1957)

S1413-1422 (AMS)

Bjerkreim, Helleland, Rogaland, Norway

C29264 (KHM)

Ås østre, Sande, Vestfold, Norway

300-400 AD

2 pottery vessels, caulking resins, iron fragments (sword and nails?), glass bead and burnt bones. Also pottery fragments from the fill of the mound.

SHM22382 (SHM)

Lövåsen, Köla, Värmland, Sweden

400-550 AD

Cremation: burnt bones, melted bronze, bone comb and four bone pins

Schedin (2000, 180)

300-500 AD

Unknown

Müller (1880, 218, fig 23, 1897, 484, fig 291)

1-200 AD

Unknown

Lysdahl (1971, 99, 102-103, fig. 15) Mackeprang (1943, 101, liste 102)

C641 (NMK) Denmark VHM 1953/911

Vejgård, Hæstrup, Vendsyssel, Jutland, North Denmark

C9755-62, grave L (NMK)

Næsbjerg, Ribe, Jutland, 250-325 AD South-Denmark

3 pottery vessels, 3 fibulae, glass- and amber beads

C13372 (NMK)

Donbæk, Gærum, Vendsyssel, Jutland, North Denmark

300-400 AD

3 pottery vessels, knife

Ferreslev, Odense, Funen, Denmark

May be several graves (improper excavation), probably cremations: 9 pottery Albrectsen (1968, 70-71, 281, fig 61b46, 175-325? AD vessels, 9 fibulae, needle box, 5 beads, 6 Tavle 70d ) bronze, 2 bone combs, knife and Stitching awl

Albrectsen III, 42

Albrectsen Freltofte, Odense, III, 44, grave Funen, Denmark 6 Sejlflod grab I

250-325 AD

Sejlflod, Aalborg, 300-500 AD Jutland, North Denmark

Store Nesjum, Skæve, VHM 14764Vendsyssel, Jutland, 14766 North Denmark

1-200 AD

Müller (1912, 106-107); Friis (1975, 117)

2 pottery vessels

Albrectsen (1968, 73, 281, Tavle 70b, 104i)

2 pottery vessels, fibulae, 28 amber beads, knife, spindle whorl

Nielsen (2000a, 30-31, 2000b, 15-16) Friis (1975, 120-121, fig 6)

2 vessels

Table 2 Scandinavian finds with bird-shaped pottery. 46

Christian L. Rødsrud: What can a little bird tell if all good things come in threes? 208 and 752 (Albrectsen 1968, 106, 281, Tavle 56b & 63b, 1971, 125), dated to 250-400 AD. I have only been able to find two examples from Norway, one from Sweden and seven from Denmark, making them rarities. This however is not surprising, as their production demands more skill than regular handled vessels. At least the Norwegian vessels are probably crafted by master potters, and must have been more valuable than standardized pottery. The Norwegian and Swedish examples are dated around 400 AD, the Danish a little earlier. This coincides with the most elaborate use of pottery in Norwegian graves (Bøe 1931). The use of pottery in almost every grave would also indicate that the symbolism is likely to have been identified by all participants of the ceremony.

differs over time (Hammarstedt 1903, 189-190). One of the (green) woodpecker’s abilities is to find and attack bees, and in that way it supposedly helped people to find wild honey in the same way as it’s relative the Greater Honeyguide in Africa (Short et. al. 2003). Honey is one of nature’s sources of sugar (Koch 2001), a life essence for the gods and essential to brew mead, a drink over spun by myths of life-essence and wisdom (Schjødt 1983). The scarcity of honey may be one reason why mead is considered a life-giving drink, and again the relationship with birds as mediators of the gods, helping humans to the drink or important ingredients is essential. The use of bird-shaped vessels at ritual meals or feasts would make them very concrete symbols of the myth of the life-giving drink (Gjærder 1975, 180-206). Also this myth seems to lay behind verse 13 in the Edda poem Hávamál (“Sayings of the High One”, see Bray 1908) in which:

The use of birds on metalwork, pottery and other drinking vessels go back at least to the Bronze Age and the Lausitz culture (Kristiansen 1998, 235; Müller 1880). Like the triple cups, the birds have parallels in wood (figure 2:3-4), in Norway dating to the 16–17th centuries. An example of a wooden bird-shaped vessel with runes (the first part of the futhark) found at Bryggen (the Wharf) in Bergen indicates that the tradition goes back at least to the 14th century (Gjærder 1975, 186). A vessel with a handle shaped like a bird, from a grave dated to Denmark’s early Iron Age, brings the tradition back even further (Visted and Stigum 1951, 127). Wooden bowls with similar birdshaped handles were also excavated at the bog offering site at Vimose, Funen, Denmark, dated to the second and third centuries AD (Engelhardt 1869, 27, pl. 16 - fig 11 & 13). The fact that bird-shaped vessels occur in numbers both geographically and in time indicate that they might relate to ancient traditions and mythologies common to many people in Europe, and once again I will make use of analogies from mythology and folklore to reach a deeper understanding for these finds.

A bird of Unmindfulness flutters o’er ale feasts, wiling away men’s wits: with the feathers of that fowl I was fettered once in the garths of Gunnlos below. (Translation Olive Bray) The ability of birds to fly high in the heavens evokes ideas of freedom, and birds could thereby represent the human soul liberated from the body at death. In Old Norse religion, carrion eaters like ravens and crows are also thought to collect the souls of the dead, but at the same time they bring souls back to the world in the form of children. These factors both add to the life/death symbolism of the drink and its container. Singing birds also possessed the powers of enchantment and healing (Green 1992, 42, 69, 85, 88, 203-204; Serjeantson 2009, 337), making them appropriate as mediators during rituals of life and death. Wisdom is another power imbedded in the life-giving drink (Hammarstedt 1903, 193-194). Mimir’s well, containing wisdom and intelligence, could be interpreted as having the same functions as the fountain of life or a pottery vessel with alcoholic beverage. Mimir drinks from the well every day, and mead is a kenning for his drink (Snorri, Prose Edda, Gylvaginning ch. 15). Odin’s ravens also collected wisdom and information from the realm of Mimir in the underworld. The drink of wisdom brings humans closer to the world of the gods, and an intoxicating drink could possibly help connecting to a divine sphere during burials or other rituals. The same powers can be related to cups in general, but the bird-shaped vessel’s objective qualities make them key objects when interpreting this symbolism.

Thus, the vessels may express a basic myth where a life-giving and intoxicating liquid/elixir is brought to humans from the fountain of life by a deity in the form of a bird, like the Odin myth in Skirnismál (Hammarstedt 1903, 188-190; Midtun 1921, 139-140). Water birds are especially important because of their ability to both fly and swim, thereby being able to help the gods through different elements and reflecting a link between water and air. In the vernacular tradition, birds possess supernatural and prognostic powers, and divine entities like Odin had shamanistic powers, frequently metamorphosing between human and bird form (Green 1992, 43, 69, 85; Serjeantson 2009, 336, 338-339; Tillhagen 1978, 35-42). In Urnfield art (ca 1300-750 BC), ducks are often shown flanking a solar wheel or forming the prow and stern of a boat carrying the sun-disc, while swans often carry wagons with vessels (Green 1989, 89, 203-204; Sprockhoff 1955). Furthermore the birds at the fountain of life are often featured in art, with the spring represented in the form of a cup or an urn (see Gjærder 1975, fig. 124, 379, 380, 398).

The two Norwegian find-contexts with bird-shaped pottery imply that the vessels are parts of sets of drinking equipment. The find from Bjerkreim contains nine or ten vessels and a fibula from one or more graves, but only the bird-shaped pot has been reconstructed. The second find from Ås forms a set of three vessels (figure 4), together with caulking resins, iron fragments (perhaps from a sword

The bird in the original, cosmogonic myth of Europe is supposed to have been a woodpecker, but the species 47

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Figure 4: Set of three vessels from Ås østre, Sande, Vestfold, Norway, AD 300-400. Photo: the author. and nails?), a glass bead and burnt bones, again adding to the symbolism of three.

Praxis theory has proven a valuable tool when trying to reach a deeper understanding of the use of material symbols. Material culture is a non-verbal part of the structuring of praxis, meaningful on its own and affecting all agents through their experience of the world (Bourdieu 2000 [1977]). The interrelation of materials and human action is incorporated in habitus; the social praxis through which all agents experience the world (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1995 [1993], 37). Presupposing that the agents are acting in a field or social room with given attributes and roles that they know, they would be able to understand the material objects available. Symbolically loaded material objects associated with the institution of feasting would in this perspective be recognized by the attendants of the ceremony (Bourdieu and Wacquant 1995 [1993], 12, 92-93, 106-107). Triple cups and bird-shaped beakers from graves make up important symbols and signifiers of former praxis through experience and memory (Bourdieu 2000 [1977], 72-73, 113; Bourdieu and Wacquant 1995 [1993], 112-113). Both the combination with other pots in the grave and the triple cup itself witness the unifying abilities of sharing drink at a feast, while the bird-shaped pots symbolize a divine connection to the life-giving drink. In this way, objects may seem to have an agency of their own, but they are rather the results of social relations made anonymous, reduced to humanized messages from the objects themselves or in other words projects for the agents praxis (Gell 1998, 21; Østerberg 1998, 60-62). The vessels have been used strategically in funerary rituals, because of their rarity and strong symbolism, by significant actors to mark their family’s prominent position in society and at the same time communicate life continued as it was through repetitive ritual praxis (Bourdieu 2000 [1977], 164; Bourdieu and Wacquant 1995 [1993], 39).

From what I have now shown it is possible that birdshaped vessels, but also other cups, may relate to the myth of the elixir of life, with regenerative powers giving the vessels a particular symbolic quality when used for funerary feasting. Based on the information given above the vessels carry a symbolic meaning that suggest beliefs that the one who drinks from them will gain wisdom and thereby a closer connection to the gods. They may also refer to the rejuvenating abilities of the fountain of life, of regeneration or a new lifecycle for the deceased held within the vessel. The funerary feast Dispensing large quantities of alcoholic drink to followers is assumed to have been an important part of the political career of a prehistoric leader, giving feasting an important socio-political dimension and making it a recognized institution. In fact, the feast is a ritualized context that seems to be important for every feature of the socio-cultural sphere (Dietler 2001). In Norway the period with the most elaborate display of feasting equipment in graves is the first five centuries AD, coinciding with the period that the craft of pottery was at its finest (Bøe 1931). The latter may be an indication of an ongoing political struggle, where local chiefs are using feasting equipment competitively, to show off in public in a way to claim power. In turbulent periods, strong material symbols relating to cosmology and identity could possibly serve as agents in the fight for power, while the end of such display in graves might indicate that the custom of using prestige goods in power relations is consolidated (Hedeager 1992, 251). Triple cups and bird-shaped pottery are typical artefacts serving as metaphors in ritual contexts like burials where they display a divine connection and work as models for the feast in real life.

I believe special artifacts such as the triple-cups and birdshaped pottery are key objects to the understanding of prehistoric feasting because of their long-lasting symbolic

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Christian L. Rødsrud: What can a little bird tell if all good things come in threes? value. They rare objects, but their scarcity makes them even more important. Their complex shapes and fine ornaments indicate that they have been made by the best potters. At the same time their shape makes them valuable as direct metaphors (primary symbols) to mythological concepts, highly valued in ritual situations like burials. The symbolism imbedded in some groups of artefacts is probably the reason why special forms are kept over centuries as tradition bearers, symbols of former praxis and cosmological beliefs. This relates to the double historicity in human society, both bodily dispositions and social-material relations, that Bourdieu (1999, 157159) describes. The Old Norse religion was probably not invented as early as the first centuries AD, but beliefs in triplicate forms and the bird as a helping animal seem to be part of much older traditions that can be traced back in time by archaeological finds and enlightened by sources like Eddic poems. Following Bourdieu (1996, 61), a symbol is only fully appreciated when more than one agent can relate to it. As seen with the example of the triple cup, the use of this shape has long traditions and probably defined meanings of its own. Similarly, ideas attested in written sources may be much older than the time of compilation.

the living in power-relations. In general, drinking is a social and collective event, uniting people and communities all over the world. Through material symbols that relate to drinking, the deceased and his/her follower’s can also use grave rituals as a display of the ability to give feasts in real life, thereby making a statement on the ability as a host and reminding the other participants of their social ranks. Thus the funeral ceremony is an important stage for communicating continuity of power structures and sustaining life as it was by the use of strong material symbols like the pottery discussed here. Recently it has been argued that focus should be moved from the dead in the grave rituals to the living, for the time after death is a dangerous one where new social relations in society are established and confirmed. It is suggested that funerals can be seen as symbolic stage for the ritual participants and different levels of alliances they were parts of, that was re-negotiated during funerals (Oestigaard and Goldhahn 2006). Finally I will return to the use of these cups in British tavern games and Norwegian folk culture. The fact that the same forms appear centuries after the finds of pottery probably implicates that the material symbols are particularly strong. As argued above I believe that the cups originally had an important symbolic function that remind subjects of a certain history or a religious concept like the Trinitarian symbolism or the bird as a helping animal, but it may also refer to a certain social code. As Daniel Miller (2005b, 28) concludes: “the more humanity reaches toward the conceptualization of the immaterial, the more important the specific form of its materialization”. A core of the original meaning is probably still surviving in the use of these cups in marriage and funerary ceremonies in historical times but the meanings might have been renegotiated over time and at some point changed to a more secular or jocular use like the fuddling cup (MonsonFitzjohn 1927, 42). The process of re-negotiation could perhaps be compared with the strong tradition of feasting at Mid-winter in Scandinavia, where old traditions were kept but the meaning was slightly changed to fit the introduction of a new religion (Qviller 1996, 43-44, 2004, 30-31). In this way symbols like the triplicates or the bird may have changed over time, but the core idea remains.

Symbolism imbedded in objects shows how matter is an integral aspect of society, shaped and produced through human history. Objects might in this way be indicators of qualities of the owner/user (Gell 1998, 13, 108-109). The socio-material world is created as relations between different kinds of beings (humans, things, animals, etc), thus influencing objects and symbols to become qualities of social life. Through practice, meaning is sustained or reproduced, establishing relations between material culture and human activity. The socialisation or structuring of and through matter is an intrinsic part of the constitution of society, stabilizing relations and making the basis of power unquestionable. For Bourdieu (1990, 66-79, 1996, 153, 1999, 144-153), the social and material structures of everyday life are incorporated as dispositions (habitus) in the human body, acting and perceiving the world. The use and meaning of symbolically loaded artefacts is then closely related to the understanding of relations in life and cosmology, working as a reminder for memory and forming human identity through myth, legend and vernacular belief (Altenberg 2003, 36). I think all pottery from early Iron Age graves can be related to feasting, but symbolically loaded objects such as triple cups and bird-shaped pottery give a religious connection and a more specific meaning to the tradition. The artefacts are for ritual use and the participants are reminded of cosmological beliefs. In death rituals the connection to life-essence through drink can be seen as a natural ingredient to cope with death, and stabilize relations in society. At the same time funerary feasting can be interpreted as a ritual play, reflecting the feasts role in society. For instance the significance of making alliances while feasting gives meaning to the unifying symbolism found in of the triple cups. The symbolism imbedded in these special pots also makes them important as tools for

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Images of the non conceivable: on pictorial mimesis within rock art research Ylva Sjöstrand

Stockholm University Abstract The aim of this article is to question the idea of pictorial mimesis within rock art research. According to this perspective, images carry meaning when they represent something real, and the goal within most rock art research is, consequently, to identify the symbol’s original referent. An elk figure carved on a panel is, from this point of view, nothing but a representation of a real elk in the landscape. But when we adopt this perspective on symbols in our everyday life, we see that this leads to unsatisfying interpretations. We might find out that images potential in communication relies in their ability to visualize what cannot be depicted. Images mediate concepts, feelings, tensions and state of affairs. They are symbols; images of the non conceivable.

Introduction

From this point of view, the image itself is considered as a glare, a copy, a membrane covering something underneath. As Mats Rosengren states, this idea about rock art has roots in Plato’s famous analogy of the cave (Rosengren 2002). In Plato’s scenario, the images on the cave’s wall are shadows (Plato and Cornford 1945, 227). They are just reflections of the world, and their meaning is therefore consistent with the features out in the sun. If we want to understand what we see in the cave, it is the nature of these objects that we shall try to grasp. The images have their meaning located in the object that they do duplicate.

A major axiom within archaeology is that rock art can be used as a source material to achieve knowledge about the prehistoric lifeworld. I would not write a thesis about the elk motif in Norrlandic rock art if I seriously questioned such a fact. In this paper, however, I will point out some symbolic theoretical consequences that follow from a non-reflective position towards the potential of rock art studies. I will argue that the tendency of perceiving rock art panels as reflections of the societies that once made and maintained them is based on a series of assumptions. The purpose of this paper is to unveil and criticize some of those and thereafter outline an alternative approach for how we might handle rock art when we use it as an archaeological source material.

When handling iconic features as shadows, as something that needs to be uncovered, we reproduce the symboltheoretical paradigm that Plato articulates in the same dialogue that contains the analogy of the cave. I aim for the concept of mimesis. This term is complicated and its content has changed during its long history of use (Mathis and Mosselmans 2003). On a general level it can, however, be described as the idea that images mediate meaning by being a duplicate of the object being depicted (Kulvicki 2003; 2006). Mimesis is therefore to describe as a theory about how images work. (Auerbach 1998; Blinder 1986; Nichols et al. 1982). According to the mimetic perspective, images work by depicting the motif so it can be identified by the observer. Important to remark is that this statement also leads towards an aesthetical ideal, which says that the quality of an image can be measured according to how well and how easy its motif can be recognized. If an image, intended to depict an elk, is mistaken for a picture of a flower, it is not, according to the mimetic perspective, an especially good piece of art.

Mimesis Let’s start by taking a closer look at the very title of the session in which this paper is included, In other words; deconstruct the sentence “excavating iconic features”. As all papers from this session have shown, excavations are of great importance in order to contextualise rune stones, rock art and other iconic objects of prehistoric date (for further discussion of the importance of carrying out field work at rock art sites, see Eriksson 2005; Goldhahn 2006; Hanson 2006; Holmblad 2003; Jensen 1977; 1989, Käck 2009; Lahelma 2008; Lineadotter 2003; Melander 1980; Taskinen 2000), What I wish to highlight is that the title refers to the idea that images are something that can (and need to) be excavated. This, I believe, is symptomatic for our archaeological understanding of how to bring meaning to images from the past. The idea of “knowing by digging” does not appear to be limited to the practical side of archaeology since it also appears to be present in our interpretations of symbolic elements.

From the assumption that images carry meaning by depicting identifiable motifs, the mimetic perspective formulates its most radical statement: Reality, it tells us, is the meaning of art, and accordingly, we will get a full understanding of iconic features as soon as we have identified the exact object in reality that consists its motif (Gebeauer and Wulf 1995). In other words; when we know what constitutes an image’s referent, we can understand its meaning.

When we deal with symbols in this manor we treat the image as if it had a stable and final content. We assume that the symbol that we see on the panel’s surface must be completed with a “meaning” that is to be found underneath.

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N-TAG TEN In my opinion, rock art research has been influenced by the mimetic paradigm to a large extent. This authority is shown by the discourse’s tendency to set an “equal-sign” between identification and interpretation. An example of how this equal sign has been displayed can be taken from LewisWilliams and Dowson’s paper about so called “entropic symbols” in south European cave art (Lewis-Williams and Dowson 1988). The argumentation’s point of departure consists of findings from neurological research. According to those, motifs like zigzag patterns, spirals or web patterns are to be understood as universal symbols that come to all humans when an altered state of consciousness is being experienced )see references in Lewis-Williams & Dowson 1988:202). Lewis-Williams and Dowson’s paper has been followed by a large discussion, and the authors have been as commended for their innovative approach as they been criticized for magnifying trance and hallucination in shamanistic cosmology (Clegg 1988; Layton 1988; Wiley 1988). What I want to focus upon is, however, that the argumentation about entropic signs is built upon the assumption that cave art is reports of what the artists have actually seen. Through this statement, images are grasped as a medium that mirrors the world and reflects it without taking any metaphorical or associative detours. When the authors claim that cave art figures can be recognized as entropic symbols they are, indirectly, telling us what they mean. In this respect, the paper presents the mimetic idea which believes that identifying a figure is the same as decipher its meaning.

Fig 1. Image of an apple? Or apple as an image? a problem for us while using it, and this is, I believe, because we find the identification of what object smileys might depict as subsequent to the meaning we are putting into it. As everyone who is familiar of using smileys knows, the purpose of smileys is to mediate messages of transcendental character. By adding a smiley in a mail it is possible to express feelings, tensions, and attitudes, in other words, such kinds of things that are hard to describe with words.

Three arguments Fig 2. Smileys, Image of the non visualisable. These

After this brief outline of how pictorial mimesis has been adapted in rock art research, it is time for the next step in this line of arguments. This lead towards an awareness of the problems that comes when motif and meaning are thought of as synchronic entities. In this passage, I will try to show that the mimetic perspective cannot bring justice to many aspects of visual media.

figures can not be understood by an identification of the moti

f

To bring in smileys in an archaeological paper might seem odd. This symbol has a post-modern prominence, and one might claim that this makes it inappropriate as an analogy. The question here is nevertheless not to what the smiley does refer, but rather how this reference is possible at all. We deal with semantic functions here and in that respect; smileys are illustrating some important facts. Smileys show us that our symbolic interaction negligee identification in favour of association. What will be focused on next is, however, that smileys do exemplify the second important argument against the mimetic perspective.

Firstly, it is worth pondering about the consequences that follows when we are interpreting contemporary images from the same mimetic point of view as we use in our interaction with rock art. As we can see from the figure below, an image of an apple does not refer to a real fruit as much as it denotes a computer company (fig 1). Commercial images show with crystal clearness that images can function as signs and symbols for- , and not just representations of things. In our everyday life, we have no problem handling this fact. We easily understand that images that represent the same phenomena not necessarily do refer to the same concept.

As already been stressed, smileys are used to express feelings, tensions and so on. In that respect, smileys can be considered as “images of what can not be drawn an image of.” As a picture of a fire can express the concept of passion (even thus fire is the only element in which nothing can live) a smiley with two dots and a circle are able to stand for the concept of “surprise”. The smileys are giving is an important reminder. They tell us about the metaphorical aspect of images.

A good example on how we master that ability can be taken from our frequent use of so called smileys, the small icons that we use in email or text messages (fig. 2). When looking at a smiley, it is actually hard to see what it is intended to depict. A human face, a little creature of some kind? In short, to identify it as something in the present world is not the easiest thing to do. This is, however not

That the human mind uses images to operate metaphorically is probably the most powerful argument against the 54

Ylva Sjöstrand: Images of the non conceivable: on pictorial mimesis within rock art research used by a symbolizing mind, symbols are not about what X are, but what X stands for. This might be Y which stands for Z, which stands for P… and so on. This structure has been mapped by many philosophers. It has been called “difference“(Derrida 1991, 162) “fabric of meaning” (Langer 1964, 224) or ”symbolic form” (Cassirer 1946, 83f). For the purpose stated in this paper, I just wish to highlight its existence and show how the fact that anything can be symbolic and symbols might mean anything, is a powerful objection against the mimetic perspective. Variation studies - an alternative approach

Fig 3. Stick figures, a good example of how the same motif is

As always, erasing is easier than constructing. After delivering this critique against the mimetic perspective, one might ask for an alternative opinion in the question of how images work. It must be clear that my suggestion how to handle this problem is limited to the particular material that I work with in my theses. I have thus no illusion of solving this enormous question in a semantic or logical sense.

symbolizing different concepts: this by elaborating discrete variations.

mimetic perspective. It shows us that we take advantage of semantic phenomena’s potential to communicate things possible to experience but not to conceive. By using words, we can let a sound mediate something that in it self are silent, and by draw an image, we can visualize phenomena’s of non visible kind. In those cases, we create symbols. Symbolism is as the philosopher Susanne Langer puts it, a matter of relations, and a way of describing a state of affairs (Langer 1964, 56). When symbolizing, we let X stand for Y, We don’t ask for the core meaning of X. We let a smiley stand for joy, and let an apple signify computers.

I believe, however, that the answer of how rock art do mediate their message in a non mimetic way, has to do with their big range of discreetly manifested variations within the same motif group (Ortner 1973). When the same motif comes in many executions, it is most effective for communication of transcended concepts. That motifs that are being depicted in various forms are mediating several messages is not an especial radical statement. It can be illustrated with easiness, example throughout the analogy to the smiley symbol just mentioned. The smiley can, throughout small variations, be able to express a variety of non conceivable concepts. A slightly change of one of the features within the circle makes it goes from expressing the concept of joy to mediate the completely opposite. Another example of the same can be found in Medieval art where small differences in hand position was of fundamental importance for the message of the image in general. As many scholars in semiotics also pointed out, a signs ability to refer comes of its dissimilarities in relation to other signs (Benveniste 1995). Even if we shall not reduce images into syntax, it basal functions are very much the same.

Taking the fact that visual symbols have the ability of conceptualize non conceivable phenomenon as point of departure, I like to stress, that if a symbol is to be understood as an image of what cannot be drawn an image of, the symbol and the thing symbolized must be given the same ontological status. It is not longer possible to separate them. In other words, when comprehended by a human mind, the real elk in the forest will turn out to be as symbolic as the one carved in stone. Thinking about this, we see that the living elk in the landscape making us associate to the same extent as depictions of this animal. We see that the elk, the living creature, as real as something could be, is connecting our thoughts to concepts to the same extent that any pictorial depiction of that animal are able to do. For example, the elk can be a symbol for “the king of the forest”; it can be a symbol for “big gear” as well as for abstract concept such as “wilderness”. It is, not to forget, also one of the main Swedish national symbols.

In previous works, I have applied this theoretical framework on the elk motif as it is expressed on the rock art locality of Nämforsen in Northern Sweden (Sjöstrand 2010a; 2010b). At this locality, variations within the elk motif are large indeed. Just to mention some examples, this figure type could be depicted with straight or angled legs, be performed in surface our contour pecking technique or be more or less stylized. (Hallström 1960; Lindqvist 1994; Wennstedt Edvinger 1993; Ramqvist 1992; Forsberg 1993; Lindgren 2001; 2002). But, when discerning this kind of variation within rock art motifs, it is very common that we comprehend them as an indication of difference in time or difference in culture or tradition. In other words, this diversity has mostly been studied in the purpose of statue chronological or typological sequences (Forsberg 1993;

If one admits that everything might be used as a symbol, one has also objected that symbols have a final or fixed content. As in the example with the elk, that makes us think of kings, it is our associations that brings the meaning to the thing we are using as a symbol (fig. 3). These associations might follow cultural praxis, but it can also take paths of more individual and unpredictable kind. Anyhow, the fact that symbols create a chain reaction of associations makes the “surface-core” opposition that dwells within the concept of mimesis inadequate. If anything might be 55

N-TAG TEN Lindqvist 1994; Malmer 1981). The big variation between the elks has consequently, been understood as different ways of depicturing the same message. All images that can be identified as elks have been seen as referring to real elks in the neolithic landscape, variations within the motif has been overlooked. But, as we have seen in the case with the smileys or medieval hand positions, difference in style is not necessarily indicating a difference in chronology. It can also signify difference in meaning.

The question “how do symbols work” can of course not be answered in a short paper like this. Still, I think that the response – “by elaborate with variation”, can be taken as a point of departure. If we take notice to the small discrepancies between figures, motives or styles, and thereafter comprehend these dissimilarities as indications of symbolic interplay, we have found a way from the mimetic perspective. If we also see the variations we are studying as significant for a complex field of symbolic content rather than just indications of difference in age or culture, we might achieve another understanding of our material.

From the smiley and the stick figure, we see that motifs holding a wide range of variations usually are conceptualizing a wide range of things. This idea, that the same motif can be varied so it will link to separate associations, is an important part of the critics against the pictorial mimesis and, in my opinion, crucial aspect to keep in mind in rock art studies. Even if various motive variations are proven to be chronological gradients, we must remember that time does not make changes; people do. For example surface pecking technique is older than the contour pecking style, but after receiving such information we must ask ourselves why the motif has changed (Forsberg 1993; Lindqvist 1994). Could it be because of that the meaning of the elk concept has been transformed? And if that is the case, what is the reason for such an extension of the symbolic flora?

References Auerbach, E. 1998. Mimesis: Verklighetsframställningen i den västerländska litteraturen. Stockholm, Bonnier. Benveniste, É. (1995). Människan i språket. Brutus Östlings bokförlag. Stockholm, Symposion. Blinder, D. 1986. In Defence of Pictorial Mimesis. The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 45 (1), 19-27 Bolin, H. 1999. Kulturlandskapets korsvägar. Stockholm studies in archaeology 19, Stockholm Cassirer. E. 1946. Language and Myth. First Edition. Translated by Susanne K Langer. New York, Harper & Brothers. Eriksson, D. 2005. Rapport över undersökning av fångstgrop RAÄ 16, Högberget I, Ramsele socken, Ångermanland, 2002. UMARK 39, Umeå Forsberg, L. 1993. En kronologisk analys av ristningarna vid Nämforsen. In L. Forsberg and T. B. Larsson (eds.), Ekonomi och näringsformer i Nordisk Bronsålder. Umeå. Gebauer, G. and C. Wulf 1995. Mimesis: Culture, Art, Society. Berkeley, University of California Press. Goldhahn, J. 2006. Hällbildsstudier i norra Europa: Ttrender och traditioner under det nya millenniet. Gotarc serie C, Arkeologiska skrifter 64, Göteborg Hallström, G. 1960. Monumental Art of Northern Sweden from the Stone Age. Nämforsen and Other Localities. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell. Hansson, A. 2006. The rock paintings at Flatruet: an archaeological survey. Adoranten 2006, 109-115. Holmblad, P. 2003. Rapport över arkeologisk undersökning av Högberget III, Ramsele sn, Ångermanland, 2003. UMARK 40, Umeå Jensen, R. 1977. Hällbilder och fångstmiljö. Årsskrift / Svenska turistföreningen. 1977, 270-286. Jensen, R. 1989. Hällbilder och fångstboplatser. In O. Hemmendorff (ed.), Arkeologi i fjäll, skog och bygd, 57-82. Östersund, Jämtlands läns museum. Kulvicki, J. 2003. Image structure. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 61 (4), 323– 40. Kulvicki, J. (2006). On Images: Their Structure and Content. Oxford, Clarendon Press.

Conclusion If the title of this session “excavating iconic features” is comprehended as cognitive, it reviles a major idea within the archaeological understanding of rock art. In much previous research, the images on the rock panels have been seen as something that hiding a core of meaning underneath. This idea has it roots in the platonic concept of Mimesis. It builds on the assumption that images can be understood as represents of something real. That meaning and motifs are synchronic entities. In this paper, I have argued against such a paradigm. Images, I have argued, are more than depictures of reality. They have the ability to evoke associations and manifest concepts. In that sense, they are symbols, images of the non conceivable. When we see images as symbols; as something that explains one thing by referring to another, we see that the project of identifying the images original, the task of excavating until its core of meaning can be distinguished, is something that must be given up. The alternative way I have suggest is to swift focus and search for small variations rather than establish what makes the symbol´s final referent. When the mimetic perspective is left behind, it makes sense that the same motif can mean plenty of things. Those discrete variations can indicate difference in meaning is also shown from examples from our own time. I will claim that it is time to take this aspect into account in our comprehension of images from the past.

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Ylva Sjöstrand: Images of the non conceivable: on pictorial mimesis within rock art research Sjöstrand Y. 2010b. Should I stay or should I go. In J. Goldhahn, I. Fuglestvedt and A. Jones. Changing pictures. Oxford, Oxbow. Taskinen, E. 2000. Hällkonsten i Finland – forskningshistoria och dokumentation. In T. Edgren and H. Taskinen (eds.), Ristad och Målad. Aspekter på nordisk hällkonst. Föredrag presenterade vid ett nordiskt seminarium om bergkonst i Suomussalmi 8-11 september, 1998, 20-32. Vammala. Wennstedt Edvinger, B. 1993 Genus och djursymbolik: Om den norrländska fångstkulturens organisation med avseende på kön. Umeå

Käck, J. 2009. Samlingsboplatser? En diskussion om människors möten i norr 7000 f Kr-Kr f med särskild utgångspunkt i data från Ställverksboplatsen vid Nämforsen. Umeå, Institutionen för idé- och samhällsstudier, Umeå universitet. Lahelma, A. 2008. A Touch of Red: Archaeological and Ethnographic Approaches to Interpreting Finnish Rock Paintings. Iskos 15. Helsinki, Suomen muinaismuistoyhdistys. Langer, S. K. 1964. Philosophy in a New Key: a Study in the Symbolism of Reason, Rite and Art. Cambridge (Ma), Harvard University Press. Lewis-Williams J. D. and T. Dowson 1988. The signs of all time. Entoptic phenomena in Upper Palaeolithic art. Current Anthropology 29 (2), 201-217 Lindgren, B. 2001. Hällbilder: kosmogoni & verklighet. In M. Bergvall and O. George (eds.), Tidsspår: forntidsvärld och gränslöst kulturarv. Hänösand, Ångermanlands och Medelpads hembygdsförbund. Lindgren, B. 2002. Hällmålningar - ett uttryck för materiella och immateriella dimensioner. In L. Klang, B. Lindgren and P. Ramqvist (eds.): Hällbilder & hällbildernas rum. Regional arkeologi. Örnsköldsvik, Mitthögskolan. Lindkvist, C. 1994. Fångstfolkets bilder: En studie av de nordfennoskandinaviska kustanknutna jägarhällristningarna. Stockholm. Linneadotter, L. 2003. Utgrävningarna i Nämforsen. Skikt 2003 (9), 14-15. Lødøen, T. 2001. Contextualizing rock art in order to investigate Stone Age ideology. In K. Helskog (ed.), Theoretical Perspectives in Rock Art Research, Oslo, Novus. Malmer, M. 1981. A Chorological Study of North European Rock Art. Stockholm Mathijs, E. and B. Mosselmans 2000. Mimesis and the representation of reality. A historical world view. Foundations of Science 5, 61–102 Melander, J. 1980. Rapport över dokumentation och undersökning av hällmålning RAÄ 151 Simsjölandet1:1, Åsele sn, Västerbotten. Västerbottens Museum. Neher, A. 2005. How perspectives could be a symbolic form. The Journal of Aestetics and Art Criticism 64 (4), 359-373. Nichols, S. and J. Lyons 1982. Mimesis: From Mirror to Method: Augustine to Descartes. Hanover, U.P. of New England for Dartmouth College. Ortner, S. 1973. On Key Symbols. American Anthropologist.75 (1), 1338-1346. Plato and Cornford, F. 1945. The republic of Plato. New York, Oxford University Press Ramqvist, P. 1992. Hällbilder som utgångspunkt vid tolkningen av jägarsamhället. Arkeologi i norr 3, 3154. Rosengren, M. 2002. Doxologi, en essä om kunskap. Åstorp, Retorikförlaget. Sjöstrand, Y. 2010a. Raka eller böjda ben? Om variation bland älgarna på Nämforsens hällristningar. Fornvännen 105, 9-19

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Accompanying the stone ships

Circular stone settings in relation to the Gotlandic ship settings Joakim Wehlin

University of Gothenburg & Gotland University Abstract The ship is the dominant visual depiction of the Scandinavian Bronze Age. It appears in rock art, on bronze artefacts and as stone monuments. When studying the ships on rocks and bronzes one feature commonly appears in relation to it: a round or circular motif, which most often is interpreted as the sun. Geographically rock art is concentrated to the mainland of southern Sweden and Norway. The bronze artefacts with depictions of ships on the other hand, are distributed mainly in Denmark. Gotland on the other hand, located in the Baltic Sea, with a rich Bronze Age landscape, lacks prominent rock art panels or ships depicted on bronze artefacts. Instead the ship appears in another form. Gotland holds today c. 380 prehistoric remains referred to as stone ship settings. A more exhaustive study of the stone ships visualise large local variations. One phenomenon appearing when visiting ship setting sites is a circular stone setting of tightly placed stones. In this paper this circular phenomenon is discussed in comparison with the other two media where the ship appears in relation to a circular feature: Rocks and Bronzes!

Introduction

ornamentations is also indicated when studying rock art panels and decorated bronze objects from the period.

The ship is by far the most represented symbol of the visualised Scandinavian Bronze Age. It appears in rock art, on bronze artefacts, in grave constructions and as erected stone monuments. In Central Scandinavia, from Lake Mälaren in the east to the counties of Bohuslän, Østfold and Rogaland in the west, the ship is an important component in rock art (e.g. Coles 2005; Goldhahn 2006; Malmer 1981). In the South of Scandinavia ships are carved on bronze artefacts (mainly razors), with a distribution mainly in Denmark (Kaul, 1998, 2004). Stone ship settings appear mainly in the Baltic proper area, but small amounts occur in the south-west of Scania and Denmark (Artelius 1996; Capelle 1986, 1995; Müller-Wille 1970; Skoglund 2005, 2008; Strömberg 1961; Widholm 2007).

First, I will examine the ships and their related circular motifs on rock art panels and bronze objects. Second, give a general picture of the ship setting tradition on Gotland and demonstrate the empirics of ship settings in relation to circular stone settings. Some of the circular stone settings have been excavated, and far from all can be interpreted as graves. Finally, I will discuss the accompanying stonecircles and the ship setting tradition in relation to depictions in rock art and on bronzes, in an interregional and “beyond media” perspective. Ships in rock art Early researchers such as Oscar Almgren (1927) observed and discuss the relationship between circular motifs and depictions of ships on the rock art panels. Even though Almgren was doubtful considering the large differences appearing among these circular motifs he were certain of his interpretation placing them in association with a sun cult. This early discussion and interpretation of the rock art, considering fertility and a Bronze Age religion focused towards a sun cult, have since influenced the archaeological debate. Almgren’s interpretation and study of a Bronze Age cosmology and religion was path-breaking and it was later followed up by Åke Ohlmarks who focused on the ship as symbol in the discussion about Scandinavian Bronze Age cosmology (Ohlmarks 1945, 1946, 1963). In his work on rock art Ohlmarks interpreted the helpers of the sun to be the horse and the ship. By using a comparative study of Egyptian religion, Ohlmarks (1963) borrowed the idea of the sun carried across the sky on a ship throughout different stages of the day and night. The hypothesis of a journey of the sun, which during recent years, have seen a revival and developed mainly by Flemming Kaul (1998, 2004) using a quantitative study of depicted scenes on

Even though comparisons of the Bronze Age ship symbol involving rock art, bronze artefacts and ship formed grave monuments have been carried out over the years, it is more recently that direct studies allowing a movement and comparison between different media have been made (e.g. Bradley 2006; Bradley and Widholm 2007a, 2007b; Ballard et al. 2003; Kaul 1998, 2004; Kristiansen andLarsson 2005;). The focuses have been directed towards the rock art and decorated bronzes, even though some include stone ship settings (e.g. Bradley 2008; Bradley et al. 2003; Wehlin 2010; Hedengran and Janzon 1999). In this paper I will discuss the third media: stone ship settings and specifically the Gotlandic ones. I will here illuminate, discuss and evolve ideas raised by Harald Hansson 80 years ago (1927). During his fieldwork Hansson noticed that other features appeared in association to a majority of the investigated ship settings, and most common was something he called “circular stone settings of tightly placed stones” (Hansson 1927, 67). This is a feature I also have noticed during site visits of ship settings around the island. A relation between ships and circular/round

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N-TAG TEN bronze artefacts, mostly razors from Denmark. Kristian Kristiansen and Tomas B. Larsson (2005) interpret the journey of the sun by using old Indo-European mythology. By using the legend of the sun maiden, who was rescued by her twin brothers, and helpers, who are interpreted as the Divine or Heavenly Twins. These twin brothers always come in disguise, most commonly as ships or horses.

grave constellations see figure by Tore Artelius (1994, 50), showing circular graves including ship formed structures, close to or crossing the kerb. An interesting feature in this discussion is also the exceptional case in Hjortekrog, Småland, Sweden. On the bedrock directly under a cairn and inside the kerb stones 17 carved ships were found (Widholm 1998).

If these circular motifs are to be interpreted as depictions of the sun or not have been questioned (e.g. Coles 2000; Kjellén and Hyenstrand 1977) and as Almgren noticed, there are large varieties in the depiction of the circle and its relationship to the ship. Although, one phenomenon that brings these motifs together, whether they are wheel crosses, sun crosses, concentric circles, spirals or a single circle, are their relation to rock art ships. Katherine Hauptman-Wahlgren questions, in her dissertation (2002) how these circular motifs became central in a discussion about the religion, cosmology and the symbolic world of the Scandinavian Bronze Age. Particularly since this heavenly body does not seem to be capable of moving on its own, but needs some kind of vessel or other aid to move across the sky. Considering the symbolic world the most common vessel for this task is the ship, which also is the most common depiction on the rock art panels in Scandinavia. In her dissertation Hauptman-Wahlgren presents statistics of the combinations of rock art figures from two parishes in the north-east of Östergötland, Sweden. In Östra Eneby parish 89 % of the wheel/sun crosses and 100 % of the depicted spirals and concentric circles are combined with ships. In Borg parish 64 % of the wheel/sun crosses, 100% of the spirals and 75 % of the concentric circles are combined with depictions of ships. Circular motifs show a large spread over the research area and appear only in a few cases together with another circular motif (Hauptman-Wahlgren 2002). However, the relationship between ships and circular motifs on rock art panels decrease further north. In John Coles’ study (2000) in the south-west of Uppland, Sweden, only 24 % of the ships are related to circular motifs. Examples of ships together with circular motifs in rock art, from the Östra Eneby and Borg parishes in Östergötland, Sweden, are shown in Figure 1 (after Burenhult 1973).

Ships on bronzes One of the starting points of the discussion considering the journey of the sun took place with the discovery of the Trundholm wagon, found in a bog 1902, Sjælland, Denmark (compare also the Tågaborg findings, Scania (Skåne) county, Sweden. SHM2 11226, 12255). The Trundholm vessel shows, most probably, the sun carried forward by a horse. The sun disc is decorated with gold on the side which is visible for the observer when moving to the right. The other “dark” side is visible when moving to the left (Kaul 1998, 259). Kaul could later place these directions in relation to the ships depicted on bronze artefacts. Kaul’s study recognises over 400 bronze objects with ships and he could through different variables show the directions in which the ships were moving. Kaul show that 80% were moving from left to right and 20% from right to left. The objects associated with sun circles were all moving from left to right. The same direction as the sun moves over the sky. Kaul highlights the resemblance between ships depicted on bronzes and ships in rock art and in graves, but he perceives a large difference in their significance. Kaul interprets the rock art scenes as representing real actions and rituals in the landscape. The depictions on bronzes, on the other hand, are according to Kaul of a more normative cosmological nature (Kaul 2004). On the contrary scholars like Randsborg (1993), Fredell (2003a) and Kristiansen and Larsson (2005) do not see a difference in the praxis and meaning of the images on rock art panels, in graves and the ones depicted on bronze objects. Even though the visual similarities may be there or not, it is important, as Johan Ling stresses (2008), to highlight the differences in their production, perceiving and consumption in the landscape.

There are also rock art panels showing circular motifs joint with other relations to ships. Such constellations are for example the depictions where the ship or ships seems to move into, crossing, or leaving a circular structure. These kinds of constellations have mainly been discussed by Inger Hedengran focusing on the panel RAÄ1 141 in Boglösa parish, Uppland, Sweden. Hedengran interpret the constellation as the journey of the ship through three spheres represented by the three concentric circles (Hedengran 1990). Even though there is some vagueness in this interpretation (e.g. Hauptman-Wahlgren 2002) it is a constellation appearing on other rock art panels and also in grave contexts from the period. For examples of

It is therefore of importance to emphasize the decorated razors, because they most often are found in a cremation grave context (Ballard et al. 2003; Dotzler 1984). This is a single event action and the bronze item is thereby “eternally” buried (Bradley 2006, 376f). This is an inaccessibility that can also be discussed considering the rock art found inside graves (e.g. Kivik and Sagaholm). The razors showing depictions of ships are geographically placed mainly in Denmark and their distribution, according to Ballard et al. (2003), totally complements the spatial distribution of the rock art panels with ship motifs further north. According to a recent study, by Johan Ling in the

  RAÄ followed by number refers to the registration number of the Swedish National Heritage Board

 SHM followed by number refers to the Inventory number of the Swedish National Historical Museum

1

2

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Joakim Wehlin: Accompanying the stone ships

Figure 1. Ships and circular motifs from rock art in South-East Sweden. Not to scale. Drawing Joakim Wehlin after Burenhult 1973 with permission from Göran Burenhult. The Gotlandic ship settings

Tanum area on west coast Sweden, the grave monuments are the prehistoric remains with the closest spatial relation to the rock art (Ling 2008, 154).

On Gotland, the Bronze Age monuments totally dominate the prehistoric landscape visible today. The island holds over 1300 cairns measuring over 10 metres in diameter, around 200 mounds of fire cracked stones (Hallin 2002) and c. 380 ship settings. With such a rich Bronze Age landscape just two rock art sites with ships are known (Fårö 379:1 and Lärbro 303:1). These panels both dates to Montelius period III by means of the depicted ships (e.g. Glob 1969; Kaul 1998; Ling 2008; Malmer 1981). According to Gerhard Dotzler (1984), only two bronze

In these two media; rock art and bronze artefacts, depictions of ships appear commonly together with circular motifs. When studying the context in which both the decorated bronze artefacts and rock art appear has one common denominator; graves! I will now move towards the primary geographical area for discussion; the Baltic Sea and the island of Gotland. 61

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Figure 2. Thematic chart over Gotlandic stone ship settings in Orientated to North. Not to scale. Drawing by Joakim Wehlin.

relation to circular stone settings.

artefacts with depictions of ships are known on the island. One of them is incorrectly placed on Gotland and was found by Harald Hansson on mainland Sweden 1932 (Hansson 1936). On Gotland the ship instead appears as ship formed stone settings.

common 6-11 metres in length and are 2-4 meters wide. The second type has instead a kerb of small closely placed stones. The last type is constructed of a boulder kerb with larger stones towards the stem and stern. The two latter types hold vessels of sizes measuring over 30 metres in length. The largest ship setting existing today is actually a mix of Hanssons type 1 and 3. It is located in Ansarve (Tofta 14:1) and measures 45 by 7 metres. Even though Gotland consists of limestone the most common building material in ship settings is greystone/granite. A fourth type just briefly mentioned by Hansson is the ship shaped stone setting placed under ground. This type is commonly made of upright lime stone slabs or splinters placed in a single or double kerb. This type is most common visible slightly above ground (Pettersson 1982). The number of ship settings at each site varies, and there can be everything from one solitary ship up to nine vessels in close connection. On some sites they also appear together with other graves, such as stone settings and cairns of different sizes and types.

The Gotlandic ship settings are traditionally placed in Montelius period IV-VI and interpreted as graves for one or more individuals (Artelius 1996; Capelle 1986, 1995; Hallin 2002; Hansson 1927; Müller-Wille 1970; Pettersson 1982; Strömberg 1961; Skoglund 2005, 2008; Widholm 2007). Around 70 of the c. 380 known ship settings on the island are excavated (Wehlin 2010, 92). They are located mainly along or close to the coast-line. Of importance to take in to consideration are large varieties of ship settings, something that also Harald Hansson mentions in his dissertation Gotlands bronsålder (1927). Hansson distinguishes three types: One defined by a perimeter of sparsely placed standing stones, or monoliths. These ship settings have commonly larger stones centrally placed in the both axis’s of the ship and measures most 62

Joakim Wehlin: Accompanying the stone ships

Figure 3. Map of Gotland with excavated ship and circular stone settings mentioned in text. Drawing Joakim Wehlin. Hansson makes an attempt to explain the variation of ship settings with chronology and change over time. This is an explanation that also subsequent scholars have discussed and used to understand the phenomenon and its variation (e.g. Artelius 1996; Capelle 1986; Nylén 1958, 1972; Skoglund 2008). These have focused on the phenomenon itself and raised questions concerning the ship as a symbol, both in the religious sphere and in every day life. Still there is no evident explanation of the large variation in the ship setting phenomenon, even though some differences and change can be explained by chronology and continuity matters. It seems like different types of what we today

entitle as ship settings were in use at the same time during the Late Bronze Age. Maybe for different purposes! The circular companion As discussed above, one of the most common figures appearing in relation to depictions of ships, on bronzes and in rock art, are round ornamentations and circular motifs of some kind. This combination also occurs, as mentioned before, when studying proximity of the Gotlandic ship settings. Around 20% of the ship settings show close connection to one or more circular stone settings (Figure 63

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Figure 4. Plan drawings of ship settings with related circular stone setting. Drawing by Joakim Wehlin after Hansson 1927, 1928a-b and Anesäter 1973. 64

Joakim Wehlin: Accompanying the stone ships Barshaldershed (RAÄ Grötlingbo 4:3-4) and Ansarve hage (RAÄ Tofta 15:1-2)

2). Seven of these are locations where both the stone ship and the related circular stone setting have been excavated: RAÄ Alskog 62:1, RAÄ Fröjel 9:1, RAÄ Grötlingbo 4:1, 3, RAÄ Lau 49:1-3, RAÄ Levide 1:1, RAÄ Lärbro 253:1, RAÄ Tofta 15:1, 2 (Figure 3). I will in the following give a short summary from these excavations.

After his dissertation (1927) Harald Hansson excavated two sites with ship settings and related circular stone settings 1928; RAÄ Grötlingbo 4:3-4 and RAÄ Tofta 15:12 (Top right and bottom right in Figure 4). In the latter ship setting, which is one of the largest on Gotland measuring 36 metres in length, no more than a burnt layer was found. Also the close by circular stone setting was totally excavated without any findings. Hansson interpreted the ship as a cenotaph (Hansson 1928a). The second ship setting excavated 1928 is located in Grötlingbo parish and is the most southern located stone ship on Gotland. The ship setting and the close by circular stone setting (Bottom right in Figure 4) was excavated, and just as the case in Braidfloar the ship consisted of two grave concentrations. One cist of limestone slabs located in the northern end and a more centrally placed ‘small cairn’. In the later was a small amount of burnt bones together with one piece of pottery found. The circular stone setting consisted of one distinct layer of red/yellow sand and scattered burnt and unburnt bones together with a few pottery sherds (Hansson 1928b; SHM 18842).

Excavations Braidfloar (RAÄ Levide 1:1) One of the most known sites with ship settings on Gotland are Braidfloar with seven stone ships still visible today. In the summer of 1916 Harald Hansson excavated two of these ships together with one of the related circular stone settings (Top left in Figure 4). The larger ship setting consisted of two grave concentrations. One centrally placed bi-conical urn was found under a “small cairn” together with pottery sherds, burnt bones and a simple ring of bronze. The second grave was situated towards the northeast in the same ship and consisted of an urn filled with burnt bones, which was placed in a small cist of limestone slabs. In the second ship were the remnants of an urn were found together with burnt bones. The circular stone setting situated north of the two ship settings consisted of burnt bones and pottery sherds (Hansson 1927; Schnittger 1920; SHM 15704). When visiting the site today the dump heaps of Hansson are still visible and gives an impression that the other two circular stone settings were also excavated, but not reported (Top left in Figure 4).

Bandeläins täppo (RAÄ Lau 49:1-3) The same year another ship setting was excavated by Ture J. Arne in Lau parish (Lau 49:2). The site, known

Figure 5. Ship settings and circular stone setting at Bandeläins täppo. RAÄ Lau 49. Photo Joakim Wehlin. 65

N-TAG TEN as Bandeläins täppo, today holds two ship settings, one circular stone setting and one monolith (Figure 5). All the stone monuments were reconstructed by Malin Lindqvist and the local historical society 1990-92. During the reconstruction the second ship setting (Lau 49:1) and the close by located circular stone setting (Lau 49:3) were also excavated.

Liffride (RAÄ Alskog 62:1) Since the early 1990´s Gunilla Runesson (former Hallin) has been excavating a Bronze Age complex in Liffride, Alskog parish. The area holds cairns, field systems, heaps of fire cracked stones and a small grave field including two ship settings and two stone settings which have all been totally excavated. The both ship settings are situated side by side and measures 16 metres in length and orientated ESEWNW. The two ship settings are built up by grey/granite stones and filled with a c. 7-15 centimetre thick stone packing. The northern most located ship was excavated in 2003 and contained just a few pieces of pottery and flint, but no burial. A charcoal sample was taken and dates the construction 1220-970 cal. BC. One year later the second ship setting was excavated and contained a centrally placed (crushed) urn with burnt bones. The burnt bones date 700-540 cal. BC. The following field season (2005) the smaller of the two circular stone settings (c. 6 metres in diameter) was excavated. Centrally and relatively high up in the stone packing was a smaller area with scattered burnt and unburnt bones found. The burnt bones belonged to two human individuals and the unburnt bones could be ascribed as a dog. The bones date 110 cal. BC-90 cal. AD. In 2007 was also the larger circular stone setting (13 metres in diameter) excavated. Centrally placed in the construction was a small stone cist located. The cist had been plundered but some burnt bones and pieces of pottery were found in and just outside of the cist. South of the small cist an unburnt grave was found and southeast in the stone setting were two bronze artefacts found. One bronze piece interpreted as belonging to an arm ring and pieces of one bronze “neck” ring. The Bronzes were found together with two larger concentrations of burnt bones which were interpreted as burials (Hallin 2002, 36ff, 2003, 2004, 2005; Runesson 2007).

The ship setting excavated by Arne consisted of one pentagonal cist of limestone slabs placed towards the western end of the ship. The cist was covered with limestone splinters which protected an urn with burnt bones, one arrow head of bronze, tweezers and one razor (both of bronze), together with a bone artefact with an oblong hole. Immediately outside the cist two flakes of flint were found. On the other side in the ship setting a layer of burnt and unburnt bones were also located (Arne 1928; SHM 18867). In 1990 was the second ship setting excavated. Just as the first stone ship it held a covered pentagonal cist consisting of an urn with burnt bones together with tweezers, razor and a knife (all in bronze) (Lindqvist 1990; SHM 32431). Two years later was the third feature excavated, which also was thought to be a ship setting. Instead it was shown to be a circular stone setting build up by ten large monoliths. The excavation yielded a few findings of burnt bones together with a couple of pieces of what was interpreted to be remains of a hammer stone (Lindqvist, 1991; SHM 32454). Gannarve (RAÄ Fröjel 9:1) In 1959 was the ship setting at Gannarve in Fröjel parish excavated and heavily reconstructed by Peter Manneke and Erik Nylén. This beautiful monument appearing just next to the road overlooking the islands of Karlsö was, in 1959, only intact by means of the two ends. It is today build up from the interpreted foundations of stones found during the excavation. Not much was found inside the ship and in the report only 3 flakes of flint and some sealing of resin together with charcoal is mentioned. An interesting construction appeared though, located centrally in the ship and interpreted by Nylén and Manneke as a posthole or similar, perhaps for the pole or mast holding the sail of the ship (Manneke 1967; Nylén and Manneke 1961; SHM 26711).

Stora Vikers (RAÄ Lärbro 253:1) In 1997 was a small ship setting (5,5 x 3 metres) together with a circular stone setting excavated at Stora Vikers in Lärbro parish. The constructions were located on a small height and orientated NNW-SSE. In the ship setting was a centrally placed pit found and interpreted as remains of a plundered grave. In the bottom of the pit were a few burnt bones found. Two metres south of the ship setting was the circular stone setting situated. The kerb was difficult to locate but the diameter of the construction was estimated to c. 5 metres. Centrally in the stone setting were remains of a small cist of lime stone slabs found. The cist was damaged but without indications of plundering. In the cist were a few pieces of pottery together with burnt bones found (Zerpe 1998, 225f).

Two years later a “stone filled pit” was found and excavated 5 m SE of the ship setting. It contained no findings other than stones that were interpreted as original belongings of the ship setting close by. Records from the journey of C. G. G. Hilfeling 1799 tell of two ship settings at the site, one in bad shape. If it was the two ends, brought together as one 1959, Hilfeling acknowledged as two ships 1799 is hard to tell. Maybe there once was a second ship, or perhaps, according to the round shape, it was a circular stone setting at the site (Hilfeling, 1994; Nylén 1963; SHM 27297).

Directions If we are to make a comparison with Flemming Kaul’s hypothesis mentioned above, the direction of the stone

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Joakim Wehlin: Accompanying the stone ships ships is of importance. This is a subject that has never been discussed in connection to the Gotlandic ship settings. In Kaul’s model the sun crosses the sky from left to right between dawn and dusk. It returns beneath the sea, moving from right to left during the hours of darkness. With that in mind it would be possible to see tendencies in the local relations studying the ship settings accompanied by circular stone settings. Variables such as on which side the circular stone setting appears in relation to which side of the island the monuments are located would give some interesting trends. But as far as I am concerned no such tendencies are visible, neither in geographical directions or bearing and can hardly conform to any obvious solar alignment. However, studies considering the orientations of the ship settings on Gotland have been carried out. Göran Eriksson (1987) show that a clear majority of the stone ships on Gotland are oriented towards the N-NNE (or S-SSW), but to take in to consideration and as Gustav Jonsson highlights (1994), almost 75 % of them are placed on old shorelines. By adding the direction of Gotland as an oblong landmass it coincides with the majority directions stressed by Eriksson (1987), which then place the ship settings along the coast line.

Peter Skoglund, nd.). Even though the quantity is low one interesting resemblance clearly appears. Six out of seven are heading south and towards the location were the sun reaches its highest point. To compare Åke Ohlmarks (1945) stresses that the stone ships seem to be thought as moving (sailing) vessels. Further, Ohlmarks, without any clear empirical reference, propose the main direction to the south and the ‘land of the sun’. Conclusions and final discussion I found it questionable to interpret all the circular motifs on rocks and on bronzes and the circular stone settings on Gotland as the sun. Maybe some represent this heavenly body, but there are, as mentioned above, large ocular variations, which can also be seen concerning the depicted ships. Considering the Gotlandic ship settings and their accompanying circular stone settings some of them must be interpreted as graves, but there are large variations and far from all can be said to contain a Bronze Age burial of some kind. If discussing similarities between the three media suggested it is important to consider their differences in production, perception and consumption in the landscape. The bronzes and the rock art which appear in graves must be seen as more inaccessible than the open-air located rock art and ship settings. Also to consider is the mobility of a small bronze object before it finally ends up in a grave or hoard, often interpreted as “high status” graves or similar (Vandkilde 1996). Further, the production and consumption of a bronze object may be discussed in terms of specialists and controlled social actions. This can be compared to rock art production, which has been discussed to confine a special organisation, individual or group (e.g. Bengtsson 2004, Goldhahn 2007), a production skill that hardly can be compared to the construction of ship settings. Maybe it is possible to discuss different social levels or groups in the society visualising same inter-regional ideas. In comparison it is also important to consider the long time span of open-air sites. This may be reflected in reproduction, change, use and reuse of rock art and ship setting complexes. Something that has been discussed regarding rock art panels with examples showing panels extending over thousand years (e.g. Bradley 2006; Fredell 2003b; Hauptman-Wahlgren 1998).

Even though there almost is an axiom that the ship settings not can be said to point in any direction there are differences visible. For example, some original plan drawings and unreconstructed ship settings in field show a clear disparity between the both ends (e.g. Figure 4). This phenomenon are most evident concerning Grötlingbo 4 where one side, the same side as on which the circular stone setting appear, seems to have a more rectangular form (e.g. Umeå stad 7, the most northern located ship setting in Sweden) (Bottom left in Figure 4). Another phenomenon that appears, which could in a way indicate a direction, is one or more larger upright stones placed in a row extending from one end of the ship setting. When these two phenomenon; a rectangular formed compartment and one or more extending stones, appear together (as for example Grötlingbo 4), they always seems to contradict each other. Let’s assume that the extended stones in some way point out the stem of the vessel. Compare for example Håkan and Märta Strömberg (1983), who discusses the differences between stem and stern on rock art ships in Kville parish. According to Strömberg and Strömberg both ends of the ship take a more prominent form during the Late Bronze Age and some have a higher keel extension referred to as the ‘trunk’. Kaul (1998) also stresses the keel extensions concerning the ships on bronze artefacts, which appear at the same time. Regarding the direction of the ships Kaul refers to one higher keel extension, pointing out the stem. The ships where the directions can be clearly determined are found on artefacts with the most complex motifs (Kaul 1998). If we consider the Gotlandic ship settings I am aware of seven clear examples where one or two of these mentioned phenomena occur; RAÄ Eskelhem 30, RAÄ Fårö 57, RAÄ Grötlingbo 4, RAÄ Lau 41, RAÄ Norrlanda 89, RAÄ Tofta 15 and RAÄ Tofta 26 (a study I will develop further together with

If comparing the geographical distribution, the ship settings more or less complement the bronzes and rock art with depictions of ships. Where the later not only show a spatial relation to Bronze Age graves, but also to the shoreline, lakes and waterways (e.g. Ling 2008), something which also can be said concerning the Gotlandic ship settings (Wehlin 2010). To have in mind is also the clear maritime connections in the rock art scenes, which may be linked to sea-faring journeys or likely (Bradley 2006; Ling 2008). When adding the suggested dating, Montelius period III, of the only known rock art sites on Gotland, which precede the proposed dating of the ship setting tradition, it is tempting to suggest a local development of inter-regional 67

N-TAG TEN Gropar & monument: en vänbok till Dag Widholm, 171-184. Kalmar. Bradley, R. and D. Widholm 2007a. The mountain of ships: The organisation of the Bronze Age cemetery at Snäckedal, Misterhult, Småland. In B. Hårdh, K. Jennbert and D. S. Olausson (eds.), On the Road: Studies in Honour of Lars Larsson, 246-252 Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell International. Bradley, R. and D. Widholm 2007b. Bronze Age cosmology in the South-West Baltic, a framework for esearch. In D. Widholm (ed.), (2007). Stone Ships: the Sea and the Heavenly Journey, 13-48. Kalmar. Bradley, R., P. Skoglund and J. Wehlin 2010) Imaginary vessels in the Late Bronze Age of Gotland and South Scandinavia: Ship settings, rock carvings and decorated metalwork. Current Swedish Archaeology 18, 79-103. Burenhult, G. 1973. Götalands hällristningar (utom Göteborgs och Bohus län samt Dalsland): The rockcarvings of Götaland (excluding Gothenburg county, Bohuslän and Dalsland). Lund. Capelle, T. 1986. Schiffssetzungen, Praehistorische Zeitschrift 61 (1). Capelle, T. 1995. Bronze-Age Stone Ships, In O. CrumlinPedersen and B. Munch Thye (eds.), The Ship as Symbol, in Prehistoric and Medieval Scandinavian, Publications from the National Museum Studies in Archaeology & History 1, 71-75. Coles, J. M. 2000. Patterns in a rocky land: rock carvings in south-west Uppland, Sweden. vol. 1 & 2. Uppsala. Coles, J. M. 2005. Shadows of a Northern past: Rock Carvings of Bohuslän and Østfold. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Dotzler, G. 1984. Ornament als Zeichen: methodologische Probleme der archäologischen Interpretation. Frankfurt am Main, P. Lang. Eriksson, G. 1987. Skeppssättningar på Gotland – Typ, tid, rum och scoial miljö, Unpublished uppsats i påbyggnadskurs i arkeologi, Stockholms Universitet. Fredell, Å. 2003a. Bildbroar: figurativ bildkommunikation av ideologi och kosmologi under sydskandinavisk bronsålder och förromersk järnålder. Dr. Diss. Göteborgs universitet. Fredell, Å. 2003b. Bronze Age imagery. Through water and fire. Current Swedish Archaeology 11, 45-63. Fredsjö, Å. 1975. Hällristningar, Kville härad i Bohuslän, Bottna sn. Göteborg: Glob, P. V. 1968. Helleristninger i Danmark / Rock carvings in Denmark, København. Goldhahn, J. 2006. Hällbildsstudier i norra Europa: trender och tradition under det nya millenniet. Göteborg Goldhahn, J. 2007. Dödens hand: en essä om brons- och hällsmed. Göteborg . Gustafson, G. 1878. Berättelse om grafundersökningar, gjorda i Lärbro socken, Gotland sommaren 1877. Kungl. Vitterhets Historie och Antiqvitets Akademiens Månadsblad, 633-658. Gustafson, G. 1891. Grafundersökningar på Gotland. I-VI, Antiqvarisk tidsskrift för Sverige VII (4), 1-87.

ideas. However, the similarities between the three media discussed are striking. Furthermore, the excavations done on Gotlandic ship settings and their accompanying circular stone settings show that they hardly can be interpreted just as graves. I suppose that these circular stone settings should be interpreted as belonging to the ship setting construction or the monument-complex. They most probably symbolize something, whether it is the sun or not. Therefore I found an acknowledgement of these circular stone settings of importance for future researchers and excavations. Based on another perspective concerning these features and the ship setting and their relation and direct surrounding the excavator could take other ways and methods in the search of understanding the variations of the ship settings and its appearance. If we also allow ourselves to move between different media for comparisons it would be possible to make our interpretations about the ship settings more nuanced. Considering the ship settings and its related circular stone settings on Gotland it gives us a possibility to excavate these symbolic features with an archaeological methodology. Earlier these constructions, even though they are viewed as monuments (or symbols) always have been excavated as graves!

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Joakim Wehlin: Accompanying the stone ships Hallin, G. 2002. Kummel, skepp och koksten – en studie om bosättningsområden och social struktur under bronsåldern på Gotland. Solna. Hallin, G. 2003. Undersökning av en skeppssättning i Liffride 1:8, Alskog socken september 2003 – Delrapport I, Arkeologisk undersökning av fast fornlämning nr 62 på fastigheten Liffride 1:8, Alskog socken på Gotland. Hallin, G. 2004. Undersökning av en skeppssättning i Liffride 1:8, Alskog socken september 2004 – Delrapport II, Arkeologisk undersökning av fast fornlämning nr 62 på fastigheten Liffride 1:8, Alskog socken på Gotland. Hallin, G. 2005. Undersökning av en stenssättning i Liffride 1:8, Alskog socken september 2005 -Delrapport III, Arkeologisk undersökning av fast fornlämning nr 62 på fastigheten Liffride 1:8, Alskog socken på Gotland. Hansson, H. 1927. Gotlands Bronsålder, Kungl. Vitt. Hist. Och Antikvitets Akademiens handl. 37 (1). Stockholm. Hansson, H. 1928a. ATA (Antiquarian Topographical Archives, Stockholm) report 5295/28 Hansson, H. 1928b. ATA (Antiquarian Topographical Archives, Stockholm) report 3309/28 Hansson, H. 1936. Några nya bronsåldersgravar. Fornvännen 31, 327-343. Hauptman Wahlgren, K. 1998. Encultured rocks. Encounter with a ritual world of the Bronze Age. Current Swedish Archaeology 6, 85-97. Hauptman Wahlgren, K. 2002. Bilder av betydelse: hällristningar och bronsålderslandskap i nordöstra Östergötland. Dr. Diss. Stockholm, Stockholms universitet. Hedengran, I. 1990. Skeppet i kretsen. Kring en symbolstruktur i Mälardalens förhistoria, Fornvännen 85, 229-238. Hedengran, I. And G. Janzon 1999. De stenbundna skeppen: om skeppsristningar och skeppsformade stensättningar i Tjust, nordöstra Småland. In A. Gustafsson and H. Karlsson (eds.), Glyfer och arkeologiska rum, 375-400. Hilfeling, C. G. G. 1994. CGG Hilfelings gotländska resor. 1, 1797 och 1799. Visby, Gotlands fornsal. Jonsson, G. 1994. Skeppssättningar på Gotland –Båten som symbol och dess betydelse under yngre bronsålder, Unpublished uppsats i påbyggnadskurs i Arkeologi. Stockholms Universitet /Högskolan på Gotland. Kaul, F. 1998. Ships on Bronzes: A study in Bronze Age religion and iconography, Copenhagen, National Museum. Kaul, F. 2004. Bronzealderens religion: studier af den nordiske bronzealders ikonografi. København, Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab Kjellén, E. And Å. Hyenstrand 1977. Hällristningar och bronsålderssamhälle i sydvästra Uppland. Uppsala, Upplands fornminnesfören. Kristiansen, K. and T. B. Larsson 2005. The Rise of Bronze Age Society: Travels, Transmissions and Transformations. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press

Lindqvist, M. 1990. ATA (Antiquarian Topographical Archives, Stockholm) report 7019/90 Lindqvist, M. 1991. ATA (Antiquarian Topographical Archives, Stockholm) report 3444/91 Ling, J. 2008. Elevated rock art: towards a maritime understanding of Bronze Age rock art in northern Bohuslän, Sweden. Dr. Diss. Göteborgs universitet Malmer, M. P. 1981. A chorological study of North European rock art. Stockholm, Vitterhets-, historieoch antikvitetsakad. Manneke, P. 1967. Restaureringen av skeppssättningen vid Gannarve i Fröjel. Gotländskt Arkiv, 43-52. Müller-Wille, M. 1970. Bestattung im Boot: Studien zu einer nordeuropäischen Grabsitte. Neumünster, Wachholtz Nylén, E. 1958. Gotländska gravformer och deras betydelse för kronologien, TOR 1958, 64-86 Nylén, E. 1959. ATA (Antiquarian Topographical Archives, Stockholm) report 5175/63 Nylén, E. 1972. Mellan brons- och järnålder Antikvariskt Arkiv 44. Nylén, E. and P. Manneke, P. 1961. ATA (Antiquarian Topographical Archives, Stockholm) report 4724/61 Ohlmarks, Å. 1945. Toalettredskapen och solreligionen under yngre bronsåldern, Fornvännen. 40, 337-358. Ohlmarks, Å. 1946. Gravskeppet, Stockholm. Ohlmarks, Å. 1963. Hällristningarnas gudar: en sammanställning och ett förklaringsförsök. Stockholm, Tiden Pettersson, A-M. 1982. Skeppssättningar i Rute, En undersökning av sex gravar från den yngre bronsåldern, RAGU:s skriftserie 1982:2, Visby. Randsborg, K. 1993. Kivik: archaeology & iconography. København, Munksgaard Runesson, G. 2007. Undersökning av en stenssättning i Liffride 1:8, Alskog socken maj 2007 - Delrapport IV, Arkeologisk undersökning av fast fornlämning nr 62 på fastigheten Liffride 1:8, Alskog socken på Gotland. Schnittger, B. 1920. Gottländska skeppssättningar från bronsålderns slut och järnålderns början, Aarbøger for Nordisk Oldkyndighet og Historie 1920, 43-46. SHM (2009) Swedish Historical Museum’s Collections. (Statens Historiska Museums samlingar) Search database online: http://mis.historiska.se/mis/sok/sok. asp. Inv. No.: 18842, 18867, 26711, 27297, 32454. Skoglund, P. 2005. Ideal och praktik – skeppsättningar i yngre bronsåldern, In J. Goldhan (ed.), Mellan sten och järn 2, 343-352. Gothenburg: Skoglund, P. 2008, Stone ships: continuity and change in Scandinavian prehistory, World Archaeology 40, 390406. Skoglund, P. 2009. Beyond chiefs and networks. Corporate strategies in Bronze Age Scandinavia. Journal of Social Archaeology 9, 200-219. Strömberg, M. 1961. Die Bronzezeitlichen Schiffssetzungen im Norden, Meddelanden från Lunds universitets historiska museum, 82-106.

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N-TAG TEN Strömberg, H. and M. Strömberg 1983. Båttyper på hällristningar i Kville: ett inlägg i diskussionen om hällristningsbåtarnas konstruktion. Uddevalla. Ulfsparre, S. 1878. Iakttagelser under resor åren 18701876 jemte några anteckningar om en samling af fornsaker. Stockholm. Vandkilde, H. 1996. From Stone to Bronze: the Metalwork of the Late Neolithic and Earliest Bronze Age in Denmark. Dr. Diss. Århus Universitet. Wehlin, J. 2010. Approaching the Gotlandic Bronze Age from Sea - Future possibilities from a maritime perspective. In H. Martinsson-Wallin (ed.), Baltic Prehistoric Interactions and Transformations: The Neolithic to the Bronze Age. Visby, Gotland University Press. Widholm, D. 1998. Rösen, ristningar och riter. Dr. Diss. Lunds Universitet. Widholm, D. (ed.) 2007. Stone Ships: the Sea and the Heavenly Journey. Kalmar, Institutionen för humaniora och samhällskunskap, Högskolan i Kalmar. Zerpe, L. 1998. En skeppssättning och en stensättning på Stora Vikers i Lärbro, Gotländskt Arkiv 1998, 225-227.

Joakim Wehlin, PhD-student Department of Historical studies, University of Gothenburg Department of Archaeology, School of Culture, Energy and Environment, Gotland University Cramérgatan 3 621 67 Visby, Sweden [email protected]

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Hard rock studies - cup marks in Eastern Svealand Roger Wikell

Stockholms Universitet

Abstract Cup marks are the most common component in rock art in many parts of Sweden, as well as in other Nordic countries. Despite this, the anonymous cup marks are, unfortunately, often neglected in rock art studies. This paper will highlight the cup mark in the region of eastern Svealand. Their placement in the landscape appears to have been vital for the cup mark makers and users. In spite of the abundance of suitable rocks, cup marks only occur in special places in the landscape. Within these areas cup marks are organized according to the concepts of centrality and periphery. The visibility of the rocks seems to be an important factor whereby prominent rocks dominating the landscape often have many cup marks. The number of cup marks can be interpreted in terms of different degrees of sacredness. There are many rocks with few cup marks, and few rocks with many cup marks. In order to move beyond simple distribution maps, excavations close to some cup mark rocks have recently been conducted. The result shows different actions around the rocks – but one element seems to be common: fire.

Introduction in the coastal environments of the ancient bay (now on dry land).

The research area, eastern Svealand, is situated west of Stockholm and constitutes the three provinces of Uppland, Västmanland and Södermanland. All three provinces are situated around Lake Mälaren (Sweden’s third largest lake). During the Bronze Age Lake Mälaren was part of the Baltic Sea. Due to isostatic movements of the earth’s crust the lake then was a big bay, or “fjord”, stretching some 150 km in land. The bay was filled with an islandrich archipelago. The level of the Baltic Sea stood 15 – 20 meters higher than today. Both the rock art and the settlement sites from the Bronze Age are often to be found

The many rock carvings close to the city of Enköping in eastern Svealand are well known for their interesting details (Coles and Gräslund 2000; Kjellén and Hyenstrand 1977; Nordén 1925), This rock art concentration lies centrally in the region. Outside the central area around Enköping there are only smaller rock art sites with depictions of ships, foot soles, horses and so forth, but no one can challenge Enköping. During the Bronze Age, the Enköping area was easily reached from the entire Mälaren region (Fig 1).

Fig 1. Eastern Svealand (eastern middle Sweden) with sites mentioned in the text. 71

N-TAG TEN However, the most dominant form of rock art in the region are cup marks, which, apart from Oscar Lidén´s study in1938, often have been neglected in research. In spite of cup marks probably being one of the most common ancient monuments in eastern Svealand, archaeological excavations around them have seldom been undertaken. Excavations close to cup marks have been conducted when the rocks already are situated in other ancient places, for example settlement sites (e.g Strucke 1998, see also Nordström 1995).

of the rock, just before it starts to slope away. In this sense, the cup marks “look out” across the small valley. The central part of the rock was damaged by fire. However, this damage was shallower than usually seen on rock art outcrops. Around the small rock the following structures and artefacts were found. Just north and close to the rock a small concentration of burnt bones were found. The bones lay close to some small stones in an otherwise stone free environment. We first believed that the small fragments probably represented a cremation grave from the Late Bronze Age or Early Iron Age. However, the analysis of the bones gave unexpected results. The osteological analysis showed that the bones were from herbivores. The bones were 14C-dated to the Viking Age. A few meters east of the rock was an ordinary hearth, which was black with soot and charcoal, mixed with fire-cracked stones. The hearth is undated, but hearths of its kind is often dated to early Iron Age in the region, see below. Small fragments of burnt bones were found closer to the rocks eastern side, as well as some small ceramics.

I will first summarise the results from a rescue excavation in Turinge, Södermanland, 2008. At the end of this article the reader will be given a picture of how cup mark rocks are situated in the landscape of eastern Svealand. The reader will see that the region is a “cup-marked land”. Some theoretical aspects are also discussed in order to explain the distribution of cup marks and other types of rock art. Case study – Mörby The farmstead of Mörby lies in the parish of Turinge, in Södermanland. Mörby is situated 35 km west of Stockholm. The area is rich in ancient monuments from all archaeological periods. The parish is also one of the richest areas in Södermanland regarding rock carvings. Seven sites with depictions of ships, horses, concentric rings, etc are registered. Also one ‘slide’ (Swe hällkana) is known (Broström 1977; 2002; 2003, Broström and Ihrestam 2007; 2008; Broström et al. 2008a; b; 2009a; b; c). However, as in most parts of Eastern Svealand the number of cup mark rocks is dominant. At the time of writing, 235 sites with a total number of 1264 single cup marks are registered. And more will surely be found.

South of the rock were two stone constructions (fig 2). At first sight they looked like stone-settings from the Late Bronze Age or Early Iron Age. They were between two or three meters in diameter and some 0.2 meters high. During excavation we discovered that the stones filled up small, shallow, pits. In the larger of the two constructions the only find was a prehistoric hand-driven quern stone of granite deposited in the central part of the construction. The smallest construction had a small ring of stones on top of a layer of iron-rich stones. In the bottom of the two pits was a thin layer of soot and charcoal. C14 from the larger pit gave an age to 1700 AD. Consequently, it is assumed to have been exposed to recent contaminations, because pits from prehistoric times are common on excavations, but pits from historical times are few, if any at all. Between the stone constructions a half quern-stone was found. Close to this were some small fragments of burnt bone. Scattered around site RAM 220 more small fragments of burnt bone were found, and also some small pieces of ceramic, a few worked quartz and one piece of iron melting slag.

Hearths, stone filled pits and a burnt mound of fire cracked stones were found concentrated around the cup marked rock sites RAM 220 and RAM 221 (RAM = Register of Ancient Monuments). A two week rescue excavation took place here. At the same time excavation at three other cup marked rocks nearby, but these showed no archaeological features or traces of ancient activities (Eriksson and Wikell 2010; Wikell 2010; Wikell and Pettersson 2011).

Site RAM 221 is situated some 100 m north of RAM 220, and consists of three different rocks with small clusters of cup marks randomly scattered on the rocks’ uppermost surfaces. The southernmost rock was partly hidden by a small mound of fire cracked stones (fig 3). The mound contained 1500 kg of burnt stone. Because c. 30% of burnt mounds with fire cracked stones in eastern Svealand contains graves with burnt bones (Rundkvist 1994; Noge 2009, 242), all the soil from the burnt mound at RAM 221 was wet-sieved to retrieve every single bone or other small find. The earth was black and contained plenty of soot and small pieces of charcoal, but only a few burnt bones were found. Osteological analysis showed that they were bones of herbivores. Many pieces of ceramics were found in the centre of the construction. In more peripheral parts some whetstones and fragments of a hammerstone were found.

During the Bronze Age a small bay from the “archipelagosea” (the above mentioned bay of the Baltic) reached the area around Mörby. The excavated sites were situated nearly 1 km from the ancient shore. They were situated in the border zone between clay and the stony, higher ground (forest, former pasture land). The site RAM 220 contained eight cup marks and a surface with fire damage. The cup marks were ordinary small ones, actually 3-6 cm in diameter and 0.5 – 1.5 cm deep (Broström and Ihrestam 2008, 5) scattered on the western part of the rock. The cup marks did not form any recognizable pattern, but appeared, as observed many times before, to be randomly distributed on the rock. Interestingly the cup marks were “close” to the soft edge 72

Roger Wikel: Hard Rock Studies - Cup marks in Eastern Svealand

Fig. 2. The cup mark rock RAM 220 with stone filled pits. Marcus Eriksson is documenting these features. Photo Roger Wikell.

Fig. 3. The small heap of fire-cracked stones during excavation at RAM 221. The heap was partly covering a rock with 6 cup marks. Photo Roger Wikell.

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N-TAG TEN Charcoal from the mounds central bottom layer was dated to 1520 – 1368 cal. BC (Ua-37456; Eriksson & Wikell 2010). Interestingly, three cup marks were discovered under the southern part of the mound of fire cracked stones. It is proposed that the context dates the cup marks to the early Bronze Age.

is a totally different situation as compared to stone tool researchers, who often do lithic experiments to understand the chaîne opératoire of stone working. Some years ago I had the opportunity to make rock art when the Swedish TV-program “Stenristarna” (“Stone Carvers”) was made. I was asked to make rock art in the background when the program leader made an interview with Kathy Hauptman Wahlgren (2002). In four hours I managed to make two ordinary cup marks and one little ship. It was a surprisingly easy job. The rock was of gneiss and quite hard. I then realized that a cup mark was not a heavy business, and the short time spent knocking on the rock was negligible. Obviously, it was not the making of the cup mark itself that was important. This is contrary to interpretations that consider the noise, the stone dust, etc to be important in rock art production (Goldhahn 2010; Marstrander 1963, 308; Moberg 1969, 13; Pettersson 1982, 62; Thedéen 2002; 2004). These interpretations make little sense; if you want to make rock noise you can hit the rock randomly. If the rock dust is important it is easier to crush small pebbles. If noise and dust were important, it is not necessary with a cup mark. I think therefore the finished cup mark itself was the important thing. In these terms, a cup mark is an artifact, like ceramics. In a relatively short time you hit the rock on the same spot, and by just letting the stone drop – in the same way water drops fall, you get a cup mark without any exhaustion or pain.

The other two rocks had four and twenty-two cup marks respectively. Close to these rocks a whetstone and a hammerstone were found. Three hearths were found in the area between the rocks. One of the hearths was radiocarbon-dated to the early Iron Age. Another single hearth situated 20 m to the SE gave the same result, a common dating for hearths in the region. Cup marks in context It seems that most cup marks in eastern Svealand were made during a “short period of time”, because cup mark sites are found in close proximity to other cup mark sites, and to Bronze Age monuments. If there are no Bronze Age monuments at hand there are seldom cup marks to be found. On the other hand, in Bronze Age milieus cup marks are very frequent. It therefore seems reasonable to propose that the great majority of the cup marks were produced during the Bronze Age. Cup mark rocks also have a relation to each other, regarding the number of individual cup marks on specific rocks and the visibility between cup mark rocks.

In total there are 40 cup marks at RAM 220 and 221. The making of these would only take, if my experiment mentioned before holds true (with two cup marks in four hours, and leaving the ship out of it for the moment) approximately 20 hours. If the cup mark tradition was all about the making (noise, dust, etc) the tradition would have been over in one week at these sites. The key question is: was the cup marks produced in one single moment or at several occasions over time?

In surveys and excavations, fire-damage on cup mark rocks is frequently noted (Bengtsson 2001). This damage is often circular in shape, ranging from several decimeters to over two meters across. The depth varies between a few cm, up to c. 20 cm. The latter must have been the result of very intense burning. No doubt the fire on the rocks and the rock art are connected. In many cases cup marks and other figures had been destroyed. Interestingly however, there are some examples where cup marks have been produced inside fire-damaged areas. A further indication that fire and rock art are closely connected is the fact that this kind of fire damage is not to be found in the forest areas of eastern Svealand. In 1999, while participating as a volunteer in the fight against a large wild fire in Tyresta National Park (Pettersson 2006), no fire damage on the rock surfaces was observed (personal observation).

Folkloristic material from eastern Svealand shows that cup marks were used by old women at different occasions, but preferable on Thursday nights´ - and they were doing so as late as the 1920s (Åmark 1956). These “witches” put small coins, nails, etc in the cup marks, and most importantly they spread fat and butter in the cup marks while repeating small “prayers”. All was done to cure illness and to make other things go well. The cup marks were called in Swedish: älvkvarnar (”elf querns”) and thus associated with the elves living underground. I suggest that there was a similar use of cup marks in the Bronze Age. They were made once in the rock, and then repeatedly reused many times by putting things – like fat – in them and also, sometimes, by making them deeper with repeated hammering. In connection with these rocks, fire was also an important ingredient, as we already have seen. It has been suggested that cremations took place at the rocks, but we found no remains of human bones at our excavation at Mörby (Bellander 1938; Kaliff 2007; Nordén 1925; Rundkvist 1994; Widholm 1998). The cup marks here lie in small clusters in connection to burnt mounds, a type of ancient monument which also has been suggested to

At RAM 220 and 221, the fire, the rock and the cup marks appear to be closely connected. Furthermore, ‘fire’ is represented in different forms. Primarily as direct fire on the rock surface in close proximity to rock art, and secondly, represented as hearths with fire-cracked-stones, and a burnt mound of fire-cracked-stones. Knock on rock It is surprisingly easy to make a cup mark of the ordinary size: c. 5 cm wide and 0.5 – 1 cm deep. It is a paradox that most rock art researchers have not made any personal archaeological experiments in making rock art. This 74

Roger Wikel: Hard Rock Studies - Cup marks in Eastern Svealand General study - eastern Svealand

have a ritual connection with burials (Kaliff 2007; Noge 2009; Rundkvist 1994). Anders Kaliff (1997, 116) has also suggested that cup marks were used as mortars to crush burnt human bones, but no bones were found to support this interesting idea.

Together with Sven-Gunnar Broström and Kenneth Ihrestam, I have carried out a lot of fieldwork in eastern Svealand. We have found many new sites, especially with cup marks. It seems to be a never ending story. Today c. 7000 sites are known in Eastern Svealand, and the number of single cup marks is c. 93.000.

RAM 220 and 221 are not alone. Just 300 meters to the west the biggest burnt mound (RAM 2) in southern part of Turinge is located. Here we found a large concentration of cup marks. It is no coincidence that just north of the central cluster, lies a cemetery (RAM 7) situated on the top of a small hill and dominated by a 15 m broad and 1.5 m high cairn with a brim.

New sites are found continuously. If we would have surveyed half of eastern Svealand, the number could hypothetically be doubled to 14.000 sites containing 186.000 cup marks. An estimation of our surveyed area is less than 10% of the region. Roughly speaking, the total number of cup marks in eastern Svealand could therefore hypothetically be 100.000 sites with a total 1.000.000 single cup marks.

To sum up: cup marks in Mörby are situated in close proximity to burnt mounds, and they lay, like most cup marks and burnt mounds, close to good soils for farming and cattle breeding, not far from the sea. The settlements should be here also, as other excavations in the region have shown – many longhouses will be found if the topsoil is removed. Typically for the Bronze Age cultural landscape is also cairns on the nearby hilltops, which are overlooking the small valleys. When we broaden our perspective we see that similar distribution pattern of Bronze Age monuments are found all over eastern Svealand. Obviously the whole of Lake Mälaren was inhabited during the Bronze Age (Jensen 1986). This leads us to take a look at other parts of eastern Svealand.

The distribution of the sites with cup marks generally follows these generalized ‘rules’: In any given landscape/ terrain with a valley, there are many sites with few cup marks (1-10) and only a few rocks (often only one singular) with many cup marks (let us say 25 to several hundred). The small ones are distributed “all over” the valley, but the big one is on a place that is central. These centrally located rocks with many cup marks have a good view over the surrounding landscape and they are easily seen from other parts of the valley (fig. 4). At these sites you often find

Fig. 4. A recently discovered cup mark rock at Norr Eneby, Sorunda parish, Södermanland. The cup marks and fire damage is situated on top of the prominent rock. Photo Roger Wikell. 75

N-TAG TEN position in this “galaxy of cup marks”. This big place can be interpreted as a social meeting place because it lies centrally positioned according to communication. It is easily reached by boat from all of eastern Svealand. Ships are also the most common depiction in rock art sites. Some 2500 ship depictions are known from the region, and more are to be found. The latter is also true for the cup marked rocks. We understand that eastern Svealand has an astronomical number of rock art panels close to the former ‘archipelago-fjord’ of present Lake Mälaren.

big cup marks, twice the normal size (around 10 cm wide and 2 – 3 cm deep). Moreover, often several cup marks are arranged in lines or combined with shallow grooves. Often, there are also depictions of ships, foot soles, rings, etc. This “solar system” distribution of cup mark rocks is repeated in all the parts of the region eastern Svealand which have been surveyed (Wikell 2008). There are many rocks and large stones everywhere in the landscape, so the cup mark makers had many places to choose between. The rocks selected for cup marks must have been important for some reason(s). The most common trait is that the rocks are situated low in the terrain and close to fertile soils for pasture and agriculture. We have the impression that the landscape is claimed by the cup mark users. As in the case Mörby, we found fire damage on the rocks at both small and big sites. In the landscape of today, you can often see from one cup marked rock to another. Probably this was also the situation during the Bronze Age, when an open landscape is thought to have existed (Sognnes 2002).

Summary Cup marks are very common in eastern Svealand. The distribution of cup mark rocks can be interpreted to mean that land was sacred and cosmologically claimed. The rocks show different quantities of cup marks: many rocks with few cup marks and few rocks with many cup marks. Rocks with many cup marks are often strategically situated. They have good visibility from the surroundings. In close connection, and also directly on the rocks, fire was used in the rituals undertaken.

Some theoretical aspects My interpretation of this pattern is that the everydaylandscape was cosmologically claimed by makers/users of the cup marks, by the selection of strategic rocks, in the same sense as remarked by religion historian Dag Strömbäck (1928) who talked about making land sacred (Swe ‘Att helga land’). The distribution of small cup mark sites may be understood in that that way. According to Mercia Eliade (1959) these rocks can be seen as places where The Holy can be encountered. Eliade argues that the landscape to religious man is not a flat, neutral map, but has got hot spots of sacredness – hierophanies. Man can improve these “doors/connection places” to The Holy by building churches, temples etc. The making of cup marks is such a religious improvement of places with hierophanies. Some places are more holy than others, as we can see in for example in the hierarchical relationship between cathedrals, churches and chapels. We have seen a similar pattern in the distribution of cup mark rocks of different size. The big sites are often located on dominating rocks in the landscape. They are milieu dominants according to Albert Eskeröd (1947). Cup marks seem also to be closely connected with every day business because the rocks are to be found close to the settlements sites where people lived. The distribution of cup marks indicates where focus was in the landscape, both in a micro- and macro perspective (Eskeröd 1936; Honko 1964). I therefore believe rock art was a social phenomenon because it was situated in an open and easily visible agricultural landscape; it was not hidden in dark caves or on remote rocks in the forest or mountains.

References Åmark, M. 1956. När de sista älvkvarnarna smordes. RIG. Bellander, E. 1938. Bålrösen – offerrösen. Kulturhistoriska studier tillägnade Nils Åberg 24/7 1938, 91 – 100. Bengtsson, L. 2001. Eld i berget. En studie av eldskadade hällristningar. Adoranten. 2001, 127-131. Broström, S-G. 1977. Hällristningarna vid Vänstra i Turinge. Täljebygden 1977, 97 – 102. Broström, S-G. 2002. Södermanland – ett okänt hällristningslandskap. In A. Åkerlund (ed.), Kulturell mångfald i Södermanland, 52-57. Nyköping. Broström, S-G. 2003. Hällristningar i Södermanlands län. Nyköping. Broström, S-G. 2009. Bronsålderns bildvärld knackad i sten. Hugget i sten för evigheten, 72-89. Nyköping. Broström, S-G. And K. Ihrestam 2007. Skålgropar vid Mörby gård, Turinge sn, Södermanland, del 2. Botarkrapport 2007:14. Tumba Broström, S-G. and K. Ihrestam 2008. Skålgropar söder om Mörby, Turinge sn, Södermanland (Med bidrag av R. Wikell och M. Eriksson). Botarkrapport 2008:17. Tumba Broström, S-G., K. Ihrestam, and R. Wikell 2008a. Hällristningar i Södermanlands kalkberg. In Goldhahn, J. (ed.): Gropar och monument. En vänbok till Dag Widholm, 305-322. Kalmar Studies in Archaeology IV. Solna. Broström, S-G., K. Ihrestam and R. Wikell 2008b. Skålgropar, kana och stensättning vid Vänstra, Turinge sn, Södermanland. Botarkrapport 2008:22. Tumba Broström, S-G., K. Ihrestam and R. Wikell 2009. Skålgropar söder om Mörby, Turinge sn, Södermanland, del 2. Botarkrapport 2009:9. Tumba

Eastern Svealand is a ‘cup-marked’ land. In close connection with pasture/agriculture soils, newly raised from the Baltic Sea by land uplift, people choose to make their cup marks. The rock art area of Enköping, mentioned in the beginning of this article, holds a central 76

Roger Wikel: Hard Rock Studies - Cup marks in Eastern Svealand Broström, S-G., K. Ihrestam, and R. Wikell 2009. Skålgropar söder om Mörby, Turinge sn, Södermanland, del 3. Botarkrapport 2009:22. Tumba. Broström, S-G., K. Ihrestam and R. Wikell 2009. Nyupptäckta hällkanor i Botkyrka och Turing, 19. Ledungen 2009, 3 Coles, J. and B. Gräslund 2000. Patterns in a Rocky Land. Rock-Carvings in South-West Uppland, Sweden, vol. 1 – 2. AUN 27. Uppsala. Eliade, M. 1959. The Sacred and the Profane. The Nature of Religion. (The Significance of Religious Myth, Symbolism, and Ritual Within Life and Culture). New York. Eskeröd, N:son, A. 1936. Intressedominanz und Volksüberlieferung. Acta Ethnologica. Eskeröd, N:son, A. 1947. Årets äring. Etnologiska studier i skördens och julens tro och sed. Diss. Stockholm, Nordiska museets handlingar. Eriksson, M. And R. Wikell 2010. Händelser vid hällar – skålgropslokaler med fynd och anläggningar. Arkeologisk förundersökning, RAÄ 220 och RAÄ 221, Mörby 5:28, Nykvarns kommun, Turinge socken, Södermanland. SAU-rapport 2008:18. Uppsala. Goldhahn, J. And T. Östigård 2007. Rituelle spesialister i bronse- og jernalderen. Institutionen för arkeologi och antikens kultur. Göteborg. Goldhahn, J. 2010. Lofta 309. En arkeologisk undersökning av ett skålgropsblock på Brånestad gård, Raä Lofta 309, Västerviks kommun, Småland (med bidrag av F. Gunnarsson, C. Sevara, Christopher and R. Wikell). Kalmar, Kalmar Studies in Archaeology VII. Hauptman Wahlgren, K. 2002. Bilder av betydelse. Hällristningar och bronsålderslandskap i nordöstra Östergötland. Diss. Stockholm studies in Archaeology 23. Stockholm. Honko, L. 1964. Memorates and the Study of Folk Beliefs. Journal of the Folklore Institute 1, Blomington, Indiana University. Jensen, R. 1986. Skärvstenshögar och bosättningsmönster i Mälardalen under bronsåldern. Bebyggelsehistorisk tidskrift 11, 17–34. Kaliff, A. 1997. Grav och kultplats. Eskatologiska föreställningar under yngre bronsålder och äldre järnålder i Östergötland. Diss. Aun 24. Uppsala. Kaliff, A. 2007. Fire, water, heaven and earth. Ritual practice and cosmology in ancient Scandinavia. An Indoeuropean perspective. Stockholm, Riksantikvarieämbetet. Kjellén, E. and Hyenstrand 1977. Hällristningar och bronsålderssamhälle i sydvästra Uppland. Upplands fornminnesförenings tidskrift 49. Uppsala. Lidén, O. 1938. Hällgröpningsstudier. I anslutning till nya sydsvenska fynd. Lund. Moberg, C – A. 1969. Vad hällristningarna berättar och vad man berättar om hällristningarna. In Å. Fredsjö, S. Jansson and C-A. Moberg (eds.), Hällristningar i Sverige, 9 – 40. Stockholm Marstrander, S. 1963. Østfolds jordbruksristninger. Skjeberg. Instituttet for sammenlignende kulturforskning. Serie B Skrifter LIII. Oslo.

Noge, A.- S.. 2009. Skärvstenshögar med människoben i norra Mälarområdet. (Burnt mounds containing human bones in the region north of Lake Mälaren). Fornvännen 104, 241–252. http://fornvannen.se/ pdf/2000talet/2009_241.pdf Nordén, A. 1925. Brandskogs-skeppet. Vår bronsålders märkligaste skeppsbild. Fornvännen 20, 376 - 391. http://fornvannen.se/pdf/1920talet/1925_376.pdf Nordström, P. 1995. Arkeologiska undersökningar invid hällristningar. Analys av 16 utgrävningar invid hällristningar i Sverige och Norge. Uppsats i påbyggnadskurs i arkeologi. Stockholms universitet. Rundkvist, M. 1994. Skärvstenshögar med gravgömmor i östligaste Mälarområdet. Fornvännen 89, 83– 89. http://fornvannen.se/pdf/1990talet/1994_083. pdf ; { Fulltext } Pettersson, J. 1982. Hällristningar på Tjörn, del II. Malung. Pettersson, U. 2006 (ed.), Branden i Tyresta 1999, dokumentation av effekterna. Dokumentation av de svenska nationalparkerna 20. Stockholm, Naturvårdsverket. Stockholm. Sognnes, K. 2002. Bilde, landskap og ritar i MidtNorsk Stein- og Bronsealder. In J. Goldhahn, (ed.), Bilder av bronsålder bronsålder – ett seminarium om förhistorisk kommunikation, 1-22. Lund. Strucke, U. 1998. Skålgropar och boplatser vid Ribby, Västerhaninge socken, Södermanland. Rapport UV Mitt 1998:43. Stockholm, Riksantikvarieämbetet. Strömbäck, D. 1928. Att helga land. Studier i Landnáma och det äldsta rituella besittningstagandet, 198-220. Uppsala-Stockholm. Thedéen, S. 2002. På resa genom livet och landskapet – tankar kring bronsålderns skeppssymbolik. In J. Goldhahn, J. (ed.), Bilder av bronsålder – ett seminarium om förhistorisk kommunikation, 129 – 150. Lund Thedéen, S. 2004. Gränser i livet – gränser i landskapet. Generationsrelationer och rituella praktiker i södermanländska bronsålderslandskap. Diss. Stockholm studies in archaeology 33. Stockholm. Widholm, D. 1998. Rösen, ristningar, riter. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series Prima 4, 23. Lund. Wikell, R. 2008. Heliga hällar – älvkvarnars landskap. Religionshistoria II. Religionshistoriska avdelningen, Stockholms universitet. Stockholm. Wikell, R. 2010. Skålgropsland. Händelser vid hällar i Turinge socken, Södermanland. In K. Alexandersson, L. Papmehl-Dufay and R. Wikell, R. (eds): Forntid längs ostkusten. Blankaholmsseminariet de två första åren, 164-175. Visby. Wikell, R. And M. Pettersson, M. 2011. Bronsålder ute i själva oceanen – Östra Svealand för 3000 år sedan mot bakgrund av två skärvstenshögar i Turinge och på Ornö. In Andersson, K. et al (eds): Bronsålder i Stockholms län – aktuell forskning, 33-40. Stockholm, Stockholms läns museum.

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Material culture and the construction of religious niches Mads Dengsø Jessen University of Aarhus

Abstract Evolutionary studies within archaeology usually address subject matters which treat specific nutritional questions or technological developments in lithic societies. The present paper intends to bring evolutionary studies into the proto-historical debate concerning the development of a Christian ideology and material culture during the late Viking Age and Early Medieval Scandinavia (ca. AD 800-1150). In particular the concept of Niche Construction will be applied to the investigation of the early church construction and the related social and ideological changes.

Religious and evolutionary studies have long been intertwined, and recently experienced a strong revival in especially the ‘explanatory’ or cognitive branch of the science of religion. Here religion and religious behaviour have been viewed basically as a maladaptive strategy and an evolutionary spin-off of other mental capacities such as agency detection, anthropomorphic thinking or the natural fear of contamination and diseases. In the words of Pascal Boyer (2000) religion is parasitic to ordinary cognition, and therefore in itself without any sociocognitive significance. Furthermore, emphasis has been on defining religion as mental construction of immaterial concepts. That is, something that goes on in the head. As a researcher within the humanities, I am primarily interested in and would like to debate the environmental foundation of religion, understood as collectively shared systems of belief in the physical world, rather than isolated, individual experiences. It is not that the individual experiences are not interesting and relevant in their own right; it is just that we cannot hope to understand how collectives are bound together in religion, how large groups of people come to share systems of belief, if we do not bring the cultural environment into cognition, and cognition into the cultural environment.

regarded a constitutive factor in the communication of ideological features. This is so because niche construction advocates a recursive structure that integrates elements outside the human body with mental (conceptual) structures inside the human skull.1 Secondly, while most discussions on the conversion of the North has highlighted theological or political causes (for example Bagge 2010; Sanmark 2004; Sawyer and Saywer 1993; Skre 1995), and rightly so, niche construction adds a cognitive ‘bottomup’ approach to the interpretation of religious changes, because it includes physical as well as intellectual stimulus as a means to achieve mental changes. Thirdly, as a consequence of the two former points, the development of particular ideological concepts, for instance Christian, will partly rest on establishing a proper environmental setting in which the material and the mental is reconciled and mutually strengthened. In essence, the environment can be used as an instrument to promote certain concepts, and hereby direct a change of the cultural platform. Therefore, in contrast to the traditional definition of natural selection, which operates as a ‘blind’ and ‘reactive’ process, niche construction is an inherently informed and active phenomenon (Odling-Smee, 2007:279). The general idea is that through purposeful manipulation of the extra-somatic environment organisms can, to a various degree, actively influence the sphere of inheritance which they pass along to the next generation. Let me exemplify:

I would therefore like to investigate, with focus on the physical environment, how directed changes in the physical religious setting can come to function as primers for mental changes. Or more exactly, to investigate how environmental conditions such as architectural characteristics or building organization were altered according to novel religious demands as well as administration of ritual activities. Particularly the process of Christianization in southern Scandinavia around the year AD 1000 will figure prominently.

Niche construction Originating in biology and evolutionary science the theory initially addressed the propensity many animals have to manipulate their immediate environment in ways that are beneficial to their own survival. For instance, a beaver’s dam – which is the prototypical example of a more

The theory I will apply in investigating the culture historical changes of the cultic buildings in the Viking Age is that of niche construction. The reason for choosing niche construction as a platform for examining the transition from a traditional to a catholic ideology is threefold: Firstly, by the use of niche construction material culture can be

 This extra-somatic channel of inheritance is often denoted the semantic channel (Odling-Smee et al. 2003:177ff.; Laland and O’Brien 2010). In the current paper I will term it conceptual, because the word ‘semantic’ suggests a purely linguistic cultural platform, which overlooks the implication of the widespread and universal human trait of incorporating material culture into concept formation (Jessen in press). 1

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N-TAG TEN elaborate type of niche construction – clearly illustrates how the animal manipulates the environmental setting by building a dam. The dam holds back the water and hereby creates a larger wetland habitat thus providing an extended area for food resources – particularly in wintertime – and keeping the beavers nutritional demands fulfilled. In other words, beavers, as well as other organisms, do not just react to the conditions in their immediate environment, they change them. Organisms are active and will to a large extent construct their own niches, and this is especially true of humans. For example, the case of adult lactose tolerance in certain human populations (and only these populations), due to their long history of domestication and dairying (Feldman and CavalliSforza 1989), is an unambiguous instance of human niche construction in which a cultural setting has constrained the genetic development. Moreover, humans do not just change our own environment, we change that of the next generation, both physically and informationally (Laland et al. 2000; Odling-Smee et al. 2003). For example, more intimate and local characteristics such as particular types of ornamentations, ritual practices or the overall technocomplex is passed on to the next generation, but also big monumental constructions such as Bronze Age barrow, church environments or roads and sea blockages. All of which form part of and constitute the cultural environment in which children develop and fashion what and how they learn. In addition, it can be expected that material culture will anchor particular cultural information, and this way contribute to the conceptual frame passed on to the next generation.

or social markers as part of the theory. On the contrary, the point I wish to make is that certain elements in human social behaviour, will require niche construction as a central mechanism in order to make any long lasting effect in human mental life. What is important to take into account is that the process of niche construction generates a feedback situation, in which the priming of the environment influences the ways in which we comprehend – unconsciously – our environmental setting. So basically, if you change the material environment, it will presumably influence cognitive processes in human thinking. Thus, human made cultural niches provide a system of information-inheritance in addition to normal genetic constraints, and which have a much higher rate of alteration and flexibility. Here religion takes up a special position because religious behaviour comes with a serious problem; it suffers from a poverty of stimulus because religion confers a supernatural and therefore non-experienceable world. By default religious thinking targets the unnatural, but there is nothing but nature for our perceptual system to engage with (Bulbulia, 2008:81-82). Nevertheless, is seems that humans have no problem in accepting and follow counterintuitive creatures (i.e. immortal beings with legs, arms and wings), even though human terrestrial life provide no evidence for their existence, or even contradict the existence of such beings. Perhaps the incorporation of material objects into the religious structure will offer scaffolding for the negligible stimuli, or even constitutes the basis of such stimuli. Without incorporation of the material world the experience of a religious world would be severely impaired, or perhaps even impossible. Therefore, to put religious information into the material environment will inevitably lead to some sort of niche construction, where particular information can spread horizontally within the group, as well as vertically to the next generation who inherits the cultural environment.

For these reasons, instead of focussing on sheer feeding requirements and enhanced energy uptake, which is the usual study with regards to evolutionary based research, I will rather focus on the more ideological aspects of niche construction, because human manipulation of the environment is saturated with alterations that need not result in any obvious qualities in terms of enhanced survival rates. Human alterations of the environment will typically also contain particular information taken to be of importance for the cultural group. This is particularly so for religious information, because religious practices often tend to contrast fitness enhancing activities (i.e. celibacy, self mutilation, fasting, conspicuous building strategies etc.).

Therefore, the subject matter I wish to investigate more thoroughly in this paper is how cultural niche construction will influence cultural selection, and more precisely how religious programmes can be administered and promoted through the physical environment we engage with in everyday life. In addition, I will try to examine how cognitive technologies and cultural niche construction can be used as a means to promote a directed culture change and establish particular hierarchical formations.

Thus, humans have, compared to most other animals, a very sophisticated and elaborate system of structured behaviour (regularly denoted culture), which commonly evolve around the manipulation of social as well as physical environments (Laland, Odling-Smee et al.2000). If the biological et al. e. fitness enhancing) definition of niche constructing is extended into including cultural parameters, such as ideology, power structures, economic interest etc. it seems that a more refined and accurate account of human niche construction may be generated (Bardone and Magnani 2007). It has to be kept in mind, that the original formulation of the niche construction principle did not exclude such things as belief systems

Mission and church-building as a cultural niche construction With the advent of Christianity in Southern Scandinavia in the later part of the Viking Age, a series of changes can be registered in the archaeological data material. Most of the changes seem to have been gradual, such as the introduction of Christian burial customs (Kieffer-Olsen 1993), the use of crosses as a religious marker (Staecker, 1999), and the building of Christian cult houses (Jessen2010; Jørgensen in press; Skre 1995; Tesch 2007; Thastrup-Leth 2004), but 80

Mads Dengsø Jessen: Material culture and the construction of religious niches does at the same time represent a deliberate move towards the incorporation of a Catholic logic and a Catholic ritual environment. In particular the latter group of recognizable Christian influences – the church building – will form the basis for the illustration of the principles behind cultural niche construction. As a priori environmental factors these buildings conflate two of the main elements in cultural niche construction. Firstly, they represent a class of environmental elements which in their contemporary society was very hard to overlook and which introduced several novel architectural features, and secondly, they seem to follow a deliberate pattern of distribution, which underline the buildings’ position as basic ideological, as well as, social markers.

a drastic decrease in the persons who could come into play as actual rulers (Tylor 2007). In effect, this entailed a break with the warrior aristocracy, which seemingly dominated the social organization during the Iron Age and most of the Viking Age (Steuer 2003; Stjernquist 1999), and instead generated a more pronounced hierarchy and more rigid power structure, which, over time, led to a manor-type society. In general, this would initiate a discrepancy within the traditional power structure, where the aristocratic class as a plastic and dynamic social group where in control, and, from the late Viking Age and onwards, a more centralized and hereditary administration strongly influenced by the continental system of organization, where a single family could obtain the principal right to govern. All of these were changes hidden under the innocent wings of Christendom.

At the end of the first millennium AD, a series of missionary endeavours intended to Christianize the North, finally seemed to take a more long lasting effect in pagan Scandinavia. After the enduring, but futile, attempts by Bishop Ansgar in the first half of the 9th century to evangelize Scandinavia (Dobat, 2009; Klapheck, 2008), a rather subtle introduction happened at the newly established Danish court, where King Harald Bluetooth accepted baptism, and at the same time declared Christianity the official ideological conviction of the entire population under his command. Interestingly, this declaration, preserved at the big rune-stone at Jelling, is the only one of its kind in Europe, in stating that the sovereign took care of, and credit for, converting the public (McGuire 2008). In other words, the rune-stone bear witness to a directed culture change administered in a top-down fashion from the upper parts of the social stratum to the common man. The question is what type of approach the aristocracy took to the new ideological frame and which elements were employed as ideological markers for the new ideas.

At the same time the introduction of a new institutional apparatus – the Catholic priesthood – also contested the aristocracy on the traditional ritual obligations, which was previously assigned to the functions of the local leader. From a vague separation between worldly and sacral responsibilities, often administered together under some form of sacral kingship during the pre-Christian period (Sundquist, 2002; see Vikstrand, 2000, for a more egalitarian interpretation), the introduction of the Catholic priesthood gradually derived the aristocracy of their privileges in ritual affairs. During the early Middle Ages, the growing Catholic clergy gained better and better foothold with regards to the administration of the ritual buildings and ritual activities (McGuire 2008). Together these changes put a persistent pressure on the aristocratic milieus as they challenged several of the traditional power scaffoldings which were dominated by the upper part of society. At the same time, though, these changes also provided the elite milieus with the opportunity to enter into a more rigid hierarchical structure, in which their own position, to a large extent, could not be contested or put into question, when it had first been established. In general, the social organization seemed to become less dynamic with the advent of Christianity. Most likely so, because the introduction of a new ideology was intended to clarify and certify the organization of power in the first place, which seemingly also was the intention of the propagandistic behaviour of Harald Bluetooth (Gelting 2007).

If the ideological structure presented by the Catholic logic was to be fully implemented into the pagan social organization, or even intended to replace it, it would create an upheaval of the traditional social order. The reason for this is that a family claiming special rights to hereditary leadership (i.e. kingship), which is the case for the young Jelling dynasty, would benefit from creating an analogy to the Christian concept of father-to-son heritage, in which an agnatic birthright could form a robust powerbase; an intrinsic schematic of Christendom is the fundamental relation between God the father and Jesus his son, which is described as the supreme ruler of the world. Furthermore, the early Medieval conception of this relation seems to be deeply related to a spirit of eternal and stoic leadership. In early medieval iconography Jesus reflects this ideal, and is portrayed as a crowned ruler looking out into the world not affected by the pain inflicted upon him at the cross (ibid. 130f.). Surely, such a system of belief and sanctification of leadership must have been attractive to the developing Jelling dynasty.

What is interesting for the present study is how the aristocratic sphere incorporated the new changes in the building constellation that took place during the transition from a pagan to a Christian setting. Particularly the early church building in Jutland seems to follow a comparable pattern between different locations. At several settlements can the earliest church phases be related to large Viking Age parcels, which exhibit qualities indicative of the aristocracy. Apparently, this incorporation of the ritual buildings was, to a large extent, organized as a means to counteract the diminished ritual significance of the aristocracy, for the reason that a close administration of the churches would guarantee a continued political

On the down-side, such a definition of the hierarchical order would inevitably build a wall between the leading family and the aristocratic society, because it would mean 81

N-TAG TEN affiliation with the novel ritual niches. At the same time, the directed culture change which the evangelizing missionaries were carrying out was likewise supported by the establishment of church environments, simply because the non-experienceable Christian religious concepts now became a very palpable reality. In church, in actual fact, the communication of Christian beliefs were endowed with a very tangible arena and provided with stable and unchallenged physical scaffolding (Kieckhefer 2004).

a continuation of the Viking age parcellation. Initially the fencing must have organized the interrelationship between the farmsteads, only later turning into a more exclusive demarcation of a ritual area. A similar transformation of a Viking age parcel can be seen at the excavations from Lisbjerg (Jeppesen and Madsen 1990; 1997; Jeppesen 2004). Here a Romanesque church has been placed in the middle of what undoubtedly can be regarded a late Viking age parcel. A wooden palisade seems to have indicated the extent of the parcel, ca.100x150 meter, with the church placed centrally. Excavations around and within the church has revealed a wooden predecessor to the stone built church as well as a Viking Age main hall. Importantly, the finds from Lisbjerg suggests that the residents in the Viking Age hall and earliest Middle Ages and the wooden church could have had a simultaneous use, or at least that the wooden church replaced the hall almost immediately (ibid.:166). In any case, the hall and the church must have a close relation in either scenario. Additionally, it seems evident that the farmstead at Lisbjerg should be classified as the main residence in the area due to the large houses, sturdy palisade and the possible watermill under its possessions, and thus belonged to the upper levels of the social strata.

Therefore, even though the aristocracy and the novel ecclesiastical hierarchy were striving over the same physical environment, they found a mutual usability in the building of churches; the church as a means to evangelize and to introduce their position as ritual administrators, and the nobility as a means to maintain their socio-political privileges. This situation is also reverberated in the spatial bifurcation of the Romanesque churches into ritual and non-ritual areas. The nave, choir and apse clearly had deep ritual connotations relating to a Christian logic, while the westtowers of the Romanesque churches seemingly exhibit non-ritual functions. As these towers cannot be related to any definite Christian liturgical practice, it has been argued convincingly that they present a continuation of the traditional ritual life as it was played out in the halls and main houses at the Viking Age settlements (Anglert 2006, Nilsson 2003, Olsen 1967, Sundqvist 2006).

Only 10 km northwest of Lisbjerg we find the Haldum church, which is of an early Romanesque dating. Recent excavation along the southern part of the church-fence revealed a Viking Age burial ground with 21 graves, of which two were very elaborate chamber graves, two warrior graves with weapons, and yet another two with the remains of small gilded chests – a highly unusual and rich composition. Furthermore a Viking age fence ran along the church fence and part of a stone paved floor continuing underneath the church fence was also unearthed (Jeppesen and Schwartz 2006). Clearly the graves and their rich furnishing indicate an aristocratic milieu (presumably pre-Christian) and the stone paved floor and fencing must represent a residence of some sort. Again a continuation or contemporary use of the aristocratic Viking age settlement and an early church seem evident.

Churches and Viking Age settlements in Jutland The fact that the a very large part of the Romanesque churches are still standing and form part of our present ritual environment, testify to the stabilizing effect provided by material forms of niche construction. But let us take a closer look at the initial stages of church construction in order to clarify the context the churches were part of and possibly also why. At Nr. Felding a series of excavations around the small Romanesque church has revealed a significant pattern of building activities from the late Iron Age and early Medieval times (Olesen 1995:82ff.; 1998:27ff). Almost encircling the church and the vicarage a group of Viking age farms have formed the initial building stages at this vicinity, and were presumably the forerunner for the later church. The division of the farmsteads is organized around a sequence of fencings, which presumably arrange the different buildings, such as barn, stables, storerooms etc., into integrated units, and thus also represent the number and size of the farmsteads. Towards the end of the Viking age the individual farmsteads grow bigger and reduce in number, eventually leading to a maximum of two farms which need not be contemporaneous with each other. The fences marking the expand of the farmsteads have a conspicuous orientation due to the fact that the southern fence of the (possibly) youngest farm, running east-west, actually correspond to the northern part of the church fence, which therefore most likely must be interpreted as

A similar situation can be seen at the early Romanesque church in Tamdrup, which is an enormous church for its time and with an intriguing golden altar, depicting the conversion of Harald Bluetooth by the priest Poppo (Hvass et al. 1991). The area around the church has been excavated in several steps, and has revealed a number of late Viking age buildings within close proximity to the church. Unfortunately, no clear connection between the few Viking age fencings, and the church could be established, but the contemporaneousness between church and surrounding buildings, imply an organizational relation. Only a few buildings were recovered, and mostly single-phased, suggesting that we do not witness a small village with a ‘communal’ church, but most likely a big farmstead cum church (ibid.108). With an estimated size of 27.000 m2, the parcel and the buildings belong to the largest known examples and would most likely be of 82

Mads Dengsø Jessen: Material culture and the construction of religious niches an aristocratic origin and thus resemble the situation at Lisbjerg and Nr. Felding.

of conceptual stability that cannot exist in purely mental, ephemeral processes. With the aid of niche construction humans are able to prolong and make manifest ideological as well as political situation. The mental is made material and experienceable and a system of recurrence surface, in which the following generations will be engaging with an increasing amount of Christian materialities. This point leads me, again, to recognize a striking feature of human behaviour, namely the integration of the material world in order to ground particular ideological frames as well as promote cultural change.

Also at Gødvad Chruch we recognize a similar organization with a series of Viking age buildings just north of the Romanesque church (Jensen 1989; Schiørring 1991). The settlement seems to have been established around AD 900 and been in use the next 200 years approximately, and is perhaps a generation older than the church. Nevertheless, the excavator regards the settlement as the main cause for the erection of a church building at this locality, and particularly so if a possibly wooden church had been erected before the stone build version.

More specifically, what the different constellations of the early church buildings signify, must be an intentional introduction of a religious niche in which the upper parts of society sought to maintain their favourable position with regards to the administration of ritual activities. By keeping the Christian cult houses at a close range and within the conventional system of parcellation, the residents in the Viking age halls retained some sort of control over the ritual activities, if diminished in strength. Clearly, the possibility of granting room for the new Christian cult building on your own premises, and this way physically integrate it as part of your political and ideological assets, would generate an easier adaptation to the new Christian logic.

It truly seems like churches became a standing ingredient in the building stock of the Early Medieval nobility (Wienberg 1993; Brink 2004, 172f.) and presumably this tendency was established already at the onset of the church building as it is recognizable in the late Viking Age settlements in Jutland. The reason for this pattern of distribution is that through proprietorship of these new ritual environments a sort of physical manifestation of a particular social situation could be generated by the elite. Such manifestations of power could be planted in the physical ritual niche the church presented (such as exclusive areas within the church – west-towers – reserved for the aristocracy or the parcels where church and churchyard was established) in order to underline the affiliation between aristocracy and Christendom. By dominating the new ritual niches the elite could maintain, and in some ways continue, a traditional distribution of ritual localities. The step towards a Christian environment was therefore also a step achieved with clear reference to the pre-Christian cultic function related to a hall environment (Jessen in press). At the same time the early clergy benefitted from the establishment of the novel ritual environment, due to the fact that the earliest churches evidently became important vehicles of ideological change. By the construction of churches the priests engineered a conceptual habitat which fitted their theological programme and in the process created a sacred space where reconciliation between an ideological niche and a physical niche could be generated. The effect was a reliable, non-conflicting, and stable ritual habitat, in which a particular type of sacredness (i.e. Christianity) could materialize.

At the same time, the initially relatively fragile organization, which the Catholic Church sought to install in southern Scandinavia, would benefit significantly by anchoring their physical presence, as well as attaining ideological support, within the traditional aristocratic system. A good deal of the powerbase upholding the higher levels of the social hierarchy rested, as mentioned above, on the administration of the cultic activities, and by constructing a physical niche within the aristocratic sphere, the Church found a platform from where they could expand their own influence. Metaphorically speaking, this would be a kind of Catholic dam-building, in which a particular type of informative milieu dominates the environment. Due to the use of this strategy, the Catholic Church quickly grew and became a considerable factor in the physical and political landscape of Medieval Scandinavia – A development which eventually led to the well known investiture controversy between the Church and the King, and thus confirming the Church as an established institution.

Concluding remarks

What is particular interesting with regard to the early churches as a cultural niche is that they seem to be beneficial to two different parties. In effect, both the Catholic clergy and the local aristocracy profited from the particular niche constructed through the early church buildings; the aristocracy maintained a ‘hands on’-relation to cultic activities, and the Church instantly gained influence with regards to the ruling class, while, most importantly, they planted a range of Catholic materialities in the physical environment exhibiting Christian information. Clearly, Christianizing southern Scandinavia happened as a topdown process in which the establishment of a cultural niche within a traditional settlement-system helped

I have tried to exemplify the central position of extrasomatic entities in the spreading of religion, because religious concepts to a large degree depends on the physical context, and staging an easily transmissible concept is therefore not just a matter of combining the right material in your head, but equally so dependent on doing it through a suitable environmental niche. Hence, the transmission of cultural concepts is established through the lived lives of people – their environmental context – and in particular their basic phenomenal experience of the world. By implementing the environment into complex, intellectual tasks, such as religious thinking, humans create a sense 83

N-TAG TEN promote both the aristocratic want for a continued ritual administration, as well as the Catholic endeavour to evangelize the common people. At the same time, by investing the environment with an exclusive type of religious materials (in this case Christian ritual buildings), a bottom-up influence upon the everyday experiences people have of their immediate ritual environment could take form. And in a Christianized material environment, Christianity is not a very counterintuitive selection.

Jeppesen, J. and M. Schwartz 2006. Skrinet fra Haldum. Skalk 2006 (3), 6-12. Jessen, M. D. 2010. Altars and the sacred space - an investigation into the missionary use of portable altars. In G. Dharampal-Frick, R. Langer and N.H. Petersen (eds.), Ritual 2008( V) Transfer and Space, 373-289. Heidelberg: Heidelberg University Press. Jessen, M. D. in press. The Hall and the Church during Christianization. In Jessen, Johannsen and Jensen (eds.), Excavating the Mind: Cross-Sections Through Culture, Cognition and Materiality. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Jørgensen, L. in press. Pre-Christian cult at aristocratic residences and settlement complexes in southern Scandinavia in the 3rd -10th centuries AD. In U. von Freeden, H. Friesinger and E. Wamers (eds.), Glaube, Kult und Herrschaft. Phänomene des Religiösen im 1. Jahrtausend n. Chr. in Mittelund Nordeuropa. Kolloquien zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 12. Frankfurt. Hvass, S., O. Madsen and D.K. Mikkelsen (1991) Den ældste gård. In O.Schiørring (ed.), Tamdrup – kirke og gård, 103-114 . Horsens, Skippershoved. Kieckhefer, R. 2004. Theology in Stone: Church Architecture from Byzantinium to Berkeley. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kieffer-Olsen, J. 1993. Grav og gravskik i det middelalderlige Danmark. Middelalder-arkæologisk Nyhedsbrev 1993. Klapheck, T. 2008. Der heilige Ansgar und die karolingische Nordmission. Hannover: Hahn. Laland, K. N., F.J. Odling-Smee and M.W. Feldmann 2000. Niche Construction, Biological Evolution and Cultural Change. Behavioral and Brain Sciences 23, 131–75. Laland, K. N. and M. J. O’Brien 2010. Niche Construction Theory and Archaeology. Journal of Archaeological Theory and Method 17, 303-22. McGuire, B.P. 2008. Da himmelen kom nærmere. Fortællinger om Danmarks kristning 700-1300. Frederiksberg, Alfa. Nilsson, I.-M. 2003. Härskarsymbol och högsäte – om betydelsen av västmarkeringar i romanska kyrkor, META 2003 (1), 31-49. Odling-Smee, F. J., K.N. Laland, and M.W. Feldman 2003. Niche Construction: The Neglected Process in Evolution. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Odling-Smee, F. J. 2007. Niche Inheritance: A Possible Basis for Classifying Multiple Inheritance Systems in Evolution. Biological Theory 2 (3), 276-89. Olsen, O. 1967. Rumindretningen i romanske landsbykirker. Kirkehistoriske Samlinger 1967, 23557. Olesen, L.H. 1995. Vikingetid i Vestjylland. In L.B. Jørgensen and P. Eriksen (eds.), Trabjerg – en vestjysk landsby fra vikingetid, 79-106. Højbjerg, Jysk Arkæologisk Selskab. Olesen, L.H. 1998. Vikingegårde ved Nørre Felding Kirke. Holstebro Museum Årsskrift 1998, 27-40.

References Anglert, M. 2006. De tidigaste kristna kulthusen. In: M. Anglert, M. Artursson and F. Svanberg (eds.), Kulthus & dödshus. Det ritualiserade rummets teori och praktik, 167-180. Stockholm: Riksantikvarämbetets Förlag. Bagge, S. 2010. From Viking Stronghold to Christian Kingdom. State formation in Norway, c. 900-1350. København: Museum Tusculanum Press. Bardone, E. and L. Magnani (2007) Sharing representation through cognitive niche construction. Data Science Journal 6, suppl 9, 87-91. Boyer, P. 2002. Religion Explained: The Human Instincts that Fashion Gods, Spirits and Ancestors. New York: Vintage. Brink, S. 2004. New Perspectives on the Christianization of Scandinavia and the Organization of the Early Church. In J. Adams and K. Holman (eds.), Scandinavia and Europe 800-1350: Contact, Conflict, and Coexistence, 163-175. Bulbulia, J. 2008. Meme Infection or Religious Niche Construction? An Adaptationist Alternative to the Cultural Maladaptationist Hypothesis. Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 20, 67-107. Dobat, A.S. 2009. Zwischen Mission und Markt - Ansgars Kirchen im Norden. Germania, 87 (2). Feldman, M. W. and L.L. Cavalli-Sforza 1989. On the theory of evolution under genetic and cultural transmission with application to the lactose absorption problem. In M.W. Feldman (ed.), Mathematical Evolutionary Theory, 145-173. Princeton, Princeton University Press. Gelting, M.H. 2007. The kingdom of Denmark. In: N. Behrend (ed.), Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy. Scandinavia, Central Europe and Rus’ c. 900-1200, 73-120. Cambrige: Cambridge University Press. Jensen, K.B. 1989. Årets udgravninger. Silkeborg Museums Årsskrift 1989. Jeppesen, J. and H.J. Madsen 1990. Stormandsgård og kirke i Lisbjerg. Kuml 1988-89. Jeppesen, J. and H.J. Madsen 1997. Trækirke og stormandshal i Lisbjerg. Kuml 1995-96, 149-171. Jeppesen, J. 2004. Stormandsgården ved Lisbjerg Kirke. Nye Undersøgelsen. Kuml 2004, 161-180.

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Mads Dengsø Jessen: Material culture and the construction of religious niches Sanmark, A. 2004. Power and Conversion. A Comparative Study of Christianization in Scandinavia. Occasional papers in archaeology 34. Uppsala, Department of Archaeology and Ancient History. Sawyer, B. and P. Sawyer 1993, Medieval Scandinavia: from Conversion to Reformation, Circa 800-1500. Minneapolis, University of Minnesota Press. Schiørring, O. 1991, Tamdrup. In O.Schiørring (ed.) Tamdrup – kirke og gård, 11-23. Horsens, Skippershoved. Skre, D. (1995) Kirken før sognet. Den tidligste kirkeordningen i Norge: In H.-E. Lidén (ed.), Møtet mellom hedendom og kristendom i Norge, 176-233. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. Staecker, J. 1999, Rex regum et dominus dominorum: die wikingerzeitlichen Kreuz- und Kruzifixanhänger als Ausdruck der Mission in Altdänemark und Schweden. Stockholm, Almqvist and Wiksell International. Stjernquist, B. 1999. The warrior elite of south-east Scania in the Roman Iron Age and its function in the social and political structure. In Hässler, H.-J. and A. Genrich (eds.), Die Altsachsen im Spiegel der nationalen und internationalen Sachsenforschung, 381-393. Oldenburg: Isensee. Steuer, H. 2003. Kriegerbanden und Heerkönige - Krieg als Auslöser der Entwicklung zu Stamm und Staat im ersten Jahrtausend n. Chr. in Mitteleuropa. Überlegungen zu einem theoretischen Modell. In W. Heizmann, and A. van Nahl (eds.), Runica - Germanica – Mediaevalia, 824-853. Berlin: Walther de Gruyter. Sundqvist, O. 2002. Freyr’s Offspring. Rulers and Religion in Ancient Svea Society. Uppsala, Uppsala University. Sundqvist, O. 2006. Från vikingatida aristokratiska hallar till medeltida stormannakyrkor.Bebyggelseshistorisk Tidsskrift 52, 20-32. Thastrup-Leth, A.K. 2004. Trækirker i det middelalderlige Danmark indtil ca. 1100. Hvornår blev de bygget? In N. Lund (ed.), Kristendommen i Danmark før 1050. Et symposium i Roskilde den 5.-7-februar 2003, 207-214. Roskilde: Roskilde Museums Forlag. Tesch, S. 2007. Tidigmedeltida sepulkralstenar i Sigtuna – heliga stenar från Köln för såväl hallkult som mässa i stenkyrka. In Sten Tesch (ed.), Sigtune Dei,45-68. Sigtuna: Sigtuna Museum. Tylor, J. 2007. Reluctant Kings and Christian Conversion in Seventh-Century England. Histor, 92 (2), 144-161. Vikstrand, P. 2000. Konungen och helgedomen. In B. Sandnes, J. Sandnes, O. Stemshaug and L. F. Stenvik (eds), Oluf Rygh. Rapport fra symposium på Stiklestad 13.-15. mai 1999, 213-232. Uppsala: Swedish Science Press. Wienberg. J. 1993. Den gotiske labyrint. Middelalderen og kirkerne i Danmark. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell International.

Mads Dengsø Jessen Aarhus University, Faculty of Humanities Department of anthropology, archaeology and linguistics Aarhus, Denmark e-mail: [email protected]

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Theory for the a-theoretical: niche construction theory and its implications for environmental archaeology Felix Riede

Aarhus University

Abstract In theoretical terms, environmental archaeology is broadly based on ecological principles. Ecology, however, is undergoing a new and exciting development: The ‘niche construction’ or triple-inheritance model has been put forward, and combines a diachronic evolutionary/historical perspective with the insights of ecology. I argue here that this framework articulates particularly well with environmental archaeology because a) humans are extraordinarily potent niche constructors, and b) the archaeological record documents the long-term interactions between people and the environments they inhabit, their niches. We therefore are presented with a situation of mutual benefit, in which environmental archaeology can partake in, contribute to, and ultimately benefit from important theoretical developments in ecology and evolution, and where environmental archaeology, in turn, can provide the quantitative data needed to empirically further substantiate and develop the niche construction framework.

Introduction

5. Systems Theory is a top-down approach of explaining society and does not take account of internal trajectories of change or individual agency.

More than 25 years ago, Butzer (1982) published a volume with the title Archaeology as Human Ecology. This work remains one of the best – if by now perhaps somewhat outdated – textbooks for environmental archaeology and is still found, rightly perhaps, on many undergraduate reading lists (see Coles 1995 for the UK). Although it was primarily meant as a textbook of methods in environmental archaeology, Butzer also attempted to place human-environment interactions in a broader theoretical framework. This framework was Systems Theory and still today “many environmental archaeologists do espouse a theoretical approach which is broadly based on ecological considerations” (Driver 2001, 48) and aim at addressing human actions “in terms of cultural systems within an environmental context” (Reitz et al. 1996, 3). Applications of Systems Theory in archaeology are strongly linked to the emerging New Archaeology of the 1960s and 70s (Trigger, 1989) and in the UK are most closely associated with the name of David Clarke (1968). Quantitative ecology, New Geography and Systems Theory, on which Clarke drew, are also closely linked historically, and traditional ecological approaches as well as systemstheoretical models of cultural processes share a number of flaws. Johnson (1999) identifies five major shortcomings in an ecological or systems-theoretical approach:

Systems Theory can be seen as a version of functionalism and as clearly associated to neo-evolutionary notions of cultural development (e.g. Sahlins and Service 1965). In this paper I want to discuss an alternative model of cultural evolution that integrates many of the useful insights of functionalism and systems-theoretical thinking (Shennan 1989; 2004). In contrast to these, however, the model discussed here – the niche construction model – is rooted in ‘standard’ evolutionary theory, i.e. it does not see human bio-social evolution as qualitatively different form the evolution of other organisms. The approach taken here therefore differs critically from previous neo-evolutionary approaches in being non-teleological, never at equilibrium, and by firmly placing individual agents and their actions centrally, rather than taking societies or cultures (whatever these may be) as its units of analysis. The important differences between these two models of evolution have been discussed many times and the reader is referred to extensive treatments by, for example, Dunnell (1980; 1988), Persson (1999) or Snekkestad (2011). The main aim of this chapter is to place niche construction theory in relation to environmental archaeology by addressing some the (valid) objections to Systems Theory and its associated approaches outlined above, all in light of recent developments in evolutionary and ecological theory.

1. Cultural configurations are explained only in terms adaptation. 2. The functional linkages between a given cultural constellation and its selective contexts are often not clear. 3. Systems Theory assumes cultures to be in equilibrium. 4. Systems Theory is politically objectionable primarily because it foregrounds harmony over conflict.

In a series of works (Odling-Smee et al. 2003; see further references below) have developed a framework now known as ‘niche construction’, which combines elements of an evolutionary, i.e., diachronic and historical approach with the ecological insight that organisms are related in complex interactions. Interestingly, both soil scientists (Corenblit et al. 2007a; 2007b; 2008; 2009) as well as palaeontologists (Erwin 2008; Krakauer et al. 2009; Marenco and Bottjer

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N-TAG TEN Perturbation Inceptive

Organisms initiate a change in their selective environment by physically modifying their surroundings, e.g. clearing of lands, deposition of raw material or meat caches

Counteractive

Organisms counteract a prior change in their environment by physically modifying their surroundings, e.g. building of shelter during cold periods, terrace-building to counteract erosion

Relocation Organisms expose themselves to a novel selective environment by moving to a or growing into a new place, e.g. the re-colonisation of Northern Europe after the Last Ice Age, the exploration of Oceania, the colonisation of the Americas Organisms respond to a change in the environment by moving to or growing into a more suitable habitat, e.g. seasonal migration following reindeer during Last Ice Age, cyclical expansion episodes in early hominids

Table 1. The principle kinds of niche construction. The outcomes of these behavioural variants can be positive Often the temporal dimension plays a critical role as the wider environmental or social context (which itself may change over time) determines the adaptiveness of a particular behaviour. Modified from Odling-Smee et al. 2003). or negative, lowering or enhancing reproductive fitness.

2007) argue that niche construction theory provides a robust explanatory framework for landscape formation process at ecological as well as evolutionary timescales. Environmental archaeology is complementary to these disciplines providing data on specifically human niche construction at specifically archaeological timescales. Whilst by no means uncontroversial (see Keller 2003; Laland et al. 2004; Okasha 2005; Sterelny 2005; Vandermeer 2004), the niche construction framework is proving to be a productive one (e.g. Boni and Feldman 2005; Borenstein et al. 2006; Donohue 2005; Donohue et al. 2005a; 2005b; Ihara and Feldman 2004; Patz et al. 2000; Schwilk 2003; Silver and Di Paolo 2006) and offers a useful vocabulary for addressing the processes and historical (i.e. evolutionary) consequences of human landscape modifications (Table 1); a theory for the a-theoretical. In addition – and I will return to this point later – the niche construction framework provides interesting pointers towards new models for the interplay between materiality, technology and human cognition (Johannsen 2010).

other organisms’) selective environment to such a degree that it changes the selection pressures acting on present and future generations of said organism/agent (Fig. 1). Niche construction, also termed ‘triple-inheritance theory’ (Day et al. 2003; Laland and Brown 2006b; Laland et al. 1999; 2000; 2001; 2005; Laland and Sterelny, 2006; Odling-Smee et al., 1996, 2003; www.nicheconstruction. com), builds on and extends traditional dual-inheritance models of cultural evolution (e.g., Boyd and Richerson, 1985; Laland and Brown 2002; Richerson and Boyd 2005), which have already proven to be useful for the quantitative study of human material culture on the level of the tradition (Shennan 1989; 2002; 2004a; 2004b; 2005) or “learning lineage” (Harmon et al. 2006, 209). In addition, Shennan (2006, 176) has recently pointed out that “attention has been drawn to the evolutionary significance of the process of niche construction, or ecological inheritance (e.g. Laland et al. 2000) – the fact that it is not only socially transmitted traditions that are passed on through time, but novel humanly created social, cultural, and ‘natural’ environments, which provide the selective conditions for cultural practices, social (including reproductive) strategies, and subsistence activities of future generations”. Niche construction theory provides an opportunity to bring environmental and other archaeological data together under a single overarching, yet conceptually roomy framework.

O’Connor (2001) argued some time ago that the focus of environmental archaeology should be the human niche and his theoretical stance is easily accommodated in the somewhat broader niche construction model. I argue here that much of environmental archaeology can be thought of as a record of human niche construction, and I will provide a few selected examples. It has been remarked that despite considerable conceptual soul-searching (e.g. Albarella 2001; Boyd 1990; O’Connor 1998), “many environmental archaeologists are theoretical Luddites” (Barker 2001, 312). Yet, environmental archaeology can, critically, provide the empirical data necessary for operationalizing the powerful quantitative models of the niche construction approach, and that by engaging with this emerging research field (Mesoudi et al. 2006), it can both contribute to, and benefit from, these theoretical and methodological developments.

The critical departure of the niche construction/tripleinheritance approach from previously offered models is that organisms, and above all humans, are seen to play a more active role in shaping their own and other organisms’ environment, in particular those aspects of the environment that hold selective relevance in an evolutionary perspective. It is argued that the niche construction model serves as a productive general model for human bio-social evolution primarily because of its additional emphasis on ecological processes. Archaeologists have long worked with the economic/ecological and social relations between people and their surroundings, and with the above-mentioned shift in emphasis a much greater part of archaeological evidence suddenly becomes suitable for incorporation into such model-based approaches to cultural evolution.

The niche construction model Niche construction can be minimally defined as the process whereby organism/agents modify their own (and 88

Felix Riede: Theory for the a-theoretical

Figure 1.

Figure 1. The three tiers of inheritance in the niche construction model: genetic, ecological and cultural inheritance. Because time (t) is included in the model as an explicit variable it creates a dynamic template for examining long-term change over time in all three inheritance domains. Redrawn from Laland et al. (2000). Information already played a key role in earlier systemsecological approaches (e.g. Flannery 1972) and is encoded in many forms of archaeological data (see Renfrew and Scarre 1998), including some which explicitly reference ecological circumstances (art: Barton et al. [1994]; Mithen [1988; 1991]; settlement patterns, caching behaviours and technology: Meltzer [2002; 2003]). While traditional systems-ecological approaches generally viewed information as being exchanged between the various components of the systems itself, explicitly evolutionary

– that is diachronic and historical – approaches view Lamb 2006). It is this cross-generational transmission that creates evolutionary dynamics.

information as transmitted also from parent to offspring generation (see Jablonka and

In evolutionary biology, the notion of an interactive relationship between organisms and their environment goes back some time, most pertinently to the writings of Richard Lewontin (1978; 1983; 2000). One can begin to describe niche construction formally as a set of coupled equations. The first part describes the evolutionary change (f) in organisms (O) as a function of the organisms and the environment (E) over time (t; Equation 1).



dO/dt = f(O,E) (3)

dE/dt = g(O,E) (4) From equations 3 and 4 it is evident that organism and environment are engaged in a feedback relationship. Whilst organic evolution is adequately (if somewhat simplistically) expressed by equation 3, environmental change becomes rather more complex once the active engagement of organisms (O) is taken into consideration. The addition of O to equation 4 creates a link between environmental change and evolutionary change. Over historical/evolutionary time, such a feedback relationship not only adapts the organism to its environment, but it will also change the environment, so that there is in fact a convergence of the two aspects towards the kind of glovein-hand fit between living things and their niches (Fig. 2).

dO/dt = f(O,E) (1) The second part describes autonomous change in the state (g) of the environment over time (Equation 2). dE/dt = g(E) (2) Whilst there are, of course, autonomous environmental processes that act on, change and disrupt an organism’s niche, the great majority of environmental variables pertinent to selection are local and thus potentially within reach of the organism itself. Thus, a closer approximation of the reality of adaptation is a pair of coupled differential equations that combine equations 1 and 2 and express the effective co-evolution of organisms and their environment:

In this basic formulation, the model does not explicitly include material culture, and as such may be said to be of little or no relevance to archaeologists. However, as Vandermeer (2004, 473) notes “including considerations of culture complicates but does not really alter the basic niche construction approach”. In fact, one of the main aims of the niche construction approach is to make evolutionary 89

N-TAG TEN

Figure 2. A possible sequences of change over time in the adaptive fit of organism (O) and environment

Figure (E). O2. is represented by lower-case letters, E by capitals. At t, O and E are reasonably well matched,

t+1 natural selection acts on O (by changing j to z). However, O remains only imperfectly adapted t+2, O changes E through positive niche construction, creating a highly adaptive fit between E and O. At t+3, O modifies E in such a way that decreases O’s fitness, opening the doors for natural selection to act on O once again (t+4). A good archaeological example could the prehistoric agricultural settlement and practices in the Mediterranean, where land clearance (initially positive niche construction) and environmental change (autonomous change in E) led to large-scale erosion (negative niche construction) and depopulation and changes in settlement patterns through crop failure (natural selection). Subsequent terracing (positive niche construction) again improved the fit between O and E in this particular example; see van Andel et al. (1986).

but at

to the given environment. At

theory more attractive to and useful for human scientists. Odling-Smee et al. (2003, 380) make the point clearly: “Human scientists are predominantly interested in human behaviour and culture, rather than genes, and as a consequence they have little use for standard evolutionary theory [that concerned only with genetic change and which sees adaptation as externally stimulated]. Our extended evolutionary framework may be more appealing to human scientists because it includes additional roles for phenotypes and artifacts in evolution. The other reason why human scientists have difficulty with evolutionary theory is that contemporary adaptationist accounts, as in evolutionary psychology, are frequently simplified to the point of distortion. Adding niche construction makes evolutionary theory more complicated, but for human scientists it may eliminate some of these egregious distortions.”

in making the distinction between cultural and ecological inheritance the niche construction model references a useful, earlier distinction in human technology made by Oswalt (1976). He categorized material culture as, on the one hand, weapons and instruments or, on the other, tended or untended facilities. Important for the approach here is that the knowledge needed to make and use weapons and instruments, on ethnographic grounds, appears to be transmitted largely privately and within family groups (see Shennan 1996; Shennan and Steele, 1999; see also Tehrani and Riede 2008; Tehrani and Collard 2009), but that facilities of either kind are constructed and used communally and often outlive one biological generation. They therefore become features in the ‘natural’ environment for any generation succeeding that which first built the structure. Any enduring feature or landscape modification can thus fall into this latter category, including, for instance, paths and way-markers (Pasda 2004), caches (Riede 2005a; 2005b), gardens (Terrell et al. 2003), or field systems (Shennan 2006). Many facilities classify equally well as aspects of a modified environment or niche and so fall under the remit of niche construction theory. The philosopher Sterelny (2006,151-152) argues that “to the extent that information does flow collectively, niche construction is our best model of the generationby-generation accumulation of skill, technology and information” and I argue here that it may provide a robust,

Within such a framework, the notion of the human actor within his or her natural and social environment is therefore a far cry from the “plastic, malleable cultural dope incapable of altering the conditions of his or her existence and always subject to the vagaries of external non-social forces beyond mediation or any realistic form of active intervention” (Shanks and Tilley 1993, 56) that post-processual archaeologists attribute to an evolutionary/ecological approach to archaeology. Indeed, 90

Felix Riede: Theory for the a-theoretical productive, and forward-looking theoretical framework for environmental archaeology.

For prehistoric societies the niche construction benchmark is quite definitively set by farmers: They have a strong tendency to take with them their own small-scale niche; they conservatively target particular environs (e.g. van Andel and Runnels 1995), but also engineer these environments so as to avoid shifting other aspects of their behaviour (Colledge et al. 2006; Coward et al. 2008). With respect to the origins of agriculture Terrell et al. (2003, 329) speak of “domesticated landscapes” and document many instances where large tracts of land become incorporated into the human niche (a recent review of the contemporary anthropogenic impact on the global climate and environment even suggests that we have “domesticated nature” (Kareiva et al. 2007, 1866). Citing an early paper on niche construction (Odling-Smee et al. 1996), Terrell et al. (2003, 333) note that “knowledge is power” and go on to explain that “the harvesting done by any species is likely to lead over time to morphological and genetic changes in the species being harvested or preyed upon, in the species doing the harvesting, and in the species composition of the landscapes they all inhabit” (Terrell et al. 2003,

Examples of prehistoric niche construction To state that culture is the human niche is an anthropological truism and almost trivial (Hardesty, 1972), but it is worth repeating that it is this collectively held cultural capital that largely defines the human selective environment in biological as well as cultural terms. To-date only few archaeological examples have been examined from a niche construction perspective (see Laland and Brown 2006b; Laland et al. 2000; 2001; Odling-Smee et al. 2003). Yet, it can be said that the prehistoric archaeological record is, above all else, a record of increasingly sophisticated human niche construction (e.g. Goudie 1993; Laland and Brown 2006b). Below I provide a series of brief examples, taken from the published literature, of human niche construction with both positive and negative long-term, i.e. historical/evolutionary consequences, while Table 2 provides additional examples.

NC behaviour type

Resource type Ecological and/or genetic effects (Rp/Ri)

Non-human animals affecting the human niche Creates long-lasting lake habitats Beaver (Castor fiber) Physical and patches of open landscape, damming attracting human settlement Humans affecting their own niche Caching Physical & semantic Way-marking Physical & semantic

Changes the distribution of critical resources in the landscape Creates long-lasting pathways through a landscape

Humans affecting their own and other organisms’ niches Plant domestication Physical & Changes genetics and morphology semantic of plant species and creates the agricultural niche Animal domestication Physical & Changes genetics and morphology semantic of animal species and creates the pastoral niche Expansion into new Physical & Introduces foreign species habitats semantic (including humans) into new habitats, often with genetic effects for many species Fire management Physical & Clears patches of landscape for new semantic growth and animal feed

Art

Physical & semantic

Assists in the transmission of ecological information; territorial markers

Main NC categories

References

Inceptive, perturbational

Coles (2006), Wright et al. (2002)

Inceptive, perturbational Inceptive, perturbational

Potts (1994), Riede (2005b)

Inceptive, perturbational

Coward et al. (2008), Smith (2007), Terrell et al. (2003), Rindos (1984) Bleed (2006)

Inceptive, perturbational

Rockman and Steele (2003), Pasda (2004), Odgaard (2007)

Relocational, may be inceptive or counteractive

Kirch (1997), Bellwood (2005), Kennett et al. (2006)

Perturbational

Mellars (1976), Bliege Bird et al. (2008); also see Bond and Keeley (2005), Schwilk (2003) and Verdú et al. (2007) Mithen (1991), Barton et al. (1994)

Inceptive

Table 2. Examples of niche constructing behaviours affecting humans and by humans. The division of resource types follows Odling-Smee (2007). 91

N-TAG TEN 350), effectively summing up the main thrust of the niche construction argument and substantiating it with examples from ethnography and archaeology. Shennan (2006, 180181; emphasis added) further adds that the dispersal of agricultural population into Europe “is a classic example of natural selection acting on people through an inherited cultural tradition, which gave a selective advantage to those who adopted it and passed it on to their children. In fact, the process involved not simply the inheritance of a tradition but also the transmission of a new niche, because the actual descendants of the cereal crops and animals that had originally been domesticated were being carried along as part of the dispersal and social strategies were affected by these new conditions”. An even more extreme form of this behaviour can be observed in island situations, where effectively whole ecosystems are transposed from one locale to another. Kirch (1997, 217) refers to this as “transported landscapes”. The evolutionary success of farmers under this model is largely due to the powerful positive niche construction that is part and parcel of most agricultural societies. Both in Europe as well as in Oceania, the outcomes of the feedback cycles between the cultural and ecological inheritance dynamics and the genetic inheritance – in other words, the long-term evolutionary success of these niche construction strategies – are documented in the genetic and linguistic legacy of these first farmers (see Bellwood 2005; Smith 2007).

Medieval Cold Period (the Little Ice Age), traditional crops, herding techniques, and ways of maintaining one’s livelihood (e.g., trade with Iceland was interrupted as the seas froze over more regularly) failed (McGovern 1974). Anthropogenic landscape changes such as deforestation aggravated the conditions (Amorosi et al.,1997; McGovern et al. 1988). The deteriorating niche quality, coupled with unfavourable climate change (note: unfavourable for the Norse –Inuit groups of the Thule Culture expanded during this period: Gulløv et al. 2004; see also Casely and Dugmore 2007) and an unwillingness to adopt, even partially, the far better adapted Inuit lifestyle culminated in the complete extinction of both Greenland Norse settlement and the deaths of all their people (McGovern 1974; 1991; McGovern et al. 1988). Laland and Brown (2006b, 98) point out that “even the most adaptable of creatures will experience limits to its tolerance space, outside of which it is unable to behave adaptively”. Cultural conventions can, in some instances, result in maladaptation due to cultural inertia or increased counteractive niche construction. In many instances, such maladaptations will act through the negative effects of long-term environmental engineering. Deeper in prehistory niche construction behaviours are likely to have been more subtle. Yet, where preservation allows, the collective manipulation of environmental parameters by hunter-gatherers is plainly visible. Fire, for instance, has played an important role in human adaptation and has strongly shaped ecosystems in many parts of the world (Bond and Keeley 2005; see also Moore 2003). One of the most important niche construction domains is the nursing environment, and humans are adept at creating their own portable micro-environments through clothing and shelter, the habitual use of which coincides with major expansions – or in other words, increases in fitness and hence reproductive success (e.g. Kittler et al. 2003; Vasil’ev et al. 2003). In Greenland, Pasda (2004; 2005) and Odgaard (2007) have been able to document the subtle, yet vital modifications of the natural landscape by many generations of Inuit reindeer hunters. Pasda further suggests that similar notions also likely apply to the prehistoric landscape interactions with, and modifications of, for instance, Late Palaeolithic and Mesolithic hunter-gatherers in Europe (Pasda 2002). Such modifications take the form of paths, shelters and meat or raw material caches, which modify the ecological and hence adaptive parameters of the Inuit niche. In addition, pollen diagrams allow the detection of human impact on previously uninhabited islands (Edwards and Sugden 2003; Edwards et al. 2007) and other landscapes (e.g. Bergman et al. 2007). In discussing pioneer colonizations, Meltzer (2002; 2003) has recently drawn attention to the importance of landscape knowledge and the ways in which it constrains and enables human interaction with the environment. Rockman and Steele (2003), Diamond (2005), and Diamond and Robinson (2010) provide a number of further examples of positive and negative niche construction across a variety of environments, mechanisms and periods.

However, much like dual-inheritance theorists have demonstrated that culture can give rise to ostensibly maladaptive behavioural strategies (Boyd and Richerson 1985; Henrich 2004; Richerson and Boyd 2005), there is ample evidence for ultimately destructive effects of agricultural settlement (e.g. Albarella 2001). One of the key differences between positive and negative niche construction is, as pointed out above, the temporal perspective of the behavioural outcomes. As Terrell et al. (2003, 332; emphasis added) point out “the thought that it is a wise strategy to construct as well as adapt to one’s environment should not necessarily be taken to mean that one must always know that what is being done will improve one’s chances of survival, or that everything done with this practical aim in mind works successfully”. Whilst the expansions of Neolithic farmers in Europe can on the whole be seen as an instance of positive niche construction, other agricultural expansions demonstrate how the same kinds of behaviour can also lead to negative outcomes. Perhaps the best example comes from Medieval Greenland. Beginning some time around 2500 BC Greenland, the largest island in the world, was first settled by marine-oriented foragers from Canada in several waves (Gulløv et al. 2004). In circa 950 AD, Norse farmers from Iceland settled at the southern tip of Greenland, founding two settlements. The Greenland Norse had brought with them an agricultural fauna and flora that they attempted to acclimatize to local conditions. During milder climatic episodes – the first few hundred years of occupation – they fared sufficiently well. When the climate in the Northern Hemisphere turned colder as well as stormier during the 92

Felix Riede: Theory for the a-theoretical Conclusion

diachronic perspective of an evolutionary/historical framework. Like Systems Theory, it addresses the “plural feedback cycles” (Odling-Smee 2006, 43) operating in human culture, but it does so in a way that is more compatible with the long-term perspective of change-overtime provided, uniquely, by the archaeological record. In contrast to other suggested frameworks (e.g. McGlade 1995), the niche construction model is intuitively appealing and integrates well with developments in other fields (Odling-Smee et al. 2003), including some facets of post-processual archaeological theory (see Riede 2005a; 2009; Shennan 2002; 2006). Art, myths and legends often contain environmental information (Barton et al. 1994; Meltzer 2003; Mithen 1988; 1991), and knowledge and information play a critical part in the niche construction model, just as they did in some earlier systems-theoretical approaches (e.g. Flannery 1972; and see Shennan 1989). Such conceptual links exemplify the feedback cycles between cultural and ecological inheritance; the increasing availability of data on past demographic processes, successes and failures (Chamberlain 2006; Shennan 2002), in turn describes the complementary feedback cycles between cultural, ecological and genetic inheritance.

Equipped with a new vocabulary for addressing human behaviour within its ecological context we can revisit Johnson’s objections to systems-theoretical and ecological approaches: 1. Many cultural configurations are explained in terms adaptation because culture is, by and large, an adaptive feature (Alvard 2003; Boyd and Richerson 1995). In the examples considered in this paper, the adaptive nature of these cultural and ecological behaviours can be demonstrated through their impact on genetic frequencies or demographic consequences. Nonetheless, evolutionaryecological approaches also consider neutral or maladaptive explanations (see Shennan 2006) 2. The functional linkages between a given cultural constellation and its selective contexts are often not clear, but they can be substantiated using middlerange theories and experimental archaeology (O’Brien and Holland 1992; 1995). Adaptation is a nuanced concept and whether a particular trait is in fact a current adaptation (rather than an exaptation, past adaptation or by-product) can only be evaluated in the light of its history (Laland and Brown 2006a). It is simply best not to make a priori assumptions about a given trait’s status. 3. Niche construction does not assume cultures to be in equilibrium. In fact, it rather assumes that all parts of a given system, be it cultural or otherwise, are constantly changing and that any observed equilibrium is merely an illusion usually due to the lack of temporal depth in synchronic analyses. The niche construction model is a dynamic template precisely because components internal to the system – agents – are seen as critical in instigating change. Cultures are decidedly not the agents in this model, but rather constitute the partly created social and physical environment in which individuals act. 4. To object to evolutionary and ecological theory on political grounds is to neglect its scientific merit (see Apel and Darmark 2009), and to claim that it foregrounds harmony over conflict would simply be untrue; conflict, on every level, is part and parcel of evolutionary theory as is cooperation (e.g. Krebs and Davies 1991; also Kohler et al. 2009; Shennan 2006). 5. The niche construction model improves upon previous evolutionary models of culture by putting greater emphasis on the role of the phenotype, or in other words, on individual agency. It is explicitly recognised that these agents have intentions and goals, but also that they are not omniscient and that the environment (social, natural or otherwise) may change on levels beyond the influence of, and for reasons unknown to, these agents.

Niche construction has here been primarily treated as a model integrating environmental archaeological data with long-term interactive models of human-environment relations. Yet, the niche construction approach is merely one in a range of contemporary evolutionary perspectives on human behaviour and culture, which foreground the inherently and inadvertently social nature of human life (see Laland and Brown 2002; 2006a). It is this social rather than some ‘natural’ environment that constitutes the context in which cultural evolution is taking place. Taking human sociality seriously also means taking human materiality seriously. There is now considerable evidence suggesting that material circumstances significantly influence cognitive functions, both in primates (Iriki and Sakura 2008) as well as humans (Wheeler and Clark 2008). Again, archaeologists can add to this debate and body of evidence with the many examples of the interplay between the human physical, social and cognitive worlds (Johannsen 2010). This final turn also firmly gives agency to past individuals, but once again, without losing sight of the fact that human action – physical, social, cognitive – happen within environmental contexts.

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Shennan, S. J. 2004b. Analytical Archaeology. In J. Bintliff (ed.), A Companion to Archaeology. Oxford, Blackwell. Shennan, S. J. 2005. Culture, society and evolutionary theory. Archaeological Dialogues 11 (2), 107-114. Shennan, S. J. 2006. From Cultural History to Cultural Evolution: An Archaeological Perspective on Social Information Transmission. In J. K. C. Wells, S. Strickland and K. N. Laland (eds.), Social Information Transmission and Human Biology. London, CRC Press. Shennan, S. J. and J. Steele 1999. Cultural learning in hominids: a behavioural ecological approach. In H. O. Box and K. R. Gibson (eds.), Mammalian Social Learning: Comparative and Ecological Perspectives. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Silver, M. and E. Di Paolo 2006. Spatial effects favour the evolution of niche construction. Theoretical Population Biology 70, 387-400. Smith, B. D. 2007. Niche Construction and the Behavioral Context of Plant and Animal Domestication. Evolutionary Anthropology 16 (5), 188-199. Snekkestad, P. 2011. Darwinistisk arkeologi. Primitive Tider 13, 155-166. Sterelny, K. 2005. Made By Each Other: Organisms and Their Environment. Biology and Philosophy 20, 21-36. Sterelny, K. 2006. Memes Revisited. The British Journal for the Philosophy of Science 57 (1), 145-165. Terrell, J. E., J. P. Hart, S. Barut, N. Cellinese, A. Curet, T. Denham, C. M. Kusimba, K. Latinis, R. Oka, J. Palka, M. E. D. Pohl, K. O. Pope, P. R. Williams, H. Haines, and J. E. Staller 2003. Domesticated Landscapes: The Subsistence Ecology of Plant and Animal Domestication. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 10 (4), 323-368. Tehrani, J. J. and M. Collard 2009. On the relationship between interindividual cultural transmission and population-level cultural diversity: a case study of weaving in Iranian tribal populations. Evolution and Human Behavior 30 (4), 286-300. Tehrani, J. J. and F. Riede 2008. Towards an archaeology of pedagogy: learning, teaching and the generation of material culture traditions. World Archaeology 40 (3), 316 - 331. Trigger, B. G. 1989. A History of Archaeological Thought, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. van Andel, T. H. and C. N. Runnels 1995. The earliest farmers in Europe: Soil preferences and demic diffusion pathways. Antiquity 69, 481-500. van Andel, T. H., C. N. Runnels and K. O. Pope 1986. Five thousand years of land use and abuse in the Southern Argolid. Hesperia 55, 103-128. Vandermeer, J. 2004. The Importance of a Constructivist View. Science, 303, 472-474. Vasil’ev, S. A., O. Soffer and J. K. Kozlowski (eds.) 2003. Perceived Landscapes and Built Environments: the Cultural Geography of Late Paleolithic Eurasia. Oxford, Oxbow.

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N-TAG TEN Verdú, M., J.G. Pausas, J. G. Segarra-Moragues and F. Ojeda 2007. Burning phylogenies: fire, molecular evolutionary rates, and diversification. Evolution 61 (9), 2195-2204. Wheeler, M. and A. Clark 2008. Culture, embodiment and genes: unravelling the triple helix. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences 363 (1509), 3563-3575. Wright, J. P., C. G. Jones and A. S. Flecker 2002. An ecosystem engineer, the beaver, increases species richness at the landscape scale. Oecologia 132 (1), 96101.

Dr. Felix Riede University of Aarhus Department of Anthropology, Archaeology and Linguistics, Section for Prehistoric Archaeology, Moesgård 8270 Højbjerg, Denmark Tel. +45 8942 4651 Fax. +45 8627 2378 e-mail: [email protected]

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Cultural evolution and archaeology. Historical and current trends Felix Riede

Aarhus University

Jan Apel

Gotland University College

Kim Darmark

Stockholm University

Abstract The 10th Nordic TAG conference fell together with the 150th anniversary of the publication of Charles Darwin’s seminal On the Origin of Species as well as the 200th anniversary of his birth. Over the last 15 years a new theoretical discourse on the use of evolutionary theory in archaeology has emerged, but this has largely bypassed the Scandinavian countries, despite the fact that Scandinavian archaeology has a solid foundation of empirical work, especially with regards to technology and ecological relations. Both research areas can benefit tremendously from evolutionary insights. This chapter reviews some of the historical and current trends in evolutionary analyses of material culture change. Despite some large difference in epistemology and methodology, substantial overlap in research interests exists between evolutionary and non-evolutionary archaeologists, and integration of the theories and methods advocated by evolutionary archaeologists into more main-stream Scandinavian practice is both possible and desirable.

Introduction

in European archaeology, particularly in Britain (e.g. Shennan 1989a; 2002, 2008). Many recent archaeological conferences have included sessions devoted to the subject, and at Stockholm University the Centre for the Study of Cultural Evolution has been active since 2007, whilst the Interdisciplinary Evolutionary Studies Research Group at Aarhus University is also tackling cultural issues from an evolutionary point of view. Discussions of evolutionary approaches to archaeology are also finally emerging in print (see Apel and Darmark 2009 and Snekkestad 2011 and comments to these), although they still appear marred by the issues we attempt to address and clarify in this chapter.

Although some texts on theory in archaeology contain discussion of evolutionary theory (e.g. Hodder 2001), it is not part of the post-processual canon, especially not in Scandinavia. On the contrary, evolutionary theory and evolution in general are given short shrift by postprocessualists (e.g. Shanks and Tilley 1993) who generally deny its relevance to human affairs and thus ignore any contributions such evolutionary or Darwinian approaches might have to offer to understanding long-term material culture and social change. We believe they are mistaken (Riede 2005; Apel and Datmark 2009), and we summarise and repeat our position here. Like other bodies of theory, evolutionary theory is extensive, complex, and not easy to grasp. Yet, it is also analytically elegant and powerful in explanatory terms (see Gould 2002; Ridley 2004). This paper is an attempt to jump-start the discussion of evolutionary theory in archaeology, and in relation to the other bodies of theory commonly referenced by archaeologists. In particular, we believe the time is ripe to start a Scandinavian debate on evolutionary issues and archaeology, not least since the year 2009 is the bicentennial of the birth of Darwin as well as the 150th anniversary of the publication of On the Origin of Species (Darwin 1859). We welcome the renewed interest in empirical matters among the new generation of archaeologists, but we likewise feel that it is important to maintain vital theoretical discussions. We hope that the following text will spark a debate on the theory, methods and goals of material culture studies at Nordic TAG and elsewhere.

However, the discussion about the nature and applicability of evolutionary theory in archaeology has, as yet, not reached Scandinavian mainstream theory discourse. The theoretical climate in Scandinavian archaeology during the last 20 years has been characterized by a contextual and critical approach that has resulted in a fragmented, narrative, and in part an anti-scientific archaeology that is difficult to grasp from outside the discipline (see, for example, Bjerck [2008] for a discussion of some of these trends). In our view an alternative theoretical framework needs to be discussed. The use of evolutionary theory in archaeology and the social sciences is heavily laden with historical baggage, which acts as an obstacle for the acceptance of its basic ideas among social scientists. However, much of this scepticism can be accounted for by vague notions of what modern evolutionary thinking actually is (Riede 2005; Henrich et al. 2008). The aim of this paper is to a) present what we see as the fundaments of evolutionary theory, b) discuss how studies of material culture can be related to evolutionary theory, and c) present

Evolutionary theory has been discussed in American archaeology for some long time, and is gaining ground

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N-TAG TEN what the advantages of such an evolutionary viewpoint in social studies might be. Critics have pointed out that the use of a biological vocabulary in studies of cultural phenomena, including such terms as ‘variation’, ‘selection’ and ‘drift’, has a metaphoric value only, and that there are no methods to scientifically secure the connection between empirical reality and evolution theory (Bamforth 2003; Fracchia and Lewontin 1999, 2005; Gabora 2006). In the current archaeological debate, a contrast is often made between agency perspectives, which stress individual choices and particularistic historicism, and evolutionary and Darwinian explanations (Kristiansen 2004). However, in our view the theory of cultural evolution is a unifying theoretical framework that not only brings together archaeologists working on different levels of explanation (Shennan 2004a), but also researchers from other disciplines (Mesoudi et al. 2006; Riede 2010). We do not believe that evolutionary theory is a merely matter of doing traditional archaeology with fashionable and scientific metaphors, but rather that evolutionary perspectives may have a fundamental effect on the questions asked, the taxonomies employed, and the role of archaeology as a discipline in a wider scientific and public landscape. We agree with Runciman (2005) that the goal of archaeologists working within an evolutionary paradigm is to explain how and why particular cultural traits (a certain kind of pot or flint tool, funeral rite or custom) become more common than others over time. Shennan (2004b, 3-4) puts it this way: “the aim of archaeology is to obtain valid knowledge about the past… This does not mean that we are condemned to producing teleological accounts of ‘progress’ leading to the present, but that we should investigate the past in a way that plays to archaeologists’ strengths, which undoubtedly lie in the characterization of long-term patterning in past societies”. In this context it is important to stress that the selection of cultural variants among humans in no way is restricted to an adaptation to natural environments. Even if such adaptation might be expected in the long run, studies of individual choices and historical events in prehistory are needed precisely because these are important parts of evolutionary history. This is true since humans are actively creating and modifying the social and physical environments to which they have to adapt. Thus, in relation to other animal species with socially transmitted culture, humans are highly active niche constructors (see, for instance, Bleed 2006; Laland et al. 2007; Laland and Brown 2006; Laland et al. 2000, 2001; Odling-Smee 2006; Shennan 2006; Smith 2007). The realisation that Darwinism and action theory exist on different levels is a possible starting-point for a joining the two. Evolutionary theories work on a more general level of explanation than the discourses of action theory conducted within archaeology (Riede 2005), but this does not make either approach more or less important. But, decisively, evolutionary theories contribute basic knowledge concerning certain mechanisms which are fundamental to history and which can be used to put

individual historical events and trends in the course of history into a larger picture. In order to do so, close study of individual historical events or processes is required (Apel 2008; Shennan 2000), exactly because it is these microprocesses that in conjunction produce patterns on a macroscale (Boyd and Richerson 1992). Therefore, there is no opposition between these two perspectives; they simply operate on different temporalities and analytical scales, and consequently answer different kinds of questions. Both levels are needed to create an interesting and relevant archaeology (Shennan, 1989b; 2004a; 2004c). A brief history of evolutionary theory in cultural research The use of evolutionary concepts in the social sciences predates Darwin. The colonialism of the 18th and 19th centuries brought Western researchers into close contact with populations living under radically different conditions regarding subsistence, technology and social organization. Empirical observations made by anthropologists from different corners of the world became the foundation upon which to build a frame of reference with an evolutionary touch. The archaic societies encountered were seen as representing different steps on an evolutionary ladder, ranging from technologically and economically simple societies to complex civilizations. An increasing level of complexity was seen as intrinsic to cultural evolution and different classificatory schemes were proposed by, for instance, H. Morgan, E. B. Taylor and others (Tehrani 2010). These schemes were united by a teleological notion where evolution was seen as having a definite goal, making an evolutionary ranking of societies possible. This ranking, it was argued, also had moral dimensions with more ‘advanced’ societies seen as somehow better than ‘primitive’ societies. These cultural evolutionary schemes articulated nicely with the colonial project by naturalising the westernisation of peoples in the colonies. The 19thcentury school of cultural evolution was an attempt to generalize the empirical record inductively in order to make sense of the substantial differences between the peoples of a shrinking world. This scientific desire might have been combined with political ambitions. It is clear that the point of departure was not a coherent theoretical evolutionary framework, and even after Darwin’s publication of On the Origin of Species the 19th- and early 20th-century cultural evolutionists maintained a thoroughly non-Darwinian notion of evolution (Bettinger 1991; Persson 1999). In contrast, a materialistic or instrumental perspective is characteristic of the natural sciences. This perspective works on the supposition that any division of natural or cultural phenomena into types or categories is defined by the scientist (i.e. it is by definition etic) and does not necessarily coincide with emic, historical categories. As opposed to this way of thinking, 19th-century social evolutionist theories worked on the supposition that the task of the researcher was to discover essential typological categories in the source material. Perhaps the most obvious scientific example of a change from 100

Felix Riede, Jan Apel & Kim Darmark: Cultural evolution and archaeology essentialism to materialism is the introduction of Darwin’s theory of evolution in biology during the 19th century. Prior to Darwin, biologists, such as Linnaeus, tended to see different species as fully formed, static, essential categories, which the biologist was to discover, collect and classify. Darwin’s emphasis on biological development as a continuous process, where, even within particular species, there is an individual variation constituting the prerequisite for the development of new species, caused a fundamental theoretical change from essentialism to materialism. The shift from a typological view of biological entities towards what is commonly termed ‘population thinking’ concluded this process and allowed for rapid progress in the understanding of change over time (Hull 1965). This is not a trivial difference, but a major philosophical, epistemological caesura. Mayr (1959) explicitly brought this issue to the attention of archaeologists, but despite the fact that many if not most typologies are long past their analytical due date (Bisson 2000), the vast majority of archaeologists still operate firmly within a largely unquestioned typological framework. The crux of the matter is that “the assumptions of population thinking are diametrically opposed to those of the typologist. The populationist stresses the uniqueness of everything in the organic world… The ultimate conclusions of the population thinker and the typologist are precisely the opposite. For the typologist, the type…is real and the variation an illusion, while for the populationist the type (average) is an abstraction and only the variation is real. No two ways of looking at nature could be more different” (Mayr 1959:28-29; our emphasis). The social and political consequences of early cultural evolutionary thinking, such as eugenics and other atrocities, understandably promoted a reaction, and the social sciences turned towards a thoroughly anti-biological stance: the Standard Social Science Model (Barkow et al. 1992). According to this point of view, there are limited, if any, biological constraints on human behaviour. Instead human behaviour has been regarded as exclusively formed by processes of socialization as well as relativization of culture. Within the Standard Social Science Model, culture is selected by free agents making active, unconstrained choices, and there has been a tendency to stress the vast plethora of different cultural practices rather than to look for cultural universals (Workman and Reader 2004). The archaeological counterpart to the model has its roots in Boasian anthropology as well as Collingwood’s historicism and is to be found within the different strands of post-processualism (e.g. Shanks and Tilley 1993). Beginning with the works of authors such as E.O. Wilson, W. Hamilton and R. Dawkins, the socio-biological school of thought was formalised during the late 1970s and early 80s. This constituted a return to biological, reductionist explanations of human behaviour based on Darwinian evolutionary theory. Accordingly, human behaviour, including many cultural manifestations, was regarded largely as a result of genetic inheritance of adaptive variants. Even if it were acknowledged that culture

occasionally drifts away from a fitness-maximizing optimum, behaviours that in the long run had important effects on Darwinian fitness would tend to be adaptive (see reviews by Laland and Brown 2002; Sear et al. 2007). This way of thinking is found amongst researchers outside the social sciences and often includes a view of culture that is overly simplified and clearly and understandably unattractive to social scientists. However, the intrusion of ‘outsiders’ into the realm of culture and the impact of their reasoning on popular thought is to be attributed entirely to the pervasive contextualism and unwillingness on behalf of social science to tackle issues such as the striking crosscultural similarities between seemingly unrelated groups of people (Bloch 2005). The growing realisation among biologists that many animal species possess socially inherited cultural behaviours has resulted in an interest in the cultural behaviour among humans as well. CavalliSforza (1986) published an early sketch of the relationship between cultural and biological evolution, in which he pointed out many analogies as well as differences. Whereas biological evolution relies on the introduction of genetic variation through such processes as mutation, variants which can subsequently be propagated through genetic parent-to-child transmission, cultural traits – ideas, beliefs, languages – are transmitted in more complex ways, and new variants are also introduced in more complex ways, innovation being the most obvious. He concluded that “the study of culture in humans and animals has only now begun” (Cavalli-Sforza 1986, 855), clearly disregarding the myriad cultural studies conducted by social scientists for centuries. Although regrettable, such disregard cannot be attributed to personal arrogance alone. Rather, the adoption of the Standard Social Science Model of culture, with its emphasis on the contextual importance of thick descriptions, cultural relativism, and its denial of scientific reductionism seems to have resulted in the marginalisation of cultural research in general. Theories on human culture have in other words been highly dichotomized and divided into seemingly incompatible camps. It is obvious to us that biology is not everything and that culture has played a significant role for humans in an adaptive sense. However, human culture itself is an evolved trait, and clearly has not liberated human beings from their biological constraints. The remarkable adaptability of humans cannot just be attributed to some great genetic variation from which favourable qualities have been selected according to the principle of natural selection. Instead, this adaptation has taken place mainly as a result of the ability to make use of material culture. By making warm clothes, making instruments, weapons and facilities, as well as through logistic organization, which included the storage of food, the knowledge of fire and preparation of hides, a typically tropical species succeeded in adapting to temperate climate zones, and in some cases even to arctic conditions (Gräslund 1981). Consequently, on a fundamental level, material culture can be seen as an expression of man’s non-physical adaptation to his

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N-TAG TEN surroundings (White 1959) and must be incorporated into any theory of human evolution. Dual inheritance theory as proposed by Boyd and Richerson (1985) and modern cultural evolution is an attempt at finding a common middle ground between the extreme positions outlined above. Dual inheritance is the idea that, even though the human capacity for culture is evolved and has biological roots, cultural evolution develops its own rules and is an inheritance system independent of genetic inheritance. Of importance is that culture is defined as an inheritance system where different cultural variants are selectively transmitted both within and across generations, which means that the components necessary for Darwinian principles to act are present. While Boyd and Richerson focus on mathematical models and use primarily data from the present and recent past (Boyd and Richerson, 2005). Yet, this framework has provided an invaluable bridge between biology and culture and is beginning to have a real impact on archaeological reasoning (Eerkens and Lipo 2005, 2007; Marwick 2006). Modern evolutionary theory and material culture studies Biological evolution can be summarized most fundamentally as ‘descent with modification’. Genes are inherited through generations, and mutations create diversity, which, through natural selection, adjusts species to the environment in which they live. Finally, drift – that is chance events – adds or reduces diversity and lead to change even in the absence of selection. Change is constant. Stripped to its basic information-systemic constituents and divorced from the notion of genes of which Darwin himself was not aware, the theory of evolution is characterised by three features: (1) information is passed on from parent to child, (2) the individuals in a population are not identical, and (3) there is a connection between the hereditary traits (phenotype) of an individual and his/her ability to survive and reproduce. An important distinction between the Darwinian theory of evolution and other evolutionary theories is that Darwinian evolution is not teleological; it has no ultimate goal (Dunnell 1988). It has been pointed out that biological evolution may be just one of several special cases of a more general evolutionary theory (Campbell 1974; Runciman 2005) and according to this idea evolution is not constricted to living organisms. The evolution of any phenomenon can from this point of view be regarded as a temporal change in an ensemble of elements. The individual elements in the ensemble can be physical objects like organisms or different elements of artefacts or properties like size or chemical composition or syntactic structure (Fracchia and Lewontin 1999). Whether or not we are talking about physical objects or attributes of artefacts (or packages of technologies and behaviours), it is not any one individual element but the composition of the ensembles that is at the centre of interest. A gradual change in the frequency of elements over time within a defined ensemble (a technology,

an artefact type) constitutes an evolutionary process. Accordingly, the notion that temporal changes in material culture may be the result of a process of descent with modification is hardly controversial for any archaeologist who recognizes the variation of material culture in time and space (Wenke 1989; see also Montelius 1903). Consider, for instance, the variety of relative chronologies that have been designed by archaeologists to capture how different artefact traditions evolve over time. The find-combination method and the different seriation methods in archaeology were specifically constructed to demonstrate changes over time in the compositions of elements, for instance stylistic elements of pottery (Gräslund 1987). However, it has been realised that many of the traditional typological taxonomies are not well suited to study temporal change from the perspective of descent with modification, since they tend to mask rather than reveal variation within a given sample of artefacts. Thus, many, if not all, traditional archaeological typologies are essentialist in that they are intended to reveal intrinsic, prehistorically relevant categories (Lyman et al. 1997). While we believe that the question of essentialism and culture might have to be explored further in future research, we argue that typologies based on essential categories are problematic for many reasons, and that attribute- or morphometrybased taxonomies are better suited to shed light on such continuous variation (Riede 2011). A major challenge in archaeology is to rework our taxonomies so that they take variation into account; by doing so we can utilize powerful statistical approaches developed in biology, such as phylogenetics and the comparative method, which are used to analyze how different taxa (e.g. in biology, species; in culture, artefacts) relate to each other in evolutionary time. This project has begun (see Lipo et al. 2006; Mace et al. 2005; Shennan, 2008, 2009), but much work remains to be done. The resulting material culture phylogenies are focused on revealing historical relationships among different artefact forms and not, as with many of the traditional typologies, mere chronological relationships. Remarkably, Montelius understood this, at least to some degree, already in the late 19th century, even though his theoretical intentions were downplayed in later research (Riede 2006; 2010). In the following section, we take a close look at whether evolutionary terms such as ‘ heredity’ ‘variation’, and ‘selection’ are applicable to culture as well, which in turn would imply that culture is a suitable subject for a Darwinian analysis (Mesoudi et al. 2004; Collard et al. 2006). Heredity In contrast to the transmission mechanisms of biological evolution, which basically is vertical transmission of genes between parents and children, the mechanisms of the transmission of cultural knowledge are more complex (Cavalli-Sforza 1986). Cultural information can be transmitted vertically between the generations from older relatives to children, horizontally between unrelated individuals, from one person to many by teaching, or from 102

Felix Riede, Jan Apel & Kim Darmark: Cultural evolution and archaeology many to one by peer pressure. An important distinction is also that an individual can observe behaviours of peers around him and choose among them (Boyd and Richerson 1987). An ability to imitate behaviour, probably related to a well-developed understanding of the intentions of our peers, separates humans from other species. Human cumulative cultural reproduction is dependent not only on the ability to emulate or imitate behaviour but also on inherent pedagogical resources that enable humans to make long-term educational investments in their children (Tehrani and Riede 2008; Csirba and Gergely 2011). Variation Cultural variation may occur randomly through mistakes, experimentations, unforeseen raw material variations and the like. These variation-generating processes are independently of subsequent selective processes (Boyd and Richerson 1985; Mesoudi 2008). Cultural information is then passed on from individual to individual via social interaction. Together, this means that there is an analogy to biological mutations in cultural transmission. The degree to which cultural information is subject to random changes of this kind is affected by social factors such as the content, context and mode of transmission (Eerkens and Lipo 2007; Mesoudi and Whiten 2004). For example, repeated instructions on a simple issue from a respected person versus an overheard conversation in a noisy setting will have very different outcomes regarding the probability of random errors. Indeed, many aspects of human culture are extremely cognitively opaque, making them very difficult to learn without instruction and repeated practice. As a consequence, random variation occurs over time when, for example, a craft tradition is passed down through generations. This variation will eventually form the basis of selection. Variation will also appear through cultural drift. In small populations, random variation may cause some cultural technical elements to be forgotten and may change the frequency of other features. For instance, picture a small group of people moving to a remote island for some reason, and losing contact with the ancestral population. The cultural knowledge of these pioneers will only be a sample of the knowledge in the original population and there is also a chance that this sample is biased: it is not representative of the average cultural skills. Depending on the scenario, over time it is likely that their craft will show marked differences from the original craft, due to cultural drift. This is not a new thought in archaeology. It is likely that such ideas, more or less implicitly, have been behind many cultural-historical interpretations of archaeological materials (e.g. Koerper and Stickel 1980; Pitt Rivers 1875). For example, it is plausible that a craft tradition shared by a large geographical area – such as the making of a certain kind of flint projectile point – will eventually, due to an increase in population or changed rules of marriage resulting in a loss of contact between the groups, produce regional or local varieties of points with a common origin in an older tradition (Bergsvik, 2010, Henrich and Boyd 1998; McElreath et al. 2003).

Both random variation and drift are biological concepts. Many opponents of evolutionary approaches to studies of culture have argued that human inventiveness, because it lacks a counterpart in biological evolutionary theory, makes evolutionary approaches superfluous in cultural research. Central to Darwinian evolution is the insight that the creation of variants is a process that is independent of their selection, which intuitively seems to be very different from what is the case with culture. Major criticisms of the idea of a Darwinian cultural evolution stem from this dichotomy between blind and random biological evolution and a purposeful, non-random, cultural evolution. If humans can accurately foresee future conditions he will be able to modify his behaviour in order to adapt to these conditions, in which case a Darwinian perspective would be superfluous. However, as Mesoudi (2008) points out, the presence of human foresight is not to be confused with clairvoyance. Even though the human brain is an effective simulator of future events, and we are able to use our imagination to obtain educated guesses concerning the future, it remains just that – guesswork, and even human adaptations fail on occasion (Laland and Brown, 2006). The history of innovations also clearly shows that our notion of the heroic inventor, who perceives a need and then designs a solution, is flawed and romanticized. Rather, scientific breakthroughs often are the result of considerable trial and error, often random and conducted by several people (see Ziman 2000). Mesoudi (2008) also discusses what he calls biological foresight. Under stressful conditions bacteria will produce an enzyme that increases mutation rates, potentially leading to the rise of beneficial genetic variants and an adaptation to the changing environment. Such behaviour has its counterpart in human technological adaptation, for example to Arctic climates (Fitzhugh 2001). Yet, it is obvious that human decision-making is not as goal-oriented as we might like to believe. Individual learning combined with cultural transmission results in what Boyd and Richerson call a Lamarckian effect. Kronfeldner (2007) distinguishes between variational (Darwinian) and transformational evolution (Lamarckian). In transformational evolution variation is not required, but is rather a disturbance. Instead, innate forces towards increasing complexity and adaptation drive transformational evolution. She suggests that these evolutionary models need not be mutually exclusive. Even though culture includes elements of guided variation (i.e. directed against anticipated circumstances) this variation can be regarded as only one of the sources of variation in the population; Darwinian principles will still act to sort the variation through selective mechanisms. Selection So, cultural variation is created and maintained in different ways. Variants are then inherited along different social pathways, although the null model in most prehistoric societies likely was vertical or quasi-vertical transmission. Not all variants have the same fitness or, in the words of

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N-TAG TEN Leonard and Jones (1987, 199), “replicative success”. There are different sorting processes that act to increase the frequencies of certain cultural traits and sort out others. Selection in biology is usually attributed to environmental forces. Regarding human evolution, it is necessary to take account of the fact that human selective environment is not only a matter of the physical environment; the social environment is a major factor as well. This applies to the evolution of biological traits as well as cultural traits. For example, the existence of altruistic behaviour among humans, the fact that we are nice to our fellow man without consciously calculating on receiving rewards, could be explained by the impact of our past social environment. In the past, most people lived in small-scale societies in which the maintenance of a good reputation was of essence, in order not to be ostracized and also in order to keep reaping the benefits of cooperative enterprise with one’s peers. Even though our social circumstances are radically different today, we still maintain the instincts imprinted in us. If social environment affects our genetic composition in this way, it is not surprising that it will also influence the selective mechanisms in cultural evolution. Often we employ rather rough heuristic devices, rules of thumb, in order to choose between different behavioural variants. Boyd and Richerson (1985) summarise those common rules of thumb that, though rational in the face of the risky process of individual learning, can be significantly flawed in relation to the adaptive circumstances. In short, our choice of cultural role models is based on how common they are in our social environment, on how close they are to us, or how we perceive their overall success, rather than on detailed and accurate analysis of the behaviour of the models in relation to our perception of present or anticipated environmental circumstances. In conclusion, our seemingly purposeful and planned behaviour does not award us a position beyond the grasp of Darwinian processes. Conclusion Evolutionary approaches in archaeology focus on providing a framework for interpreting general processes of long-term stability and change in the archaeological record with reference to evolved human psychological propensities, social learning strategies, and the built and natural environment. Contextual information is vital in this undertaking but decidedly not used to argue for the uniqueness of the culture. Deliberately reductionist and materialist, an evolutionary archaeology first and foremost focuses on comparable traits, through which long-term historical relationships may be uncovered – it is there, we argue, the strength of archaeology lies. We also believe that an evolutionary perspective on humans and their cultural expressions will rest on a view of humans as both cultural and biological beings. As a consequence of this, researchers of culture may avoid an unnecessary mind/body dualism that still seems to permeate much humanistic research. The fact that humans

are talented niche-constructors has not lifted them beyond the reach of evolutionary forces (Laland and Brown 2006). An archaeology that rests on evolutionary foundation demands multi-disciplinary research strategies, and this is something that we regard as an advantage. When the goal is to clarify the selective mechanisms that gave rise to certain cultural variants/representations and not others, traditional archaeological tools often have to be complemented with extensive knowledge in other sciences such as biology, psychology, economy and so forth. Several recent publications usefully chart such territory (e.g., Cochrane and Gardner 2011; O’Brien 2008; Roberts and Vander Linden 2011; Stark et al. 2008), and we agree with Henry Plotkin (2003, 16) who argues that “culture is awesomely complex. But it must be – it simply must be – within the scope of understanding of the natural sciences”. Evolutionary archaeology is a conceptually roomy framework that extends its hand to both the natural sciences as well as those social and humanistic sciences ready to engage in productive dialogue.

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Felix Riede University of Aarhus, Department of Anthropology, Archaeology and Linguistics, Section for Prehistoric Archaeology, Moesgård,, DK 8270 Højbjerg, Denmark E-mail: [email protected] Jan Apel Department of Archaeology and Osteology, Gotland University College, SE-621 67 Visby, Sweden. Kim Darmark Department of Archaeology and Classical Studies, Stockholm University, SE-106 91 Stockholm, Sweden.

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Close encounters of the copper kind Vesa-Pekka Herva University of Oulu

Janne P. Ikäheimo Unibversity of Helsinki

Jari-Matti Kuusela University of Oulu

Kerkko Nordqvist University of Helsinki

Abstract This contribution considers objects of native copper found from Stone Age contexts in Finland. Of the some ten finds known to date, the majority consists of small, indeterminate pieces of sheet metal whereas ‘proper’ artefacts are rare. Possibly arising from the discrepant nature of the evidence, not much has been said about the function and meaning of copper; some finds have even been dismissed as later intrusions. Moreover, the treatment of the finds in terms of trade and technology has failed to address crucial questions like “Why was copper adopted in the first place?” and “Why does copper mainly occur as pieces of no apparent function?”

Both the origins and the properties of copper as a substance provide the key to understanding its significance in Stone Age Finland. Copper as a raw material had a special combination of properties – like colour, weight and glow – that differed from everything people in Stone Age Finland were familiar with. Thus, in spite of an odd item reproducing practical artefact form, copper belonged first and foremost to the Stone Age exotica, like amber and colourful slates, affording a richer sensory environment and appealing to social or even ritual rather than utilitarian sphere of life. Neolithic copper finds from Finland The majority of copper from Neolithic (ca. 5500—1900 calBC) archaeological contexts in northern Scandinavia has been found from Finland (Figure 1). One of the oldest copper finds in Finland is a ring from the dwelling site of Suovaara in Polvijärvi, which most likely dates from the Typical Comb-Ware period (ca. 3900—3400 calBC) (Taavitsainen, 1982). The ring has its closest parallels in the Lake Onega region in Russian Karelia (Chernykh 1992,188; Žuravlev 1991,145), the most find-rich area in terms of Neolithic copper in North-East Europe. Another artefact of native-copper, a knife cut and hammered out of sheet metal (Figure 2A), was found in association with a Neolithic semi-subterranean house at the Kuuselankangas site in Yli-Ii. It has been assigned an approximate date of 3500 calBC on the basis of context and regional land uplift curve (Ikäheimo 2009; Ikäheimo and Pääkkönen 2009; cf. Costopoulos 2002). A third item that must be mentioned here is a copper adze from the multiperiod site of Kukkosaari islet in Suomussalmi (Huurre 1982). This artefact is technically a stray find, but may date from the Neolithic due to parallels in contemporary stone tool typology. Five more sites with Typical Comb-Ware and/or AsbestosWare (ca. 3600—1900 calBC) have also produced copper finds from indisputable Stone Age contexts. These finds comprise of lumps of both natural and treated copper, as well as small pieces of sheet metal (Figure 2D–E).

In addition there is a bunch of sites with simple and fragmentary copper finds (Figure 2B–C); however these locations contain mixed contexts with finds also from later periods, and thus the affiliation of metals with Stone Age is not certain. The scarcity of ‘proper’ artefacts and the paucity of copper finds in general probably explain the lack of serious attempts to discuss the copper finds from Stone Age in terms of function and meaning. Consequently the questions like “Why was copper adopted in the first place?” or “Why does copper mainly occur as pieces of no apparent function?” have remained unanswered. If not rejecting copper as later intrusion, scholars have merely tended to take it as a yet another indication of the Neolithic trade and referred to the status-related value of copper. However, even if copper was definitely a novelty in Neolithic Finland, it also resonated with broader developments and concerns of the time; it is the numerous ‘special’ properties of copper that we must discuss in order to understand why it was adopted. The sources of copper and their meanings The source of copper found in Neolithic contexts is uncertain, but the metal is likely to be native copper, which originates from the Lake Onega region in Russia (see also Lavento 2001, 119–120, cf. Huurre 1998, 352–353) (Figure 1). While a strong speculative element is involved here, the places where native copper was procured may be central to the ‘meaning’ of copper. That is, native copper

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Figure 1. A map showing the location of manageable native copper resources in Lake Onega region and the distribution of dwelling sites yielding Neolithic copper finds in Russian Karelia, Finland and northern Sweden.

the

is often formed in connection with copper ores, and the weathering of ores results in stones – and places – with more or less striking colours. Indeed, it is quite possible that these special stones, rather than metallic copper, first attracted the attention of those who came across such formations (e.g. Coghlan 1975, 19–21, 26, 30; Ottaway and Roberts 2008, 199–200). Sources of native copper, then, could have been perceived as special places in the landscape due to their colour and the character of stones there.

‘Anomalous’ or ‘extraordinary’ places are often considered particularly meaningful in pre-modern cultures and considered as being imbued with special properties and/ or inhabited by non-human beings (e.g. Bradley 2000; Davies and Robb 2004; Taçon 1999, 36–42). Therefore, the procurement of minerals in such special places tends to involve beliefs and ritual practices (cf. Boivin 2004). Archaeological evidence also shows that beliefs and rituals were associated with prehistoric mines and mining (Forbes 1950; Boivin 2004). That is, apparent offerings have been left in mines, perhaps in compensation for the ore removed, which implies some kind of reciprocity 110

Vesa-Pekka Herva, Janne P. Ikäheimo, Jari-Matti Kuusela and Kerkko Nordqvist: Close encounters instance, rock-painting sites, which in turn were arguably linked to northern shamanic cosmology (Lahelma 2008). The meaning of copper to Stone Age communities, then, derived at least partly from the geographical associations of the substance. First, copper captured something of the special properties of the places where it originated from, and the geographical associations perhaps accompanied copper objects in the form of myths, folklore or the like when copper circulated either within or between communities (Clark and Martin, 2005, 117–119). Since the straightforward economic and practical value of copper was quite low, geographical associations potentially comprised an important aspect of the meaning of copper. The properties of copper During the Stone Age copper would have been an extraordinary substance in itself. However, even though it was in many respects quite different from the other materials used in Neolithic Finland, these other materials did share some properties with copper. In fact, an apparent interest in these properties is visible across Neolithic material culture, and the adoption and significance of copper in late Stone Age Finland must be understood against this broader background. The special properties of copper, and of amber and other exotic materials, would also have connected the metal to metaphysical concepts. These issues will be briefly discussed in this section.

Figure 2. Selection of Neolithic copper objects from Finland: A) knife from Kuuselankangas Eteläharju dwelling site in Yli-Ii (NM 30775:1), B) small adze (?) from Kellolaisten Tuli dwelling site in Suomussalmi (NM 14831:1169), C) fragment of a plate from Luojinniemi cairn in Hankasalmi (NM 21963:1), D) perforated sheet from Rusavierto dwelling site in Saarijärvi (NM 32195:1), E) two lumps of natural copper from Vihi 1 dwelling site in Rääkkylä (NM 30460:11958–11959). The dating of artefacts B and C is uncertain. All in scale 1:1. between people and the earth (Harding 2000, 313–320; see also Davies and Robb 2004). The copper sources that the Neolithic communities exploited in or near Finland were probably surface outcrops of metallic ores or nuggets of native copper. People probably did not practice large-scale mining at these sites, but even apparently insignificant breakings of, and openings in the ground may have been invested with meanings in prehistory (e.g. Cooney 2002, 95; Evans 2003, 56–59; Evans et al. 1999). Indeed, the places where native copper originated may well have been conceived, due to their special character, as some kind of ‘openings’ into other worlds. Thus, the sources of native copper might compare – in a very broad and general fashion – with, for

Colour has often been seen as significant in studies of early metal use in Europe (e.g. Keates 2002; Gaydarska and Chapman 2008). Colour is a rather obvious property of materials, at least to the modern eye, but it is difficult to assess its importance to the signification of materials in prehistory. This is particularly true with such substances as copper and amber, which had a range of potentially special or interesting properties in the Neolithic world. Nonetheless, colourfulness is clearly an aspect of the Late Stone Age material culture in Finland and elsewhere, which certainly suggests that colour may be relevant factor to understanding the attraction of early copper as well. Whether copper in Stone Age Finland was red or green is uncertain, but both aspects were presumably known (see also Halén 1994, 162). The meanings of colours could be discussed in length, but few points suffice here. First, the adoption of copper occurs during a period when the use of colourful materials increased in general. For instance, red slates from the Scandinavian Mountains and green slates from the Lake Onega region became more common, as did amber and colourful flints. By the same token, red ochre is found in graves and was used as a pigment for rock paintings and, occasionally, ceramic vessels (e.g. Edgren 1992; Huurre 1998). Thus the colour red features in various media and contexts in Late Stone Age Finland, and some connections between red materials can also be pointed out. That is, amber objects are fairly frequently encountered in red-ochre graves, and 111

N-TAG TEN four amber artefacts have also been found in underwater excavations at the major rock-art site of Astuvansalmi in eastern Finland (Grönhagen 1994; Lahelma 2008, 132). Both graves and rock-art sites, of course, can also be understood, in very broad terms, as ritual or liminal contexts. If these associations are meaningful, and if the colour red is relevant factor here, it surely is of some interest to observe that copper is not directly related to that network of associations. Copper is found exclusively in settlement sites in Finland and Karelia, in apparently ‘mundane’ or ‘non-special’ contexts and find combinations. Only in few cases divergences are evident: in Zvejnieki, Latvia, two copper rings were found in a grave connected to CombWare culture (Zagorska 2006, 99–102) and also the single piece of copper from a Neolithic site at Bjästamon, Sweden, was associated with a special assemblage of finds, which also included amber and red ochre (George 2007, 239). However, similar rings are known from ordinary dwelling sites and the combination of amber, copper and red ochre is not unknown in ‘non-special’ contexts in Karelia and Finland either. There are, then, contextual and other associations between ‘red things’, but whether or not the very the colour red is a critical or significant factor is more difficult to assess. Regardless the significance of colour as such, it seems likely that the shining, glittering and luminous character of copper attracted Neolithic people (cf. Lindstrøm and Kristoffersen 2001, 78–79). Such properties were not previously entirely unknown, because quartz, fish scales, and the like also had some or several of them. What is most intriguing, however, is that there is a more generally increased interest in not only colours but also luminosity and shininess in the Neolithic, as is evident from various categories of material culture. Polished stone artefacts, for instance, become more common roughly at the same time (early fourth millennium BC onwards) when copper and amber are increasingly found at archaeological sites. Brilliance and shininess have been associated with spiritual properties and metaphysical concerns in various contexts (e.g. Keates 2002; Saunders 2003). While the association between shininess and spiritual properties is quite hypothetical in the particular context of Neolithic Finland, it does provide one possible perspective on the meaning of copper and is thus worth mentioning briefly. That is, (shamanic) trance was arguably part of the cultural repertoire in Neolithic Finland (Lahelma 2008), and copper could have been associated with the entopic or light phenomena experienced in trance (cf. Lewis-Williams and Pearce 2005, 259). If such an association actually existed, copper would have represented material objects of otherwise intangible places, experienced during altered states of mind, which would have further emphasised the exotic character of material. In addition to colour and brilliance, copper has yet other properties, which Neolithic people presumably noticed and which made the material of interest to them. Copper is, for example, an excellent heat-conductor. When

exposed to high enough temperature, copper objects emit electromagnetic radiation known as glow or red heat. The temperature needed to produce visible red heat in metal (ca. 400–580 °C) is well within the temperature range that can be reached with an open hearth in favourable conditions. As there is no evidence of advanced pyrotechnology in Finland before the Early Metal Period (ca. 1900 calBC—300 calAD), copper was probably the first inorganic incandescent substance encountered by man. Incandescence was a peculiar property, which underlined the divergence of copper from all other materials known in Neolithic Finland. For this reason, in addition to other ‘oddities’ connected to shape and colour, copper may have been considered a living substance rather than mineral in any modern sense. This is not very far-fetched as in Renaissance Europe, for instance, stones were taken to grow in earth (Mills 1982, 244). Furthermore, and more to the point, straightforward divisions between animate and inanimate were unlikely made in Neolithic Finland (cf. Herva and Ylimaunu 2009; Ingold 2006; Willerslev 2007). Copper was not only visually attractive, but had also other deviant properties. The specific weight (8.93 g/cm2) of copper is over thrice as much as the specific weight of most stones. It is also malleable, so it can be worked in a very different manner from, for example, stone (cf. Coghlan 1975, 26; Muhly 1988, 15–16). Copper can be transformed by cold hammering and annealing and, contrary to stone, it can be retransformed from its previous utilitarian or nonutilitarian form to something new without significant loss in matter. All these novel properties no doubt separated copper from the bulk of Stone Age raw materials. Still, their simple listing does not eventually tell about the reasons why copper was adopted. Was it just a curiosity or was there something more to copper? And was it only about copper? Copper as a form of the Neolithic symbolic capital As an exotic and special substance copper may have had a role in the composition of symbolic capital (Bourdieu, 1987, 1989) of the Neolithic. It would a mistake to label copper objects merely as prestige items per se, as such an approach takes a too simple view of a complex matter. Referring to the discussion above, the possible origins of copper may have had more importance in the light of symbolic capital than the object itself. Kristiansen and Larsson (2005) have discussed how travelling long distances may have been of importance to the Bronze Age elite’s prestige and status. Similarly, the copper object’s importance might have partly derived from its origins in some specific, perhaps faraway place, from where the owner of the copper object had obtained it, either directly or through intermediaries. In the case the object was given to its owner by a go-between, who (possibly) travelled from the original source of copper, the act of giving and receiving, instead of owing, would be more crucial aspect in constituting the ‘value’ of copper.

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Vesa-Pekka Herva, Janne P. Ikäheimo, Jari-Matti Kuusela and Kerkko Nordqvist: Close encounters The combination of geographical origins, exotic appearance and other properties of copper, the long voyage of the owner/intermediary involved, as well as the way of obtaining the artefact may have thus formed a web of symbolic capital surrounding the object itself. Even if is not possible to actually figure out whether artefacts were acquired directly from the place of origin, or transported by go-betweens, it is still interesting to speculate on the matter – if only to remind that the nature of ‘prestige objects’ is often far more complex than assumed when labelling them as status markers on a straightforward basis. Early copper use and metal technology Based on the distribution of copper finds and raw material it seems clear that the earliest coppers of Northern Scandinavia are of eastern origin. However, there is an evident contrast between the Neolithic dwelling sites located in Finland and the ones along the north-western shores of the Lake Onega in Russia. Almost 200 primitive copper artefacts have been found in the latter area, including a large amount of nuggets of native copper, and copper was also smelted here fairly early on (Chernykh 1992, 188–189; Žul’nikov 1999, 64–67; Žuravlev 1991, 141–147). In contrast, finds of unprocessed native copper and the evidence on advanced (or any) metallurgical processes are predominantly lacking from the Neolithic dwelling sites of the present-day Finland (see, however, Figure 2E), which suggests that copper reached areas outside its natural occurrence in refined form. Stone Age copper finds from Finland have sometimes been seen as precursors or pre-stage of proper metallurgy (e.g. Chernykh 1992, 189; Edgren 1992, 70), and thus loosely woven into grand narratives of technological change in prehistory, but it seems clear to us that the earliest copper use must be understood in the context of Neolithic fascination with colours, light properties of materials, textures and so forth. While the presence of metal does not imply the presence of metalworking, the adoption of copper can still signal social, cognitive or other such changes. The traditional approaches to early metals and metallurgy, with their decisive focus on purely technological aspects, has largely led to the neglect of their social and intellectual preconditions and consequences (see also e.g. Ottaway 2001, 87–89; Ottaway and Roberts 2008, 214–215). Neither technology-oriented nor conventional studies of artefact forms are necessarily the most useful ones if we are to understand the meaning of copper objects. It is surely significant that early copper finds often appear as indeterminate bits and pieces, which can be taken to indicate that it was the very metal itself, copper as a substance that attracted Neolithic people – it was a truly novel material in Neolithic Finland and Karelia. Conclusion The oldest assemblage of metal finds made within present-day Finland derivers currently from roughly 10 Neolithic dwelling sites, located mainly in eastern and

northern Finland (Figure 1). These sites have produced finds of copper, usually consisting of small and fairly indeterminable bits and pieces of metal, with only a few diagnostic or clearly functional artefacts among them (Figure 2). Previous research has searched the meaning and significance of these specimens mainly through trade-, technology- and status-related questions. However, as illustrated in this paper, such starting points are not adequate when considering what were the reasons behind the first adoption of metal during Stone Age. Copper as such was in many ways a new kind of substance in Neolithic Finland, and was apparently adopted for other than its purely mechanical properties or potential for practical usefulness. Copper was unquestionably part of Stone Age exotica and its piquancy was probably partially related to the origins of copper; copper possibly carried with it some of the (magical/mythical) qualities attached to these locations. Also the physical distance from the source, or the way the artefact was obtained might have added to the value. Apart from such exotic features, also several physical properties of copper, like colour, sparkle, lustre and weight, as well as its ability for incandescence and malleability, might have been of significance. In fact, (part of) these properties could have made copper seem an animate, living substance. Furthermore, discussing copper does not really make sense in isolation but must be considered in relation with the broader developments in material culture. While the introduction of exotic and colourful materials did not take place overnight, there seems to be an increasing interest in the visual and sensory properties of things during the Neolithic. Stone axes and knives, for instance, were often polished and the materials chosen for these artefacts frequently special in terms of their colour and surface texture. In this view, copper represents something of an epitome of the broader concerns in colours, textures and luminosity of the material world. On the other hand, copper had unprecedented properties, which did not make it particularly useful in mechanical terms, but allowed it to be manipulated in novel ways.

References Boivin, N. 2004. From veneration to exploitation. Human engagement with the mineral world. In N. Boivin and M. A. Owoc (eds.), Soils, Stones and Symbols. Cultural Perceptions of the Mineral World, 1-29. London, University College Press. Bourdieu, P. 1987. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Bourdieu, P. 1989. Social space and symbolic power. Sociological Theory 7(1), 14–25. Bradley, R. 2000. An Archaeology of Natural Places. London, Routledge. 113

N-TAG TEN Chernykh, E.N. 1992. Ancient Metallurgy in the USSR. The Early Metal Age. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Clark, C.P. and S.R. Martin (2005) A risky business. Late Woodland copper mining on Lake Superior. In P. Topping and M. Lynott (eds.), The Cultural Landscape of Prehistoric Mines, 110-122. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Coghlan, H.H. 1975. Notes on the Prehistoric Metallurgy of Copper and Bronze in the Old World (2nd ed). Oxford University Press, Oxford. Cooney, G. 2002. So many shades of rock. Colour symbolism and Irish stone axeheads. In A. Jones, A. and G. MacGregor (eds.), Colouring the Past. The Significance of Colour in Archaeological Research, 93-107. Oxford, Berg. Costopoulos, A. 2002. Evaluating the chronological context of a prehistoric copper knife find in northern Finland. Faravid XXV, 13–19. Davies, P. and J.G. Robb 2004. Scratches in the earth. The underworld as a theme in British prehistory, with particular reference to the Neolithic and earlier Bronze Age. Landscape Research 29 (2), 141–151. Edgren, T. 1992. Den förhistoriska tiden. In M. Norrbäck (ed.), Finlands historia 1, 9-270. Esbo, Schildt. Evans, J. 2003. Environmental Archaeology and the Social Order. London, Routledge. Evans, J., J. Pollard and M. Knight 1999. Life in the woods. Tree-throws, ‘settlement’ and forest cognition. Oxford Journal of Archaeology 18(3), 241–254. Forbes, R.J. 1950. Metallurgy in Antiquity. A Notebook for Archaeologists and Technologists. Leiden, Brill. Gaydarska, B. and J. Chapman 2008. The aesthetics of colour and brilliance – or why were prehistoric persons interested in rocks, minerals, clays and pigments? In R. I. Kostov, B. Gaydarska and M. Gurova (eds.), Geoarchaeology and Archaeomineralogy. Proceedings of the International Conference, 29-30 October 2008 Sofia, 63-66. Sofia, St. Ivan Rilski. George, O. 2007. Utställningsobjekt och prestigeföremål? In P. Gustafsson and L. G. Spång (eds.), Stenålderns stationer. Arkeologi i Botniabanans spår, 238-251. Stockholm, Riksantikvarieämbetet. Grönhagen, J. 1994. Ristiinan Astuvansalmi, muinainen kulttipaikkako? Suomen Museo 1994, 5–18. Halén, O. 1994. Sedentariness During the Stone Age of Northern Sweden, in the Light of the Alträsket Site, c. 5000 B.C., and the Comb Ware Site Lillberget, c. 3900 B.C. Source Critical Problems of Representativity in Archaeology. Acta archaeologica Lundensia. Series in 4o. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell International. Harding, A.F. 2000. European Societies in the Bronze Age. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Herva, V.-P. and T. Ylimaunu 2009. Folk beliefs, special deposits, and engagement with the environment in early modern northern Finland. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 28(2), 234–243. Huurre, M. 1982. Suomussalmen varhaista metallikautta. Suomen Museo 88, 11–30. Huurre, M. 1998. Kivikauden Suomi. Helsinki, Otava.

Ingold, T. 2006. Rethinking the animate, re-animating thought. Ethnos 71(1), 9–20. Ikäheimo, J. 2009. The context of the Kierikki copper knife: a reappraisal. Faravid XXXIII, 1–7. Ikäheimo, J. and M. Pääkkönen 2009. Kierikin kupariveitsi – uusimpia tutkimustuloksia. In J. Ikäheimo and S. Lipponen, S. (eds.), Ei kiveäkään kääntämättä. Juhlakirja Pentti Koivuselle, 161-173. Oulu, University of Oulu. Keates, S. 2002. The flashing blade. Copper, colour and luminosity in North Italian Copper Age society. In A. Jones and G. MacGregor (eds.), Colouring the Past. The Significance of Colour in Archaeological Research, 109-135. Oxford, Berg. Kristiansen, K. and T. Larsson 2005. The Rise of Bronze Age Society. Travels, Transmissions and Transformations. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Lahelma, A. 2008. A Touch of Red. Archaeological and Ethnographic Approaches to Interpreting Finnish Rock Paintings. Iskos 15. Helsinki, Finnish Antiquarian Society. Lavento, M. 2001. Textile Ceramics in Finland and on the Karelian Isthmus. Nine variations and fugue on a theme of C. F. Meinander. Suomen Muinaismuistoyhdistyksen Aikakauskirja 109. Helsinki, Finnish Antiquarian Society. Lewis-Williams, D. and D. Pearce 2005. Inside the Neolithic Mind. Consciousness, Cosmos and the Realm of the Gods. London, Thames and Hudson. Lindstrøm, T.C. and S. Kristoffersen 2001. ‘Figure it out!’ Psychological perspectives on perception of Migration Period animal art. Norwegian Archaeological Review 34(2), 65–84. Mills, W.J. 1982. Metaphorical vision. Changes in Western attitudes to the environment, Annals of the Association of American Geographers 72(2), 237–253. Muhly, J.D. 1988. The beginnings of metallurgy in the Old World. In R. Maddin (ed.), The Beginning of The use of Metals and Alloys. Papers from the 2. International Conference on the Beginning of the Use of Metals and Alloys, Zhengzhou, China, 21–26 October 1986, 2-20. Massachusetts, MIT Press. Ottaway, B.S. 2001. Innovation, production and specialization in early prehistoric copper metallurgy. European Journal of Archaeology 4(1), 87–112. Ottaway, B.S.and B.W. Roberts 2008. The emergence of metalworking. In A. Jones (ed.), Prehistoric Europe, 193-225. London, Blackwell. Saunders, N.J. 2003. “Catching the light”: technologies of power and enchantment in Pre-Coumbian goldworking. In J. Quilter and J. W. Hoopes (eds.), Gold and Power in Ancient Costa Rica, Panama and Colombia, 15-47. Washington DC, Dumbarton Oaks Research Library. Taavitsainen, J.-P. (982. A copper ring from Suovaara in Polvijärvi, northern Karelia. Fennoscandia Antiqua I, 41–46. Taçon, P. 1999. Identifying ancient sacred landscapes in Australia. From physical to social. In W. Ashmore

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Vesa-Pekka Herva, Janne P. Ikäheimo, Jari-Matti Kuusela and Kerkko Nordqvist: Close encounters and A. B. Knapp (eds.), Archaeologies of Landscape. Contemporary Perspectives, 33-57. Oxford, Blackwell. Willerslev, R. 2007. Soul Hunters. Hunting, Animism, and Personhood Among the Siberian Yukaghirs. Berkeley, University of California Press. Zagorska, I. 2006. Radiocarbon chronology of the Zvejnieki burials. In L. Larsson and I. Zagorska (eds.), Back to the Origin, New Research in the Mesolithic– Neolithic Zvejnieki Cemetery and Environment, Northern Latvia. Acta archaeologica Lundensia. Series in 8°, 52: 91-113. Stockholm, Almqvist & Wiksell International. Žul’nikov, A.M. 1999. Èneolit Karelii (pamjatniki s poristoj i asbestovoj keramikoj). Petrozavodsk, IJALI/ KNC/RAN. Žuravlev, A. P. 1991. Pegrema (poselenija èpohi èneolita), Peterozavodsk, IJALI/KNC/AN SSSR.

Vesa-Pekka Herva Archaeology, Faculty of Humanities, University of Oulu, 90014, Finland [email protected]; [email protected] Janne P. Ikäheimo Archaeology, Department of Philosophy, History, Culture and Art Studies, University of Helsinki, 00014, Finland [email protected] Jari-Matti Kuusela Archaeology, Faculty of Humanities, University of Oulu, 90014, Finland Kerkko Nordqvist Archaeology, Department of Philosophy, History, Culture and Art Studies, University of Helsinki, 00014, Finland [email protected]

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Import vs. imitation? Towards an understanding of Early Bronze Age weapons in Southern Scandinavia1 Zsófia Kölcze Århus University

Abstract The present paper takes its starting point in my current PhD project about hoard finds of the earliest Nordic Bronze Age weapons in southern Scandinavia, the weapons of the early and middle Bronze Age in Central Europe and the Carpathian region as well as their material, social and ideological contexts. It reflects a work in progress and as such, it has the aim of asking questions and opening new points of view rather than presenting definite solutions to the overall problems of the material. Here, I will focus on the swords known as the Hajdúsámson-Apa type found in Denmark and their social and cultural meaning in a south Scandinavian context. In the paper, I will discuss the classification through the dichotomy of imported weapons and their local imitations, and my aim is to question whether this dichotomy is an adequate approach to the early Bronze Age swords in terms of the potential information they provide.

Imports and imitations – a theoretical introduction1 The earliest swords in Scandinavian Bronze Age belong to some of the most spectacular weapons from the transitional period between the Late Neolithic and the Nordic Bronze Age. Their presence reflects the social and ideological dynamics of early Bronze Age society in the south Scandinavian region as well as in the rest of the European continent (Vandkilde 2007). Their nature, form, ornamentation and find context can provide us with important information about various aspects of early Bronze Age weapon production, use and deposition as well as society, ideology and cosmology, and therefore it is essential that we as archaeologists are aware of our theoretical and methodological approaches to this group of artefacts. In other words: We have to be theoretically and methodologically specific and explicit about our way of dealing with the archaeological material. The focus of this paper will be on the use of ‘import’ and ‘imitation’ as interpretive categories in connection with archaeological material, exemplified by the European Hajdúsámson-Apa type swords. The dichotomy between original objects and their local imitations seems trivial and easy. Surely everybody knows the difference between an original object and a copy? Unfortunately, for many years these categories have been taken for granted as indicators of the provenience and spread of certain artefacts (Kristiansen and Larsson 2005); archaeologists have found it convenient to make sharp distinctions between imported objects and imitations, often only based on typological or technological differences, and in some periods during the history of archaeology this categorisation has even been regarded as the main aim of archaeological research (Jones 2002). In general, archaeological research is to a large extent based on the existence of typological and chronological   This paper does not reflect a finished body of work, but the preliminary thoughts of the author as they were during the spring of 2009. 1

categories, used in connection with both analyses of artefacts and social and ideological structures. Categories are highly useful tools in analysing a tacit material culture and thus in attempting to understand long-gone societies and cultural groups; in addition to being the means of interaction with the archaeological data as well as being the frames of interdisciplinary understanding. Unfortunately, sometimes archaeologists tend to forget that the categories they are using are modern constructions. This is the case of the categories of imports and imitations. In the early childhood of the archaeological sciences, scholars employed the analytical and interpretative advantages of creating categories by looking at the forms and styles of archaeological objects. Through the comparison of details of functionally similar artefacts, early archaeologists were not only able to distinguish between several types of objects; on the background of typological studies they could create complex relative chronologies and distinguish between dissimilar cultural groups in prehistoric society (Jones 2002; Olsen 2002). For instance, the typological-chronological systems of C. J. Thomsen, Oscar Montelius and Sophus Müller still play an important role in modern archaeological research and are considered to be the backbones of our understanding of prehistoric cultures. Furthermore, through the study of typological change in the prehistoric artefacts, early archaeologists were convinced that they were able to deduce the pattern of movement of distinct cultural groups (Childe 1969). The presence of a ‘foreign’ object within the borders of a distinct local culture was interpreted as an expression of either an act of warfare or the migration of a whole culturally united group of people. During the 1960s and early 1970s, creating interpretive categories and typologies gained popularity once more (Jones 2002; Olsen 2002). The general boom of finds led to an interest in quantitative analysis and, with the many similar and dissimilar objects, the basis for new and more reliable typologies was created. The relationship between

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N-TAG TEN imported artefacts and copies was now considered to be a reflection of the relationship between social and political regions (Ibid.). Following their culture-historical predecessors, the Renfrew School focused on typological differences in the empirical material rather than on the social significance of the artefacts. Similar types of objects were divided into three categories: originals (artefacts found in their region of provenience), imports (artefacts found outside their region of provenience) and imitations (artefacts created as copies of objects indigenous to foreign regions). This distinction formed the basis of what is known as the Peer Polity Interaction theory which would influence Bronze Age studies for several decades afterwards (Kristiansen and Larsson 2005; Renfrew 1986, 1-18). Thus, processual archaeology presented a rather linear approach to the analysis and interpretation of archaeological material. The focus was on one-way interactions where only one economically and culturally superior centre would have sufficient social networks and political power to distribute its products and innovations to its surroundings. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the archaeological focus shifted from the study of economic and environmental aspects of objects to their role in society on a more dynamic scale. However, post-processual archaeology tended to turn inwards, and large inter-regional studies were abandoned in favour of studies of local societies (Jones 2002). Post-processual archaeology ignored any difference between locally produced objects and foreign import all together. On the whole, we face quite a few difficulties and inadequacies when considering previous studies of imported objects and their local copies. As mentioned above, the focus has mostly been on a typological approach. Hence archaeological research has failed to connect the actual artefacts with the society that produced, used and disposed of them. In this way, the mechanisms behind the production and use of objects are too easily ignored, and it becomes difficult to see the dynamic roles played by artefacts in an ever-changing interaction between different regions. How do we distinguish between imports and imitations, and why is such a distinction important? What can such a distinction tell us about past societies? Is it still relevant to distinguish between original objects and copies, or should we shift our focus from the purely material aspects of the empirical material to an incorporation of its cognitive aspects as well? These and similar questions are essential in reopening the debate about an archaeological distinction between imports and imitations, and perhaps the most important question in this respect is: How did Bronze Age man perceive the dynamics between local and foreign objects, and what does the relationship between originals and imitations tell us about Bronze Age society?

In archaeology, it is not always easy to make clear interpretive distinctions. This is also true in connection with imports and imitations, as we shall see in the following paragraphs. Therefore, a definition of the words ‘import’ and ‘imitation’ will be given here. According to Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary (1989), to import something is to “bring (goods, ideas, etc.) from a foreign country to one’s own country” (p. 623) – that is, it involves moving something from one cultural sphere to another – while an imitation is described as a “thing produced as a copy of the real thing” (p. 619). Although these definitions seem short and clear, they are far from adequate when dealing with archaeological material. Thus, when talking about imitations, we should not only consider copies of material objects, but also the process of copying new forms, ideas, technologies and decorations as involving a translation of the ideas behind the objects (Nicolaescu 2004, 75-114). The question is whether it is advantageous to archaeological research to maintain a traditional distinction between imported objects and local imitations. Instead, we should perhaps operate with concepts like hybridization and trans-cultural artefacts – that is to say, objects expressing the transmission and translation of ideas between different geographical and cultural regions. In a recent paper, Madalina Nicolaescu (2004) presents an example of global ideas translated into locally integrated concepts. According to her theory, global ideas and notions are never incorporated into the local culture in their original forms but are absorbed by translating their expressions, forms and contents to make them suit the demands and needs of local society, thus making the new ideas more relevant (Ibid.). The adoption and incorporation of innovations and new artefacts does always constitute a translation of the original ideas behind the objects, inasmuch as either the objects themselves or the ideas connected to them travel large geographical distances and often move through several autonomous cultural spheres (Ibid.). This, though, implies the precondition that objects are able to communicate ideas or parts of ideas in themselves in spite of these geographical and cultural distances. According to John Urry (2007), artefacts traditionally regarded as immobile objects can be parts of several networks of movement, contributing to inter-cultural and inter-contextual flows of ideas and notions. He distinguishes between several modes of motion: Physical motion is performed by travelling people and the exchange of objects, while more subtle forms of motion are constituted by direct or indirect flows of information and knowledge (Ibid.). Thus, artefacts need to be regarded as crucial mobile parts of society in the sense that they generate an exchange of information through their physical appearance or disappearance. Objects are potential agents, reproducing and communicating layers of ideas and connotations which constitute their own existence. The aim of this paper is to argue that the production of imitations is not merely the act of copying a material object; it is a way of transmitting and exchanging new 118

Zsófia Kölcze: Import vs. imitation? Towards an understanding of Early Bronze Age weapons ideas, technologies and social values. An innovation is in itself a short-term phenomenon, but through acts of copying, this phenomenon gains a lasting effect and the potential of mutating into something new. Furthermore, I hope to encourage a reopening of the debate about the transmission of objects and ideas, exemplified by the earliest swords found in southern Scandinavia.

Analyses of the metal of period IB artefacts suggest that the swords of the Hajdúsámson-Apa type are made of tin-bronze containing what is called ‘East-Alpine copper’ (Liversage 1994, 57-134), characterized by its high arsenic and nickel impurities. It seems to have been homogenous over large parts of Europe, and David Liversage (1994) suggests that the metal has an East-Alpine provenience.

The empirical data

As the use of tin-bronze and the elaborate execution of the metal artefacts shows, the metallurgical technology was already very advanced in the 2nd millennium BC. This is evidenced by the high quality and detailed finish of many of the metal objects produced in this period, and the complex production methods employed. Like many other weapons and ornaments from the early European Bronze Age, the production of the Hajdúsámson-Apa swords were executed by the so-called cire perdue or ‘lost wax’ method (Rønne 1993, 71-92; Vandkilde 2007). As the name indicates, this method consists in making an initial wax model of the object that is to be cast. Recent studies have shown that it is much more preferable to mould the model in a mix of wax and resin than of pure wax, because the wax-resin material is harder and therefore easier to form than a purely waxen model (C. Guillou and A. Ramsbøl, pers. comm. 2009). When the wax-resin model is moulded, it is covered by layers of fine clay, leaving respiration holes through which the wax and the fumes from the melted metal are later to depart. When the model is covered with clay, it is baked, the waxen core melting

The weapon hoards of the Nordic Bronze Age period IB show a large variety of types spread over vast geographical areas. The specific weapons considered in this paper are the Hajdúsámson-Apa type sword, which have been found in single and multiple hoards in an area covering southeastern Europe – the regions now called Romania and Hungary – and the southern part of Scandinavia (Lomborg 1959, 51-146). (Fig. 1). Generally, the Hajdúsámson-Apa swords, produced between 1600-1500 BC (Vandkilde 1996) are characterized by their relatively short length; they are seldom more than 50 cm long, the length of their hilts rarely succeeding 5 cm. The form of the blades is strongly tortuous with a marked midrib down the middle and a rounded transition to the hilt, which has a round or oval pommel. The blade and the hilt are joined by four or five rivets which follow the round shape of the shoulders (Kemenczei 1988-91; Lomborg 1959, 51-146).

Figure 1 Distribution map of the Hajdúsámson-Apa type swords 119

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Figure 2 Stensgård, Denmark (after Aner and Kersten 1978ff, 3, Tafel 146)

and departing through the holes, leaving space for the metal to be cast. After casting the metal object, the clay form has to be broken, and the superfluous attachments of metal at the respiration holes removed (Vandkilde 2007). Other Bronze Age objects produced by the cire perdue method are the belt plates, characteristic of the Nordic Bronze Age Period II (Rønne 1993, 71-92), which form crucial parts of women’s burial equipment. Many of the metal objects of the Bronze Age are characterized by elaborate patterns of plastic decoration, consisting of bands of continuous spirals, formally believed to have been engraved into the surface of the objects after the casting. However, it has recently been suggested that the ornamentation of the metalwork was made at an earlier stage in the production process, namely before the casting of the final object (Ibid.). According to Preben Rønne (1993) it is plausible that the ornamental elements were carved or stamped into the waxen models before these were covered with clay. This method would make it easier to produce the complex pattern of ornaments covering the early Bronze Age metal objects. Likewise, it is very likely that the ornamentation of the Hajdúsámson-Apa swords was made before the casting of the objects, and both the casting techniques and the ornamentations themselves might prove to be

Figure 3 Torupgårde, Denmark (after Aner and Kersten 1978ff, 3, Tafel 146) important for the understanding of the import/imitation dichotomy as well as the social role of the objects in early Bronze Age society. There is a certain variation in the decoration of the Hajdúsámson-Apa type swords, whereas the form of the swords is usually very uniform. General ornamental elements are bands of triangles, concentric circles and parallel lines combined in various patterns on the pommels, the hilts and down either side of the midribs of the blades (Jockenhövel 2005, 601-619; Lomborg 1959, 51-146). There is no such thing as two wholly identical Hajdúsámson-Apa swords. However, there seems to be a general pattern of two ornamentally different groups: 1) swords with wave-shaped lines down the blade, occurring only in hoards in the south-eastern part of Europe and 2) swords with lancet-shaped lines down the blade, which have a tendency to occur towards the south Scandinavian region. The relationship between the two groups is not entirely clear and needs further investigation, but one possibility might be that they were produced by different workshops. This suggestion is, however, still based on mere speculation. 120

Zsófia Kölcze: Import vs. imitation? Towards an understanding of Early Bronze Age weapons Besides the two groups, which are categorized by their ornamental differences, the Hajdúsámson-Apa swords are traditionally divided into two major clusters on the basis of differences in their technological productions and the quality of the finished object (Rasmussen and Boas 2006, 87-108). In want of better definitions, these two groups have been described as ‘originals’ and ‘imitations’. In the following paragraph we will have a look at the dichotomy between the so-called ‘original’ swords and their imitations as it can be experienced through the actual material appearance of the weapons in question.

Transmission of objects The Stensgård sword (Fig. 2) was found in a field called Kyllingeeng on the island of Lolland, Denmark, in approximately 1872. A farmer ploughing an area which had previously been a bog found the sword placed vertically in the ground. Examination showed that it was a short, metalhilted and well-preserved weapon with rich ornamentation (Aner and Kersten 1973ff, Bd. 3, no. 1679). Some decades later, still on Lolland, another – very similar – sword was found. In the summer of 1917 two peat cutters working in the bog area called Åmose near Torupgårde found the

Figure 4 Dystrup, Denmark (after Rasmussen and Boas 2006, Fig. 13)

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Figure 5 Dystrup, Denmark (after Rasmussen and Boas 2006, Fig. 14) second sword lying horizontally in the peat (Fig. 3). This sword, too, was in a well-preserved condition, apart from some signs of wear on the edges of the blade (Aner and Kersten 1973ff, Bd. 3, no. 1680). Both of the above-mentioned weapons wore bog patina which shows that they had been dropped or deposited in the bog. They were soon shown to belong to the HajdúsámsonApa type and, in his paper from 1959, Lomborg dates them to his Fårdrup horizon, i.e. to around 1500 BC; following

previous interpretations, he believed that the swords were imported objects from the south-eastern part of Europe (Lomborg 1959, 51-146). Later, in 1996, Helle Vandkilde showed that the Hajdúsámson-Apa swords belonged to the Nordic Bronze Age period IB, i.e. around 1600 BC (Vandkilde 1996). A large weapon hoard on Djursland, Jutland, found in 1994, brought an entirely new perspective to our understanding of the Hajdúsámson-Apa swords. The Dystrup hoard 122

Zsófia Kölcze: Import vs. imitation? Towards an understanding of Early Bronze Age weapons

Figure 6 Hajdúsámson, Hungary (after Meier-Arendt 1993, Fig. 22) consisted of eight short swords (Fig, 4 and 5). They were lying on a flat field with their tips pointing towards the south, presumably originally deposited in a bundle. The excavation showed that they had been deposited in the vicinity of a large flat stone, probably functioning as a sign to mark the place of the hoard. Also, in the area of Dystrup, there are several early Bronze Age burial mounds, indicating that the place had been frequented at the time of the deposition of the swords (Rasmussen and Boas 2006, 87-108). The form and ornamentation of the Dystrup swords leave no doubt that they belong to the HajdúsámsonApa type, although several details present deviations from the common features of the type as it was known and defined earlier. Concerning their form as well as their decorative elements, seven of the Dystrup swords are rather similar (Ibid.). They are all between 43.7 and 46.6 cm long, which is a common length for a sword of this particular type. All of the swords from the Dystrup hoard have an oval pommel which is rare amongst the southeast European Hajdúsámson-Apa swords. Like the swords from Torupgårde and Stensgård, the swords from Dystrup are cast with the cire perdue technique. However, while the blade and the grip of the swords from Lolland are cast separately and joined after casting by five rivets or by the so-called overcastting technique, the Dystrup swords are

cast in one piece (Ibid.). They have only four false rivets with no practical function, rather than five functional ones like the other Hajdúsámson-Apa swords (Rasmussen and Boas 2006, 87-108; Vandkilde 1996). The simple casting technique and the almost wholly identical decoration of the Dystrup swords suggest that they were produced as copies of ‘original’ or imported specimens of Hajdúsámson-Apa swords, such as, for example, the swords from Torupgårde and Stensgård. Rasmussen and Boas (2006) presume that the short swords form Dystrup were made as local imitations based upon mere observation of imported swords, which might explain some of the deviant elements between the copies and the imported specimens. Rasmussen and Boas (2006) present a qualitative distinction between so-called ‘original’ objects and copies through a detailed comparison between the production techniques and overall appearance of the Dystrup swords and the Torupgårde and Stensgård swords, but this is a profoundly difficult task, as they themselves must acknowledge. In the following paragraph, I will suggest that the Dystrup swords represent a translation of international or global forms into local objects, thus transmitting the idea behind the artefact to suit local conditions.

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N-TAG TEN Transmissions of ideas The swords from Torupgårde and Stensgård correspond in form and production technique with the swords from the eponymal hoard finds of Hajdúsámson (Fig. 6) and Apa (Fig. 7), which for a long time set the standard for

a more or less precise definition of this type of weapon in early European Bronze Age (Bader 1991; Kemenczei 1988-91). Just like the swords from Hajdúsámson and Apa, the Torupgårde and the Stensgård swords are highquality weapons with an abundant ornamentation on blade and hilt, but a detailed study of the decorative elements

Figure 7 Apa, Rumania - left: II.II, right: II.I (after Bader 1991, Tafel 72B)

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Zsófia Kölcze: Import vs. imitation? Towards an understanding of Early Bronze Age weapons reveals that they are a kind of hybrid form of one of the Apa swords and the Hajdúsámson sword on one hand and the other Apa sword on the other. The five-riveted hilts of the Danish swords show clear parallels with the hilt of the Hajdúsámson sword, while the ornamentation of their blades mirrors the blade of the second Apa sword. By examining the swords from Dystrup more closely, it becomes clear that they – although they visually belong to the swords of Hajdúsámson-Apa type – exhibit the same kind of hybridity. The five rivets worn by six of the Dystrup swords are undoubtedly inspired by swords from the Hajdúsámson group, while the decorative elements on their blades and hilts point towards an artefact like the second Apa sword as the source of inspiration. However, the two Dystrup swords with only four rivets – one of which is completely without decoration (!) – have more in common with a fourth sword of the Hajdúsámson-Apa type found in Hungary, namely the sword from Téglás (Fig. 8), which is described as a variant of this type by Kemenczei (1988-91). Like the two Dystrup swords, the sword from Téglás only has four rivets, an oval pommel and more sloping shoulders than the swords from Hajdúsámson, Apa, Torupgårde and Stensgård, though its quality is more in line with the latter (Kemenczei 1988-91). The Téglás sword exhibits a curious feature not found on other Hajdúsámson-Apa swords, but often occurring on ornamented Scandinavian bronze axes and south-east European personal ornaments from the same period: A small lancet-shaped figure is depicted twice in mirror image on its blade. It has been elaborated on more extensively by Jockenhövel, who suggests that it symbolizes the very idea of the sword as a weapon (Jockenhövel 2005, 601-619). Also, if we take a closer look at the find context of the swords examined in this paper, it soon becomes very evident that the artefacts reflect relationships which far exceed the description of them as mere objects of import and imitation. The swords from southern Scandinavia and south-eastern Europe show rather remarkable context differences. The Hajdúsámson-Apa swords of south-eastern Europe are typically found in hoards with one or more battle axes and personal ornaments, and thus, the swords and the axes together seem to constitute one whole (Kemenczei 198891; Lomborg 1959, 51-146). The axes belong to the types called disc-butted axes and Nackenkammbeile and exhibit decorations of vividly coiling lines and spirals which are similar to the ornamentation of the Hajdúsámson and one of the Apa swords – regardless whether the sword found with the axes bears spirals or not. The Danish Hajdúsámson-Apa type swords have mostly been found as single or one-type deposits, but the decoration of the contemporary local Fårdrup axes shows a close kinship with the ornamentation used on the objects in south-eastern Europe (Jockenhövel 2005, 601-619; Kristiansen 1987, 30-51), suggesting that some kind of kinship between these objects was perceived

Figure 8 Téglás, Hungary (after Kemenczei 1988-91, Tafel 87A)

in early Nordic Bronze Age society. The Fårdrup axes are exclusively unique to the south Scandinavian region regarding their forms, but exhibit a close affiliation to south-east European metal objects through their decoration and possibly their raw material. Also, spearheads of the Bagterp type from Denmark are closely connected in decorative style with the inter-regional Hajdúsámson-Apa swords (Ibid.). The complexity and inter-changeability of forms and decorations between locally produced and foreign objects in Southern Scandinavia shows that the relationship 125

N-TAG TEN between the weaponry of the early Nordic Bronze Age can hardly be described as a mere result of the exchange and imitation of goods originating from the south-eastern parts of Europe. On the contrary, it suggests a conscious and active selection and combination of formal and ornamental elements which made it possible to – at the same time – embrace foreign ideas and maintain local traditions by reforming them. Following Nicolaescu (2002) and Kristiansen and Larsson (2005), I will propose that a transmission and translation of ideas and techniques took place rather than an exact imitation of certain objects. It is evident from the above-described material that there were some relatively well-defined concepts of the way weapons should look, but we must understand these concepts as frames, giving opportunities for differentiation and variation rather than strict rules for applying certain forms and decorative elements. The complexity of the relationship between the objects examined in this paper shows an early Bronze Age society in which goods, people and ideas were continually exchanged. Instead of seeking to make typological distinctions in the material culture, we would provide ourselves with an entirely new perspective by examining the material and immaterial movements taking place in prehistory. By studying the empirical material through these lenses, mobilities and societal dynamics may be found to be just as clearly reflected in the artefacts as social, political and cultural borders and limits. Conclusion In this paper, I have addressed the question whether the dichotomy between so-called ‘original’ objects and ‘copies’ or ‘imitations’ is still relevant to the archaeological analysis and interpretation of early Bronze Age Europe. It is the analytical work of the archaeologist which brings forth the understanding of material culture and its context, and consequently we must be conscious about the nature of the theory and methodology we employ in our research. I consider the traditional dichotomy between ‘originals’ and ‘imitations’ superficial and inadequate inasmuch as it does not suffice in describing the different layers of cultural transmission by objects between dissimilar cultural spheres. I suggest that we as archaeologists do not focus on the borders between regions and cultures but instead look more closely at the human connections and interregional relationships set in motion by the transmission of commonly human ideas as they are expressed through the archaeological material. In this paper, I have examined some of the earliest Bronze Age swords found in Europe, the Hajdúsámson-Apa type swords, in the light of the aforementioned dichotomy. It has been shown that an investigation focusing on the distinction between originals and copies would be possible and relevant if our mere purpose were to point out technical differences, but the focus on the material differences only renders a limited understanding of the

weapons and their social contexts. A more thorough study of the decorative and plastic elements of the individual swords points towards a much more complex relationship between the artefacts and their inter-cultural connections. The hybridity in the ornamentation of the swords shows a very distinct and complex relationship between the south-east European and the south Scandinavian weapons. Decorative elements were moving – often separated from the object forms – from one region to another, crossing geographical distance, technical and cultural traditions and artefact types. This indicates a transmission of the very ideas behind the ornamentation rather than a blind imitation of form and decoration, and these ideas were most probably translated into locally useful and acceptable concepts. It is too early to speculate on the nature of the transmitted ideas behind the objects – these might involve innovative ideas on several levels – i.e. technical, social or war-strategic ideas – coming into existence through the invention of the sword. The examination of the nature of these ideas and their movements provide abundant opportunity for further study.

References Aner, E. & Kersten, K. 1973ff: Die Funde der älteren Bronzezeit des nordischen Kreises in Dänemark, Schleswig-Holstein und Niedersachsen. Bd. 3. København & Neumünster Bader, T. 1991: Die Schwerter in Rumänien. Prähistorische Bronzefunde. Franz Steiner, Stuttgart Childe, V.G. 1969: The Bronze Age. Bilbo and Tannen, New York Hornby, A.S. 1989: Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary of Current English. Fourth edition, Oxford University Press Jockenhövel, A. 2005: Bronzezeitliche Dolche und Schwerter als Bilder auf Objekten? – Zur Ikonographie einer Waffengattung. V. Spinei, C.-M- Lazarovici, D. Monah (eds.): Scripta Praehistorica. Miscellanea in honorem nonagenarii magistri Mircea PetrescuDûmbovita oblata. Honoraria 1 (Iasi 2005), 601-619 Jones, S. 2002: The archaeology of ethnicity: constructing identities in the past and present. Routledge, London Kemenczei, T. 1988-91: Die Schwerter in Ungarn. Prähistorische Bronzefunde. C.H. Beck, München Kristiansen, K. 1987: From stone to bronze – the evolution of social complexity in Northern Europe, 23001200 BC. In: E.B. Brumfiel & T.K. Earle (eds.): Specialization, Exchange, and Complex Societies. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 30-51 Kristiansen, K. 2002: The Tale of the Sword – Swords and Swordfighters in Bronze Age Europe. Oxford Journal of Archaeology vol. 21 no. 4, 319-331 Kristiansen, K. & Larsson, T.B. 2005: The Rise of Bronze Age Society. Travels, Transmissions and Transformations. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge 126

Zsófia Kölcze: Import vs. imitation? Towards an understanding of Early Bronze Age weapons Liversage, D. 1994: Interpreting Composition Patterns in Ancient Bronze: The Carpathian Basin. Acta Archaeologica 65, 57-134 Lomborg, E. 1959: Donauländische Kulturbeziehungen und die relative Chronologie der frühen Nordischen Bronzezeit. Acta Archaeologica vol. XXX, 51-146 Meier-Arendt. W. 1993: Bronzezeit in Ungarn: Forschungen in Tell-Siedlungen an Donau und Theiss. Museum für Ur- und Frühgeschichte, Frankfurt am Main Nicolaescu, M. 2004: Circulating Images: The Translation of the Global into the Local, in: I. Vainovski-Mihai: New European College GE-NEC Program 2000-2002, 75-114 Olsen, B. 2002: Fra ting til tekst: teoretiske perspektiv i arkeologisk forskning. Universitetsforlaget, Oslo Rasmussen, L.W. & Boas, N.A. 2006: The Dystrup swords: A hoard with eight short swords from the Early Bronze Age. Journal of Danish Archaeology vol. 14, 87-108 Renfrew, C. 1986: Introduction: peer polity interaction and socio-political change. In: C. Renfrew & J.F. Cherry (eds.): Peer Polity Interaction and Socio-Political Change. Cambridge University Press, 1-18 Rønne, P. 1993: Problemer omkring bronzealderens metalhåndværkere. In: L. Forsberg & T.B. Larsson (eds.): Ekonomi och näringsformer i nordisk Bronsålder. Studia Archaeologica Universitatis Umensis 3, 71-92 Strahm, C. 1992: Das Beil von Thun-Renzenbühl. Helvetia Archaeologica vol.12, 99-112 Urry, J. 2007: Mobilities. Polity Press, Cambridge Vandkilde, H. 1996: From Stone To Bronze: the metalwork of the Late Neolithic and Early Bronze Age in Denmark. Jysk Arkæologisk Selskab, Højbjerg Vandkilde, H. 2007: Culture and change in Central European prehistory 6th to 1st millennium BC. Aarhus University Press, Aarhus Zsófia Kölcze, PhD student Department of Prehistoric Archaeology Aarhus University Moesgård 8270 Højbjerg Denmark Phone: 89 42 45 78, Mail: [email protected]

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Enter the Gripping Beast. Innovations and actor-networks in Viking Age towns Søren M. Sindbæk

University of York, Department of Archaeology Abstract Innovations in culture or technology are moments, which offer extraordinary insights into the working of societies. The ways in which new practices or things are adopted by groups or individuals, or encounter resistance or rejection from the same, trace a section through the social topography of communities and their life world. Transcending technology, cultural dispositions and social relations, the study of innovations invites an actor-networks approach, which considers the heterogeneous nature of human-material relations. The archaeological record is potentially a rich source of evidence on innovations. Mostly, however, the time-resolution of archaeological data is too coarse-grained to allow us to grasp this potential to the full. In the period c. AD 790-850 a distinctly new artistic motif, the Gripping Beast, emerged in Scandinavia. A series of narrowly dated contexts provide anchor points, which allows us to chart this innovation process and to point out some of the locations where this development took place; the reception of the mew motif is traced in grave finds across Scandinavia. This allows us to follow an early medieval innovation through the human-material interactions of an actor-network.

Innovations and actor-networks Innovations in culture or technology are moments, which offer extraordinary insights into the working of societies. The ways in which new practices or things are adopted by groups or individuals, or encounter resistance or rejection from the same, trace a section through the social topography of communities and their life world. The potential insight offered by these moments has long been recognised in social science (e.g. Bijker 1995; Rogers 1962; Valente 2005). A particular interest in innovations is outlined by Latour, who suggests that they may form most useful points of departure for analysing the ‘actornetworks’ of human-material relations (Latour 2005, 80). The course of innovations, he notes, depends critically on the constellation of pre-existing groups and objects – the ‘assembly of already gathered entities’ (ibid., 75). While one set of communities, technologies and communication may encourage free emulation or exchange, another creates distinct thresholds which demands rejection, renegotiation or modification of content. The archaeological record is potentially a rich source of evidence on such transformative events. Any feature of culture or technology, which has gained prevalence among some group of people, can be regarded as the object of a successful diffusion. As such, its time-space distribution and context of occurrence has a potential to illuminate how new ways-of-doing came about in the past, how others came to know about them, and eventually to adopt, reject or modify them. These questions stand at the intersection of the material and the social, and thus at the heart of archaeology. Innovations are likely to imply transformations, which transcend domains of technology, cultural dispositions and social relations. The study of innovations in the past therefore calls for an approach, which does not isolate the

social from the material as separate realities, but considers the heterogeneous intersections between aspects of both – an approach aptly characterised by Bjørnar Olsen as a ‘symmetrical archaeology’ (Olsen 2003). In many cases the time-resolution of archaeological data is too coarse-grained to allow us to follow the actual unfolding of pre-modern innovations and their reception. A partial exception to this is presented by the development of ornamental art during the early Viking Age in Scandinavia. In the period c. AD 790-850 a distinctly new artistic motif, the Gripping Beast emerged, along with a new, more plastic approach to carving and moulding. An extraordinary series of closely dated archaeological contexts provide anchor points which allows us to trace the development of this innovation in terms of decades, rather than generations or centuries. Arguably we can also identify some of the actual locations where this development took place, while its reception is traced in grave finds across Scandinavia. Previous studies of this innovation are marked by ‘broken links’ between approaches, which have effectively isolated the social, material and symbolic aspects of change. Extensive studies have been devoted to the history of the Gripping Beast as a feature of style, and to the typologies of objects on which it occurs (a.o. Fuglesang 1987; Helmbrecht 2007; Jansson 1985; Steuer 1994; Warmers 1999 – with further references to important earlier studies by Schetelig, Petersen, Almgren, Capelle and others). Much of the literature on style is written, however, with rather limited concern for the materials and technologies of production, by which the ornaments were made. Technology forms the subject of another, largely separate body of literature (Brinch Madsen 1984; Feveile 2002; Hedegaard 1992; 2002; 2005; Jouttijärvi 2002; Lønborg 1998). In both of these fields of study, moreover, the role of exchange and communication, the processes by which the innovations were brought out, often remain

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N-TAG TEN vaguely characterised. The way in which these subjects have been studied as separate realities leave the interplay between them ill exposed. This paper aims to point out how ‘heterogeneous’ links between style, technology and communication are in fact crucial for understanding their development. The origin of a species The appearance of the Gripping Beast is a widely discussed event in the long history of Scandinavian animal art. In the mid to late 8th century women’s dress ornaments in Scandinavia had markedly regional forms (Callmer 2008; Høilund Nielsen 1991; 2004). The decoration on metal ornaments and doubtlessly many other media were carved in line patterns – mostly variants of the delicate Style E – filling out available panels with elaborate interlace motifs.

Suddenly a new and very different form of decoration occurs alongside this, consisting in curiously squat, shortlegged little animals with a clearly defined anatomy, faces shown en face, and paws grasping at whatever they can reach (fig. 1). While 8th century art and ornaments show considerable variation across Scandinavia, the Gripping Beast motif is adopted in every region within a few decades. Many explanations have been offered for this event. Was it an inspiration from Western Europe, acquired during the first Viking raids? Did it reflect a fascination with newly introduced domestic cats? A symbol of Freya? The most convincing genealogy sees the motif as a response to encounters with new styles of Carolingian art work, and derives the motif from Carolingian images of lions, admittedly rather freely remodelled (Warmers,1999; endorsed by a.o. Rundkvist 2001, 137; Skibsted Klæsøe 2002, 84).

Fig. 1 Early 9th century Gripping Beasts carved on the so-called “Carolingian animal-head post” from the Oseberg grave. After Schetelig 1920. 130

Søren M. Sindbæk: Enter the Gripping Beast. Innovations and actor-networks in Viking Age towns What makes the Gripping Beast particularly interesting as an innovation is the presence of an extraordinary series of narrowly dated archaeological contexts which allow us to define the time as well as the locations of its initial appearance in unusual detail. This knowledge also enables us to make informed use of the detailed typologies and distributions, which have been drawn up by over a century of archaeological and art historical study. The earliest firmly dated evidence of the Gripping Beast in Scandinavia is provided by casting moulds for oval brooches found in Ribe, Denmark (Feveile 2002; Feveile and Jensen 2006). Due to an admirable stratigraphy, the first appearance of the gripping beasts in the workshops sequence can be fixed to the period between c. 790 and 800. The oval brooch developed from a type of animalshaped brooches found mainly in south Scandinavian, and for which casting moulds are also known in Ribe (Høilund Nielsen 2004; Rundkvist 2010). In the last decade or so of the 8th century new and larger variants of this brooch type appear, and it is among these that we first meet the new motif (brooch types P13-P17 according to Petersen 1928 – the so called Berdal types). Experiments with form and design continue in the following decade, but gradually one or two forms employing the Gripping Beast motif come to dominate the production in the excavated workshops.

The connection with early towns helps to make sense of the distribution of the earliest generation of Gripping Beasts, as recently charted by Helmbrecht (2007). The earliest variants of the Gripping Beast species, the Berdal type, appear to have been adopted mainly in western Scandinavia. Examples show that the motif reached Birka in middle Sweden (fig. 2a), but otherwise it is rarely found in eastern Scandinavia. However, a slightly transformed version soon appeared on a different style of oval brooches with lattice-like patterns, Petersen’s type P27, for which casting moulds are known from Birka (fig. 2b). These went on to gain a certain distribution in the Baltic Sea region. During this period many experiments in design can be witnessed. Some lines of development were abandoned, and few brooch-types are known in more than a handful of copies. At some point before the middle of the 9th century, however, the eastern and western developments converged to create a standardized pan-Scandinavian brooch-type with lattice design and Gripping Beast ornaments. No less than 600 examples of these brooches, Petersen’s type P37, are known (Fuglesang 1987). From this time onwards it is almost impossible to tell regional differences in the ornament sets. The urban network had achieved a common cultural hegemony.

Although first documented in metal ornaments, the Gripping Beast could conceivably have emerged before that in a less commonly preserved medium such as wood. Superb examples of early Gripping Beasts carved in wood are found on furniture in the famous Oseberg grave (fig. 1). However, defining elements of the motif – the rounded limbs and modelled body details – suggest an origin in modelling rather than carving. As shall be argued further below, the image was eminently suited to the technological requirements of a new mode of producing brooches. Together with the fact that brooch production could only have happened on a major scale in few sites in Scandinavia, this suggests that Ribe could well be the very place where the innovation of the Gripping Beast happened. The craftspeople in Ribe were presumably inspired by existing motifs in different media, yet the development must have been a creative transformation. Large quantities of mould fragments containing impressions of Gripping Beasts have been excavated from contemporary or slightly later strata in other early urban sites: Birka, Åhus, Hedeby and Kaupang (Ambrosiani 1992; 1996, 29; Arrhenius 1973; Callmer 2002; Drescher 1983; Jankuhn 1977; Pedersen, in press). The concentration of these finds in early towns can be no coincidence. Craftsmen themselves were mobile, and would practice at other sites. But for large-scale production there was a need for a steady supply of raw materials, which could only be secured in the towns (Sindbæk 2007a). Production in these sites contrasts strongly with earlier, more local and individual casting (Callmer 2003, 355; Hjärthner-Holdar et al. 2002; Hårdh 2001; Ulriksen 2002). The Gripping Beast, being part of this urban production, was linked to a new mass-produced medium.

Fig. 2. Oval brooches with Gripping Beast decoration, Birka grave Bj 557, belonging to Petersen type P15, presumably designed in Ribe and b) Västanå, Uppland, Petersen type P27, presumably produced in Birka. After Jansson, 1985, fig. 11 and 25. a)

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N-TAG TEN Yet in some places the new style was received reluctantly. This appears from the famous Oseberg grave, dated by dendrochronology to c. AD 834 – a full generation after the first emergence of the Gripping Beast (Bonde and Christensen 1993; Müller-Wille 2001; Roesdahl 1994). As noted, the grave goods include several superb examples of decoration with Gripping Beasts, yet some important pieces, notably the ship itself, built c. 820, is decorated entirely in the ‘old school’ of style III (cf. Schetelig 1920). This mixture of styles has puzzled many. Recently dendrochronological analyses have allowed Bonde and Stylegar to attribute the building of the Oseberg ship to western Norway (Bonde and Stylegar 2009, 164). They argue convincingly that the vessel was a dynastic gift from a royal court in the west. The Oseberg assemblage may thus be regarded as reflecting a slice through the geography of adoption: while some workshops, presumably in Vestfold or Denmark, had adopted the Gripping Beast, others had not, including what was almost certainly a royal shipyard in western Norway. The movables Having set out the outline of the innovation, we can discuss its dimensions: what were the movables in this process? As can be shown, the introduction of the Gripping Beast articulates with a wide range of heterogeneous factors. The emergence in the 8th century of an urban network and the long-distance movement it funnelled was almost certainly a precondition for the sudden and widespread adoption of the Gripping Beast across previously distinct stylistic regions. The topology of travel attracted many long-distance travellers to a few sites, thus creating a

‘small world’, in which objects, technologies or ideas could more easily move between far-apart regions Offering new opportunities, the towns attracted long-distance travellers, who may not have requested ornaments by the piece, but by the dozen, destined for exchange at far-away assemblies and markets. For the same reason, these ornaments were no longer produced as individual pieces, but cast in series of identical or very similar appearance (Sindbæk 2007). Yet in addition to the movement of people and ideas, new skills were also an element in this innovation. In the final decades of the 8th century improved casting technique, apparently including a new way of forming models, permitted a change from incised or chip-carved decoration to modelling in the round (Hedegaard 2002; 2005). This called for a stylistic change: there was no way in which to transform the lace-motifs of style III into effective threedimensional forms. A different motif was needed to bring out the best of the new technique. A further condition was the movement of a new rawmaterial. To manufacture quantities of delicate cireperdue fittings in serial production, Viking Age metal workers could not rely on scrap metal, but mostly used freshly alloyed brass (Kresten et al. 2001, Lønborg 1998, 89. Oldeberg 1966, 57). This alloy could not be produced in the Baltic region in the 9th century, but was probably imported from the Rhineland (Eiwanger 1996; Jouttijärvi 2002; Rehren 1999; Sindbæk 2003). We know the physical appearance of this commodity from a hoard of bars found in the harbour of Hedeby (Ulbricht 1992). Brass produced better castings and more brightly shining products, and was apparently arriving in abundance by the end of the 8th century.

Fig 3. Graph showing the increasing weight of successive types of standard female brooches in Scandinavia from the early 8th to the 10th century. Data from published catalogues of Statens Historiska Museum (SHM), Tromsø Museum (TS) and personal communication from J. Jeppesen, Moesgaard Museum (FHM, ÅM). 132

Søren M. Sindbæk: Enter the Gripping Beast. Innovations and actor-networks in Viking Age towns This abundance appears to have developed gradually, and to have fuelled a development towards still bigger ornaments. For almost 200 years, from the early 8th to the 10th century, we witness a consistent growth in the size of standard jewellery (fig. 3). While early 8th century brooches typically weighed less than 10 g, those of the late ninth could weigh more than 100 g. Nothing indicates that they became rarer or more exclusive pieces of ornament in that process. The growing size is likely to reflect a growing availability of metal, and in some very basic sense the increasing resources which could be drawn from the urban network. Meanwhile, it also called for new forms of decoration, which would be effective in the new scale. This was yet another environmental condition, which encouraged the emergence of a new design. Conclusion The Gripping Beast was first seen on metal ornaments produced in early urban centres in Scandinavia in the late eight century. It emerged as a stylistic innovation as a creative response to a new technology, which allowed images to be moulded and cast in the round, rather than carved into the surface of flat objects. It was also encouraged by the growing size of metal ornaments, which called for larger surfaces to be decorated in an aesthetically acceptable way. Both these developments were fuelled by a new configuration of long-distance communication, which brought an abundant supply of a superior imported raw material, freshly alloyed brass. This communication was realised within a new social network established between urban centres. Towns were the locus of the communications, resources, crafts, demands and distributions, which encouraged and enabled the widespread adoption of a new artistic idiom. More than simply a stylistic innovation, to be explained in terms of models of inspiration and aesthetic and symbolic motivation, the appearance of the Gripping Beast must be understood as part of a wider reconfiguration of material and social links. The innovation and widespread adoption of this motif presents an inextricable cluster of aesthetic developments, technology, materials, communication and cultural change. This is the reason why the effects appear so puzzling when style, production, or exchange is studied in isolation. On the other hand, the episode achieves a coherent sense when approached symmetrically as an actor-network in which incommensurable actors interact. The resulting distribution exposed people across Scandinavia to stylistic mass-communication. It may well have been to their surprise that people from different corners of Scandinavia discovered their common acquaintance with the Gripping Beast when military operations, migrations and colonisation increasingly brought strangers together in the mid-ninth century. As it appears, they seized upon it as a cultural idiom, which was maintained well into the tenth century. The innovative metal workers in Ribe would have been surprised, though certainly proud to know.

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Søren M. Sindbæk: Enter the Gripping Beast. Innovations and actor-networks in Viking Age towns the Early Viking Period. In B. Hårdh (ed.), Från romartida skalpeller till senvikingatida urnesspännen, Uppåkrastudier 11, 127-200. Acta archaeologica Lundensia, Series in 8º. Lund, Almqvist & Wiksell. Shetelig, H. 1920. Vestfoldskolen. Osebergfundet 1. Kristiania [Oslo], Universitets oldsaksamling. Sindbæk, S. M. 2003. An object of exchange. Brass-bars and the routinization of Viking Age Long-Distance Exchange in the Baltic Area. Offa 58, 49-60. Sindbæk, S. M. 2007. Networks and nodal points: the emergence of towns in Early Viking Age Scandinavia. Antiquity 81, 119-32. Skibsted Klæsøe, I. 2002. Hvordan blev de til. Vikingetidens stilgrupper fra Broa til Urnes. Hikuin, 75-104. Steuer, H. 1994. Zur Herleitung des nordischen Greiftierstils. In H. Uecker (ed.), Studien zum Altgermanischen: Festschrift für Heinrich Beck, 648676. Berlin and New York, de Gruyter. Valente, T. 2005. Network models and Methods for studying the Diffusion of Innovations. In P. J. Carrington, J. Scott and S. Wasserman (eds.), Models and Methods in Social Network Analysis. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Wamers, E. 1999. Zwischen Salzburg und Oseberg. Zu Ursprung und Ikonographie des nordischen Greiftierstils. In U. Freeden, U. von Koch and A. Wieczorek, A. (eds.), Völker an Nord- und Ostsee und die Franken. Akten des 48. Sachsensymposiums in Mannheim vom 7. bis 11. September 1997. Römisch-Germanische Kommission des Deutschen Archäologischen Instituts, Kolloquien zur Vor- und Frühgeschichte 3, 195-228. Mannheimer Geschichtsblätter Neue Folge Beiheft 2. Bonn, Dr. Rudolf Habelt. Ulbricht, I. 1992. Messingbarrer. In E. Roesdahl et al (eds.), Viking og hvidekrist. Norden og Europa 8001200, 252. Copenhagen, Nordic Council of Ministers. Ulriksen, J. 2002. Håndværksspor på yngre jernalders anløbspladser. In M. B. Henriksen (eds.), Metalhåndværk og håndværkspladser fra yngre germansk jernalder, vikingetid og tidlig middelalder. Rapport fra et seminar på Hollufgård den 22. oktober 2001. Skrifter fra Odense Bys Museer vol. 9, 7-19. Odense, Odense Bys Museer, Odense. Søren M. Sindbæk The University of York, Department of Archaeology The King’s Manor York YO1 7EP United Kingdom Email: [email protected]

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Cultural heritage tourism in the North: Making information about vulnerable Sámi heritage sites accessible to the public or not? Gørill Nilsen

University of Tromsø Abstract In recent years there has been an increased focus on how a professional archaeological heritage management and other groups perceive archaeological monuments. Debates concerning discrepancies have in particular been heated in areas where indigenous peoples’ cultural heritage is present. Over the last years the Norwegian Government has presented a set of strategic documents concerning the use of cultural heritage. The Government seeks to promote Northern Norway’s unique heritage and its importance for welfare and value creation. To achieve this goal, tourism in relation to Sámi culture is mentioned as one particular target area for further development. Making heritage accessible to the public poses particular challenges. Ethics, the fragile environment, the self governance of an indigenous people are some of the aspects that must be evaluated before a sustainable Sámi heritage industry can develop. How these factors come into play are illustrated through a case study of Sámi scree-graves on the island Spildra, Kvænangen municipality in North Norway.

Increased focus on use of heritage in the tourism industry in North Norway

framework and the cultural heritage management are also at play.

Over the last decade there has been an increased focus in North Norway of using monuments as attractions for both tourists and locals. One of the largest initiatives so far was the Footprints Heading North (Fotefar mot nord) project (see Grepstad et al. 2005). 103 cultural heritage locations were chosen to be adapted to visitors. Posters were erected in the landscape, brochures in several languages printed and wooden pathways established to make access more easy and to protect the vegetation and monuments from damages the increased use could cause. This way of making in situ heritage an asset will probably increase in the future since the Norwegian Government has launched a set of strategic documents stating that the cultural heritage is a resource for local communities and business (see for example Norwegian Official Report NOU 2002:1 The past shapes the future (Fortid former framtid) and Report No. 16 (2004-2005) to the Storting: To live with cultural heritage (Leve med kulturminner).

The legal framework, The Cultural Heritage Act (Lov om kulturminner), protect the monuments from damage. To damage, destroy, dig up, move, change, cover, conceal or in any other way unduly disfigure monuments are a violation of § 3. At the same time the Act also recognises the cultural heritage as a resource. § 1 in the Norwegian Cultural Heritage Act states that “It is a national responsibility to safeguard these resources as scientific source material and as an enduring basis for the experience of present and future generations and for their self-awareness, enjoyment and activities”.

The use of archaeological monuments as tourist attractions was even more pronounced in the Norwegian Government’s High North Strategy (Regjeringens nordområdestrategi), presented in 2006, and elaborated on in 2009 (Nye byggesteiner i nord). The use must though be compatible with a safeguarded sustainable development. To raise an awareness of the value of the area’s unique heritage, its importance for welfare, value creation and an expanding tourist industry were of particular interest in these documents. Sámi culture was pointed out as one focus area with particular potential in relation to destination, “best practice” and tourism development. What and who sets the limits for using the heritage in the tourism industry? Climate, long winters with snow and a polar night lasting for two months limit the use of monuments in the north, but these are not the only restricting factors. The legal

To ensure the balance between using the heritage as a resource and protecting monuments from damage a set of public authorities are in charge of managing different paragraphs of the Cultural Heritage Act. The Directorate for Cultural Heritage is responsible for the practical implementation of the act and the objectives put forward by the Parliament and the Ministry of the Environment. The five archaeological province museums, one of which is Tromsø University Museum, counties and the Sámi Parliament have been delegated responsibilities of different aspects and paragraphs of the law (Holme 2001a; 2001b). The counties and the Sámi Parliament are equal counterparts responsible for respectively Norwegian and Sámi monuments and sites. This double set of authorities is a response to the strong legal framework Sámi people have of ensuring their rights. Of particular interest is § 110 a in The Norwegian Constitution (Grunnloven) which states that the Norwegian Government must ensure that the Sámi can secure and develop their language, culture and society. The Norwegian State has also ratified the ILO Convention (No. 169) concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries. An important article in this convention is number 7, which states that:

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N-TAG TEN “The peoples concerned shall have the right to decide their own priorities for the process of development as it affects their lives, beliefs, institutions and spiritual well-being and the lands they occupy or otherwise use, and to exercise control, to the extent possible, over their own economic, social and cultural development. In addition, they shall participate in the formulation, implementation and evaluation of plans and programmes for national and regional development which may affect them directly.” This, together with the ratification of The United Nations international covenant on civil and political rights and a set of national laws, ensure the Sámi rights to selfdetermination. The Sámi have their own Parliament, an elected assembly that represents the Sámi in Norway, which opened in 1989. All in all this means that the Sámi in Norway has an unique position as self-determined indigenous group compared to groups elsewhere in the world. Over the last decades there have been many cultural heritage conflicts between majority populations and indigenous groups, for example in relation to the NAGPRA and Kennewick case in America (e.g. Smith 2004a, 156-173). Laurajane Smith (2004a; 2006) has investigated these and related cases from Australia and has pointed out that these are examples of tension between indigenous understandings of heritage and what she has labelled the authorised heritage discourse (AHD). In a way, Smith dissects the heritage sector with a focus on power relations. This has proven a fruitful approach and can be implemented in a Norwegian AHD context even though there is seemingly a power-balance between the Norwegian and Sámi heritage agencies. However the Sámi and Norwegian heritage management do sometimes have unrelated interests. On the surface such differences may not always be easy to spot, but a case study of Spildra in Kvænangen municipality show different approaches to the question about which sites and monuments are made publicly accessible. Presenting or not presenting information about Sami human burials Not all initiatives for using in monuments in North Norway covers so large geographical areas as the Footprints heading north. At the island Spildra a local initiative was made to make a guide to the island’s unique monuments and a guide book was developed in cooperation with Tromsø University Museum (Bjørklund and Grydeland 2003). The guide, titled Spildra – bringing the past into the future (Spildra – med fortida inn i framtida) was financed by Kvænangen municipality, the Ministry of Local Government and Regional Development as well as the Sámi Parliament. An eight km long trail is described in the guide book, but no signs are present in the landscape. The monument types

presented in the brochure are varied, and span from the remains of turf houses from the Stone Age up to modern times, to Sámi human and bear burials. The monuments and the guide book are used by a number of different groups. The University of Tromsø uses the island for excursions in Sámi cultural knowledge courses and small local firms on the island provide guides, food and overnight accommodation for visitors. One of the monuments along the trail is a Sámi screegrave.1 As mentioned earlier, Sámi monuments are protected by the Cultural Heritage Act. According to § 4 all Sámi monuments older than 100 years are automatically protected. The burial at Silkeberget (fig. 1) consists of the remains of two individuals dated 1165-1410 AD (Schanche 2000:, 45-146) and they are therefore protected via § 4 and as a Sámi monument type handled by the Sámi Parliament. The Sámi Parliament is not the only group or agency interested in the scree-graves. Attitudes towards making the information about the scree-graves public or limited are not consistent between the agencies and within the Sámi Parliament. In the guide book, partly financed by the Sámi Parliament, and partly developed by Tromsø University Museum, the burials are described and a map shows their exact location. The museum2 also presents the burial and a detailed map via their webpage as a link to another website, Kulturminneløypa.3 The Sámi Parliament has, as mentioned above, supported the guidebook showing the location of the scree-grave. At the same time, the Parliament as well as The Directorate for Cultural Heritage, has an explicit policy of not giving any information of Sámi human burials to the public. In Norway all registered monuments are entered into the national database Askeladden,4 run by The Directorate for Cultural Heritage. The database is password protected and therefore not available to the general public. In the database the burial at Silkeberget (Askeladden id. no. 138035) is categorised as a “scree-grave” (urgrav). This grave type is, with other Sámi monument types such as bear burials and sacrifice localities, monuments classified as of limited public access (begrenset offentlighet). The limited public access to these types of monuments is sanctioned by the Open Files Act (Offentleglova).5 According to § 13 sensitive information may be subject to professional secrecy (taushetsplikt). The Sámi Parliament decides which monument types are subject to professional secrecy because it is in fact the agency administering these monuments. As a consequence in The Directorate for   “Scree-graves” (urgraver) are graves cut into the loose rocks, often located beneath cliffs, and are common for Sámi graves in North Norway. 2   http://www2.uit.no/ikbViewer/page/ansatte/organisasjon/artikkel?p_ document_id=181809&p_dimension_id=88178&p_menu=42434&p_ lang=2 3   http://loype.kulturminneaaret2009.no/ 4   http://askeladden.ra.no/sok/ 5   http://www.kulturminnesok.no/Norsk/Kulturminnesok/Om_Kulturminnesok/ 1

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Gørill Nilsen: Cultural heritage tourism in the North

Figure 1. Sami burials at Silkeberget, Spildra. Cultural Heritage’s public version of Askeladden, called Kulturminnesøk,6 none of the monuments with limited public access are visible. At the same time as scree-graves are labelled with limited public access, the Sámi Parliament has recognised the monuments as an asset for the local community via their financial contribution to the guide book. The Sámi Parliament also recognises that the increased use causes damage. In relation to the burials at Silkeberget, the Sámi Parliament sent a letter (ref. 10/2396-3) to among others the University of Tromsø stating that they did not want guided tours showing scree-graves and bear burials in the area in 2010. Due to the increased use of the monuments, they had been exposed to more wear and tear. The Sámi Parliament has therefore started working on a plan for a sustainable and future-oriented use of the area. Until the plan is sanctioned, the monuments are not to be shown. The information about the burials at Silkeberget is both limited to the public and accessible to all via internet and the guide book. The cultural heritage agencies have in other words different attitudes towards sharing information. Is this an expression of an imbalance in the power-relation   http://www.kulturminnesok.no/

6

within the AHD or does the different agencies simply use different arguments? Reasons for withholding information about screegraves In the case of Silkeberget the Sámi Parliament used the increased wear and tear as an argument for not wanting people visiting the scree-burial. This is no doubt easy to accept as a sound argument. The first time I visited Spildra was as a student in 1994. The grave, hidden underneath a cliff, was not easy to find, and a local guide was needed to locate the site. Over the last years I have visited Spildra many times, as a guide and on archaeological excavations. A new path has emerged caused by the increased use of the burials at Silkeberget. Visitors can just follow the eroded trail and locate the human burials on their own. In other words, the sites become easier to access for anybody, local knowledge or particular archaeological expertise is no longer required to locate the sites. Visitors may therefore identify the burials with insufficient knowledge of ethics and the cultural heritage legislation and cause damage. This is not only a problem at Spildra. Many of the local Footprints Heading North projects were finished in the mid 1990s. A survey by Elin Myrvoll and Alma Thuestad (2009) has documented that several of the archaeological 139

N-TAG TEN monuments in Footprints Heading North project have been disturbed. In Kirkegårdsbukta, Hammerfest municipality 16 out of 25 monuments were damaged and an additional 9 showed signs of wear. In Selvika, Måsøy municipality, 39 out of 109 monuments were damaged and 12 worn. The main cause of damage and wear was new paths caused by increased use and following erosion (Myrvoll and Thuestad 2009, 4). Another reason for withholding information about monuments such as scree-graves are linked to a more general debate on ethics relating to display of human remains and repatriation (e.g. Goldstein and Kinthing 1990; Hubert 1989; Jenkins, 2008; Jones and Harris 1998; Schanche 2002; Smith 2004b). A strong emphasis on ethics, archaeological standards and relationship between professional and local (indigenous) communities is reflected in different codes of ethics around the world, for example such as ICOM’s Code of Ethics for Museums, World Archaeological Congress’ The Vermillion Accord on Human Remains and World Archaeological Congress First Code of Ethics. Norwegian archaeologists have not developed code of ethics similar to those of WAC. However the legal basis of the indigenous Sámi people rights to self determination vested in the ILO no 169 and the Norwegian constitution are much stronger than a code of ethics optional to follow. This means that the Sámi Parliament’s decision of withholding information about a set of monument types and the concrete ruling of not allowing public access to the Silkeberget burials should be respected and viewed as the Sámi as an indigenous peoples right to make their own decisions regarding their own culture and heritage. The dilemma in this case is of course that it is not possible to withhold information about the scree-graves at Silkeberget. The information is available in the guide book and on internet. The human remains at Silkeberget were also investigated archaeologically by Audhild Schance (2000) as part of her doctoral thesis. Her investigations followed high ethical standards. Schanche chose not to bring with her the remains back to Tromsø University Museum in respect of the dead (Schanche 2000, 5). In stead, the bones were examined in the field, and only small samples were collected for further analyses. Schanche has been one important actor in developing the Sámi heritage management and setting focus on ethics when dealing with human remains (e.g. Schanche 2002; Schanche 2004; Schanche and Jones 2007). The strategy used by Schanche implies that the human remains are still accessible in situ in the landscape. The archaeological information and knowledge produced in Schanche’s (2000) investigation also forms the platform for the narrative presented about the burials in the guide book and on internet. Leaving the skeletal remains in situ also means that visitors to this day may enter the natural rock chamber to take a closer look at the human remains. The location is automatically protected by the Cultural

Heritage Act. Even though investigated, the law prohibits any damage done to the site, but from my own first hand experience I know that the stones in the chamber have been moved and the bones touched. If the skeletons were taken back to a museum, one could control the environment the bones were kept in. No “accidental visitor” could handle the bones in a museum, as is possible in the landscape today. However, the deceased would have their last resting place in a cardboard box, and not in the scree area where they were once buried in according to their belief. Reasons for making scree-graves accessible to the public There are in other words strong reasons for leaving the human remains in situ and restricting public access to such finds. But this strategy also has a flip-side. Restricting knowledge of monument types also implies a risk for them being destroyed by an ill-informed public. This is not only a theoretical threat. Even though the following example dates some decades back, it illustrates what the lack of knowledge of Sámi monument type as scree-graves may lead to. On the front page of the weekly magazine Hjemmet on October 30th 1979 the following was printed: “Hjemmet’s reporter Arild Mikkelsen and Stein Støa undertook a journey to Northern Troms treasure hunting. Death awaited in the cave of the king of Skjervøy”. The reporters had received a tip about a local story of a hidden treasure in Skjervøy municipality, which borders to Kvænangen municipality. “The king of Skjervøy” was a real historic character, Christian M. Heggelund. Heggelund founded the merchant house at Skjervøy in the beginning of the 1660s. Heggelund was wealthy, but also said to be miserly. Heggelund died around 1694. When the estate was divided after his death, he left a number of buildings and a ship. However, the heir found little cash (Fugelsøy 1970, 291, 294). This gave rise to the story that he had buried a large amount of money somewhere. The reporters set off for Skjervøy with the intention of finding the treasure (fig. 2). They were told by an informant that the money might be hidden in a cave at Stussneset. Inside the cave a pile of bones and two human craniums were located. This led them to speculate who the heads belonged to; a colleague, a treasure hunter from another century or remains of Russian robbers pillaging the coast some centuries back (Støa and Mikkelsen 1979, 7-10). The reporters gathered the bones and brought them to Oslo where they were examined by the Institute of Forensic Medicine. They concluded that the bones were several hundred years old and therefore not of interest. The skeletons were therefore cremated, and only the skulls were preserved (Nilsen 2003, 182-183). The bones were of course from a Sámi scree-grave. The removal of the bones was therefore a violation of the Cultural Heritage Act. In the communication between 140

Gørill Nilsen: Cultural heritage tourism in the North

Figure 2: Facsimile from the magazine Hjemmet. Tromsø University Museum, responsible for upholding the law at the time,7 and Hjemmet, the museum tried to settle the case out of court. If Hjemmet printed a rectification and gave the public information about this important Sámi monument type, the case would be closed. Hjemmet refused to do this and after an extensive controversy, no solution was reached. In 1980 the case was handed over to the Ministry of the Environment. Three years later the case was finally closed. The reporter was given a 1 000,NOK fine, but disputed the decision. Since the reporter did not pay, the case was finally dismissed due to unsufficient evidence (see Nilsen 2003, 179-183 for further description of the case). Spreading information about scree-graves is not only a strategy to protect them from damage caused by ignorance. Scree-graves are an important Sámi monument type and potentially an identity asset. Identity is not the only factor at play. Using heritage as an asset in small scale tourism firms, revitalising old Sámi handicrafts as a way of making the past a positive resource was the motivation behind a project called Without a past, no future. The project made full scale reconstructions of 15th to 17th century Sámi turf huts archaeologically investigated in Kvænangen (Grydeland 1996). One of the turf huts was erected on Spildra (Nilsen, 2003:257-260). The same motivation was   This case took place in 1979, 15 years prior to the Sámi was delegated responsibilities for upholding the Cultural Heritage Act in relation to Sámi monuments. 7

also the cornerstone for making the brochure (Bjørklund and Grydeland 2003, 19). The island, as many other areas in Northern Troms and Finnmark, displays archaeological remains documenting the presence of a predominantly Sámi population until the 18th Century. From then on both archaeological and written sources show a stronger Norwegian and Kven8 influence. From the mid 19th Century the Norwegian state launched a policy that aimed at making the entire population Norwegian. Norwegian was the language to be used in schools, during services and by the bureaucracy. The situation for the Sámi and the Kven was even worsened by scorched earth tactics used the German Wehrmacht during the Second World War. When retreating, buildings and infrastructure area east of the Lyngen fjord was to a devastating extent burnt down to stall the advancing Red Army from the east. Houses, inventory, barns and boathouses; more or less the entire material culture specific to the different ethnic groups were more or less erased. After the war, new houses were built as part of a Norwegian state programme. The reconstructed farms looked very much alike due to the fact that the same architectural drawings were used in the

  The Kven lived around the Gulf of Bothina and along the river valleys in the area. From the 1500, but particularily from the mid 1700s onwards, Kven people migrated and settled down in Northern Norway. 8

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N-TAG TEN whole area. The multi-ethnical landscape in the region had now more or less vanished. Making a multiethnic past visible is therefore a vital element in processes focusing on identity. It is of importance for people to know their own multi ethnic past, a past which for so long had not been communicated. There is no doubt a need to mediate information about a multi ethnic past. Research on ethnicity and the relationship to an authorised heritage discourse in North Norway has shown that due to the Norwegian Government’s previous policy towards indigenous people, Sámi ethnicity is in many areas viewed as problematic and the Sámi past is in many cases avoided in communication (e.g. Bertelsen et al. 1999; 2001; Krogh 1999; Pramli 1999). The arguments for withholding information about screegraves are strong, but the arguments of making the monument type accessible to the public are also important. Perhaps a possible way of unloosing this Gordian knot is to limit the public information in general, but at the same time making some of the locations accessible to the public, as locations for teaching the public about the monument type, letting the heritage sites be a part of a identity strategy and making them an asset to small local tourism firms. People are interested in individual monuments with a unique biography (Nilsen 2003). The strategy in Kulturminnesøk where no specific details of the individual monuments are available in the database, only general descriptions of the monument types made public, is therefore not particularly fruitful if the monuments are to be used as an identity asset. If self-determination of an indigenous group is to be respected, the Sámi Parliament’s strategies of withholding information must be respected. However the de facto situation relating to making information about the screegraves at Silkeberget public or not is confusing. Cases like this must de debated, at least if Sámi cultural heritage truly can function as an asset for the tourism industry. Conclusion Monuments have been used as attractions for both locals and tourists over decades, and the use of them has gained increased attention due to the Norwegian Government strategies. If monuments are going to function as attractions, information about the cultural heritage must be made accessible to the public. The case of the Sámi scree-graves at Spildra shows that there is no consistency in attitudes towards if knowledge about them should be made accessible to the public or not. The reasons for or against open access are different. Restricting access is related to wear and tear issues and is also rooted in the Sámi Parliament’s right to decide how the cultural heritage of the Sámi is used. Giving access to the public is related to an identity discourse, preventing destruction of monuments due to lack of information and making the heritage a commodity for local tourism firms. In other words this is a story about the power-balance within the Norwegian and Sámi and how the agencies use different arguments. The

most confusing situation is related to the Sámi Parliament’s information strategies, both withholding and supporting public information. I predict that Sámi cultural heritage may be difficult to use as en asset until a more consistent approach concerning information is reached.

References Bertelsen, R., L. I. Hansen and B. Olsen 1999. Kunnskap om kulturminneforvaltning og holdninger til vern av faste kulturminner: Delrapport fra NFR-prosjektet “Vernet av faste kulturminner i skjæringen mellom tradisjon og modernitet”. Stensilserie B 55, University of Tromsø. Bertelsen, R., L. I. Hansen and B. Olsen 2001: Mellom tradisjon og modernitet: vern av kulturminner i NordNorge. In B. Skar (ed.), Kulturminner og miljø: forskning i grenseland mellom natur og kultur,. 85108. Bjørklund, I. and S. E. Grydeland 2003:: Spildra – med fortida inn i framtida. Tromsø, Spildra grendeutvalg / Tromsø Museum. Fugelsøy, M. 1970. Skjervøy. Et prestegjeld og et herred i Nord-Troms I. Skjervøy municipality. Goldstein, L. and K. Kinthing 1990. Ethics and the reburial controversy. American Antiquity 55 (3), 585-591. Grepstad, O., K. M. Thorheim and G. Dahl 2005. Fotefar mot nord. Oslo. Grydeland, S. E. 1996. Den sjøsamiske bosetting i Kvænangen fra seinmiddelalder til ny tid: en arkeologisk studie i kontraster. Stensilserie B 41, University of Tromsø. Holme, J. 2001.(ed.), Kulturminnevern. Lov, forvaltning, håndhevelse I. Økokrims skriftserie 12. Oslo. Holme, J. (2001) (ed.), Kulturminnevern. Lov, forvaltning, håndhevelse 2. Økokrims skriftserie 12. Oslo. Hubert, J. 1989. A proper place for the dead: A critical review of the ”reburial” issue. In R. Layton (ed.):,Conflict in the Archaeology of Living Traditions, 131-166 London & New York, Routledge. ICOM’s Code of Ethics for Museums. Avalable at http:// icom.museum/what-we-do/professional-standards/ code-of-ethics.html ILO Convention (No. 169) concerning Indigenous and Tribal Peoples in Independent Countries. Jenkins, T. 2008: Dead bodies: The changing treatment of human remains in British Museum collections and the challenge to the traditional model of the museum. Mortality13 (2), 106-118. Jones, D. G. and R. J. Harris 1998. Archaeological Human remains. Current Anthropology 39 (2), 253-264. Krogh, M. H. 1999. Tradisjoner, landskap og folk: om kulturminner og -vern i Berlevåg: delundersøkelse under NFR-prosjektet “Vernet av faste kulturminner i skjæringen mellom tradisjon og modernitet”. Cand philol. thesis, University of Tromsø.

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Gørill Nilsen: Cultural heritage tourism in the North Letter from the Sámi Parliament: ref. 10/2396-3: Titel: Skjøtsel av kulturminner på Spildra i Kvænangen. Signed by Hans Arild Holmestrand and Ingvild Larsen 08.07.2010. Myrvoll, E. R. and A. Thuestad 2009. Før og etter: Overvåking av tilrettelagte kulturminne. Oslo, Stiftelsen Norsk Institutt for kulturminneforskning. Nilsen, G. 2003. Brytninger mellom lokal og akademisk kulturminnekunnskap. En analyse av fortidsforestillinger i Nord-Troms og Lofoten. Dr. art. thesis, University of Tromsø. Norwegian Official Report NOU (2002):1 Fortid former framtid. Nye byggesteiner i nord. Neste trinn i regjeringens nordområdestrategi.(2009) Departementene. March 12. 2009.. Pramli, M. C. 1999. Kulturminner i Harstad: mellom forskning, forvaltning og befolkning: Delundersøkelse under NFR-prsjektet “Vernet av faste kulturminner i skjæringen mellom tradisjon og modernitet”. Cand philol. thesis, University of Tromsø. Report No 16 2004-200. to the Storting: Leve med kulturminner Schanche, A. 2000. Graver i ur og berg. Samisk gravskikk og religion fra forhistorisk til nyere tid. Karasjok, Davvi Girji OS. Schanche, A. 2002. Knoklenes verdi: Om forskning på og forvaltning av skjelettmateriale fra samiske graver. In: Samisk forskning og forskningsetikk. Den nasjonale forskningsetiske komité for samfunnsvitenskap og humaniora (NESH) Publikasjon 2002 (2), 99-133. Schanche, A. 2004. Hva er samisk kulturlandskap? In M. Krogh and K. Schanche (eds.), Samisk forhistorie, 3130 Várjjat sámi musea čállosat. Schanche, A. and M. Jones 2007. Landscape, law and customary rights: report from a symposium in Guovdageaidnu-Kautokeino March 2003. Dieđut 2003/2004 (3), 26-28.. Smith, L. 2004a. Archaeological Theory and the Politics of Cultural Heritage. London and New York, Routledge. Smith, L. 2004b. The repatriation of human remains – problem or opportunity? Antiquity 78, 404-413. Smith, L. 2006. Uses of Heritage. London and New York, Routledge, London. Støa, S. and A. Mikkelsen 1979. Ragna Pedersen sa: -Dra ikke dit - det hviler en forbannelse over Skjervøykongens hule. Vi dro for å finne 4 bøtter sølv og gull… Hjemmet 44, October 30. 1979, 7-10. The Cultural Heritage Act. English version available at http://www.regjeringen.no/en/doc/Laws/Acts/ Cultural-Heritage-Act.html?id=173106 The Norwegian Constitution. Norwegian version available at http://www.lovdata.no/all/nl-18140517-000.html. The Norwegian Government’s High North Strategy. Norwegian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. December 1 (2006). The Open Files Act. Norwegian version available at http:// www.lovdata.no/all/nl-20060519-016.html

The Vermillion Accord on Human Remains. Available at http://www.worldarchaeologicalcongress.org/aboutwac/codes-of-ethics/168-vermillion The United Nations international covenant on civil and political rights. Available at http://www.hrweb.org/ legal/cpr.html World Archaeological Congress First Code of Ethics. Available at http://www.worldarchaeologicalcongress. org/site/about_ethi.php

Gørill Nilsen Department of Archaeology and Social Anthropology Faculty of Humanities, Social Sciences and Education University of Tromsø, 9037 Tromsø, Norway E-mail: [email protected]

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The values archaeologists ascribe to archaeological artefacts: the impact of workplace Atle Omland

University of Oslo

Abstract Findings in a survey, conducted in February 2009, indicate that archaeologists in Norway largely are socialized into stressing similar values about archaeological artefacts. The respondents were asked to take a stance to nine statements that each expresses a value that can be given to archaeological artefacts. The vast majority of the respondents give highest score to the values connected with knowledge, preservation and research access. These answers also are in line with current policies concerning the archaeological museums, which stress that they are research institutions, and in addition heritage policies, which emphasise the importance of preservation. Larger varieties of views among the respondents are, however, present concerning values that express a broader public interest, but also to what extent large archaeological collections are important. Such variation in views depends mainly on which institutions the respondents work at.

A worry raised in this article is that management of archaeological artefacts, in the future, might be governed by an increasingly narrow research culture that aspires to be on a national and international level. The argument held in this article is therefore that the archaeological institutions must focus, recurrently, at placing archaeological artefacts in the realm of a public good. Introduction According to the Norwegian Cultural Heritage Act of 1978, after an amendment of its purposes in 1992, the management of cultural heritage ought to be safeguarded both as a ‘scientific source material’, and according to public interests as an enduring basis for the experience of present and future generations and for their self-awareness, enjoyment and activities’ (§ 1).1 However, their value as a scientific research material is in practice often seen as the most significant asset of archaeological artefacts. The purpose of a survey, conducted in February 2009, has therefore been to identify which values that can be given to archaeological artefacts, archaeologists in Norway held as most important. By researching the values of archaeologists, I take a different approach than often is done in much heritage research. The last decennia, a trend both in Norway and internationally has been to gain knowledge about how interest groups value monuments and sites (e.g. Bertelsen et al., 1999; 2001; Brekmoe 2004; Clark 2006; Kavli 2003; Marshall 2002; Merriman 2004; Pokotylo and Guppy 1999). Often, the purpose of this research has been to improve preservation of archaeological monuments and sites, but also to find contemporary relevance for the practice of archaeology by enhancing public appreciation. Similarly, research on values surrounding archaeological artefacts often target a museum audience and how they appreciate the exhibitions (e.g. Gran and Vaagen 2010; Merriman, 1991).  English translation available at http://www.regjeringen.no/en/doc/Laws/ Acts/Cultural-Heritage-Act.html?id=173106. 1

The stance taken in this article is that the views of archaeologists are significant to research since they too are an important interest group: artefacts are important for their work, but they also formulate several of the premises that govern archaeological heritage management.2 Interests in the artefacts also differ among archaeologists, partly because their number is increasing, and they work at a larger variety of institutions with different obligations. The survey still indicates that the respondents constitute a relatively homogenous group who think similarly concerning some core values that can be ascribed to archaeological artefacts, and these are connected with knowledge, preservation, and research access. Multitudes of views are, however, present among the respondents concerning the values that express a broader public interest, but also on the importance of large archaeological collections. Background Consideration of various values that might be ascribed archaeological artefacts is, to me, an ethical concern since the law and management regime in Norway largely cater for scientific interests. Most importantly, since 1905, all found artefacts older than AD 1537 are the property of the State (Cultural Heritage Act of 1978, § 12). Five archaeological museums are the only institutions that legally are allowed to collect and take care of the artefacts. That these museums were, in their core, funded as important institutions for research is generally accepted (e.g. Brøgger   Research on views held by archaeologists has, however, only seldom been carried out. In archaeological literature, a general awareness is though present that contemporary political and social issues influence the archaeological discipline, its practice and individuals (e.g. Trigger, 1989). Research literature that compare views by the experts and the public might be Grete Lillehammer’s discussion on how environmental bureaucrats and farmers ascribe different heritage values to farms (Lillehammer 2004; 2009), but also own work on how archaeologists in Norway have taken different approaches to folklore about archaeological monuments (Omland 2010). Examples from other countries might include studies in the US in the 1980s and 1990s on to what extent students are influenced by interpretations seen as ‘pseudo-archaeology’ (e.g. Feder 1984; 2006). 2

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N-TAG TEN also a short discussion in Brun and Sørgaard 2008, 108). In some cases, landowners or finders also want to keep the artefacts. In some rare situations, local communities call for a return of artefacts to the place they were found and, allegedly, ‘belong’ (Omland 2008; 2010, 70-75, 95-115; cf. Gilhus 2004). In conflict situations, the museums have, however, generally defended their legal title to care for and research the artefacts (e.g. Mikkelsen 1999; Solberg 1999).

Fig. 1: Norway with counties and the five designated (Source: Norwegian Mapping Authority)

archaeological university museums

1929, 7; Omland 2010, 32-33; Østmo and Bergstøl 2004; Pedersen 1999, 30-32; Shetelig 1944, 22-51). Today, these museums are all university museums as they are parts of the universities of Oslo, Bergen, Trondheim, Tromsø and Stavanger (Fig. 1). In line with the institutional affiliation of the archaeological museums, current policies aim at strengthening research as their core obligation (St.meld. nr. 15 (2007-2008)). That said, the museums do also make parts of the collections available for the public, such as through exhibitions, loans and publications, and digitization is today seen as the most important strategy for dissemination (St.meld. nr. 15 (2007-2008); NDU-utvalget, 2009; cf. Andreassen 2006; 2006b; Andreassen and Sem 2007). This integration of research and archaeological management has several benefits. For instance, rescue excavations are supposed to contribute to answer research questions. The system might also be of great benefit for researchers who are interested in a particular geographical area since the five museums store all archaeological artefacts from each area of Norway, together with documentation such as excavation reports. The integration of research and management still raises ethical considerations about which interests in the artefacts that ought to be catered for. For instance, archaeologists might be seen as the most important interest group since the artefacts are collected and cared for as their own research material. Concern has therefore been raised about access to the material, both for the public and other researchers (see

In recent years, collection care has also become a relatively ‘hot issue’ and received media attention (Brun and Sørgaard 2008). Poor conservation of some collections of the university museums (both the cultural historical and natural) has been documented (Bjørke 2003). Since this, several improvements have been made, however, and collection management has even been placed on the political agenda (NOU nr. 8 2006; St.meld. nr. 15 (20072008)). Questions have also been raised whether some material ought to be discarded since, in the last few decades, large excavation projects, coupled with new research questions and methods, have caused an increasing amount of material to be collected for the museums. This includes mass material, waste and scientific sample that is difficult and expensive to store and conserve ( Brun and Sørgaard 2008, 105; Frydenberg 2008). In other words, the museums are presently meeting several challenges related to collection care. Partly with these discussions in mind, I decided to execute a survey to identify which values related to archaeological artefacts that archaeologists generally held as most important. Method: survey among archaeologists People in Norway with a higher degree in archaeology (masters or equivalent) were invited, in February 2009, to participate in the survey. A web-based survey was preferred, instead of paper-based, as it is cheaper, quicker and easier to distribute, and it was supposed that most archaeologists had Internet access (for discussion about web-based surveys, see Parsons 2007). E-mail was used for recruiting the respondents. The addresses were retrieved through various institutions that employ archaeologists, e-mail lists, but also by using a Facebook group for archaeology in Norway. The high participation rate, 338 respondents, and the comments in the open-ended questions, indicates that the respondents were enthusiastic about the issues raised in the survey. A careful estimate is that the 338 persons that participated in the survey comprise at least 30% of the population of archaeologists in Norway (for some estimates of the population see Haaland 2011; Johansen 2005; Nilsen 2001, 92). However, participation varies for each decennium and for which institutions archaeologists were educated from. For instance, participation of the archaeologists educated from the University of Oslo 2000-2008 was as high as 64% (78 of the 121), but for the period 1970-1979 only 33% participated (10 of the c. 30). Largely, the survey also 146

Atle Omland: The values archaeologists ascribe to archaeological artefacts: the impact of workplace represents the younger generation of archaeologists since respondents in the age group 30-39 dominate (42,4 % of the respondents), and those who finished their degree in the period 2000-2008 (59,5 %). None at the age of 70 or older participated, and only one respondent finished the degree before 1970. More women (59,9 %) than men (40,1 %) also participated. Still, I dare to say that these figures are relatively representative for the population of archaeologists in Norway.

generally held as most important. Both academics and heritage managers commonly discuss various values that can be ascribed to the cultural heritage, and how to negotiate between crossing interests, in particular related to immovables (in Norway e.g. Omland et al. 2007; Seip 2003), but also to artefacts (e.g. Baer 1998; Caple, 2006, 6-12). However, I have not found any similar research on which values archaeologists, or conservators, rank as most important, although they might exist.

Since the respondents largely were recruited through various institutions that employ archaeologists, people who currently do not do work related to archaeology are probably underrepresented (11.9 % of the respondents). Possibly, respondents with a research or career interest in archaeological artefacts are overrepresented too since the survey relates to their work. For instance, I was surprised that so many as about 50 % of the respondents answer it was ‘very important’ for them to study artefacts for their higher degree in archaeology (masters or equivalent). Still, the importance of studying artefacts gradually drops for each decennium people finished their degree (from the 1970s to the 2000s). This tendency is, however, opposite of a study from US where the use of museum collections for Ph.D. dissertations rose during the 1990s, allegedly because attention was directed to elderly collections since new research material became more difficult to retrieve (Sullivan and Childs 2003, 108). The decrease in Norway suggests, however, that a larger variety of issues are treated, such as theory, heritage, landscape, monuments, etc. that do not require the study of artefacts, but also that it might be difficult for an increasing number of students to get good enough access to the museum collections. The survey also documents that the respondents rate the use of the artefacts as less important for their job after studying, and even as less important for their prospective career.

The values I decided to assess were formulated as nine statements, as listed in Table I. These cover issues that might be raised in debates surrounding archaeological artefacts and collection care (discussed above). The statements were formulated simply so that, hopefully, they would be relatively easy to understand for non-archaeologists as well, who would be asked the same questions in similar surveys (these results are not discussed here).

Values and interests The purpose of the survey was to attain knowledge about which values in archaeological artefacts that the respondents

The respondents were asked to give a score to the nine statements on a ‘Likert scale’ from 1 (not important) to 5 (very important). The aim was to attain very general knowledge about which core values archaeologists would give highest score, and not to distinguish between different kinds of artefacts or particular cases. The weakness of this approach, however, is that it made it difficult for some respondents to choose, and they might have felt that they were forced to take some choices they did not necessarily always agree upon. Another weakness is that it does not capture the dynamics of the objects, such as considering that values and interests can change over time related to the life-history of artefacts (e.g. Alberti 2005; Holtorf 2002; Kopytoff 1986). One should also be aware that the statements do not stand in opposition towards each other, and it is possible to give a high score to all of them without being contradictory, perhaps with the exception of two statements about storing artefacts. In this analysis, I am also concerned about how archaeologists balance between public and archaeological interests. The values were therefore categorized according

Statement

Value

That the artefacts are exhibited for the public That the artefacts might contribute to strengthen local identity That the artefacts contribute to attract tourists and visitors to those municipalities where they were found That the artefacts are stored at the geographical place “where they belong home” That the artefacts contribute to keep and built up large archaeological collections That researchers get best possible access to the artefacts That scholars with expertise in archaeology and conservation are responsible for them That the artefacts are used to attain knowledge about the past That the artefacts are best possibly preserved for the future

Public display Local identity

Interests predominantly cater for Public Public

Tourism/local economy

Public

Importance of place

Public

Large collections

Archaeologists

Research access Experts in charge/work opportunities Knowledge Preservation

Archaeologists

Table 1: The statements with corresponding values 147

Archaeologists Shared Shared

N-TAG TEN to whose interests they predominantly cater for (see Table 1): archaeologists, the public, or for both archaeologists and the public (depending on what they are used for). This categorization might also be criticized as it expresses too simple a dichotomy between public and archaeological interests. For instance, knowledge gained by research access benefit the public too when disseminated, while public display might provide archaeologists with more jobs. The choices do not reveal the motivations of the respondents either, such as that the artefacts, somehow, might enable them to get a job or improve their career. The categorization is still a useful tool in order to analyze and understand the findings. Analysis In line with suggestions by statisticians (e.g. Hellevik 2002: 200), the analysis is kept simple as the aim is that that it will be relatively easily understood by readers who do not know much about statistics. I am also the first to admit that, being trained in the humanities, but familiar with some statistics (e.g. Drennan 2009; Kristiansen 2007; Krokan 1995; Ringdal 2007; VanPool and Leonard 2011), I myself often struggle to understand how to use many of the available methods and, actually, how to interpret the outcome of such analysis. The analysis is therefore kept simple and it goes through three stages: • to identify central tendencies on how the respondents, as a group, answer the statements • estimate which factors (i.e. variables) have an effect on the score the respondents give to the statements • according to these findings: discuss some implications The reader also has to be aware that even though the data sets are quantitative they rely on interpretation. Various factors might also have influenced the results, such as the selection of archaeologists who answered the survey, but also how I phrased the questions. Nuances to the answers were gained, however, by studying comments given by the respondents in the open-ended questions. The analysis of the comments was performed by coding them in NVivo, which is a computer program developed for qualitative research, with a list of c. 50 keywords developed for the purpose of this analysis. Central tendencies: like-minded archaeologists? The aim of identifying central tendencies is to find out which values the respondents, as a group, give archaeological artefacts. This analysis is based on studying the score the respondents gave the nine statements (from 1 to 5), but also how they ranked them according to average score (from 1 to 9), as given in Table 1. These findings indicate that as a group, the respondents think relatively homogenously: they give highest scores to the values concerned with shared interests and those predominantly important for archaeologists. Still, larger differences of

views are present regarding the statements that express public interests. As seen in Figure 1, that the artefacts ought to be used to gain knowledge about the past is the primary value the respondents give the artefacts: 89.6 % of the respondents states this as very important! This indicates that archaeologists are much aware that the artefacts primarily ought to be used for something, and in particular for gaining knowledge. This is also confirmed throughout the survey where the respondents recurrently stress knowledge. The other statements that the respondents rank highest might also be related to knowledge, such as preservation (rank 2), that experts are responsible for the artefacts (rank 3) and research access (also ranked 3). However, it might come as a surprise that the importance of large collections, which might cater for the research needs of archaeologists, is given a much lower score. The respondents rank it as number 7 after two public interests. This is also the statement with highest disagreement among the respondents and is discussed further later in this article. Although the respondents could give, if they wanted to, the same score to all statements, a majority differentiated their answers and gave lower score to the statements that predominantly express public interests. For instance, the importance of public display is ranked as number 5, although it must be said that the respondents still consider display as significant since answer 4 (important) is given most often. However, the neutral answer 3 is most often given to the three other public values, which indicates that the respondents do not have strong views on them. These include strengthening local identity, attract tourists to local communities, and store the artefacts where they “belong”, and these are ranked as number 6, 8 and 9. After analysing the results, one might be surprised that the respondents constitute a relatively homogenous group who share several of the same values, although disagreements can be traced regarding the importance of large collections and the public statements. In one way, this is a relief since it indicates that the majority of archaeologists agree with several of the principles that the current management is based upon, and it is not maintained because of an elderly ‘tradition’ or “habit”. The results are still worrying as archaeologists might be seen as a ‘congregation’ of likeminded individuals who share the same ethic about the archaeological record. This also questions if you have to be part of the academic discipline of archaeology in order to share these values. That said, the analysis does indicate that differences are present between various groups of archaeologists. Ranking of ten variables according to effect A second objective has been to analyse which factors that have an impact, often termed ‘effect’, on the score the respondents give the statements. The answers were therefore analysed according to ten variables (e.g. ‘sex’), with 37 groups of respondents (e.g. ‘men’, ‘women’), that 148

Atle Omland: The values archaeologists ascribe to archaeological artefacts: the impact of workplace Variable

Groups of respondents

Type institution work at (only Archaeological district museum; higher education/ respondents working related research; governmental; county; other institution to archaeology) related to archaeology Stone Age; Bronze Age; Iron Age; Middle Ages/ Current field of interest Modern Period/Maritime Archaeology; Heritage/ theory/etc.; other Decennium finished higher 1970s; 1980s; 1990s; 2000s degree Education level Not-doctorate; doctorate University educated from Oslo; Bergen; Trondheim; Tromsø; abroad (higher degree) Age 20s; 30s; 40s; 50s; 60s Work area Higher education/research; technical/administration; other (only respondents working related to archaeology) Within archaeology or somewhat related to Field of work archaeology; not in an archaeology related position Position type Permanent; contract 6 months or more; temporary contracts less than 6 months (only respondents working related to archaeology) Sex Man; woman

Standard deviation of the population

Effect

1,693

Highest

1,240 1,238 1,235 1,216

Medium

1,159 1,136 0,795 0,401

Lower

Lowest

0,390

Table 2: The effect of ten variables supposedly would have an effect, as listed in Table II. One might suppose that relatively large differences among the respondents would be present according to factors such as sex, age, where the respondents work, or if they currently do work related to archaeology or not. The analysis is, however, surprising since it indicates that for instance age has a low effect. The hypotheses still proved right that type of institution the respondents work at has a large effect on how they assess the nine statements. A number of methods can be used to establish the effect of different variables. One way is to calculate standard deviation for each variable to find out which one that has highest dispersion of answers (for a simple explanation of the formula, see Midtbø 2007, 42-43). In short, standard deviation tells us how much variation there is from the mean, but if this number is high or low is meaningful mainly when compared with other variables. This method requires some considerations, however, since some statisticians argue that standard deviation and the mean cannot be used to analyse numbers from 1 to 5 on a ‘Likert scale’ (e.g. VanPool and Leonard 2011, 58). This argument is based on the theory of level of measurements, developed by the American psychologist Stanley Smith Stevens in 1946, which categorizes numbers according to nominal, ordinal, interval or ratio scales. The numbers in the ‘Likert scale’ can be seen as ordinals, and the average or standard deviation cannot be estimated since the difference between for instance 1 and 2 is not necessarily the same as the difference between 4 and 5. Other statisticians disagree, and they argue that these scale

types are not necessarily an attribute of the data, but might change according to the questions you ask (e.g. Velleman and Wilkinson 1993, 69). According to such perspectives, the numbers on the ‘Likert scale’ can be seen as intervaldata, i.e. evenly distributed. In these cases, averages and standard deviation can be estimated, which is also done in much research (see for instance Dawes 2008). For the purpose of this analysis, effect was estimated by ranking the ten variables according to the sum of the standard deviation of population of the average score of all nine statements (see Table I). Standard deviation of population (σ) is almost the same formula as the standard deviation (s). The difference is that the variance is divided on the number of units (the n method), and not number of units minus one (n-1)(for a discussion see e.g. VanPool and Leonard 2011, 53). In this case, standard deviation would have overestimated the variance, in particular concerning those variables with only two groups such as “education level”. Microsoft Excel estimates the standard deviation of population by inserting the formula STDEVP. This analysis indicates that the type of institution the respondents work at has highest effect. Contrary, the variable ‘sex’ has lowest impact. Most variables cluster somewhere in between and have a medium effect, but since deviation is relatively close these differences can be accidental and their ranking should not be seen as absolute. Such an analysis tells us only something very general since the variables have different effect for each of the nine statements, but this is disguised when deviation for all nine 149

N-TAG TEN is added. For instance, workplace has highest effect for the statements that express public interests. If one considers only the three statements that express archaeological interests, the variables ‘education level’ and ‘work area’ are moderately more important than ‘institution work at’. The reason is mainly that respondents with a doctorate, or who work with higher education/research, give these statements highest score. Inclusion of more groups within each variable might also change the results. For instance, the variable ‘sex’ would have had a much higher effect if I added the group ‘transsexual’ and these – if they exist among the respondents – have opinions that differ largely from other men and women. Despite these issues, I hold it as certain that workplace still is the variable with highest effect. The effect of workplace The analysis indicates that if one will try to understand differences in scores one should research factors primarily related to workplace, but to a lesser extent those related to sex. In the following, the scores are discussed according to workplace, as shown in Figure 2 and Table III. This discussion includes only those who work within or related to archaeology (88,1 % of the respondents). By studying Figure 2 and Table III, one is struck by the fact that the respondents are loyal to the core values of the institutions they work at. For instance, those respondents who work at institutions devoted to research are those who give highest score to the values that express archaeological interests, and conversely, lowest score to

1. That the artefacts are used to attain knowledge about the past (N 335, average 4,88, modus 5)

0.0 % 0.6 % 0.6 % 0.0 % 0.3 % 3.6 %

3. That scholars with expertise in archaeology and conservation are responsible for them (N 334, average 4,61, modus 5)

0.6 % 0.3 %

3. That researchers get best possible access to the artefacts (N 336, average 4,61, modus 5)

0.0 %

6. That the artefacts might contribute to strengthen local identity (N 333, average 3,41, modus 3)

0.6 %

18.5 %

68.2 %

23.4 %

38.5 %

12.9 %

8.9 %

30.0 %

29.7 %

21.0 %

19.4 %

10%

31.7 %

34.8 %

23.2 %

7.5 %

0%

70.1 %

25.6 %

1.5 % 5.0 %

5.1 %

77.7 %

22.8 %

5.7 %

8. That the artefacts contribute to attract tourists and visitors to those municipalities where they were found (N 334, average 3,07, modus 3)

Black = shared interests Red = predominantly archaeological interests Blue = predominantly public interests

89.6 %

6.3 %

7. That the artefacts contribute to keep and built up large archaeological collections (N 327, average 3,14, modus 3)

9. That the artefacts are stored at the geographical place “where they belong home” (N 330, average 2,69, modus 3)

That said, the employees at the archaeological museums do not give highest score to all statements that are in line with the obligations of their institutions: the importance of research and knowledge seems to overrule other tasks. For instance, preserving the artefacts is a core obligation of the archaeological museums, but their employees are the only respondents who rank preservation as low as number 3, after research and that the experts have responsibility. Instead, people who work in the governmental sector are those who give highest score to preservation, and they are the only respondents who rank it as number 1 (the other respondents rank it as number 2 after knowledge). Why people in the governmental sector rank preservation highest might be explained according to their responsibilities too: they are in charge of the current policies that stress preservation of immovables (St.meld. nr. 16 (2004-2005)). However, these policies also affirm that cultural heritage might be used to create various values in local communities, including economical benefits (for a discussion about this approach, see Omland et al. 2007). These policies do still not seem to

9.3 %

2. That the artefacts are best possibly preserved for the future (N 336, average 4,74, modus 5)

5. That the artefacts are exhibited for the public (N 338, average 3,94, modus 4)

the public interests. This finding is most obvious when one analyze the preferences of the respondents who work at the archaeological museums. It might not come as a surprise either, since these museums are responsible for taking care of the artefacts, that it is the employees at the archaeological museums that give lowest score to the statement that the artefacts are stored at the geographical place ‘where they belong’. Similarly, employees at universities/other research institutions emphasize research too, and they are the respondents who give lowest score to two of the public statements (public display and local identity).

20%

21.4 %

37.1 %

25.8 %

30%

1 (not important)

17.1 %

16.8 %

25.7 %

29.7 %

40%

50%

2

3 (neutral)

60%

4

16.7 %

70%

80%

5 (very important)

Fig. 2: Average score and ranking of the nine statements (all respondents) 150

8.7 %

8.5 %

90%

100%

Atle Omland: The values archaeologists ascribe to archaeological artefacts: the impact of workplace Knowledge

Institution Archaeological university museum, or maritime museum University/ other research institution County Govern-mental Other related to archaeology

Preservation

Experts Rese-arch Public in charge/ access display work opportunities

Local identity

Large collections

Tourism/ local economy

Importance of place

Score / Rank 4,93 1

4,79

3

4,80

2

4,72

4

3,89

5

3,24

7

3,41

6

2,86

8

2,30

9

4,90

1

4,76

2

4,60

3

4,57

4

3,65

5

3,11

7

3,42

6

2,98

8

2,67

9

4,89 4,83 4,79

1 2 1

4,76 4,87 4,54

2 1 2

4,57 4,43 4,45

3 4 3

4,51 4,65 4,41

4 3 4

4,18 3,96 3,83

5 5 5

3,67 3,52 3,75

6 6 6

2,76 3,09 2,83

9 7 9

3,50 2,83 3,17

7 8 7

2,96 2,55 3,31

8 9 8

Table 3: Average scores and ranking according to workplace

151

N-TAG TEN influence how the respondents in the governmental sector value archaeological artefacts. Together with employees at the archaeological museums, they are those who give lowest score to the statement that the artefacts are used to attract tourists to the local communities. A second example demonstrating that research and knowledge overrule other obligations is that the respondents employed at the archaeological museums rank public display only as number five, even though public access is a core obligation of these museums. That said, the other respondents too rank this statement as number five, but they give it a higher score. These are in particular respondents who work at one of the nineteen counties, who also give highest score to the statement about using the artefacts to attract tourists to the local communities. This too might be explained according to the obligation of the counties, amongst others for maintenance and in situ presentation of archaeological monuments and sites. The survey also documents that respondents who do not have any formal management responsibility for archaeology, but still work related to archaeology in private or public institutions, are also those who place themselves furthest away from the archaeological core values. For instance, these are the respondents who give highest score to statements concerning local identity, and that the artefacts are stored where they belong’ (which they even rank higher than the importance of large archaeological collections). The survey does not answer if the individual respondents actually adhere to the norms of their workplace, or if they feel obliged – even in an anonymous survey – to express these views. The survey does not answer either if the respondents started to work at the institutions because they already held these values. Alternatively, the respondents might have been socialized to share certain values through their work, often termed organizational socialization, which is said to have a function to keep the institutions together and stimulate the employees to work for common and shared goals (Riggio 2009, 312-314). In this case, both processes are probably present since it is plausible that many archaeologists work at a certain institution because, to some extent, it concords with their interest, but also that they are socialized into sharing several of the norms of the institution they started to work at. Still, the qualitatively study of the comments to the openended questions give shadings to the results – it even indicates that some respondents express two different messages in the survey. In their comments, several respondents, including those who work at the university museums, are enthusiastic on behalf of public interests, such as increased loans and display of the artefacts. Despite this respondents express an enthusiasm to the public interests, when forced to choose, they give the highest score to values connected with knowledge, preservation and archaeological interests.

Controversies about the importance of large collections When one considers all variables, and not only workplace, the importance of building up and keeping large archaeological collections is the statement with largest different views among the respondents. This holds according to both deviation in score and different ranking of the statement. This indicates that if you put a diverse group of archaeologists together and ask them to discuss one of the nine statements, the importance of large collections is what they would disagree most on. Controversies concerning the importance of large collections might come as a surprise since the survey also indicates that so many as 78 % of the respondents agree with the current management model and that five university museums are responsible for the artefacts. This was documented in another question where the respondents were asked to give priority to six different management models. Some variation can still be found when the answers are analysed according to workplace: first priority to the current model varies between 87,7 % (respondents who work for the archaeological museums) and 68,6 % (respondents who work for the counties). Support to the current model is also evidenced as a majority of the respondents, 58,1 %, agree to the assertion that an “important advantage of the current system with five museums is that it enables researchers to get an overview over the archaeological material.” Comments in the survey further indicate that the respondents are enthusiastic that the university museums have the main responsibility for the artefacts. Amongst others, these museums are seen as more stable than other institutions. If other institutions gain obligations, some respondents held that these too ought to be based on the same principles as the current university museums, such as to be devoted to research. Given the strong support to the current model, how can it then be that the respondents have so different views on the statement about the importance of large collections? My interpretation is that the different views about the importance of large collections questions what kind of institutions the archaeological university museums, with their large collections, ought to be, and who they should be in service for. For instance, ought the archaeological museums to cater predominantly for own researchers and make artefacts available mainly through exhibitions at their own institutions? Alternatively, ought the museums largely to be service institutions that care for the collections on behalf of other, in where the needs of other researchers and institutions are as important as their own? The survey indicates that some tension among the respondents is present concerning these issues. For instance, several respondents do not support that the institution they work at should be responsible for the artefacts. After all, I would like to add, it is a demanding task to catalogue, store and conserve them! In other contexts, such as in the US, various agencies might even wish to lose ownership rights because of the costs of collections 152

Atle Omland: The values archaeologists ascribe to archaeological artefacts: the impact of workplace care (Sullivan and Childs 2003, 31). Comments given by the respondents also indicate that although a general awareness is present that the archaeological record, which includes artefacts, excavation reports, documentations, etc., is a public material that ought to be available for all, this does not necessarily imply that more institutions ought to be responsible for it. For instance, several respondents complain, in their comments, that the artefacts are not utilized enough, which is pertinent to many museums (for a general discussion on the uses of museum collections, see Keene 2005). As many as 72,3 % of the respondents even agree to the assertion, often voiced by archaeologists and members of the public, that the artefacts “are kept in storages and hardly anyone can see them”. This indicates that opinions are present that the collections could have been more utilized. Another question in the survey, concerning presentation of artefacts, also support the interpretation that many respondents would like to benefit from the artefacts by using them for display, but they would still not like be responsible for the collection care. This holds in particular for the respondents who work at the counties. The respondents were asked to choose among four different ways of public dissemination of the artefacts. Of the respondents who work at the counties, 60.0 % gave first priority to more loans from the university museums to local exhibitions. To compare, 39.0 % of the respondents who work at the archaeological museums gave first priority to improving access at their institutions, and less to exhibitions outside their own museums (33.3 %). Still, it is clear that the respondents who work at the counties support that five archaeological museums are in charge since only 10,0 % of them give first priority to a management model where institutions in the counties are responsible, compared to 68.6 % who give first priority to the current management model. Tensions about which role the archaeological museums ought to have are also present in the comments given by the respondents. Some respondents, even some who work at the university museums, argue that the museums are not sufficient devoted to public interests or researchers at other institutions. Some respondents who raise this critique explain it due to factors such as that the museums do not have enough capacity to make the artefacts better accessible for the public or researchers. Other respondents explains it as due to arrogance by the museums and their employees, and that some archaeologists are more interested in securing access to their own research material than managing it as a public good. This is a strong critique, and the respondents do not document it with examples. However, the critique might be relevant to raise since the survey indicates that the employees at the university museums are those who express highest commitment to research and research access. What the survey does not answer, however, is if this commitment is an expression of an ethical imperative that the artefacts in general ought to be better accessible for researchers or, if possibly, these

respondents mainly are concerned with securing research access for themselves. Discussion: which interests might be stressed more strongly in the future? What then are the consequences of the findings in this survey? Several issues might be considered, but I will limit myself to a discussion of which interests that will be stressed strongest in the future, those of archaeologists or those of the public. That the respondents rate highest values related to knowledge, preservation and research indicate that, in the future, the shared and archaeological interests will continue to be most important. This is also in line with current policies that stress the importance of research. For instance, rescue excavations now have to be accompanied with a project design, which again is based upon larger programmes that currently are being developed by the museums (e.g. Glørstad 2006; Indrelid 2009; Larsen 2009). Prior to a development project, which might disturb an archaeological site, these programmes will be used to consider whether dispensation from the protection order will be given, but also their research importance, if a site ought to be excavated or not, and the extent of an eventual excavation (cf. Trøim and Johansen 2011). The current dilemma in Norway, as in many other countries, is still that the potential of this tremendous amount of research material, ‘rescued’ the last years as a scientific material prior to developments, is not fully utilized. Each year, rescue excavations costs usually around 80-100 million Norwegian crowns (c. 10-13 million Euros), and these are both public and private money. Less money and resources are available for researching the recovered material, even though it is argued that it must be safeguarded as an important research material. Current policies therefore require that the archaeological museums also design larger research projects that are directed towards this material (St.meld. nr. 15 (2007-2008)). To some extent, the argument is now turned the other way around: initially, the material had to be ‘saved’ because of research, but now one have to research because of the large amount of material that is being retrieved. This focus at research might ensure both more and higher quality of research on the archaeological material. Knowledge gained might also cater for several public interests – however, I am not sure if always this will be the outcome. My worry is that the current focus on research might move more of the archaeological practice away from the general history interested public, but also create a larger divide between archaeologists. This worry is based on the recognition that, today, research is a highly specialized task, often judged as important if it aspires to be on a national or an international level. For instance, larger research projects require that a national or international network with experts is established, such as the ones currently designed by the university museums 153

N-TAG TEN (Kulturhistorisk museum 2008; 2009; for a critical discussion see Ingvaldsen 2009). Further, the introduction of a system in Norway, in 2005, to assess quality and quantity of research, and which is used to grant parts of the funding to research institutions, also gives highest credit to articles published in prestigious journals, usually peer reviewed international journals. In contrast, the system does not give credit to dissemination of the results to the public. Quantity is also stressed prior to quality. Many researchers therefore regard it as a controversial system (Bostad 2009; Elvebakk 2009). These critiques compare to worries editors of international history of science journals have concerning a similar system in the European Union (Ariew and Feingold 2009). Therefore, I am worried if this current turn towards research will have the impact of sustaining a more narrow research culture at the university museums as well. This worry should not be seen as a critique against the importance of knowledge, research, or an academic culture that I am also part of. I aspire to publish internationally too (e.g. Omland 2010), although, honestly I must admit, with some discomfort as it is less accessible for non-specialists. Still, my critique is a moderately expressed worry concerning the current research policies that give highest value to research and publications on ‘international’ level, and everyone involved in research at a university or research institute have to, somehow, strive for this. I even wonder how many archaeologists in Norway who actually have the necessary qualifications and skills, but also the interest, personal drive and commitment to ‘compete’ on a national or international level. Still, the survey indicates that public interests too, in the future, will have to be emphasized more strongly. What supports this interpretation is that the engaged respondents in their comments write enthusiastically about the public importance of archaeology. In the future, archaeologists, who are increasing in number, will also have to work at different institutions that are less research based than the current university museums, and these might stress stronger broader public interests in the artefacts. The current policies also launch digitization as an important means of dissemination of the museum collections. Stronger calls might be raised too, locally and from politicians, that more revenue from the excavation projects must be given back to the society that pays to rescue the data. Conclusions: the importance of artefacts Whichever interests that in the future will be most important, the survey does document that the respondents are enthusiastic on behalf of archaeological artefacts. The youngest generation of respondents also has, compared to the elder, the highest optimism on behalf of them: they are the only respondents who assume the artefacts will be slightly more important for their prospective career than they were for their studies. These respondents are particularly those educated after 2000, those who do not

have a permanent job, but also those who work at the university museums. This optimism might be due to a stronger focus at the artefacts in the aftermath of the new policies concerning the university museums, which calls for more research and dissemination of the collections through digitization (St. meld. nr. 15 (2007-2008)). The optimism might also be due to the large rescue excavation projects that, the last decade, have retrieved much new material and caused, perhaps, a hope among the youngest generation of archaeologists to get a relevant job. A current turn in archaeology towards ‘things’, which some theoretical minded archaeologists fashionably have termed “materiality” (e.g. Olsen 2010), might also have an impact. Undeniably, this interest in archaeological artefacts is important. However, I hope that the archaeological institutions, and in particular those devoted to research, will use the values archaeologists seem to appreciate highest – knowledge, preservation and research access – to place the artefacts also in the realm of the public also as a ‘common good’. Acknowledgements My gratitude first goes to the 338 archaeologists who took time and responded to my questionnaire. I am also grateful to Josephine Munch Rasmussen and Herdis Hølleland who let me present the survey at their session at Nordic TAG. Rasmussen also commented a draft of the article, so did my colleague Professor Christopher Prescott. The editorial committee of this book also commented on earlier drafts, as did two anonymous referees. The statistician BjørnHelge Mevik (University of Oslo) has answered many of my questions related to statistics.

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Gilhus, I. S. 2004. Kampen om Dønnafallosen. In J. Børtnes, S.-E. Kraft and L. Mikaelsson (eds.), Kampen om kroppen. Kulturanalytisk blikk på kropp, helse, kjønn og seksualitet, 173-187. Kristiansand, Edited by. Høyskoleforlaget. Glørstad, H. 2006. Steinalderundersøkelser. Faglig program. Varia 61. Oslo, Kulturhistorisk museum. Gran, A.-B. and H. Vaagen 2010. Kunnskap om – medvirkning av – formidling for mangfoldige museumsbrukere. Oslo, Kulturhistorisk museum/ Perducu Kultur AS. Available at http://www.khm. uio.no/rapporter/brukerundersokelse.pdf, accessed 3 January 2011. Haaland, M. M. 2011. Arkeologiutdannelse i Norge anno 2010. En komparativ undersøkelse av norske arkeologiutdannelser RISS (1 Spesialnummer), 6-21. Hellevik, O. 2002. Forskningsmetode i sosiologi og statsvitenskap. Oslo, Universitetsforlaget. Holtorf, C. J. 2002. Notes on the Life History of a Pot Sherd. Journal of Material Culture 7(1), 49-71. Indrelid, S. 2009. Arkeologiske undersøkelser i vassdrag. Faglig program for Sør-Norge. Oslo, Riksantikvaren. Ingvaldsen, H. 2009. Stortingsmeldingen Tingenes tale – fra grunnforskning til tingenes talerør? Primitive tider 11, 125-135. Johansen, H. M. 2005. Oversikt over hovedfagsoppgaver, mag.avhandlinger og dr.avhandlinger i arkeologi i Norge. Trondheim, Universitetsbiblioteket i Trondheim. Kavli, H. 2003. Rapport om befolkningens holdning til vern av kulturminner. Utarbeidet for Riksantikvaren, Oslo. Keene, S. 2005. Fragments of the World. Uses of Museum Collections. Amstardam, Elsevier. Kopytoff, I. 1986. The cultural biography of things: commoditization as process. In A. Appadurai (ed.), The social life of things. Commodities in cultural perspective, 64-91. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kristiansen, J. E. 2007. Tall kan temmes! Om å bruke og formidle statistikk. Kristiansand, IJ-forlaget. Krokan, A. 1995. Forstå statistikk. Statistiske metoder for samfunnsfag og humaniora. Oslo, Kolle forlag. Kulturhistorisk museum 2008. Faglige prioriteringer. Kulturhistorisk museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. Available at http://www.khm.uio.no/forskning/ prioriteringer/Faglig_prioritering.pdf, accessed 3 January 2011. Kulturhistorisk museum 2009. Gjennomføringsplan for FAGLIG PRIORITERING 2009-2013. Kulturhistorisk museum, Universitetet i Oslo, Oslo. Available at http://www.khm.uio.no/forskning/prioriteringer/ Gjennomforingsplan.pdf, accessed 3 January 2011. Larsen, J. H. 2009. Jernvinneundersøkelser. Faglig program. Bind 2. Varia 78. Oslo, Kulturhistorisk museum. Lillehammer, G. 2004. Konflikter i landskapet. Kulturminnevern og kulturforståelse: Analyse av alvedans og utmarksmiljø i Hå kommune i Rogaland,

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N-TAG TEN SV-Norge. AmS-Varia 42. Stavanger, Arkeologisk museum i Stavanger. Lillehammer, G. 2009. Making them draw. The use of drawings when researching public attitudes towards the past In M.L.S. Sørensen and J. Carman (eds.), Heritage Studies. Methods and Approaches, 253-269. London and New York, Routledge. Marshall, Y. E. 2002. Community archaeology. World Archaeology 34(2). Merriman, N. 1991. Beyond the Glass Case: the Past, Heritage and the Public in Britain. Leicester, Leicester University Press. Merriman, N. 2004. Public archaeology. London and New York, Routledge. Midtbø, T. 2007. Regresjonsanalyse for samfunnsvitere. Oslo, Universitetsforlaget. Mikkelsen, E. 1999. Hvor hører museumsgjenstander hjemme? Aftenposten, 26 August 1999. NDU-utvalget (2009) Nasjonalt digitalt universitetsmuseum (NDU). Oslo, Kunnskapsdepartementet. Available at: http://www.regjeringen.no/nb/dep/kd/pressesenter/ pressemeldinger/2009/foreslar-nytt-nasjonalt-digitaltunivers.html?id=564233. Nilsen, G. 2001. Fremtidsutsikter på det arkeologiske arbeidsmarkedet. Primitive tider 4, 91-100. NOU nr. 8 2006 Kunnskap for fellesskapet. Universitetsmuseenes utfordringer. Norges offentlige utredninger 2006: 8. Olsen, B. 2010. In Defense of Things. Archaeology and the Ontology of Objects. Lanham, AltaMira, Omland, A. 2008. Local resistance in Norway against State ownership of archaeological objects In K. Chilidis, J. Lund and C. Prescott (eds.), Facets of Archaeology. Essays in honour of Lotte Hedeager on her 60th birthday, 369-383. Edited by Oslo Archaeological Series 10. Oslo, Unipub. Omland, A. 2010. Stewards and Stakeholders of the Archaeological Record: Archaeologists, Folklore and Burial Mounds in Agder, Southern Norway. BAR International Series 2153. Oxford, BAR Publishing. Omland, A., B. Skar and K. Fageraas (eds.) 2007. Kulturminner og verdiskaping i Norden. Nordisk workshop, Oslo 2. – 3. mai 2007. TemaNord 2007: 609. København, Nordisk Ministerråd. Østmo, E. and J. Bergstøl 2004. Forskning, samling og vern. Hundre års arkeologi på Tullinløkka. In J. Bergstøl, A. A. Peminow and A. C. Eek. (eds.), Kulturhistorier i sentrum. Historisk museum 100 år, 85-105. Oslo, Kulturhistorisk museum. Parsons, C. 2007. Web-Based Surveys: Best Practices Based on the Research Literature. Visitor Studies 10(1), 13-33. Pedersen, R. 1999. Noen trekk av museenes historie i Norge frem til tidlig 1900-tall. In A. B. Amundsen, B. Rogan and M. C. Stang (eds.), Museer i fortid og nåtid. Essays i museumskunnskap, 25-45. Oslo, Novus. Pokotylo, D. and N. Guppy 1999. Public Opinion and Archaeological Heritage: Views from Outside the Profession. American Antiquity 64(3), 400-416.

Riggio, R. E. 2009. Introduction to Industrial/ Organizational Psychology. Fifth edition. Upper Saddle River, NJ., Pearson Education. Ringdal, K. 2007. Enhet og mangfold. Samfunnsvitenskapelig forskning og kvantitativ metode. Second edition. Bergen, Fagbokforlaget. Seip, E. 2003. Verneideologi. NIKU-seminar 4. februar og 25. april 2002. NIKU Tema 5. Oslo, NIKU. Shetelig, H. 1944. Norske museers historie. Oslo, Cappelen. Solberg, B. 1999. Arven fra tre hundre generasjoner. Bruk og betydning i vår egen tid. In Forankring fryder - framtidsvern av fortidsminner, pp. 9-14. Bergen Museums skrifter, kultur 2. Bergen, Bergen Museum. St.meld. nr. 15 (2007-2008) Tingenes tale. St.meld. nr. 16 (2004-2005) Leve med kulturminner. Sullivan, L. P. and S. T. Childs 2003. Curating Archaeological Collections. From the Field to the Repository. Walnut Creek, AltaMira. Trigger, B. G. 1989. A history of archaeological thought. Canbridge, Cambridge University Press. Trøim, I. and K. Johansen 2011. Hvorfor faglig program? Primitive tider 13, 113-115. VanPool, T. L. and R. D. Leonard 2011. Quantitative analysis in archaeology. Chichester, Wiley-Blackwell. Velleman, P. F. and L. Wilkinson 1993. Nominal, Ordinal, Interval, and Ratio Typologies Are Misleading. The American Statistician 47(1), 65-72.

Atle Omland University of Oslo Department of Archaeology, Conservation and History P.O.Box 1008, Blindern NO-0315 Oslo, Norway [email protected]

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Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption. An archaeological study of tobacco consumption, with special reference to seventeenth century Trondheim Lise Loktu

Norwegian University of Science and Technology

Abstract This article is based on research conducted for my MA thesis submitted in 2009. The study concerns clay tobacco pipes and their research potential. Clay pipes comprise a major archaeological artefact group for the period covering the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries. They have been the subject of extensive research; however, much of this deals with matters related to typology and dating. The following study aims to show how local, contextual studies can provide a point of departure for the discussion of social, political and geographical differentiation in the consumption of tobacco. Using Bourdieu’s concept of habitus, the research agenda has been to identify the social identities of the earliest tobacco smokers in Norway, with particular reference to seventeenth-century Trondheim. This paper describes three case studies representing different social contexts, and advocates a theoretical approach aimed at activating an artefact group that has previously been somewhat neglected theoretically. This study demonstrates that contextual analysis can provide an effective basis for the discussion of habitus, social differentiation and even gender-based questions relating to the social significance of tobacco consumption in Trondheim.

Introduction Clay tobacco pipes comprise one of the major artefact groups associated with post-medieval archaeology. They provide a useful chronological tool for archaeological excavation due to their suitability for typological dating. However, although numerous clay-pipe studies have been produced, archaeological research into tobacco consumption has rarely been theorised. Attention has been focused almost exclusively on clay pipes as functional artefacts, and little attempt has been made to examine them closely in their social contexts (Cessford 2001). As a result, researchers perpetuate conventional explanations concerning the practice of smoking which tend to promote a ‘standardized’ narrative for the introduction of tobacco into Europe, with little or no consideration of the complex mechanisms which are associated with this practice. Tobacco (with sugar, coffee, chocolate and tea) was an exotic commodity associated with what has been referred to as a pre-industrial consumer revolution which resulted in part from the European colonial expansion into the Americas from the sixteenth century onwards (Baram 1999:139; Goodman 1993). The Europeanization of the practice of smoking was constituted in a world of changing political configurations and consequently provides a potential source for the investigation of political and social confrontations. Matthew Johnson (1996) has noted that clay pipes, as artefacts of tobacco consumption, are tied into a very wide matrix of changes connecting production and consumption, authority and resistance, and old and new worlds (Johnson 1996, 183-86). This article asserts that clay pipes can provide a point of departure for discussing social, political and geographical differentiation in the mass consumption of tobacco, and outlines ways in which this information can be used in

a wider analytical perspective. It advocates a theoretical approach designed to activate an artefact group that has previously been somewhat neglected theoretically. The following discussion aims to review the state of international clay pipe research in order to outline what we know (or think we know) about clay pipes and early smoking practices. In addition, it aims to identify the social mechanisms associated with the spread of tobacco (with special reference to England and France), and, finally, through the analysis of three sites with different contextual character, to identify differentiated social contexts of tobacco smoking in seventeenth-century Trondheim (Loktu 2009). Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption The role of clay pipes as a social phenomenon can be illuminated through the concept of habitus. The concept was originally formulated by Aristotle, but its contemporary usage was introduced by Marcel Mauss (1934) and later developed by the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu (1977). Habitus is difficult to formalise, but can be understood in terms of viewing human behaviour within frameworks of conscious and unconscious social codes. Cognitive structures control how human beings relate to the social reality. Habitus is reflected through objective divisions of different social structures, such as age, gender and social class, for example (Ritzer 2007, 175). Bourdieu relates habitus to material culture, habitus being learned through an involvement with culture (enculturation) which includes the material world (Dark 2002, 184). Furthermore, habitus involves cultural differentiation between social groups. Individuals’ social background and education give them access to different types of social arenas, and also define their preferences and tastes. The differences that are created between social groups are constantly reproduced through socialising and heritage; in other words, habitus

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N-TAG TEN they choose this particular form of tobacco consumption rather than others? This suggests that the spread of smoking should be considered as a consequence of social strategies within and between different social groups, where tobacco consumption and its material expression are closely connected with the users’ social environment. Archaeologists should aspire towards a contextual approach, in which clay pipes are identified as part of a social strategy closely linked to the formation of the users’ social identity. However, clay pipes should also be viewed in the context of a range of other factors associated with the practice of smoking, such as health, addiction, politics and trade. International clay pipe research: trends and status

Figure 1: This portrait was painted in Genoa in 1790, Captain Petter von Erpecom holding a map in his right hand and a long clay pipe in his left. Photo: Nordenfjeldske Kunstindustrimuseum. and depicts

determines how and with whom we choose to socialise (Bourdieu, 1996; Carle 1995, 351; Ritzer 2007, 173-183; Schiefloe 2003, 240). Consequently, the concept is highly relevant for the archaeological interpretation of consumption practices, since individuals express themselves through cultural consumption in varied ways. Portraits, poems and literature depicting smoking in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (figure 1) appear to indicate that smoking within certain social groups was related to specific preferences, such as how, and maybe also where and when individuals chose to smoke (what we today would call ‘cool’). The smoking practices of the Amerindians clearly had a great influence on the materiality of European tobacco consumption (Goodman 1993; von Gernet 1995). However, smoking using clay pipes was just one of several ways of consuming tobacco, which also took the form of taking snuff, smoking cigars, chewing tobacco and eventually, smoking cigarettes. Consequently, clay pipes must be seen as one element in a larger ‘tobacco consumption package’ (Cessford 2001) and should be interpreted in a wider perspective. For instance, we might ask who in particular adopted the practice of clay-pipe smoking, and why did

Despite the large amount of literature dealing with clay pipes, until recently comparatively little space has been devoted to theorising the subject matter. A review of international published clay pipe research conducted over the last 60 years reveals that, prior to the last decade, the most popular topic concerned discussions of problems relating to the use of clay pipes as a chronological tool, in particular their use in typological dating (Loktu, 2009). This over-emphasis on the chronological aspects of clay pipes could have a number of reasons. In Norway, clay pipe research has, in common with post-medieval archaeology as a whole, been almost entirely neglected as a result of the lack of legal protection of terrestrial archaeological remains post-dating the Protestant Reformation in AD 1537. The Norwegian Cultural Heritage Act1 stipulates that only terrestrial archaeological monuments and sites that pre-date AD 1537 are automatically protected by law (§ 4). As their most important use has been to date stratigraphic sequences, the treatment of clay pipes in archaeological reports generally isolates them in a specialist artefact section, typically in the form of an appendix. In the case of maritime archaeology, however, shipwrecks that are older than 100 years, as well as hulls, gear, cargo and anything else that has been on board, or parts of such objects, are legally protected (§ 14). Consequently, as clay pipes first appear only after 1537, this differentiated conservation policy tends to create an exaggerated bias towards maritime contexts and the role sailors played in tobacco consumption. Furthermore, the collection of clay pipe material, both on land and in maritime contexts, has tended to be haphazard, and done without any research agenda. As Craig Cessford (2001) has noted in the case of English clay pipe research, clay pipe material appears to have been collected without keeping in mind why it is being collected. Consequently, the data is usually put to very limited use in research terms. Clay pipes and other post-medieval artefacts belong to what might be termed ‘the familiar recent past’. They are not conceived of as alien or different but as something that   Riksantikvaren (Directorate for Cultural Heritage) – www. riksantikvaren.no. 1

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Lise Loktu: Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption

Figure 2: The table provides an overview of the main trends in international clay pipe research. The most popular 60 years has been problems connected with the use of clay pipes as a chronological tool. During the last ten years there has been a marked shift from unbalanced material studies towards contextual, socialhistorical approaches (Loktu, 2009).

topic over the last

is already understood, and their role and function do not require explicit discussion because we already think we know what they are (Cessford 2001). However, as shown in figure 2, there has been a marked shift in perspectives within clay pipe research during the last ten years away from functional-typological material studies towards more contextual, social-historical approaches. This is especially apparent in contributions from North America and Australia where historical-archaeological studies are well-established, and also in research conducted in North-western Europe, Africa and the Middle East (e.g. Agbe-Davies 2006; Baram 1996, 1999; Baram and Ward 2006; Brighton 2004; Dallal 2004; Dixon 2006; Fox 2002; Hartnett 2004; Higgins 1995; 1997; Huggert 2008; Rafferty and Mann 2004; Reckner 2001; Saidel 2008; Williamson 2006). This reflects theoretical developments within the archaeological discipline as a whole (see for example Dark 2002; Hodder and Hutson 2003; Trigger, 2006). Archaeologists now seek to emphasise and explore the social mechanisms attached to the role of tobacco within a historical period characterised by increasing colonialism, consumerism and enlightenment. An example of this is the examination of Amerindian tobacco consumption and the

role of these practices in these peoples’ interaction with European colonists (see e.g. Rafferty and Mann, 2004). Sailors and the Introduction of tobacco in Europe The spread of tobacco has primarily been connected with the influential role of Atlantic sailors, whereby ‘the lower classes were undoubtedly introduced to smoking in European seaports by sailors returning from the New World’ (von Gernet 1995:75). The evidence for this is based on eyewitness accounts of how Europeans were initiated into smoking practices, as well as clay pipe finds from shipwrecks. However, there seems to be little awareness of the social motivations behind these imports. Since the eyewitness accounts were those of individuals who belonged to the upper strata of society, contemporary painted and literary portraits might represent a biased and selective point of view. Consequently, the historical literature portrays sailors in a uniform way, whereas in fact this profession encompassed a wide range of social groupings, as described by Knut Weibust in Deep Sea Sailors (1976). With reference to their habitus, sailors must have existed within different social arenas, each based 159

N-TAG TEN on different social criteria. In the sixteenth century, for example, life on board ship reflected the wider hierarchical society, with captains representing the upper class and deck boys the lower class among the crew (Westerdahl 2005). Another factor is that international and local seaman cultures were distinct from each other. Atlantic expeditions could last for years, something which created a characteristic and distinctive sociological system (Weibust 1976). On the other hand, many sailors participated in shorter sailing trips (e.g. between the North Sea and the Baltic Sea). In such instances, the period of isolation being much shorter, the sailors’ ethnic and geographic origins would have had more significance on board. These seaman cultures formed differentiated sociological groups, defined by ethnic origin and identity, for example. However, being part of the local maritime culture was considered inferior to participating in the Atlantic expeditions. Consequently, local seamen where not considered by contemporary observers to be as interesting as the Atlantic sailors, a bias which might be reflected in the historical records (Westerdahl 2005). Another distinction that has not been fully recognised in archaeological research is the difference between the physical provenance and the social distribution of clay pipes. Artefacts found on shipwrecks must be viewed in terms of their on-board social contexts in order to understand the role of sailors as social distributors of smoking practices. However, when it comprises cargo, the pipes should of course instead be considered in terms of the nature of the habitus at their destination. The Europeanization of tobacco consumption According to Goodman (1993) the popularisation of tobacco in Europe was a result of gradual social alterations resulting from 1) the expeditions to America, 2) an interest in medicinal plants, and 3) legitimization by the European courts (Goodman 1993, 48-49). Following Columbus’s arrival in the Americas in 1492, tobacco was regularly brought to Europe as one of many exotic curiosities. Increasing European contacts with native Amerindians introduced them to tobacco consumption, but it was not until the middle of the sixteenth century that Europeans began to fully appreciate the nature and implications of tobacco consumption (von Gernet 1995; 69). Throughout this early phase, tobacco was gradually incorporated into European cosmology (Goodman 1993, 37; Peacey 1996, 1). Amerindian societies located tobacco within a specific cosmology in which the art of healing was a critical component. In addition to valuable metals, plants were also of economic interest to the colonists, and particularly plants with medicinal qualities. The Europeanization of tobacco during the sixteenth century therefore involved presenting tobacco as a herbal remedy or panacea rooted firmly within European medical tradition2   Research has shown that Nicotina Rustica, the tobacco species propagated throughout prehistoric Northern America, produces altered 2

(Dickson 1954; Goodman 1993, 54). Tobacco was introduced to European culture by a number of different actors who operated contemporaneously. These actors were required to report their activities to their national courts. The expeditions to America were closely tied into the courts’ political activities through ambassadors and learned physicians such as Francisco Hernandez, André Thevet, Jean Nicot, and Nicolas Monardes (Goodman 1993, 37-55). In England, the preferred means of consuming tobacco was by the smoking of clay pipes. Throughout the reign of Queen Elizabeth I,3 England was an expanding colonial nation. Numerous English adventurers explored the possibilities presented by the discovery of the New World (Bugge 1925, 285-286; Goodman 1993, 37). Smoking as a fashion seems to have been inspired by Sir Walter Raleigh, a well-known explorer, member of court and favourite of Queen Elizabeth (Dallal 2004; Oswald 1975, 5). Although Raleigh was not the first person to introduce tobacco to the English court, he has been given the honour of popularising it. He financed several expeditions to the New World, where his colonists explored the coast from North Carolina down to Florida, and he became a legendary figure well known for his love of tobacco smoking. Raleigh smoked openly at the English court, even in front of the queen. With her approval, the popularity of tobacco increased within the aristocracy (Dallal 2004, 219-221; Peacy 1996, 1). The pipe eventually became both the instrument and symbol of tobacco consumption throughout most of northwestern Europe (Goodman 1993, 66-7). Its distribution might be understood in terms of the concept of mimicry. In sociology the concept illuminates imitations between different social categories, and is conceptualised by Homi Bhabha in The Location of Culture, 1994, 85-92). Individuals tend to copy the behaviour of other individuals they want to be identified with. This means that habitus both produces and is produced by the social world. Historical records suggest that the practice of smoking was constituted in relation to the identity of the experienced adventurer in a time of increasing colonial expansionism. The colonial wars influenced the European mentality and eventually led to changes in how male identity was perceived in western society (Smith 2002). This identity originated in conceptions associated with the individuals who introduced tobacco into north-western Europe, most notably role models such as soldiers, sailors and adventurers (Brooks 1952, 60-66). This was an era in which masculinity, risk-taking, violence, and sexual performance tended to be intertwined and heavily emphasized as the ideal characteristics of a gentleman. This may have inspired a demand for new symbols of manliness, especially ones that were legitimized by connections to important national enterprises such as war and imperialism (Smith 2002, 162). states of consciousness and even hallucinations if ingested in significant doses (Goodman 1993, 69). 3 1558-1603 

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Lise Loktu: Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption In the light of this, other forms of tobacco consumption elsewhere might reflect social and political factors which contrast with those in England. In France, for example, taking snuff was the preferred way of consuming tobacco. This practice might have been considered to be more ‘decadent’ and ‘delicate’ by the French upper class and aristocracy. Tobacco was introduced into the French court by the French ambassador to Portugal, Jean Nicot. As in the case of Sir Walter Raleigh and England, Nicot was not the first person to import tobacco into France. Tobacco was quickly popularised within the court’s habitus because he used it medicinally to relieve pain experienced by the queen. At the outset, the taking of snuff was highly ritualised. Snuff was contained in snuffboxes, or tabatiéres, which became exclusive and much sought-after prestigious objects. In late seventeenth- and early eighteenth-century France snuffboxes became a medium of creative expression for artists and craftsmen (Bramsen 1965, 23; Goodman 1993, 47-8, 73-4). The French taste for smoking tobacco did not reach a level comparable to that in England until the middle of the eighteenth century (Price 1973, 8). This national differentiation in forms of tobacco consumption might be a reflection of the constant rivalry between the two colonial powers, as well as different trading patterns and social ‘triggers’. Social contexts of tobacco smoking seventeenth century Trondheim The material analyses presented in this paper aim to investigate material from several archaeological sites in the town of Trondheim, each of which represents a different social and historical context. The intention has been to identify different social arenas in which smoking was practiced, and to highlight the development of a local smoking culture. The reader must bear in mind that the quantities of clay pipes described here as “many”, “few”, “sparse” and so on, are relative terms. Most pipe material recovered from terrestrial excavations consists of fragmented stems; however, few attempts have been made to determine the number of pipes these stems represent.4 Consequently, providing an estimate of the number of clay pipes that might be considered to represent either “many” or a “few” within and between historical periods is problematical. (ie, we have little basis for knowing what constituted large and small amounts historically, and these may also have varied from period to period. A great number of clay pipes have been collected during excavations in Trondheim during the twentieth century. However, few attempts have been made to analyse this material, with the exception of a study by Anna Petersén (2000) and unpublished studies by Ian Reed.5 In Norway,   An attempt was made for the material at Søndre gate 4 (Loktu, 2009), and will be presented in connection with the following site analyses. 5   Both work at NIKU, Trondheim. The work presented here has been dependent on kind help from these contributors, through their personal notes and comments.

Figure 3: Jean Nicot (1530-1600) was the French ambassador to Portugal in 1559-1561. Photo: Bardenfleth (2002). there are few systematically documented archaeological remains post-dating the Protestant Reformation in AD 1537. Excavations have had different objectives determined by the current national conservation policy and research agendas. In Trondheim furthermore, most remains from post-medieval periods have been disturbed and reused as levelling material as a consequence of a substantial street regulation following the great city fire in 1681 (Lunde 1977, 171). Consequently, due to the lack of systematic documentation of post-medieval layers and the possibility of contamination, the material must be approached with a critical eye. The sites selected for this study are considered to be relatively well documented archaeologically and historically.6 Possible sources of error will be discussed during the site presentations. The interpretations must, however, be seen as a tentative starting point, although future research might change the suggested picture. Several attempts have been made to reconstruct the social topography of seventeenth-century Trondheim using historical and archaeological sources. The most important sources have been King Magnus Lagabøter’s city law for Nidaros, originating from 1276,7 and a map dated 1658,

4

Pers. comm. Ian Reed, NIKU Trondheim.  This contains a detailed account of the town’s nightwatchmen’s regular patrol route (Lunde, 1977:171-173).  6 7

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N-TAG TEN produced by the Swedish surveyor Oluf Naucler (Lunde 1977, 171-173). The present study is mainly based on the research of Henry Berg (1951) and Gudmund Stang (1981). Later contributions have criticised these publications (e.g. Blom 1956; Christophersen and Nordeide 1999). However, the sites described in this paper (figure 3) are considered to correlate well with written records. Sites 1 and 2 are both located in the town centre, called respectively Søndre gate 4 and Folkebibliotekstomta (the Public Library site). These sites encompass social arenas inhabited by seventeenth-century citizens, and represent two different periods of the local seventeenthcentury smoking culture. Site 3 is called Herrehuset (a large timber building housing domestic and administrative functions associated with the District Governor), and is located in the former Archbishop’s Palace. Following the Reformation in 1537, the palace became royal property, and by the seventeenth century was occupied by the king’s local representative, the lensherre or District Governor (Nordeide 2003, 15). This site correlates in time with site 1 but comprises a distinctive form of social context. Folkebibliotekstomta (the Public Library site) The clay pipe material from Folkebibliotekstomta includes some of the earliest traces of tobacco smoking in Trondheim. However, the material is extremely sparse, and derives from an insecure archaeological context. The excavation reports from 1973-1985 indicate that only ‘representative selections’ of post-medieval artefacts were collected due to the project’s priorities and resources (Nordeide 1989, 122). However, given its poorly documented archaeological context, this material’s representativity can be called into question. It is possible that the number of pipes collected does not reflect the amount originally deposited due to subjective preferences in their selection and the nature of the excavation methods used to recover them. Although the material was collected from well preserved wooden cellars and latrines, these contexts were not systematically documented (ibid. 122). Only five clay pipes with preserved bowl, heel mark and parts of the stem were collected from this site. In addition there were a few fragments with heel marks and stem fragments. The majority can be dated to the period 1600-1640 (figure 4). The most frequent heel mark is ‘IR’, associated with several pipe makers in London during the same period8 (Oswald 1975, 34). While the vast majority of Trondheim’s clay pipe material as a whole is Dutch (mostly produced in Gouda), a preliminary impression is that the earliest pipes found here might be predominantly English in origin (most notably those dating to the very earliest period of clay pipe occurrence, c. 1600 to 1620).9 Given that the pipes from Folkebibliotekstomta are almost exclusively English, we might speculate as to whether this reflects the nature of the import trade during this particular period, or   www.museumoflondon.org.uk Pers. comm. Ian Reed, NIKU Trondheim. 

alternatively, a pattern produced by a selective preference for a particular form of pipe by a particular social group at the time? Contemporary written records suggest that these pipes can be associated with citizens of the upper social stratum in the early seventeenth-century town. According to Stang (1981), the area encompassed by Folkebibliotekstomta was occupied by merchants at this time. Most were immigrants of foreign extraction who formed a group which exerted a near monopoly on the local export trade (figure 5). The mercantile elite lived in the eastern part of the urban area, beside the river Nid. This comprised an inner circle of wealthy and powerful citizens, such as landowners and mayors (Stang 1981, 62). Some of the early seventeenthcentury town’s wealthiest families therefore occupied the area covered by the excavation (Christophersen and Nordeide 1999, 292). Among the citizens that lived here are the craftsman Jens Denisøn and mayor Anders Christenssøn. There were also traders, sea captains and other wealthy men (Nordeide 1989, 128). It is with this self-aware mercantile social group that we can associate the post-medieval remains at Folkebibliotekstomta. In addition to clay pipes (which by themselves do not necessarily reflect status), the archaeological record at the site produced other indicators of a high-status lifestyle in the form of fine glasswares and imported ceramics, including Chinese porcelain. The quality of these goods testifies to a standard of material culture that equates closely with that enjoyed by elite groups elsewhere in major European contexts (Christophersen and Nordeide 1999, 292). This suggests that a social network may have existed within the habitus of these wealthier citizens in which new ideas and trends were adopted socially. Since the pipe material was found in association with other high-status artifacts, we can assume that the pipes may also have been part of the habitus of higher class citizens. However, we must bear in mind that another social group is probably represented within this context; namely, servants. Consequently, the pipes’ association with the practices of either master or servant remains insecure due to the poor contextual documentation. We might also ask how the material reflects the nature of urban society as a whole. The clay pipes from Folkebibliotekstomta are associated with a high status area occupied by upper class citizens, and are therefore not necessarily representative of smoking practices elsewhere in the town. However, in Trondheim generally, there are comparatively few clay pipes which can be dated to the earliest part of the seventeenth century, in contrast to the evidence for increasing tobacco and pipe consumption after about 1640.10 This suggests that smoking was less widespread in the town during the early part of the seventeenth century, a supposition which correlates well with historical references to the introduction of smoking

8 9

  Pers. comm. Ian Reed, NIKU Trondheim.

10

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Lise Loktu: Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption

Figure 4: This map shows the location of the three sites investigated in this study: 1) Søndre gate 4, 2) Folkebibliotekstomta, and 3) Herrehuset. The map represents Trondheim before (black) and after (brown) the urban regulation by Cicignon in 1681 (Lunde, 1977). Illustration: L. Loktu. (see Goodman 1993). Differentiations in the distribution of early clay pipes may therefore provide a tentative indication of the nature of smoking at specific sites during this particular period. Søndregate 4 The excavated pipe material from Søndre gate 4 was found in association with a large wooden house located in the old

town centre pre-dating the urban replanning following the fire in 1681. During the excavations in 1971 archaeologists recovered clay pipes from two wooden wells and beneath the floor of the house’s cellar. The material at this site has a well-defined chronological context, since it was sealed by the 1681 fire layer.11

  Excavation notes at NIKU Trondheim.

11

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Figure 5: The most frequent heel mark at Folkebibliotekstomta is ‘IR’, which was registered under several pipe makers in London during 1610 to 1640 (Oswald, 1975:34). Photo: L. Loktu.

Figure 6: According Gudmund Stang’s (1981:63) reconstruction of social topography, to

the area related to

Folkebibliotekstomta (the Public Library site) was occupied by merchants, many of foreign extraction, who controlled the export

trade. to

The area related Søndre gate 4 was

located in a border zone between different social groups and might therefore reflect a potential arena for social interaction. The site locations have been transposed onto

Stang’s map by the present author.

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Figure 7: Jonah pipes might have had a symbolic association with political conflicts and changes (Duco, 1987; Dallal, 2004). This pipe was one of several Jonah pipes found at the Søndre gate 4 site, some of them unused. Photo: L. Loktu.

during the seventeenth century, and they are especially associated with sailors

The material represents a step forward in time as the majority of the clay pipes can be dated to the period 1660-1680. The total amount of fragments recovered was 1,556, of which 86 were intact bowls. The material is plentiful compared to the small amount from Folkebibliotekstomta, and tends to be very standardised. This made it a suitable sample for making an attempt at estimating the number of pipes these stems represent. The weight of a sample of pipe material from one of the wells12 indicates that the total amount of stem fragments might represent approximately 156 clay pipes. The majority of the pipes originated from the Netherlands and can be dated to around 1660-1680. The most common heel mark is OA, probably Onwen Andriesz who was a registered pipe maker in Gouda by 1660-1671.13 Other well-known pipe forms found at the site are so-called Jonah pipes (figure 6) and pipes bearing the Tudor rose, which had a symbolic connection with the political conflicts and changes during the seventeenth century (Dallal 2004; Duco 1987).

are some indications that it may have been in existence even earlier. The makers’ marks suggest that the pipes were produced several decades prior to 1680. Of course, there might be a number of explanations for the considerable discrepancy between the times of their production and use. The pipes might for some reason have been held in long-term storage. There is also the possibility that they are copies, or that the written records are ambiguous or unreliable.

According to Berg’s (1951) reconstruction of urban tenement plot ownership, the wooden house was the property of Morten Rochlitz, a customs officer (figure 7). Berg notes that after Rochlitz’s death in 1680 the property was inherited by his widow, Anna Christensdatter. The records further indicate that Anna brewed beer and ran a tavern in order to support herself as a widow (Berg 1951, 114-115). In addition to the clay pipes, a large amount of fine drinking glasses were found which may indicate the presence of a tavern at the site (Moen 1971). Berg’s information suggests that the tavern was in existence a year before the catastrophic fire in 1681. However, there

The evidence from Søndre gate 4 casts light on genderrelated questions regarding pipe smoking and its public consumption. Men and women performed different roles in society at this time, and these were often linked to divisions of labour and to divisions of authority and power (McKee 2004). Tobacco pipe use is often considered to be an exclusively male activity (Dixon 2006, 65). Consequently, pipes tend to be associated with male practices such as public drinking. A man with a pipe at his mouth and a glass in his hand was an image frequently portrayed in seventeenth-century French, Dutch and Flemish paintings (Goodman 1993, 66-7). However, women were also sometimes portrayed as smokers in literature during the first decades of the seventeenth century, although this was usually in broadsheets and pamphlets attacking tobacco

12 13

N10655 consisted of well-preserved bowls with long stems.  goudapipes.nl 

However, according to the probate inventory held by the newly widowed Anna in 1680, the building was a small three-roomed house containing an iron stove, tables, chairs, benches, cupboards and beds. This list of furnishings might correlate well with an inventory for a tavern or guesthouse. However, it probably reflects the nature of the household before Anna took over the estate, and may suggest that Anna (and her husband?) may have been running a tavern before Rochlitz’s death in 1680.

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N-TAG TEN (Smith 2002, 166). Using as broad a temporal context as possible to illuminate female interaction in public drinking, Dixon (2006) points out how women have traditionally been closely associated with taverns and brewing. A DNA sample retrieved from a tobacco pipe stem excavated in a Virginia City saloon revealed that a woman had used the pipe, evoking questions about female roles in public drinking houses (ibid.). Women also took part in Gouda’s clay pipe production. Some 27 women were registered in seventeenth-century clay pipe production in the Netherlands; however, this number doesn’t include women who do not appear in the historical record, such as wives, daughters and so on (Dallal 2004, 230). According to Stang’s (1981) reconstruction of urban social topography, the tavern was located in a border zone between different social groups and might therefore reflect a potential arena for political and social interaction (figure 5). Among the social groups who inhabited the area were public servants of the king, sailors, merchants and craftsmen. By 1670, tobacco was a commodity of mass consumption in Europe (Goodman 1993, 59). In addition to clay pipe finds from the town in general, the material from Søndre gate 4 reflects an increase in tobacco smoking with standardized patterns of import trade. Some unused Jonah pipes (figure 6) within the site material might also indicate that pipes were sold at the tavern. English pipes form a smaller proportion of the material, in contrast to the earlier situation noted on Folkebibliotekstomta. The evidence from Søndre gate 4 suggests that smoking was a social practice connected with the public consumption of alcohol. The Archbishop’s palace At the Archbishop’s Palace, the majority of the clay pipes discovered during the excavations in 1991-1995 can be related to building K284, called Herrehuset (Petersén, in prep). According to historical records, Olof Parsberg, the District Governor of the county of Trøndelag from 16291642, constructed the building in 1640. The building was destroyed in 1672 (Lysaker 1989, 26, 37; Petersén 2000, 145). The recovered material correlates chronologically with this period of occupation, but is much more fragmentary than that recovered from Søndre gate 4. The total amount of fragments was 395, of which 33 were bowls. The pipes’ attributes, notably their typology, marks and decoration, suggest that almost all were produced between the 1640 and 1672. The majority of the heel marks can be dated to 1660-1680. This is supported by an analysis of the amount of pipes associated with different sequences of flooring which suggests that most of the pipes were deposited after 1660 (Loktu 2009). The house was a large two-storeyed wooden building containing several rooms with differentiated functions, such as rooms for housing guests, entertaining and collecting taxes (Bazely et al. 1993, 194). The upper storey was part of the representative area, and included a large hall in the southern part, called the ‘king’s hall’. The ground

floor was divided into eight rooms, the northernmost being reserved for servants. The southern part was reserved for tax collection (Lysaker 1997, 22). Most of the pipes in Herrehuset were found in one particular room, defined as skredderstuen (a room used for needlework) in the written records. Anna Petersén (2000) has conducted a functional analysis of artefacts from the building’s ground floor, in which this particular area was identified as a servants’ room. Together with the distribution of knives (for eating), coins and tokens, the analysis reveals the distribution of the clay pipe material in the building. If the distributions of clay pipes and eating knives are compared, they occur together exclusively in this particular room in which the central fireplace is also located (figure 8). This indicates that skredderstuen was a place for relaxing, eating and interaction for the social groups represented by the governor’s servants and soldiers (Petersén 2000, 182). The limited distribution of clay pipe fragments within the Archbishop’s Palace suggests that smoking was allowed only within specific areas (and maybe at certain times of the day). This suggests that the Archbishop’s Palace, being royal property, was a more controlled and supervised environment constituted by the king and his representative. The fact that clay pipes occur here first only after 1640 might indicate that the governor adhered obediently to the tobacco prohibition introduced by King Christian IV and which lasted between 1632 and 1643. However, the practice of smoking here seems to have been a social act of consumption. Although this was not a public place, as was the case in Søndre gate 4, the written records suggest that Herrehuset might have been a form of ‘public space’ within the Archbishop’s Palace. ConclusionInternationally, there has been an increasing interest in social-historical aspects of clay pipes and tobacco consumption during the last ten years due to theoretical and methodological developments within the discipline of historical archaeology. However, as regards Norwegian clay pipe research, its pursuit has been hampered by the absence of legal protection of terrestrial archaeological remains that post-date the Protestant Reformation of AD 1537. This restriction has created a situation where post-medieval artefacts in general have been neglected by researchers and considered more of a curiosity than a valuable source of knowledge. This article has attempted to demonstrate how clay pipes and tobacco consumption are associated with complex social mechanisms, as well as geographic and political differentiation in time and space. The study shows that close contextual analysis is relevant for the discussion of habitus, social differentiation and even gender-based questions related to tobacco smoking in Trondheim. Three case studies in the town have demonstrated the possibility of identifying different social arenas in which smoking was practiced, and also highlight some trends in the development of a local smoking culture. The evidence suggests that the earliest forms of tobacco consumption in the town might be exclusively related 166

Lise Loktu: Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption

Figure 8: According to Henry Berg’s (1951: 114-115) reconstruction of tenement plot ownership in 1675, the material from Søndre gate 4 can be associated with the property owned by Morten Rochlitz, a customs officer. After Rochlitz’s death in 1680, Berg notes that his widow, Anna Christensdatter, ran a tavern and brewed beer at the property between 1680 and 1681 in order to support herself. 167

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Figure 9: Anna Petersén (2000) conducted a functional analysis of artefacts from the ground floor in Herrehuset. Together with eating knives, coins and tokens, the study reveals how the clay pipe material is distributed within the building. If the distributions of clay pipes and knives are compared, they appear together exclusively in the room called Skredderstuen where the central fireplace is located. This suggests that this particular room was a place for relaxing, eating and socialising, including smoking. Illustration: L. Loktu (after Petersén, 2000:182).

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Lise Loktu: Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption to social experimentation within elites with European associations, as shown by the archaeological record at Folkebibliotekstomta. However, it seems apparent that tobacco use began to rapidly permeate much of European society at about the same time, and further research might alter this suggested development. Certainly, by 1670 tobacco use in Europe had reached proportions of mass consumption. As this process progressed, differentiation in social identity might have been expressed through different forms of tobacco consumption. The evidence at the Søndre gate 4 tavern and the Archbishop’s Palace suggest that smoking (maybe in addition to the adoption of more refined manners) was a social habit associated with eating, relaxing and the public consumption of alcohol. The Archbishop’s Palace, however, being royal property, would have been a more controlled and supervised environment than an urban tavern. In order to identify the social distribution of tobacco, one must study tobacco consumption within its social and political framework. Of course, this article has not dealt with other aspects of smoking, such as health and addiction. Hopefully, future research will result in similar studies involving other contexts for tobacco-related practices. These might include, for example, other social arenas in early post-medieval Scandinavian towns, such as areas occupied by lower social classes, seventeenthand eighteenth-century industrial sites, military depots and hospitals, as well as a variety of non-urban contexts, such as Saami sites, whaling settlements on Svalbard, well-preserved shipwrecks and coastal settlements. By analysing clay pipes we might be able to discern differentiation in the impact of globalisation in particular social cultures or sub-cultures. Comparative analyses of specific rural environments in relation to urban centres using clay pipes may provide valuable perspectives regarding local responses to mercantilism, urbanisation and modernity. Clay pipes can provide insight into when, how and by whom these large-scale changes were adopted or rejected in space and time. Acknowledgements to my supervisor, Professor Thomas Wallerström, at The Department of Archaeology and Religious Studies, NTNU, who is responsible for awakening my interest in clay pipes which resulted in my MA thesis submitted in 2009. Special thanks to Ian Reed, Anna Petersén and Chris McLees at NIKU, Trondheim, for sharing your unpublished material and personal notes regarding excavated clay pipe material in Trondheim, and for guiding me through the enormous amount of layers and questions. Also thanks to Chris McLees, Ian Reed, Anders Gjerde, Evelyn Johansen, Rasmus Svensson and Arne A. Stamnes for reviewing this paper, and to Martin Callahan and Ragnhild Berge for organizing this volume.

References Agbe-Davies, A. S. 2006. Alternatives to traditional models for the classification and analysis of pipes of the early colonial Chesapeake. In: S. N. Archer and K. Bartoy (eds.),: Between Dirt and Discussion. Methods, Methodology, and Interpretation in Historical Archaeology. New York, Springer Science+Business. Baram, U. 1996. Material Culture, Commodities, and Consumption in Palestine, 1500-1900. Electronic Doctoral Dissertations for UMass Amherst. Paper AAI9638925. Baram, U. 1999. Clay tobacco pipes and coffee cup sherds in the archaeology of the Middle East: Artefacts of social tensions from the Ottoman past. International Journal of Historical Archaeology 3(3), 137-151. Baram, U. and C. Ward 2006. Global Markets, Lokal Practice: Ottoman-period Clay Pipes and Smoking Paraphernalia from the Red Sea Shipwreck at Sadana Island, Egypt. International Journal of Historical Archaeology 10 (2). Bardenfleth, N. G. 2002. Kridtpiber og kridtpiberygning. Forlaget Sesam Berg, H. 1951. Trondheim før Cicignon. Trondheim. Bhabha, H. K. 1994. The location of culture. London, Routledge. Blom, G. A. 1956. St. Olavs by. Trondheim bys historie vol 1. Trondheim Bourdieu, P. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Bourdieu, P. 1996. Physical Space, Social Space and Habitus. Rapportserie nr. 10, Institutt for sosiologi og samfunnsgeografi, Universitetet i Oslo. Bramsen, B. 1965. Nordiske snusdåser – på europæisk baggrund. København, Politikens forlag. Brighton, S. A. 2004. Symbols, myth-making, and identity: The red hand of Ulster in late nineteenthcentury Paterson, New Jersey. International Journal of Historical Archaeology 8 (2). Brooks, J. 1952. The Mighty Leaf: Tobacco Through the Centuries. Boston, Little, Brown. Bugge, A. 1925. Den norske trælasthandels historie II: Fra freden i Speier til slutten av 1600-tallet. Skien, Fremskridts Boktrykkeri. Carle, J. 1995. Pierre Bourdieu och klassamhällets reproduktion. In P. Månson (ed.), Moderna samhällsteorier. Traditioner, riktningar, teoretiker, 351-390. Stockholm, Rabén Prisma. Cessford, C. 2001. The archaeology of the clay pipe and the study of smoking. Assemblage – The Sheffield graduate journal of archaeology. University of Sheffield. Christophersen, A. and S. Nordeide 1999. Kaupangen ved Nidelva. 1000 års byhistorie belyst gjennom de arkeologiske undersøkelsene på folkebibliotekstomten i Trondheim 1973-1985. Riksantikvarens skrifter 7. Trondheim. Dallal, D. 2004. The Tudor rose and the Fleurs-de-lis: Women and iconography in seventeenth-century Dutch clay pipes found in New York City. In S. M. 169

N-TAG TEN Rafferty and R. Mann (eds.), Smoking and Culture. The Archaeology of Tobacco Pipes in Eastern North America. Knoxville, The University of Tennessee Press. Dark, K. R. 2002. Theoretical Archaeology. London, Gerald Duckworth & Co. Dickson, S. A. 1954. Panacea or Precious Bane. Tobacco in Sixteenth Century Literature. New York, New York Public Library. Dixon, K. J. 2006. Saloons in the Wild West and taverns in Mesopotamia: Explorations along the timeline of public drinking. In S. N.Archer and K. M. Bartoy (eds.), Between Dirt and Discussion. Methods, Methodology, and Interpretation in Historical Archaeology. New York, Springer Science+Business. Duco, D. H. 1987. De nederlandse Kleipijp. Handboek voor dateren en determineren. Leiden, Stichting Pijpenkabinet. Fox, G. L. 2002. Interpreting socioeconomic changes in 17th-century England and Port Royal, Jamaica, through analysis of the Port Royal Kaolin clay pipes. International Journal of Historical Archaeology. 6 (1). Goodman, J. 1993. Tobacco in History. The Cultures of Dependence. London, Routledge. Hartnett, A. 2004. The politics of the pipe: Clay pipes and tobacco consumption in Galway, Irland. International Journal of Historical Archaeology, 8 (2), 133-147. Higgins, D. 1995. Clay tobacco pipes: a valuable commodity. International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 24 (1), 47-52. Higgins, D. A. 1997. The identification, analysis and interpretation of tobacco pipes from wrecks. In M. Redknap (ed.), Artefacts from Wrecks. Dated Assemblages from the Late Middle Ages to the Industrial Revolution. Oxbow Monograph 84. Oxford. Hodder, I. and S. Hutson 2003. Reading the Past. Current Approaches to Interpretation in Archaeology. Third edition. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Huggert, A. 2008. Hundraåriga kritpipor i bruk bland samer i 1890-talets Lappmark. Fornvännen 103. . Johnson, M. 1996. An archaeology of Capitalism. London, Blackwell. Loktu, L. 2009. Krittpiper som habitus. En historiskarkeologisk studie med spesielt hensyn til 1600-tallets Trondheim. Master thesis in archaeology, Norwegian University of Science and Technology. Trondheim. Lunde, Ø. 1977. Trondheims fortid i bygrunnen. Middelalderens topografi på grunnlag av det arkeologiske materialet inntil 1970. Riksantikvarens skrifter 2. Trondheim. Lysaker, T. 1989. Arkivmateriale, vesentlig fra Riksarkivet, om bygningene på Kongsgården og vedlikeholdet av dem 1591-1686. Riksantikvarens utgravningskontor for Trondheim. Lysaker, T. 1997. Erkebispegården som setegård for danske lensherrer. Småskriftserien nr. 14. Trondheim, Nidaros Domkirkes Restaureringsarbeiders forlag.

Mauss, M. 1934. Les Techniques du corps. Journal de Psychologie 32(3-4). Reprinted in Mauss, Sociologie et anthropologie, 1936, Paris: PUF. Moen, U. 1971. Byen under gaten. Fra utgravningene i Søndre gate i årene 1970-71. Trondheim, Adresseavisens forlag. McKee, L. 2004. An end to the eerie silence. In J. E. Galle and A. L. Young (eds.), Engendering an African American Archaeology: A Southern Perspective, 287292. Knoxville, University of Tennessee Press. Nordeide, S. W. 1989. “…De beste bønder i kiøbstæden…” En funksjons- og aktivitetsanalyse basert på gjenstandsmaterialet. Fortiden i Trondheim bygrunn: Folkebibliotekstomten. Meddelelser nr 20. Trondheim, Riksantikvaren, Utgravningskontoret for Trondheim. Nordeide, S. W. 2003. Erkebispegården i Trondheim – Beste tomta i by´n. Trondheim, NIKU Norsk institutt for kulturminneforskning. Oswald, A. 1975. Clay Pipes for the Archaeologist. British Archaeological Reports 14, Oxford, Hadrian Books.. Peacey, A. 1996. The development of the clay tobacco pipe kiln in the British Isles. In P. Davey (ed.), The Archaeology of the Clay Tobacco Pipe. British Archaeological Reports, British Series 246, Oxford, Hadrian Books. Petersén, A. 2000. Interaktiv arkeologi – samband mellan fynd och stratigrafi. Att tolka stratigrafi. Det tredje nordiska stratigrafimötet Åland 1999. Meddelanden från Ålands högskola nr. 11, Mariehamn. Petersén, A., in prep. Liv och verksamhet i Kongsgården under 1500 och 1600-talet. Price, J. M. 1973. France and the Chesapeake. Ann Arbor Michigan, University of Michigan Press. Rafferty, S. M, and R. Mann, R. (eds.) 2004. Introduction: Smoking pipes and culture. In: Smoking and Culture. The Archaeology of TobaccoPpipes in Eastern North America. Knoxville, The University of Tennessee Press.. Reckner, P. E. 2001. Negotiating patriotism at the five points: Clay tobacco pipes and patriotic imagery among trade unionists and nativists in a nineteenth-century New York neighbourhood. Historical Archaeology: Journal of the Society for Historical Archaeology. 35 (3), 103-114. Ritzer, G. 2007. Contemporary Sociological Theory and its Classical Roots: The basics. Second Edition. New York, McGraw-Hill. Saidel, A. B. 2008. Smoking Out Ottoman Sites in Northern Sinai, Egypt: The Use of Clay Tobacco Pipes for Identifying the Nature of Settlements in the Ottoman Period. Palestine Exploration Quarterly 140 (1), 55-69. Schiefloe, P. M. 2003. Mennesker og samfunn. Innføring i sosiologisk forståelse. 3. opplag 2006. Bergen, Fagbokforlaget. Smith, W. D. 2002. Consumption and the Making of Respectability, 1600-1800. New York, Routledge. Stang, G. 1981. 300 år med Cicignon. Trondheim, Trondhjems historiske forening.

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Lise Loktu: Clay pipes and the habitus of tobacco consumption Trigger, B. G. 2006. A History of Archaeological Thought. Second edition. New York, Cambridge University Press. von Gernet, A. 1995. Nicotian dreams. The prehistory and early history of tobacco in eastern North America. In J. Goodman, J., P. E. Lovejoy and A. Sherratt (eds.), Consuming Habits. Drugs in History and Anthropology. London, Routledge. Weibust, K. 1976. Deep Sea Sailors. A Study in Maritime Ethnology. 2nd edition, Nordiska museets Handlingar 71, Stockholm. Westerdahl, C. 2005. Ett försök till definition av maritim kultur och kustkultur. Bottnisk kontakt XII, 241-267. Williamson, C. 2006. Dating the domestic ceramics and pipe smoking related artifacts from Casselden Place, Melbourne, Australia. International Journal of Historical Archaeology 10 (4). Internet References Riksantikvaren (Directorate for Cultural Heritage): www. riksantikvaren.no. Clay pipe catalogue: www.goudapipes.nl Clay pipe catalogue: www.museumoflondon.org.uk/ claypipes

Lise Loktu Norwegian University of Science and Technology Department of Archaeology and Religious Studies Email: [email protected].

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The introduction of sails to Scandinavia: Raw materials, labour and land Lise Bender Jørgensen

Norwegian University of Science & Technology

Abstract The paper explores the logistical consequences of the introduction of sails to Scandinavia on the threshold to the Viking Age. Calculations stating that the sails of the Viking fleet comprised 1 million square meters of sailcloth form the starting point. Data from experimental archaeology, ethnology, history, and textile science are used to calculate the demand for raw materials and labour caused by the need for sailcloth, and for additional textiles needed for seafaring such as sailor’s clothing and blankets. For a cargo ship of the knar type, this amounts to well over 200 kg wool and some 10 years of labour; for a warship with a crew of 65-70 men, more than 1,5 tonnes of wool and 50-60 years of labour. Further data from botany and life sciences are employed to estimate the relationship between land and the increased demand for fiber – wool, flax or hemp. It is argued that the introduction of sails to Scandinavia must have caused changes in agrarian production and how farmers disposed of their lands.

Wool is traditionally an important resource in northern Europe, for clothing, bedding, soft furnishings and a multitude of other purposes.1 In this paper, I shall focus on the use of wool textiles for seafaring, outlining some consequences of the introduction of sails to Scandinavia which seems to have happened sometime during the 8th century AD, much later than in other parts of Europe (Andersen and Andersen 1989, 90ff; Kastholm 2009; Westerdahl 1995,). Once introduced, sails were a great success. Scholars at the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde have calculated that by c. 1030, the time of King Canute’s North Sea empire, the total fleet of warships, cargo ships, fishing boats etc carried sails corresponding to 1 million square metres of sailcloth – most of it supposedly made of wool (Andersen et al. 1989, 12). How do we know that? Research and experiments have shown that the sails of the Viking ships were constructed much like those used by certain traditional boat types still used in parts of Norway such as the Nordlandsbåt or the Åfjordsbåt (Eldjarn and Godal 1988a; 1988b; 1990a; 1990b). They used to carry square sails of wool, usually woven in twill, with cloth weights of 300-750g per square metre for smaller boats. For a large sail of c. 100 square metres, heavier cloth of 950-1050 g per square meter is needed. A square sail consists of several lengths of cloth – webs – that are sewn together by the sail maker. Further it is greased with fatty substances such as tallow, fish oil etc mixed with ochre, in order to reduce air permeability. The greasing also smoothes out irregularities, and differences between individual webs. Experiments have shown such wool sails to be very seaworthy, and well suited to the rough seas and winds of the North Atlantic. In fact, “old salts” of Viking seafaring are reported to prefer them to other sails. The processes of reconstructing them have also established some very interesting data on the amounts  A first version of this paper was presented at the 58th International Sachsensymposion held in Trondheim in September 2007. As it unfortunately proved unfeasible to publish it in the proceedings of that conference, I was happy for the possibility to present a shorter version at the 10th Nordic TAG, as a prelude to Ulla Isabel Zagal-Mach’s paper. The current paper is a reworked version of the 2007 one. 1

of raw materials and labour needed (Andersen1995; Andersen and Andersen 1989; Andersen et al. 1989; 1997; Andersson 2003; Bender Jørgensen 2005; Cooke et al, 2002; Cooke and Christiansen 2005; Damgaard-Sørensen 1998, Lightfoot 1997). Raw Materials At the Tømmervik Textile Trust, situated on the island of Hitra some 3 hours drive from Trondheim, Amy Lightfoot and her staff have produced 3 successive wool sails, employing traditional methods of wool working, and wool from the double-coated old Norse sheep type that belonged to the traditional fishing/farming communities along the coast of Norway and in other parts of the Norse world (Kvamme et al. 2004, 18f; Lightfoot 1991; 1996; 1997). The wool of these sheep has a high content of lanolin that makes it water-repellent – something that is very useful indeed for textiles used at sea, including sails. The long, coarse, hairs of the outer coat are well suited for warp yarns, where strength and tenacity is essential, while the fine bottom wool is used for the weft (fig. 1). The annual yield of wool per sheep of this ancient breed is 1-2,5 kg (Adalsteinsson 1990, 286). A fleece consists of several different kinds of wool, suited for different purposes (Christiansen 2004); and as some waste is unavoidable during the processing of it into yarn and cloth, we cannot equate the full wool yield with finished cloth. Estimates of how much wool from each fleece was suitable for sailcloth vary (Andersson 2003, 49; Lightfoot 1997,15); weaver Anna Nørgård has suggested an average of 500 g/sheep (Nørgård 1999, 9). At an average weight of 750-950g/ m2, the supposed one million square metres of sailcloth of the Danish-Norwegian Viking Age fleet would thus have required wool from some two million sheep. So the first point I want to make is that the introduction of sails must have caused a significant increase in the demand for wool and sheep. Sails, however, are by no means the only textiles needed on board. On the cold waters of the Northern seas – the Baltic, the North Sea and the North Atlantic - sailors

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Fig. 1: The double coat of the old norse sheep. Photo: Oddmunn Farbregd.

Fig. 2: Contents of clothes chest for winter fishing at Lofoten. Photo: Hilde Murvold, Kystens Arv 174

Lise Bender Jørgensen: The introduction of sails to Scandinavia

Fig. 3: Sjørya on top of clothes chest. Photo: Hilde Murvold, Kystens Arv also need warm, water-repellent clothing and bedding to survive. Wool is excellently suited for this, with properties such as insulation against cold as well as heat, and the ability to absorb large amounts of moisture without becoming actually wet, while still being warm. Sailors’ clothing, mittens, caps, pullovers and underwear, all made from wool specifically selected for the exact purpose, have been indispensable parts of the equipment for sailors and fishermen up to very recent times (fig. 2). For fishing at Lofoten, or other sites on the Norwegian coast, each man brought a chest of clothes (Eldjarn and Godal 1988a, 133, Trætteberg 1999, 29). Its contents were the pride and honour of his womenfolk (Elstad 2002, 111). Torun Herje has estimated that 6,6 kg wool was needed for the 3 shifts of underwear, a woollen shirt, 5 pairs of sea mittens and 2 pairs of ordinary mittens, and the equivalent number of leggings and stockings that were needed for three months of winter fishing (Herje and Alsaker 1999, 73). That would mean wool from at least 3 sheep. A sailor’s blanket – a sjørya, a heavy, shaggy wool rug, could weigh up to 18 kg (Eldjarn and Godal 1988a, 134; Kjellmo 1996, 62). It kept its owner warm even when wet; unlike sheepskin, it did not rot or get felted when soaked with sea water, and could be washed at the end of the season (Elstad 2004, 30). Quality was essential to secure the sailor’s safe return; his wife made sure to make his gear from the best materials available (fig. 3). Again, wool from a considerable number of sheep was needed, depending on the weight of the rug and the amount of suitable wool from each sheep. For a rug of 15 kg, somewhere between 7 and 15 sheep were needed.

Quality is my next point. Sheep farming and the working of wool requires sophisticated knowledge of the properties of fibres, and when and how to harvest them. For pullovers, wool from a two-year-old wether was considered the best, according to Amy Lightfoot’s investigations; for sailor’s mittens, white ewe lambs with especially shiny wool were selected, the wool only to be harvested when the animal was three years old. In the meantime, the young ewes were kept safe from the advances of rams, to prevent pregnancies that would reduce the quality of the wool. The pasture where the sheep were grazing, and the time and way of harvesting the wool each had an important bearing on the properties of the final product (Lightfoot 1991, 1996, 1997). This, of course, also applies to wool for a sail, especially for warp yarns that were made mainly from the long hairs of the outer coat of the traditional Norse sheep. Flock Sizes Tax lists from 1657 inform us of sheep numbers in Norway. The double monarchy of Norway and Denmark was in dire straits, at war with Sweden, and the war chest needed to be filled. Taxmen were sent out to list every single animal on all and every farm. The total number of sheep listed is 297.893; as some lists have been lost, the full number of sheep in Norway has been estimated to 329.000 (Olsen 1875, 413). The number of Viking Age farms in Norway is estimated as 27.000-30.000 (Solberg 2000, 240f). The tax lists from 1657 also show that most flocks numbered 12 animals or less (fig. 4). Few sheep farmers had more than 20. In Rissa, on the peninsula of Fosen, the largest 175

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Fig. 4: Flock sizes in Oppdal according to the tax lists of 1657. 253 flocks were recorded.

Fig. 5: Rooing in the Shetlands, the 1920s, photographed by J.D. Ratter. Courtesey of the Shetland Museum Photographic Archive, Photo No. R02548.

Fig. 6: Making roving. The final phase of combing. Photo: Oddmunn Farbregd. 176

Lise Bender Jørgensen: The introduction of sails to Scandinavia flock consisted of 36 sheep; the average farmer had only four (Dybdahl 1990, 137f). Translated to the Viking Age, this would indicate small-scale sheep farming rather than specialised, large-scale wool production. As square sails are made from several lengths of cloth we may, perhaps, imagine a number of farms and households contributing to a new sail, each supplying wool and/or labour, e.g. a skein of yarn per cottage, a length of cloth per farm, as a joint enterprise or as a form of tribute.

hours or four and a half modern working years. This does not include the time needed for harvesting the wool, or finishing processes such as fulling (Nørgård 1999, 8). Still, it would make the one million square metres of the Viking fleet represent some 50.000 years of presumably women’s

Durability is, of course, an important factor in the calculation of the demand for raw materials caused by the introduction of sails. Few data are available on the lifetime of wool sails; Erik Andersen of the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde estimates that - if properly maintained - it would last 40-50 years (Andersen 1995, 250f). A good sailor’s blanket lasted at least a generation (Kjellmo 1996, 91). It usually ended its days on shore as bed or floor covering. Clothing would not have lasted quite as long, but certainly longer that modern clothing made from industrially processed wool. Labour The labour invested in wool sails and other items was considerable. That included a long series of wool-working processes, starting with rooing (fig. 5) or plucking the wool from the sheep when ready for moulting in early June (Christiansen 2004, 12f). Wool harvested this way is much less prone to absorb water than shorn wool (Lightfoot 1997, 14). Sorting the wool into categories, and separating the outer coat from the bottom wool were the next steps, to be followed by combing (and carding) and the making of roving, i.e. pre-yarn (fig. 6). Before spinning, the roving was placed on a distaff, or simply wound around the spinner’s arm. Warp and weft yarns were spun on different tools, often in different directions (fig. 7). After spinning, yarns had to be set, i.e. wound tautly onto a stick or reel, wetted and dried (fig. 8). This process stops curling, and is especially important for warp yarns for sailcloth. If not set, the fabric would be very elastic and unsuited for sailcloth. Warping and weaving were the next steps, followed by finishing processes such as wetting, fulling, brushing etc. (fig. 9).

Fig. 7: Spinning. Note the roving wound around the spinner’s arm. Photo: Oddmunn Farbregd.

Experiments indicate that a good spinner can produce 3050 m yarn per hour using spindle and distaff (Mårtensson et al. 2006, 8; Nørgaard 1999, 10). For a wool sail of 90 square metres, that would mean 4.800 hours of spinning – two and a half modern working years.2 As regards weaving on the warp-weighted loom commonly used in the Viking Age, weaver Anna Nørgaard inserts on average 25 wefts per hour. It takes 20 hours to weave one metre of sailcloth, and she estimates that it would take almost 3.200 hours to make the 157 metres needed for such as sail. The total consumption of time for spinning and weaving is 8.000   Eva Andersson (2003, 46ff) calculates 20 m yarn/hour including preparations and subsequent work, and reaches a total of 15.000 hours of spinning for a sail of 100 square meters. 2

Fig. 8: Warp yarn before, during, and after setting. Photo: Oddmunn Farbregd. 177

N-TAG TEN labour.3 As crews would not have gone naked, however, we should add close to another year of labour for the clothing and bedding of each man on board (tables 1-2). Making a sailor’s blanket took about six months, according to oral sources of the early 20th century.4 The production of clothing would have required several months of work too. In the 1860s, the average household on Ytre Senja produced 11-12 metres of wool cloth and 4 kg yarn for knitting each year, requiring at least 3 months of labour (Elstad 2004. 31). Is this just a game of arithmetic, an equation with too many unknown factors? Perhaps, but hopefully it makes it clear that the introduction of sails to Scandinavia must have had significant impact as regards fibre production and labour. Although focus in this paper is on wool and sheep farming, other relevant fibres such as hemp and flax should not be forgotten. They, too, require farming and labour. Flax needs a rich soil and a mild wet climate; hemp thrives in drier, slightly warmer conditions and has a high yield; their processing includes pulling, rippling, retting, drying, breaking, scutching and heckling, not to speak of spinning and weaving (Walton Rogers 2007, 14, 17ff) . Nettle may, perhaps, be added to the potential fibre sources; traditional

  Textile tools in a number of male graves from the 7th-10th centuries in Norway suggest that men also participated in textile production (Rabben 2002) 4  Lightfoot, personal communication c. 1999. This corresponds qiuite well with the reconstructing a sailor’s blanket performed by Ellen Kjellmo (1996, 106f). She needed 2 hours to produce 100 g yarn (shearing/rooing and wool sorting not included). Kjellmo’s blanket weighed only 5,5 kg. For a 18 kg blanket 360 hours would be needed. Kjellmo used about 250 hours weaving the blanket. 3

Fig. 9: Weaving on a warp-weighted loom. Photo: Oddmunn Farbregd.

Cargo ship, knarr crew 6-8 Sail 90 m2

Rugs à 15 kg

Wool

90 – 120 kg

90 kg 1

Labour

8000 hrs

5040-6720 hrs

4,8 years

3-3,6 years

2

Clothing à 6,6 kg

Total

40-53 kg

220-263 kg

2520-3360 hrs 1,5-2 years

3

15-18.000 hrs c. 10 years

  Estimates of labour a based on the modern working year of 1680 hours Estimate based on half a modern working year, 840 hours 3   Estimate based on a quarter of a modern working year, 420 hours 1

2 

Table 1: calculations of the amount of wool and labour needed for textiles on board a Viking ship of the type represented by Skuldelev I (knarr). Warship, skeid Sail 112 m2 crew 65-701 Wool 200 kg Labour

2

9 years

Rugs à 15 kg

Clothing à 6,6 kg Total

975-1050 kg

429-462 kg

1600-1700 kg

30-32,5 years

15-17,5 years

54-59 years

  Crew and sail size and weight of fibre for sail based on data from the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde and the reconstruction of Skuldelev 2, the Sea Stallion of Glendalough. 2 Estimate, basically doubling of the working hours needed for making 90 m2 sail weighing 90 kg 1

Table 2: calculations of the amount of wool and labour needed for Viking warship of the type represented by Skuldelev 2 (skeid).

textiles on board a

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Lise Bender Jørgensen: The introduction of sails to Scandinavia boats of the Nordlandsbåt type reportedly often had sails of nettle cloth (Eldjarn and Godal 1990a, 268). Land for Fibre How much land is needed for the production of fibre? Price lists from Emmenthal in Switzerland,1940, inform us that 15 square metres of land sown with flax will yield 6 kg flax stems, which is what is needed to produce a linen tablecloth; 100 kg of flax stems result in c. 4kg of first quality fibres (Rast-Eicher 2008, 24). To make a sail for a Viking warship, some 200 kg of processed flax fibres would have been needed.5 According to the agricultural standards represented by the Swiss price list of 1940, this would represent some 12.500 square metres of land – that is if sailcloth was made from the same quality of fibres as tablecloth. As the introduction of artificial fertilizers c 1840 have caused harvest outputs to multiply, agricultural tracts from the time of the Enlightment are a better source for data on fibre production comparable to the Viking Age. According to H.J.C. Høegh, who offered his advice to farmers and cottagers in Denmark after the land reforms of the 18th century, half a skæppe land (c. 345 m2) could be expected to yield some 4-5 lispund (3240 kg) of hemp (Høegh 1797, 475). Professor Christian Olufsen, addressing farmers and cottagers in Denmark and Norway, calculated 2000 square ells of land (780 m2) sown with one skæppe (17.39 litres) of hemp seeds for a similar yield of scutched hemp (Olufsen 1812, 16). He further estimated that the yearly demand of the double monarchy for 10.000 skippund of hemp (1.694 tonnes) could be produced on c. 6.600 tønder land (2.640 hectare) (Olufsen 1812, 3). That would correspond to some 644 kg hemp/hectare. Unfortunately, none of these learned gentlemen have supplied the equivalent information on flax yields, except that they were lower. Investigations of economic perspectives on fibre production in modern Germany may, however, give us an idea of the relative proportions between hemp and flax. They propose hemp yields of 1775-3000 kg/hectare, depending on soil type and sowing density (Kaup 1996, 5-36, Abb. 5-1; von Francken-Welz and Léon 2003, 35, Tab. A1). According to Kaup, flax yields are 1200-1860kg/hectare; he also assesses the yield of fibre nettle, at 750 kg/hectare (Kaup 1996, 5-36, abb. 5-1). These figures suggest that hemp yields are 50-100% larger than those of flax. Flax yields around 1800 could thus have been something like 300-440 kg /hectare. Whether these estimates are applicable to the Viking Age is a good question, and certainly one that it would be interesting to pursue. Regardless, it follows that the cultivation of flax or hemp for sailcloth would have necessitated the setting aside of good arable lands for the purpose of fibre production. Wool farming requires large expanses of land, but much less arable. The coastal heathlands of Norway offer excellent grazing for the double-coated old Norse sheep   http://vikingeskibsmuseet.dk/index.php?id=1316&L=1 (retrieved 20. November 2009) 5

all year round. They were first established 5.000 years ago and have been expanded recurrently (Kvamme et al. 2004, 10). Investigations of pollen data from Southern and Western Norway show that the heathlands expanded during the Merovingian and Viking Periods, e. g. the period when sails were introduced and gained importance (Myhre and Øye 2002, 179). The site of Lurekalven in Hordaland is a good example; it was turned into heathland c. 750 AD (Kvamme et al. 2004, 12). Here, recent research has shown that the optimal grazing pressure is around one adult sheep per hectare of actively managed heathlands during winter (Kvamme et al. 2004, 46f). Amy Lightfoot has suggested 2.5 hectare per animal (Lightfoot 1991, 6). A hectare of heathlands would thus yield 1-2 kg of wool annually. It may not appear much compared to the amount of hemp or flax that can, or could, be produced per hectare; the type of land, and the amount of manure and labour to be invested would, however, be very different. Even today, less than 3% of Norway is fully arable (Myhre and Øye, 2002. 234); in the Viking Age, this supposedly was less. Pollen diagrams from areas of mountain dairy farming in Western Norway show that grazing pressure intensified during the 7th and 8th centuries (Myhre and Øye 2002, 177); this, presumably, applied to cattle as well as goats and sheep. Cultivation of hemp seems to have increased after 600 AD in Norway and Sweden (Myhre and Øye 2002, 174, 193; Pedersen and Widgren 1998, 382). Evidence of hemp and flax processing (retting) has been found at several sites dated to the 8th and 9th centuries in Norway and Denmark (Myhre and Øye 2002, 193; Møller-Hansen and Høier 2000). All of this indicates that the production of fibres gained significantly in importance in Scandinavia about the time when sails were introduced. Acknowledgements Thoughts presented in this paper spring from my participation in the project ‘Textiles of Seafaring’ 19981999, financed by the EU’s Raphael Programme, and discussions with fellow participants from the Viking Ship Museum, Denmark, the University of Manchester Institute of Science & Technology (UMIST), Tømmervik Textile Trust, and craftswomen Anna Nørgaard and Lena Hammarlund. Fellow members of the SoDiTech network have contributed further ideas and inspiration, especially Debbie Olausson and Ulla Isabel Zagal-Mach, both from the University of Lund, Sweden. Antoinette Rast-Eicher, ArcheoTex in Switzerland, Janken Myrdal at the Swedish University of Agricultural Sciences, and the librarians at the Gunnerus Library, Trondheim, have all helped finding data on relationships between land and fibre yield. My husband, Oddmunn Farbregd, supplied detailed data on Oppdal from the tax lists of 1657, allowing me to establish flock sizes of sheep. Audun Dybdahl helped me find further information on the 1657 lists. Dr Carol Christiansen, the Shetland Museum and Archives, courteously supplied a photograph of the rooing of sheep, and Hilde Murvold at the museum Kystens Arv, now part of The Museums

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N-TAG TEN in South-Trøndelag Ltd., very kindly photographed the contents of a fisherman’s clothes chest and a sjørya.

Bibliography Adalsteinsson, S. 1990. Importance of Sheep in Early Icelandic Agriculture. Acta Archaeologica 61, 285291. Andersen, B. and E. Andersen 1989. Råsejlet – Dragens Vinge. Roskilde, Vikingeskibshallen. Andersen, E. 1995. Woollen material for sails. In O. Olsen, J. Skamby Madsen and F. Rieck (eds.), Shipshape. Essays for Ole Crumlin-Pedersen, 249-270 Roskilde, The Viking Ship Museum. Andersen, E., J. Milland and E. Myhre 1989. Uldsejl i 1000 år. Roskilde, Vikingeskibshallen. Andersen, E., O. Crumlin-Pedersen, S. Vadstrup and M. Vinner 1997. Roar Ege. Skuldelev 3 skibet som arkæologisk eksperiment. Roskilde, Vikingeskibshallen. Andersson, E. 2003. Tools for Textile Production from Birka and Hedeby. Birka Studies 8, Stokholm. Bender Jørgensen, L. 2005. Textiles of Seafaring: an Introduction to an Interdisclipinary Research Project. In F. Pritchard and J.P. Wild (eds.), Northern Archaeological Textiles. NESAT VII, 65-69. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Christiansen, C. 2004. A Reanalysis of Fleece Evolution Studies. In J. Maik (ed.), Priceless Invention of Humanities – Textiles. NESAT VIII, 11-17. Lodz. Cooke, B., C. Christiansen and L. Hammarlund 2002. Viking woollen squsare-sails and fabric cover factor. The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 31 (2), 202-210. Cooke, B. and C. Christiansen 2005. What makes a Viking Sail? In F. Pritchard and J. P. Wild (eds.), Northern Archaeological Textiles. NESAT VII, 70-74. Oxford, Oxbow Books. Damgård-Sørensen, T. 1998. Textiles used in seafaring. Maritime Archaeology Newsletter from Roskilde 10, 32-34. Dybdahl, A. 1990. Fra de eldste tider til 1814. Rissa bygdebok 1. Rissa Kommune. Eldjarn, G. and J. Godal 1988a. Nordlandsbåten og Åfjordsbåten 1. Lesja, A. Kjellands Forlag. Eldjarn, G. and J. Godal 1988b. Nordlandsbåten og Åfjordsbåten 3. Lesja, A. Kjellands Forlag. Eldjarn, G. and J. Godal 1990a. Nordlandsbåten og Åfjordsbåten 2. Lesja, A. Kjellands Forlag. Eldjarn, G. and J. Godal 1990b. Nordlandsbåten og Åfjordsbåten 4. Lesja, A. Kjellands Forlag. Elstad, Å. 2002. Arbeidsliv i fiskarbondehushald. Kulturelle perspektiv på sosialisering og kjønnsidentitet, Bø og Hadsel i Vesterålen 1870-1970. Dr. art. thesis, Universitetet i Tromsø. Elstad, Å. 2004. Kystkvinner i Norge Kom Forlag.

Herje, T. and S. Alsaker 1999. Kysten vår. Namdalskysten gjennom 10000 år. Namsos, Kystbok. Høegh, H. J. C. 1797. Anviisning til et velindrettet Jordbrug for Gaardmænd og Husmænd på Landet, som have faaet deres Jorder udskiftede af Fælledskab, tillige brugbar ogsaa for andre jorddyrkere i Dannemark. København, Gyldendals Forlag. Kastholm, O. T. 2009. De gotlandske billedsten og rekonstruktionen af vikingeskibenes sejl. Aarbøger for nordisk oldkyndighed og historie 2005, 99-159. Kaup, M. 1996. Ökonomische und ökologische Perspektiven von Hanf (Cannabis sativa) als nachwachsender Rohstoff in Deutschland. Staatsexamensarbeit an der Universität zu Köln. Diplomarbeiten Agentur. (Retrieved 20. November 2009 from http://www. diplom.de/katalog/arbeit/12) Kjellmo, E. 1996. Båtrya i gammel og ny tid. Svolvær, Orkana Forlag. Kvamme, M., P. E. Kaland and N. G. Brekke 2004. Conservation and Management of North European Coastal Heathlands. Lygra, The Heathland Centre. Lightfoot, A. 1991. Villsauen: Meget verdifull ressurs som må vernes. Kysten 1991 (4), 5-9. Lightfoot, A. 1996. Ullarbeid på Shetland - en video om tradisjonelt jordbrukpå Shetland, basert på sauedrift. Video, Håndverksregisteret, De Sandvigske Samlinger. Lightfoot, A. 1997. Ullseil i tusen år. Spor 1997 (2), 10-15. Møller-Hansen, K. and H. Høier 2000. Næs – en vikingebebyggelse med hørproduktion. Kuml 2000, 59-90. Myhre, B. and I. Øye 2002. Norges landbrukshistorie I. 4000 f. Kr. – 1350 e. Kr. Oslo, Det norske samlaget.. Mårtensson, L. E. Andersson, M.-L. Nosch, and A. Batzer (2006) Technical Report Experimental Archaeology Part 2:2. (Retrieved 4. December 2009 from http:// ctr.hum.ku.dk/upload/application/pdf/f51d6748/ Technical%20report%202-2,%20experimental%20 arcaheology.PDF) Nørgård, A. 1999. Weaving samples of sailcloth on a warpweighted loom. Experiments carried out at the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde, Denmark in 1999. Roskilde, Vikingeskibsmuseet Olsen, Y. 1875. Kvægholdet i Norge 1657. Historisk Tidsskrift 1 (3), 385-416. Olufsen, C. 1812. Udtog af Prof. Chr. Olufsens Anvisning til Hampens Dyrkning, udgivet ved det Kongel. Selskab for Norges Vel. Christiania, Jacob Lehmann. Pedersen, E. A. and M. Widgren 1998. Järnålder 500 f. Kr.1000 e.Kr., part 2 in Det svenska jordbrukets historia 1. Stockholm, Natur och Kultur/LTs förlag. Rabben, A. 2002. Med vevsverd og stekepanne. Tekstilredskaper og kjøkkenredskaper i vestnorske mannsgraver fra yngre jernalder. Hovedfagsoppgave, Universitetet i Bergen. Rast-Eicher, A. 2008. Textilien, Wolle, Schafe der Eisenzeit in der Schweiz. Antiqua 44, Basel. Solberg, B. 2000. Jernalderen i Norge: ca. 500 f.Kr.-1030 e.Kr. Oslo, Cappelens Akademisk Forlag.

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Lise Bender Jørgensen: The introduction of sails to Scandinavia Trætteberg, G. I. 1999. Skinnhyre og sjæklær. Fiskerbondens utrustning på 1700- og 1800-tallet. Oslo, Landbruksforlaget. Von Francken-Welz, H. and J. Léon 2003. Faserqualität einheimischer Faserpflanzen (Hanf) – Bewertung von Rohstoff und Endprodukt. Rheinische FriedrichWilhelms-Universität Bonn, Landwirtschaftliche Fakultät, Institut für Pflanzenbau. Forschungsbericht 112. (Retrived 20. November 2009 from http://www. uni-bonn.de/usl/pdf/Forschungsbericht%20112.pdf) Walton Rogers, P. 2007. Cloth and Clothing in Early Anglo-Saxon England. AD 450-700. CBA Research Report 145. London, Council for British Archaeology. Westerdahl, C. 1995. Society and Sail. In O. CrumlinPedersen and B. Munch Thye (eds.), The Ship as Symbol in Prehistoric and Medieval Scandinavia, 41-50 PNM 1 Copenhagen, The National Museum of Denmark.

Lise Bender Jørgensen, Norwegian University of Science & Technology, Department of Archaeology and Religious Studies N-7491 Trondheim, Norway [email protected]

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A technological momentum? Changes in lithic technology during the Mesolithic-Neolithic transition in Scandinava Lotte Eigeland University of Oslo

Abstract In the 1920s, the bicycle achieved a technological momentum in Denmark when a system of paved trails and cycling lanes were embedded in the infrastructure. According to David E. Nye (2006, 53): “Such a momentum is not inherent in any technological system when first deployed. Momentums only arise as a result of early development and successful craftsmanship, and they emerge at the culmination of a period of growth.” Thomas P. Hughes (1983) argues that the “technological momentum” is a useful concept for understanding large-scale systems and their change through time. In this paper, lithic technology during the transition between the Mesolithic and the Neolithic in Scandinavia, represented by Eastern Norway (3800 cal. BC) will be viewed as such a large-scale sociotechnical system with its own momentum arising in the horizon. In doing so, the application of the term technology in archaeology is discussed. It is argued that archaeologists have reduced the significance of the term and thus, lost the full force of argument in explaining technological change in prehistory. In modern studies of technology, it is said that the best way to invent the future is to predict it. In this sense, the future is the prospect of a forthcoming need felt in the present. As archaeologists we have a birds’ eye view of the material future of the prehistoric societies we study. As such, we might try to understand what their present needs were. This aspect of prehistoric technology has rarely been explored. A technological momentum can only arise if the social consequence of a development is desired by someone.

Introduction The research problem and the results presented in this paper are part of an ongoing PhD-project and must be considered as a work in progress and are thus preliminary (Eigeland in prep). When I use the term prehistoric technology, I primarily refer to Stone Age lithic technology. A broad definition of lithic technology is “the various processes that contribute to the production of stone tools, including strategies of manipulation and sequencing, knapping equipment and knowledge of raw materials and operative forces” Odell 2000, 283). My theoretical stance is that any technological system contains messy, complex and problem-solving components, which are both socially constructed and shape societies (Hughes 1993, 51). The prehistoric production of stone tools is no exception from this rule. Some of the general ideas presented here will be of interest to anybody who is concerned with technological change in prehistory regardless of the period under scrutiny. On the Mesolithic-Neolithic transition in Eastern Norway, several changes appear in the archaeological material. One of these changes is the end of microblade production and the advent of a more eclectic flake technology. This means that flexibility in production comes to the forefront, as opposed to a stringent and specialized microblade technology in which a standardized product, the microblade, is the main objective. Another change is the introduction of imported polished and/or unpolished flint axes from Southern Scandinavia. Since there is no evidence of local production, the flint axes have been viewed as valuable exchange objects manufactured by foreign specialist knappers (e.g Bjørn 1924, 28; Gjessing 1945, 353; Mjærum 2004). Why do these changes occur?

According to Hughes (1993, 76), some technological systems acquire momentum after prolonged growth and consolidation. This means, that when technical specifications are established and widely adopted the system becomes less responsive to outside pressure. A good modern example is the car, which has achieved such a momentum especially in the USA, but also throughout most parts of the western world. In its wake, more than half of the land area in the big cities is devoted to roads, parking lots, garages, gas stations and so on (after Nye 2006, 3-56). Such a commitment to the car has resulted in massive infrastructure investment that makes it difficult to shift to mass transport, not least because the buildings are so far apart. In this paper, I will suggest that a technological momentum occurred for flint technology during the transition from the Mesolithic to the Neolithic, and escalated in the Scandinavian Neolitihic. This momentum might explain some of the changes found in the archaeological material. Research problems As a lithic technologist, I have worked experimentally with Stone Age tool production for some years. My main focus has been to address the Eastern Norwegian technology from a local point of view. The character of this technology has for the most part been considered to represent a Southern Scandinavian backwater or periphery with no ability to change without some cultural assistance from the flourishing South. My opinion is that we have to understand technology from a local perspective, before we can make reasonable suggestions as to what really happened in prehistory. Currently, I am working experimentally with low quality beach flint nodules which set the Eastern Norway resource base apart from

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N-TAG TEN Southern Scandinavia (Högberg and Olausson 2007). There are no indigenous sources of flint in Norway. Flint can only by found as pebbles and nodules along the coast. This flint is often of a low knapping quality. In Southern Scandinavia, high quality flint is readily available from indigenous sources and the selection is much better. One of my concerns is how the transmission of lithic skill can be carried out in a region like Eastern Norway when flint sources are limited (Eigeland in prep). Like most lithic technologists, my theoretical point of departure for my research is the French approach, which incorporates the chaîne operatoire with roots in the sociology of Marcel Mauss and Emile Durkheim and their insistance on the social embeddedness of technology. Through the chaîne operatoire, archaeologists tend to think in sequence of actions and cognitive reflections and seek to understand the process of toolmaking from the procurement of raw material via recycling to the deposition of a used or broken tool. With this methodology, studies of lithic technology have ventured into very interesting areas of research: viewing technology as a social construction, transmission of skill, different levels of craftsmanship, identifying different techniques, and so on (e.g Dobres 2000; Apel 2001; Apel and Knutsson 2006). Have we reached the end of our possiblities? Are the interpretations of prehistoric technology now as good as they can get? The answer is of course no. During the past year, I have tried to move away from the safety zone of the chaîne operatoire and the well known methods for dealing with prehistoric technology in archaeology (e.g Andrefsky 1998; Eriksen 2000; Inzian et al. 1992). Now I find myself in the minefield which is “philosophy of technology” which portrays ideas on technology from both philosophy and engineering science (Olsen et al. 2009; Scharff and Dusek 2003). I say minefield because there is little consensus across this field as to what technology actually is and how it affects mankind. The “warfare” in modern technology studies worries me when I return to the welfare of chaîne operatoire studies in archaeology. Thus, the research problems I will address in this paper are: How can philosophy of technology studies contribute to new directions in archaeological studies of technology? Should we bring modern and archaeological technology studies closer? Can technological momentums occur in prehistory? To answer these question we must answer a more fundamental question – what is technology for archaeologists? The normative aspect of technology Philosopher of technology, Val Dusek claims it is the tool approach to technology that tends to make technology appear neutral. “Technology is neither good nor bad. It can be used, misused, or refused. The hammer can be used to drive a nail or smash a skull. The tool user is outside of the tool and controls it” (Dusek 2006, 36). It is only when technology is viewed as a system that the normative aspect comes into play. A normative statement affirms how things

should be, how to value them, which things are good or bad and which actions are right or wrong. As a prehistorian who is researching Stone Age lithic technology, I must admit that the normative content of the technology I study is rarely discussed. In most lithic studies the prehistoric technological course appears to follow one single direction. The Stone Age knapper knows what he/she is doing and why. The choice of technology appears to be reasonable – it doesn’t need to be contested by researchers. This is the tool approach to technology. In my opinion, prehistoric people have received far too much praise and too little criticism for their technological achievements. As archaeologists we need to start asking questions like: Who was the technology right for? Was the technology valued by all, or only a few? We can not bluntly accept that, at the time of its use, prehistoric lithic technology was of no consequence for their users except for providing a means to an end. In the following, the normative content of technology will be included as an important aspect of Stone Age tool production. Definition of technology One of the most influential works on lithic technology is the book ”Technology of Knapped Stone” by Inizan et al (1992). In the introduction the editors write: ”Without attempting a definition, we will try to explain why we reserve the term technology for a conceptual approach to prehistoric culture, based on the reasoned study of techniques, including those of human physical actions” (Inizan et al. 1992, 11). To me, it is disturbing that a definition of technology is not attempted and that the termed itself is reserved in a book about lithic technology. As archaeologists working with technology we should contemplate this bias. Outside archaeology, the mechanical engineer and interdisiplinary thinker, Stephen Kline (1985) has defined technology. He does this by splitting the term into four different usages. Although Kline’s definition is based on modern studies of technology, I find it quite useful in my own research. With the use of a fashionable example, in addition to comments refering to archaeology, I will show how this definition givens an additional dimension to studies of prehistoric technology. Usage 1: Technology as hardware or artefact To Kline, artefacts “denote non-natural objects of all kind manufactured by humans” (Kline 1985, 15). In Figure 1, the artefact is illustrated by a female suit, a piece of clothing. This is technology. For archaeologists, artefacts and their definition are well known. We are exceptionally well equipped for describing, presenting and handling prehistoric artefacts. Thus, archaeologists have this part of the definition of technology well covered. Usage 2: Technology as a sociotechnical system of manufacture A sociotechnical system of manufacture denotes “all the elements needed to manufacture a particular kind of 184

Lotte Eigeland: A technological momentum? Usage 3: Technology as technique, know-how and methodology In this case, technology refers to “the knowledge needed within the sociotechnological system of manufacture, the information, skills, and procedures for accomplishing tasks”(Kline 1985, 216). For the suit in Figure 1, it goes without saying that knowledge is needed to produce it to a certain standard. In archaeology, this third usage of technology is to some degree represented by experimental and etnographic studies in which analogies are created to achieve a better understanding of the prehistoric crafts and the practical ways of doing things. Usage 4: Technology as a sociotechnical system of use

Figure 1: Technology as artefact, here represented by a female suit

(illustration from Walford 2008). artefact”, that is people, resources, processes, the physical environment and so on (Kline 1985, 215). Again, Figure 1 can be used as a reference. The female suit is the result of a complex manufacturing system. Just think about what is needed to make it: pattern, fabric, treads, sowing machines, designers, workers to mention but a few. For archaeologists studying lithic technology, the chaîne operatoire methodology is very much in sync with Kline’s second usage of technology. Through a careful study of the chaîne operatoire, we can retrace all the steps in a production sequence to comprehend the manufacturing process of artefacts.

For Kline (1985, 216), this means “a system which uses a combination of artefacts and people to accomplish tasks humans cannot perform unaided by such systems – to extend human capacities”. I believe this usage of technology has been overlooked in archaeology. Archaeologists undeniably discuss artefact use. In lithic technology, researchers certainly discuss what a tool might have been used for and try to put these ideas into perspective. However, the issue must be taken to a much higher level. Let us take a look at the suit again. It is not actually just any kind of suit. It is a siren suit (Figure 2). In October 1939, this suit appeared in the store windows in London. The suit was to be worn when the sirens alerting to an air raid sounded. The suits were zipper-fronted one-piece jumpsuits that could be worn over pyjamas or nightgowns in bomb shelters during night time air raids. A new hairstyle also accompanied the suit. It was called the Gas Mask Curl which consisted of clusters of curls on either side of the head with a centre part perfect for holding the main strap of the gas mask. Neither the siren suit nor the Gas Mask Curl would have been in use had it not been for the social act of war. It is a technology created from a sociotechnical system of use –larger than one human being. Still, the new technology was not considered neutral. British Vogue reported in their first war time issue: “We deplore the crop of young women who take war as an excuse for parading about in trousers.” (Walford 2008, 32). From this it is clear that a technology is normative even in a time of great social crisis. Can we find a similar archaeological example of a sociotechnical system of use for lithic technology? Hypothetically, a coastal Stone Age site with 6000 artefacts, mostly of flint, is excavated in Eastern Norway. The site is interpreted as a small hunting site at which the prehistoric people exploited local beach flint nodules and used such and such techniques of manufacture. Then it is stated that this is a typically mobile hunting society moving around in the landscape from site to site. This might be true, but has the sociotechnical system of use been discussed? According to Kline, without the sociotechnical system of use, the manufacture of artefacts would have no purpose. The baggy siren suit would not have had a purpose in a London at peace in the 1940s. The manufacture of lithic 185

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Figure 2: Siren suits to be worn during night-time air raids during World War 2 (illustration from Walford 2008).

tools might have a practical purpose in a hunter-gatherer way of life, but this is not a sufficient explanation. Archaeology and the sociotechnical system of use To explain a technological change, the sociotechnical system of use needs to be addressed. For Eastern Norway, the use of local beach flint nodules for tool production has never been discussed in systemic terms. How significant was the flint procurement compared to other activities? What does it signify to have limited access to high quality flint? How do people adjust to unstable raw material conditions? Do their attitude toward flint change? Indifference? Prudence? Or, would a more or less opportunistic adaptation to a raw material circumstance give a stronger sense of autonomy? Flint, being available to all people exploiting the coastline in prehistory, can perhaps be considered a “democratic” resource. Low quality flint nodules would probably not

encourage competition or fights over raw material sources. Perhaps people could move more freely in the landscape as opposed to having to guard important resources? If we look at the normative aspect: Was anybody complaining about the quality of the flint? Would this divide the group? Cause irritation? Was there enough flint available to practice knapping skill? Would the lack of sufficient flint sources affect the way groups moved in the landscape? Would they travel much further to procure high quality flint than mobile groups in other regions? Did the prehistoric people in Eastern Norway have a larger social network than originally perceived? This was just a very brief example to illustrate how we can expand our perspective when it comes to use in a greater sociotechnical system. From simply stating that local beach flint was used at a site, I can now ask, how did the use of local beach flint affect the group’s dynamic and their social relationships. This is an important addition. 186

Lotte Eigeland: A technological momentum? Philosophy of technology and the study of prehistoric technology Above, I have demonstrated how a definition from the field of modern technology studies can expand the archaeological scope of interpretation. As such, the bridging of definitions from one social science to another seems unproblematic. However, it is one thing to use a definition, but another to make an impact on general studies of technology. What is prehistoric technology to philosophers of technology? Carl Mitcham (1990, 2) wrote that “certainly the transition from hunting and gathering to the domestication of animals and plants introduced a profound and profoundly disturbing transition in culture”, as if culture was neutral and undisturbed prior to this transition. In all, very few historians and/or philosophers of technology write about prehistoric technology of any kind. This is perhaps the result of old evolutionary ideas. Everything follows along a linear and slow trajectory from something simple to something more complex. Prehistoric technology, and here I focus on Stone Age lithic technology, is viewed as simple and rarely complex by other sciences. This might be our own doing, as we archaeologists fail to come to grips with the complexity of our field of study, and communicate this complexity to the general field of technology studies. Figure 3 is a typically simple illustration of a Stone Age situation – people sitting stationary around a fireplace making tools. In my own studies of lithic assemblages from Stone Age sites, I never find this situation. I find a complex technological story represented by accumulated tools and flakes fashioned in a disordely pattern. How can

this point best be illustrated? Paradoxically, I found a fitting illustration from the part of art history which most fiercly denied the past – Futurism. Figure 4 is a futuristic painting named “The Knife Grinder”. It portrays the dynamism of grindig a knife. The futuristic artists wanted to dissolve shape and form and add movement and complexity to their art to give a more truthful depiction of reality. This approach has interesting parallels with archaeology. Archaeologists work with dissolved shapes and forms as a matter of fact. However, the dissolution is not always a result of preservation or methods of excavation. It could be the result of a true technological situation. When I study an assemblage, a complex sequence of movement and dynamic is displayed. I do not know how many people visited a site, how many visits took place or how many knapping sequences a 6000 piece assemblage consists of. It could have been created in any number of ways. Thus, technology studies in archaeology can portray a potentially complex technological prehistory. This is why oversimplified presentations and interpretations will not hold if archaeologists want to take part in real discussions about technology. Look to the future I briefly mentioned the Futuristic movement above. One of the main persons behind this movement, F.T Marinetti (1909) proclaimed that ” do you, then, wish to waste all your best powers in this eternal and futile worship of the past, from which you emerge fatally exhausted, shrunken, beaten down?” This proclamation seemingly pulls the rugg out from under the archaeologists feet, but the statement

Figure 3: A simple illustration of a situation at a Stone Age site (illustration from Pokotylo 1983). 187

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Figure 4: “The Knife Grinder” by Kasimir Malevich. The painting combines fragmentation of form with multiplication of image. How would a futurist paint a Stone Age site?

has resonance. When archaeologists explain technological behaviour we often ascribe it to the prehistoric past. The deposition of axes in wetlands to honour the forefathers, the building of megaliths to honour the ancestral spirits, or the microblade technology which honours a tool tradition and so on. Do archaeologists worship the past? I would be the first to claim that we need to review and study the past to have sufficent insight to understand the present or command the future. However, the prehistoric future has been of little interest to archaeologists apart from showing what followed a certain event or artefact and how things can be ordered chronologically. Archaeologists who know more about the distant past then any other science, also know something about the future of past people. This potential must be explored. If technology is truly embedded in social life, people decide what they desire for their future. That is why we can design the future to fit our needs. For example, we wanted less people to die in traffic accidents due to the lack of wearing seatbelts. Thus, we now have cars that will not start before the driver and

passengers have put on their seatbelts. Technology answers to human motivations. Some motives are so strong that they can turn into momentums. A technological momentum in prehistory? It was the historian of technology, T. P. Hughes who coined the phrase “technological momentum”. To repeat, this is a concept that is useful to understand large-scale systems such as the railway, the car or the bicycle’s strong position in Denmark. Any one of these systems exerts a soft determinism on people who are part of them. Just think about the car in the USA, one can hardly go anywhere without it. As far as I know, momentums have not been discussed in prehistoric research. One reason for this might be that technological changes in the past are considered too small and insignificant for stronghold momentums to occur. Nevertheless, I believe that such a momentum happened for flint as raw material and technology at the Neolithic transition in Scandinavia.

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Lotte Eigeland: A technological momentum? From an East Norwegian perspective, the technology tranformed from being traditional and standardized to being generalized and less dependent on personal skill. Microblade technology was substituted by a more extensive use of flake technology. A technology which everybody can perform. Furthermore, the import of flint axes started. The axes were used both in rituel contexts and as recycled raw material. Even mountain sites in Norway contain imported flint axes used secondary as raw material for tools (e.g Indrelid 1994). In Southern Scandinavia closer to larger flint sources, the same change from traditional to generalized technology and to greater focus on specialists than an overall skilled public is found (Stafford 1995). In addition to this, there is the mining of flint, the large exchange systems, the grinding process, and not to forget, the flint axes’ part in the ritual or religious sphere as depositions in graves or wetlands. For a period, prehistoric people seem to have been motivated by a need to consume flint in a different way then before. “A technological momentum can only arise as a result of early development and successful craftsmanship, and it emerge at the culmination of a period of growth” (Nye 2006, 53). It appears that flint technology could never achieve a momentum in East Norway due to the limited flint sources, but it did in Southern Scandinavia which had unlimited access to raw material and thus the opportunity to develop outstanding craftsmanship. The transition to the Neolithic must have been a period of growth, and flint technology was singled out as an instrument of the changes to come. The import of flint axes to Eastern Norway demonstrates that a close network existed between the two regions. They were part of the same system. Even though there were no functional need to import flint axes to Eastern Norway, the soft determinism exerted by the momentum had a deep impact over a large area. Using the futuristc perspective in addition to exploring the part of the definition of technology that focused on the sociotechnical system of use, I want to know the following: What was it that the prehistoric people in the Late Mesolithic of Eastern Norway desired for their future when it came to flint as a raw material? Since we can see the future we know. They desired a less competence driven technology in their own region and the import of flint axes produced by foreign specialists. As high quality flint became easier accessible via import, the democratic nature of the local beach flint must have been thrown off balance. What happened in society that led to this momentum for flint in particular? To look at it from a normative point of view – What better way for growing groups in the South to gain control northwards than by using flint as a mean to get ahead, when flint was a poor resource in the North? Or perhaps the arrangement was considered mutually beneficial. The mining was a result of a consumer wish. This could be supported by the fact that the first mining in Scandinavia is dated to a site in Scania, closest to the flintpoor periphery (Price and Gebauer 1992). These are just a few possible interpretations, obviously more

material must be analysed before I can reach a satisfactory conclusion Preliminary Conclusion In this paper, I have tried to move beyond the chaîne operatoire approach to prehistoric technology. In doing so I have touched upon some aspects from both history and philosophy of technology. Expanding the definition of technology and discussing its normative aspect, results in much more dynamic and complex interpretations of prehistoric lithic technology. It is within this complex character that the seeds to technological momentums lie. Thus, the changes discovered during the MesolithicNeolithic transition must be explained by looking at the sociotechnical system of use, a part of the technology definition which has been overlooked in archaeology. References Andrefsky, W. 1998. Lithics. Macroscopic Approaches to Analysis. Cambridge Manuals in Archaeology. Cambridge University Press. Apel, J. 2001. Daggers Knowledge and Power. The Social Aspects of Flint-Dagger Technology in Scandinavia 2350-1500 cal BC. Coast to coast-book 3. Uppsala. Apel, J. and K. Knutsson 2006. Skilled Production and Social Reproduction. Aspects of Traditional StoneTool Technologies. Proceedings of a Symposium in Uppsala, August 20-24, 2003. Societas Archaeologica Upsaliensis and The Department of Archaeology and Ancient History, Uppsala University. Bjørn, A. 1924. Stenalderstudier. Vid.Selsk. Skr.II. Hist.filos. kl.1924 (5). Kristiania [Oslo]. Dobres, M-A. 2000. Technology and Social Agency. Outlining a Practice Framework for Archaeology. Blackwell Publishing. Dusek, V. 2006. Philosophy of Technology. An Introduction. Blackwell Publishing. Eigeland, L. in prep. Maskinmennesket i Steinalderen. Endring og kontinuitet i steinteknologi fram mot neolitiseringen av Øst-Norge. Doctoral thesis at the University of Oslo (to be completed spring 2011). Eriksen, B. V. 2000 Flintstudier. En håndbog i systematiske analyser af flintinventarer. Aarhus Universitetsforlag. Gjessing, G. 1945. Norges steinalder. Oslo Hughes, T. P. 1983. Networks of power: Electrification in Western Society, 1880-1930. Johns Hopkins University Press. Hughes, T. P. 1993. The Evolution of Large Technological Systems. In Bijker, W.E,, Hughes, T.P. and Pinch, T. (eds.), The Social Construction of Technological Systems. New Directions in the Sociology and History of Technology, 51-82 Högberg A. and D. Olausson 2007. Scandinavian Flint – an Archaeological Perspective. Aarhus University Press. Indrelid, S. 1994. Fangstfolk og bønder i fjellet. Bidrag til Hardangerviddas førhistorie 8500-2500 før nåtid.

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N-TAG TEN Universitetets Oldsaksamlings Skrifter. Ny rekke 17. Oslo. Inizan, M-L, H. Roche and J. Tixier 1992. Technology of Knapped Stone. Meudon, Cercle de Recherches et d’Etudes Préhistoriques. Kline, S. J. 1985. What is Technology. Bulletin of Science, Technology & Society 1, 215-218. Mitcham, C. 1990. From Artifact to Habitat: Studies in the Critical Engagement of Technology. Gayle L. Ormiston (ed.), Research in Technology series 3: 3159. Bethlehem, PA, LeHigh University Press. Marinetti, F.T 1909. The Founding and Manifesto of Futurism. La gazzetta dell’Emilia Mjærum, A. 2004. Å gi øksene liv. Et biografisk perspektiv på slipte flintøkser fra sørøstnorsk tidligog mellomneolitikum. Cand. philol. thesis in Nordic Archaeology, University of Oslo. Nye, D.E. 2006. Technology Matters. Questions to Live With. The MIT Press. Cambridge (MA). Odell, G.H. 2000. Stone Tool Research at the End of the Millennium: Procurement and Technology. Journal of Archaeological Research, 8, 269-331. Olsen, J.K, E. Selinger and S. Riis 2009. New Waves in Philosophy of Technology. Palgrave Macmillan. Pokotylo, D.L 1983. Blood From Stone. Making and Using Stone Tools in Prehistoric British Columbia. Museum Note No.11 (2and edition). UBC Museum of Anthropology. Price, D. and A.B. Gebauer 1992. The Final Frontier: First Farmers in Northern Europe. In D. Price and A. B. Gebauer (eds.), Transitions to Agriculture in Prehistory. Monographs in World Arcaheology: 4, 97117 Scharff, R.C. and V. Dusek 2003. Philosophy of Technology. The Technological Condition. An Anthology. Blackwell Publishing. Stafford, M. 1999. From Forager to Farmer in Flint. A Lithic Analysis of the Prehistoric Transition to Agriculture in Southern Scandinavia. Aarhus University Press. Walford, J. 2008. Forties Fashion. From siren suits to the new look. Thames & Hudson

Lotte Eigeland University of Oslo, Museum of Cultural History, Department of Heritage Management, PO Box 6762 St. Olavs plass N-0130 Oslo, Norway E-mail: [email protected]

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Iron production in Østerdalen in medieval times ― A consequence of regional technological change? Bernt Rundberget University of Oslo

Abstract From c. 300BC there is clear evidence of iron production in Norway. At that time, the technology was well established in a large part of South-Norway. The production form, the shaft furnace with slag pit (phase I), was the only method in use for almost 1000 years. So, in c. AD700, a new technology, the slag tapping furnace (phase II), was introduced and became dominant in the 8th century. This paper deals with the transition from one tradition to another in the eastern part of South-Norway. Here, the phase I production is named the Østland type because of similarities in methods and organization all over Southeast-Norway. However, during the change to phase II, the production form seems to be divided into two subtypes; one that is located only in the woodlands of Østerdalen in Hedmark County, and the more widespread, that was used in the low mountain valleys from Oppland County to Hovden in Aust-Agder County. Focus will be on the tradition in Østerdalen where, in the period c. AD950-1300, we find traces of a large and comprehensive iron production which, in scale, is unique in this period. I want to seek reasons for this by discussing motives for the change into two distinct varieties of the phase II-technology. In this discussion, elements such as accession of resources surplus-production and demand; local and regional social structures; sovereignty of production and distribution; and receivers/markets, will be illuminated.

Background The background for this article is the excavations in the Gråfjell area, municipality of Åmot, Hedmark County in East-Norway (Fig. 1), due to the Norwegian Ministry of Defence’s construction of a live firing range and training area. The Gråfjell project is the largest archaeological project to have been undertaken in an outfield area in Norway (Stene 2007). Here, extensive use of the outfield area has been demonstrated (Amundsen 2007; Risbøl et al. 2002; Rundberget 2007). Of particular interest is the large amount of archaeological monuments related to iron production in the period c. AD950-1300 with a climax in the period c. AD1150–1280 (Larsen og Rundberget 2009; Narmo 1997; Rundberget 2006; 2007). Only two production sites are dated to other periods: One dates back to the Roman Iron Age and the other to the 7th century. More than 2000 archaeological sites related to the production are known, of which 40 iron production sites, 250 charcoal pits and 30 roasting places have been excavated (Rundberget 2007). This material, which points to an extensive and well organized production, will be presented later. Chronology of Norwegian iron production In the period c. 300BC to c. AD700–800, Phase 1, the shaft furnaces with slag pit are unique. The type appear in three different varieties; the Eg type, first excavated in Eg, Kristiansand in southern Norway (Nakkerud and Schaller 1979); the Trøndelag type, which can be found all over Eastern Central Norway (Stenvik 2005); and the Østland type, which is the standard in Southeastern Norway (Larsen and Rundberget 2009). The area covered by the Gråfjell project is in the south-eastern part of Norway and, therefore, I will focus only on the Østland type. The characteristic of this type is a large furnace with shaft

diameter being possibly as much as 1,2 m. underneath the shaft is a pit for collecting slag when smelted. The amount of slag in the pit, weighing up to 450 kg, indicates the size of the furnace, but the exact height of the superstructure is unknown. Evidently, the furnaces have been used numerous times. Large blocks of slag have been found in layers of waste around the furnaces. In terms of localization, the sites are often found on small hillocks or at the edge of a terrace, where slag has been thrown down (Fig. 2). The phase I or shaft furnace with slag pit was replaced by phase II or the slag tapping furnace in the 8th century (fig. 3). The change brought several new elements but two factors are essential; furnaces became smaller and slag was tapped out of an opening in the furnace wall instead of being collected inside the pits. There are only a few signs of the slag tapping technology in Norway before the 8th Century. But when introduced, it appears as an innovation that totally replaced the older technology. It is, however, worth reminding that in other parts of Europe we see a contemporary use of both methods in the Early Iron Age (Pleiner 2000; Tylecote 1987). In England, large slag tapping furnaces were widespread throughout the Iron Age (Pleiner 2000, 176), while in continental Europe, e.g. in Martys in SouthernFrance (Domergue 1998) and in Hüttenberg-Feisterweise, Austria (Cech 2008) this form of production was common in the Roman period. And also in the Medieval Time the technology has parallels over large parts of Europe (e.g. Guyan 1965; Peets 2003; Rahut 1957; Sönnecken 1971). There are many interesting developments that occurred in Norway at this time of change. Central is the move of the localization of production from near the farmsteads and shielings, to further apart from homesteads, into the forests and low mountain valleys. The need for charcoal is also 191

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Fig.1: The western and eastern regions of iron production in the Medieval period. Map is showing the museum district of Museum of Cultural History (Map base: NMA, Permit number NE12000-150408SAS ). 192

Bernt Rundberget: Ironp production in Østerdalen in medieval times

Fig. 2: An Early Iron Age production site (left) and slagblock (right below) in Smådøla, Buskerud, and a phase I furnace from Dokkfløy, Oppland (photo B. Rundberget/J. H. Larsen)

Fig. 3: Slag tapping furnaces in Dokkfløy (left) and Gråfjell (right) (photo J. H. Larsen/B. Rundberget) an important new element in the new technology. In phase I, the method was based on charring the wood directly in the furnaces. The smaller furnaces of phase II required charcoal (Damlien and Rundberget 2007), causing new demands of labor and organization. Charcoal was burned in pits located at the iron production sites or in the forests nearby. Phase II-production, which lasted to the 14th and 15th century, is well known in large part of Southeast-Norway, e.g. Hovden in Setesdal, Aust-Agder County (Rolfsen 1992), Møsstrond in Telemark County (Martens 1988), Hallingdalen in Buskerud County (Bloch-Nakkerud and Lindblom 1994) as well as Dokkfløy (Larsen 1991; Narmo 1996) and Fillefjell (Larsen and Rundberget 2009), both in the Oppland County. Surveys and excavations show differences in the organization (Larsen 2009; Narmo 2000). Still, there are many similarities in this large area. According to the morphology and the production process

there are several analogies, and often the production took place in small buildings (Fig. 4). It seems that this form of production is also represented in the southern part of Central Norway along with parts of West-Norway. Furthermore, the same method was used in the southern part of Sweden (Millberg 1985; Englund 1994; 2000; Strömberg 2008) and probably also in Denmark (Voss 1995), but only fragments of a few furnaces have been found. Mainly it is the typology of slag that provides insight into the Danish Medieval furnace (Lyngstrøm 2008, 30-31). These types of slag tapping furnaces are defined as thick-walled shaft furnaces (Pleiner 2000, 179). Central is a construction where a shaft of clay is insulated by sand, gravel and humus and has an outer reinforcement of stones or slabs. Furnaces can also have a timber frame, holding the construction together (Narmo 1996), a method which is also known elsewhere in Europe by the 4th and 5th century (cf. Rahut 1957). The furnaces can be acting alone (e.g. Magnusson and Millberg 1981, Martens 1988) 193

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Fig. 4: Organization of the iron production at Beitostølen in Oppland and the site Jfp.2 in Gråfjell (ill: J. H. Larsen/A. Mjærum/B. Rundberget).

or in a pair (Englund 2002; Englund and Grandin 2002; Narmo 1996). Iron production in Gråfjell The excavations at Rødsmoen in the 1990’s (Narmo 1997) and in the Gråfjell area in Hedmark County (Rundberget 2007), has resulted in what is, to date, a previously unknown tradition. But before taking a look at these results its necessary to point out that this tradition has spreads throughout large parts of the woods of Østerdalen, from Koppang in the north, to Eidsskog in the south, a tradition which is named The Hedmark tradition (Narmo 2000). In this way Gråfjell is only a small part of a widespread tradition, which we later will see has an enormous scale.

The production site Jfp.2 in Gråfjell (Fig. 4) is a typical iron production site with two furnaces and two slag heaps (Rundberget 2007). The furnaces were placed next to the elongated heaps and in the area between there are shared ore- and charcoal stores. In opposition to other slag tapping furnaces mentioned above, these are of the thin-walled freestanding slag tapping shaft furnace type (Pleiner 2000, 173). The shaft was built of clay and there was no reinforcement or insulation of the exterior. Instead, the furnaces are characterized by an underlying pit that was not used for collecting slag. The mass that filled these pits consisted of partly-sintered ore, charcoal, small pieces of slag, and sand. This accumulation has originated from the primary phase of the bloomery process. The pits may have a double function: Collecting the non-reduced

Fig. 5: Organization model of the iron production of Gråfjell (ill: B. Rundberget). 194

Bernt Rundberget: Ironp production in Østerdalen in medieval times Technological and organizational differences Component Element West-Norway tradition Circular/oval shafts of clay insulated Furnaces Superstructure by stones/slabs. Furnaces

Substructure

Furnaces

Support

Furnaces

Slag tapping

Furnaces

Slag terminology

Charcoal pits

Shape (fig. 7)

Charcoal pits

Size

Charcoal pits

Number

Charcoal pits

Organization

Production sites

Scale

Production sites

Organization

Production sites

Stay

East-Norway tradition Circular shaft, no insulation.

A pit below the shaft, wall constructed No pit, sometimes a shallow depression by stones and a barrel shaped wooden in the surface. wall on the inside. Thick walled shaft supported by the Free standing shaft, no support. slabs or a wall bank. In small descending channels in ground Ascended 20-30 cm from the ground or level. in pits right outside the shaft. Draining slag. Tapping slag. Only square, mostly quadratic, Commonly circular, square occurs. rectangular occurs. Often small and shallow, larger pits is Mostly larger pits, more or less a fixed not unusual. shape both in area and in depth. 2->30 pits connected to each Rarely more than 3-4 on each site. production site. Next to the production site, often three As dots around the production site, in a row. distance up to 500 m. Often a small production, 2-5 tons of Small, < 1, to large, > 60 tons of slag. slag. No traces after houses, often two Often in small houses, one or two furnaces which shared stores of ore and furnaces at the same time. Ore stored charcoal in between. One slag heap to under the roof, charcoal stored in the one furnace. pits. Often double-roomed buildings Sometimes small dwelling building one part for production and one for next to the production sites. housing.

Table 1: Technological and organizaional differences in the western and eastern Medieval period production of south-eastern Norway. material; and working as an insulation (from below) in the smelting process. 14C-dates shows that this site was in use somewhere between the late 12th, and the mid 13th century. It is likely that the production took place over a few decades and the quantity of slag estimates the production of iron to about seven tonnes. Morphology and organization of the furnaces, the oreand charcoal stores and the slag heaps have a common arrangement. In all, 20 excavated sites have this particular form, which I describe as the main model. It is apparent that the sites were arranged using a basic model, comprising a furnace with the associated slag heap on the one side and ore- and charcoal stores on the opposite. The main model is built by inverting the basic model by drawing a line through the ore- and charcoal stores (Fig. 5). In addition to the basic- and the main models, there are only small variations in actual layout and physical form of the sites. The amount of iron produced was in the range of 1000– 60,000 kg, where the minor ones have one basic model and the largest sites comprised of several basic- and/or main models. Some of the sites represent a long and intensive production. These are often restructured, most likely due to lack of space. In my opinion this points to that the iron production in the Gråfjell area was based on collaboration in organization and technology.

iron

Regional differences As we have seen above, production in Hedmark differs from production areas in the western regions. These geographical distinctions in construction and process are most likely based on different ideas of performing production. It is also interesting to note the differences in how to burn charcoal in pits, organization at the sites and localization in the production areas. Some examples of the differences are presented in table 1. This leads to several important questions as to why these technological differences exist. For example, why did the change from phase I to phase II not result in a uniform tradition (the Østland furnace) as we see in the first period? Did change appear at the same time? What is origin of the traditions and can the disparities be a result of regional differences, borders and ideologies? According to time perspective, there are some variations, e.g. between the counties of Buskerud and Oppland in the west and Hedmark in the east (Larsen and Rundberget 2009). Buskerud seems to have a continuous production through the Iron Age (Fig. 7), and the phase I-technology lasts until the 7th century. At that time, the new method gradually succeeded. In Oppland, the phase I production ends sometime earlier. Only in some regions, such as Snertingdal (fig. 1), is there proof of continuous activity. 195

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Fig. 6: Quadratic (Gråfjell) and circular (Fillefjell) charcoal pits (Photo: Museum of Cultural History).

Fig. 7: Dated iron production sites in Hedmark, Oppland and Buskerud (ill: B. Rundberget). As in Buskerud, the slag tapping furnace appears in the 8th century. At Tyin on Fillefjell, there is a climax in production in the 9th century, but apart from that there is, in general, a solid increase from c. AD900. In Hedmark, the development is different because, in contrast to the western regions, the Early Iron Age production is limited. There are several sites around Elverum, but in the upper part of the county traces are fewer. At Gråfjell, there is only one known site from the Roman Iron Age (Risbøl et al. 2002, 53-54), and in the municipality of Åmot, there are only three known sites from this period, but more are expected to be found (Larsen pers. com. 2007). At c. AD950, the material points to a rapid increase in the production activity and in just a few decades it reaches its maximum level. This level remains for about 300 years before exploitation suddenly disappears at c. AD1300. So, to conclude, it seems that the western tradition appears earlier than the eastern one, and it has a gradual growth and decline. The later eastern tradition has both a rapid rise and fall.

own needs, while other regions started up as large scale productions in the first place. At Møsstrond in Telemark, Irmelin Martens excavated a type of furnace named flag lined bowl furnaces (Martens 1978; 1988, 141). The only remnants of the furnaces found were shallow pits where the walls were covered by flags and the remains of clay linings. Martens interpreted the structures as bowl furnaces. Later, this is discussed by several scholars such as Lars Erik Narmo, who argues that bowl furnace doesn’t exist in the Norwegian material. Instead, he believes that the finds in Møsstrond are remnants of hearths in some cases, and slag tapping furnaces in others (Narmo 1996, 10-12). The same type of construction has later been excavated at Fillefjell and Øyer in Oppland. As a part of the structure at Fillefjell, there were strings of slag, which points to a tapping technology (Larsen 2009). At Møsstrond, the furnaces are dated to AD550-750. The site in Øyer is dated to 7th and 8th century, while at Fillefjell, the dates are somewhat later, AD715-1030 (Larsen pers. com. 2010).

There are a few and vague examples that can ell us about the chronological development. Assuredly tapping technology adopted from Europe, where it (as mentioned) had been used for centuries, developed in different directions (cf. Pleiner 2000, 172-188). However, differences in development in Norway may not only be based on adoption of different sub-methods, but also access to raw materials, degree of utilization and technological choices may be elements to consider. E.g. some areas are rich in slabs, while in other regions this does not exist. Or some areas seems to have only small scale productions based in

In the valley of Østerdalen in Hedmark, there is only one discovery of an early type of slag tapping furnace (Rundberget 2007, 154-160). This one is quite another type. The furnace was badly preserved. We know that there had been a shaft of clay, and there was no sign to pits like the Møsstrond type. At the same time, at c. AD600-1000, there are also traces of a small furnace with slag pit. This type has so far only been excavated at Rødsmoen (Narmo 1997, 22-35). The pit collected only 5-12 kg of slag in one single production, and the type has to be viewed in the context of a self-supply economy because of quantity of 196

Bernt Rundberget: Ironp production in Østerdalen in medieval times slag and closeness to farmsteads. No furnaces similar to the ones at Rødsmoen have so far been found elsewhere in Norway, apart from maybe some excavated in Hurdal, Akershus County (Bergstøl 2002). In my opinion both types can be interpreted as traces of hybrids in a development from one technology to another. In Østerdalen, the small furnaces with slag pits might have developed to the slag tapping furnaces excavated at Rødsmoen and in Gråfjell. In the west the shallow pits covered by slabs can be an intermediary type in that the tapping technology now was taken in use. This view breaks with previous interpretations in which it was believed that the traditions appeared and disappeared independently of each other (e.g. Espelund 1999, Narmo 1996). It is worth remarking that this hypothesis is based on few archaeological records where this kind of hybrid is described, but future research will clarify this. However, until further data prevail and in order to at the moment get nearer an answer to the question of hybridism, I will address some theoretical reflections which could be useful to understanding the picture shown above. Technological regions and identity shaped territories Iron production as a social phenomenon has been discussed widely by scholars in Norway (e.g. Barndon 2004, Bjørnstad 2003, Haaland 2004, Jørgensen 2010, Rundberget 2002, Tveiten 2005, Wintervoll 2010). Focus has been on approaches such as habitus, technological choices, chaîne opératoire and social agency, launched by e.g., Heidegger (1977), Pfaffenberger (1992), Lemonnier (1993), Dobres (2000), and Ingold (2000). Central in discussions are ideas of a contradiction between the old view of technology understood as a total social phenomenon, and the modern rational view of technology. These approaches are useful in explaining such aspects as the relationship between the acting subject and collectives, ideology, knowledge and skills in handicrafts. But as noted by Randi Barndon (2010, 246) one important problem is, however, that they do not take fully into account aspects of change and stability in technologies within a long time perspective. An attempt to create such an approach in an iron production study, is done by Bo Strömberg (2008). He looks at the emergence of protoindustrial iron production in Skåne and Halland under Danish rule in the late Medieval Period and Early Modern Times. By using long time specters he shows the structure and dynamics of change in the society from a traditional iron production, via a protoindustrial production, to a deindustrialization, because of the Treaty of Roskilde in 1658, that transferred ownership of Skåne and Halland to Sweden. Central to his study is the idea that transcending barriers of the uninhabited, and gaining knowledge about the resources of the landscape and secrets of iron production, concretizes a local identity-built process (op.cit.:77). This view is similar to how the geographer Anssi Paasi (2010, 23) describes the power of spatial socialization: “The process through which individual actors and collectives are socialized as member of specific territorially spatial entities, participating in their

reproduction, and ‘learn’ collective territorial identities”. In a study of the region of Sunnmøre, Northwestern Norway, in a long time perspective, Barndon also postulates that “regional identity is constructed by members in a social group who draw upon the groups repertoire of symbolism while stressing differentiation from neighboring regions” (Barndon 2010, 247-248). She connects this view to Henri Lefebvre (1991)’s concept of social space. Here social space is where production takes place, which is an integrated part of people’s attitude, imagination and actions. Earlier (Rundberget 2009), I have stressed the importance of the producer’s perspective of the landscape as both physical and mental in order to understand the distribution of the iron production in the landscape. And by using Marteen Jacobs (2006)’s tripartite ontology of the landscape; matterscape, powerscape and mindscape, it can be even easier visualize the background of development of technological regions. Jacobs explains matterscape as the physical aspect of a landscape, powerscape as the human impact of the landscape through social, political and economical ideas, and mindscape refers to the individual or the collective mental understanding of a landscape. Matterscape is similar to my physical landscape while mindscape resembles my mental aspect (Rundberget 2009, 76-82). An important factor, however, is that Jacobs includes the sociopolitical aspect as a contrast. Power and sovereignty over the landscape, in this case the resources used in iron production, thus become a welcome approach in the synthesis. In this paper, focus is on regional differences in the technology of iron production in the Medieval Period. I believe variations in the material, as described above, have connections with socialized identity of regional communities created over time. By looking at these regional differences in technology I will try to use the reflections made above to shed light on dynamics in the development of iron production in Østerdalen for a long time perspective. Important in this analysis is focusing not only on the reason of the change, but also on the results of the change, a result which seems to be of great importance for development of the kingdom of Norway. The dynamics of Østerdalen in a long time perspective Østerdalen, which is the largest valley in Hedmark County where Gråfjell is located, is distinguished from other valleys in southeast Norway because of a late agricultural migration. From the last part of the Iron Age and up to modern times, the valley became settled, and the selfsufficient rural society has been seen as the primary model of this new group. This view is based in Brøgger’s (1942) hypothesis due to grave finds. Previously, the area was dominated by hunting societies (Bergstøl 2007). This view has until recently been the basis for perceptions of this region. However, in recent years, the outfield as a primary factor for knowledge has contributed to changing this view (e.g., Amundsen 2007; Bergstøl 1997; 2007; Narmo 197

N-TAG TEN 1997; Rundberget 2007; Stene et al. 2005). Archaeological records excavated at Rødsmoen demonstrate that, from the early 7th century there were two different cultural groups – an old and established group who subsist by hunting and a new community of agriculturalists (Bergstøl 1997, 83). In this phase, the agricultural population, which was quite small, used hunting territories to a limited extent. But towards c. AD950 a new economic system was probably introduced, whereby the traditional hunting and fishing areas became utilized for resources as timber and tar, but in particular, resources related to iron production. In the Gråfjell area, we see that the hunting in systems of large pit fall tars ended, and we find the first traces of both fixed and temporary settlements in the forests (Amundsen 2007). Thus, it seems that the groups of hunters gave up these areas and left the woods for the benefit of new activities. An important indication of this dynamic can be that there is no evidence of use of wild animals in the analysis of the burned bones from fireplaces on iron production sites (Rundberget 2007). The bones seem only to come from domestic animals. In this transition period I think that the ‘new’ collective of Østerdalen jointly learned to understand and use the wild landscape to a greater extent, both physically and ideologically. Physical means exploit the large and important resources, and ideology means a need to differ from other groups. One result of this is the particular iron production which developed at the same time. An important issue then is who this community was and how production was developed, and further, how the authority, firstly the chiefdoms and later the King, was in control of production. New research and surveys of known iron production sites in Grue and Åsnes Counties, in southern part of Hedmark, points to that the tapping technology, as having a somewhat earlier date than e.g. Gråfjell, starting up c. AD800. At these sites we also see traces of an organization which is not as fully developed as we find in Gråfjell. Sites are fewer and smaller, probably with only one furnace in operation. Localization in the landscape also differs, here production sites are placed in gently sloping terrain next to rich ore deposits. In this region, known as Solør, a strong chiefdom was situated at the centers of Grue and Hof during the Viking Period. Archaeological finds, farm names as well as saga litterature points to that (Brøgger 1942; Holm 2002; Hveberg 1949). My hypothesis is that this early production was connected to these strong regional kings. In the late Viking period when power is even more strengthened, and population began to rise, this society expanded north where outfield resources was richer and pressure less tense. Controlling these areas therefore would give an economical advantage for this society. Important in my thought is that this ‘new’ collective of Østerdalen brought with them the partially developed form of production that the group refined into the system we see the traces of in Åmot, a cooperated production which on the basis of scale gave wealth to the regional Kings, as well as the local aristocracy. Because, despite the regional society being shaped as a unifying organization, as a barrier to the others, there has to be

someone who controlled the exploitation at a local level. There is not much research done on this topic, but most likely control and power was localized at the oldest and most central farmsteads, e.g. Nes by the meeting point of the rivers of Rena and Glåma. The position of this farm is clearly strategic, both to have supervision and to regulating distribution. In an area with few archaeological remnants, there are traces of settlement, grave mounds and weapons dated to the late Viking Period, around this farmstead (Berg Hansen 2007; Bergstøl 1997). This supports the assumption of a central point, which may have been a chiefdom seat. On this basis, it is interesting to look at the ontemporary settlement history of Åmot. Analysis of several written sources shows that number of farms in 1350 was about 72 (Sørensen 1999). Of these, probably around 30 became cleared in the Viking period, most in the latter part, while only a few go back to the 7th century (Harrson 1996; Lillevold 1973; Narmo 2000). These studies, points to a large expansion from the 10th century, are all based on agricultural settlement and grave finds and are localized in the valleys by the large rivers of Rena and Glåma. It is, however, worth reminding ourselves that the outfields also get settled back to c. AD700 (Amundsen 2007). Especially when production increased in c. AD950, this settlement became an important and integrated part of the society. We do not know the scale of this settlement, but it clearly points to that the new collective developed not to be only farmers, but also specialists in exploitation of recourses in the large woodland of Østerdalen. A central question is then, why this late expansion in this area consisting only marginal opportunities to agriculture? In my opinion development of a specific large scale iron production was on of the main reasons for this. The society of Solør, which needed more land and income especially when the era of the Viking period came to its end. And by creating a common and delimited regional system, the community jointly could take advantage of the surplus. My hypothesis of a regional collective assembly is strengthened when having a deeper look into the system of iron production and use of the landscape (Fig. 8). As already mentioned the iron production of Hedmark seems to be both homogenous and distinctive, developed over time by a group of migrants. The morphology and organization of the sites all follow a fixed system. However, few minor differences show that individual decisions were made. By looking at charcoal burning, we also see a common pattern in construction, in addition to distribution of the pits in the landscape around the iron production sites. Roasting places, which seem to be clustered in smaller or larger groups, where location is related to sources of bog ore, are interesting in this discussion. Ore resources are not found everywhere, and distance to the nearest production site is sometimes relatively long. In some areas where iron was produced there is a lack of bog ore. This suggests that everyone who was taking part in the manufacture had access to common ore deposits. A system of old hollow ways and tracks also suggests a high level 198

Bernt Rundberget: Ironp production in Østerdalen in medieval times

Fig. 8: The structure of organization of the iron production in Gråfjell (ill: D. Hill).

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N-TAG TEN of planning, as the majority of sites lie along these routes. This organization indicates that the iron production of Gråfjell was based within a wider system in which identity and ideology, rules and routines, controlled access and use of natural resources existed. By including the scale of the production, which is estimated to around 2000 tonnes of iron in 300 years, or about 7 tonnes a year (Rundberget 2007), this should be even more clear, e.g. comparing that 12.3 kg of iron was the price of one cow (Steinnes 1982, 103), and as pointed out earlier – Gråfjell is only a small part of this region. Interesting also is to compare this hypothesis with the Medieval iron production at Dokkfløy in Gausdal, which also had a surplus production intended for a marked economy (Narmo 1996). In a discussion Ole Tveiten (2010, 253-254) interpreted that the earlier mentioned houses at the production sites in the western tradition, and particularly in Gausdal which have charcoal pits integrated in a cluster, expresses a need for marking sovereignty of the outfield. Tveiten bases his view on provisions of Commons in the Medieval laws. Fixed facilities as buildings in the outfield, is here a sign for keeping up rights for the individual or a farmstead. In this way, production is tied to the individual farms instead of being part of an organized exploitation. The lack of buildings at production sites in Gråfjell can in this way be seen as another way to confirm sovereignty. Localization and relocation because of a joint utilization of resources can in this perspective be understood as a system based in a society with roots back in the construction process that took place when the outfield areas were taken from them a couple of centuries earlier. A model that may have been in use in this collective is one in which the outfield of Østerdalen was an area based on ownership, privileges and community (Rundberget 2009). Written sources do not tell whether this particular areas was regulated in early Medieval times. However, what we do know is that large parts of these forest areas were Kings Commons in the late Medieval period. Regulation of Commons is described in Regional Laws, and further designed in King Magnus the Law-menders Land Law of 1274. Through the Land Law, the King had the right to lease out Commons. In the laws there is also several general rules connected to the use of outfield resources (Solem 2003, 245; Tveiten 2010, 244), e.g. as one was only allowed to produce, hunt or gather products for private consumption (Frostathing law XIV 7, cf. Solem 2003, 260-261). This has bad correlation when looking at the largest extraction sites, which produced more than 60 tonnes of iron. Therefore, it is obvious that the King must have had economic interests in the iron production of Østerdalen. In a royal decree in 1358, King Håkon VI Magnusson gives the citizens of Østerdalen the right to produce iron in the Commons after old customs (RN VI:173). At least as important is perhaps the continuation in the decree, where he said that everyone can change iron in Hedmark and elsewhere, without hindrance from the commissioners. What also could be interesting in

this context is that the population of Østerdalen also had special rights in that they paid only half of the regular tax (Steinnes 1930, 81-85; Blom 1967, 233-235). The position of Østerdalen in the 13th century was also made apparent when King Magnus the Law-mender divided the kingdom between his two sons Eirik and Håkon in the Succession Act of 1273. Eirik was first in the line of succession and acquired King’s name. Håkon received a Dukedom and acquired control over Oslo, Ryfylke, the Faroe Islands, Shetland and Opplandene with unrestricted rule. Østerdalen was as a part of Opplandene but was excluded in the Succession Act, and this particular region should still be below Magnus the Law-mender himself (Blom 1972, 40). In this context, control over trading routes and markets were of importance. Two markets in this part of Norway ― Hamar (Sæther 1989) by the Lake Mjøsa and Koppang (Kaupangr) (Sørensen 1975) in Østerdalen - are of special interest. In the following, Kaupangr is used as a case study. This market was placed at the fields of Kaupangr, just by river Glomma. An old track between Viken and Nidaros, mentioned in the Land Law of 1274, went through here. We don’t know the scope of the market, but it is found remains of an old stave church and a grave yard (BergHansen 1996; Fischer 1922) dated to AD1043-1226 (TUa1813). A large mound (100 x 140 meters and up to 2 meters tall) of fire cracked stones, probably used in brewing, is located 200 meters away from the church. The mounds size points to a comprehensive and prolonged activity. During an excavation of the mound in 1925, remains were found of house construction and objects dated to 13th and 14th Century (Sørensen 1975, 41, Gamle Kongeveg 1997, 35). Also several stray finds points to an activity in the Medieval Period. A few written sources also points out Kaupangr as central for the King. In Diplomatarium Norvegicum (DN) there is a letter written by King Magnus the Law-mender in 1264 where he takes Tarald, and his farm Berg in Storelvdal (nearby Kaupangr), under protection (DN XI 2). This farm was a gift from King Magnus’ father King Håkon Håkonson to Taralds mother Torunn, in around 1240 (Fosvold 1936, 28). Two more letters written by King Håkon Magnusson (1292 and 1318) verify this royal protection (DN XI 3 and 8). Both the Kings’ ownership, the gift and the protection, as well as King Magnus the Law-menders allotment of tax privileges, points to the importance of Østerdalen and the Kaupangr market of which was a junction for change of goods with traders from Trøndelag, Gudbrandsdalen and parts of middle Sweden. In my opinion, the large scale iron production must be the most important reason for the creation of Kaupangr as well as political choices made by the King himself. The importance of having interests in, or controlling the iron production has to be significant when we know the volume of the production in the Gråfjell area. The tradition found in Gråfjell is spread across large parts of the eastern 200

Bernt Rundberget: Ironp production in Østerdalen in medieval times Hedmark, from Kaupangr in the north to Eidsskog in the south. Complete records are not fulfilled and it is evidently difficult to estimate accurately the quantity of the production. Surveys in this large area shows that production has been most intensive in the northern part. Altogether, we know about more than 650 iron production sites from the Medieval period. But, it is quite likely that this number is at least five times as high. This review shows that the King probably had strong economic interests in Østerdalen in the Medieval period. In my opinion this has its origin in the people who settled from the 7th century. They created a society based in the regions topography and resources, but also in group identity and fellowship. Most important became the outfield resources and especially the iron production. It became developed as technology and organization which is unique. The amount of iron produced also seems to surpass every other production area in Norway at the same time. Thus, the activity must have been close to an industrial business in the 12th and 13th century. This violates the still ongoing notion that the Kings income, after the end of the Viking expeditions, was more or less based in taxes from agriculture only (Bagge 2010, 51, 70, 113-114), which has led to the outfield becoming marginalized and under communicated in questions concerning resource utilization and surplus production. Around AD1300, 50 years before the Plague, production ended. The reason for this is not given much space here, but a plausible interpretation is that this production form became competitive due to the blast furnace industry of Lapphyttan in central-Sweden (Björkenstam 1995; Magnusson 1985), in the period of the first SwedishNorwegian union (1319-1355). Concluding remarks The paper has attempted to highlight the region of Østerdalen in a long time perspective, and indicates that iron production tradition of this area developed as an identified part of this society, and it later became a primary factor for society and expansion. The archaeological material points to a migration in the 7th century where one group settled in the agricultural areas along the rivers of Glåma and Rena. During the late Viking Age there was an expansion of settlement and the large resources of the outfield became incorporated within the new society. This led to a conflict between the old hunting community and the new collective, a conflict in which the latter were victorious. At the end of the Viking Age a comprehensive production of iron took place. The scope and organization of this shows a coordination where the resources and communication were central, probably indirectly under a leadership of regional kings and more directly under control of lords sitting at old central farmsteads located at major junctions. The structure of the production thus expresses that this landscape became important as a resource, as an environment based on cohesion as well as an area giving economic and political gains. The production went beyond

the Medieval period and a wider system of skilled practice with large surplus production was the result. In the time around shaping of the kingdom, the King became interested in this area in that it could generate great wealth, where the trade in iron became centered on market places such as Kaupangr and Hamar. There are few written sources for this area until the mid 13th century which can verify a royal involvement. Still, it is believed that this part of the hinterland of Opplandene took the King’s part in the civil wars of the 12th century (Fosvold 1936; Helle 1993). This is probably expressed through the Birchlegs escape with the young King Håkon Håkonson over the mountains and into Storelvdal in 1206, and by the same token, the King gave one of his farms just by Kaupangr as a gift in the mid 13th century. The recent letters of protection, tax privileges and the King excluding Østerdalen in the Succession Act in 1273 confirms his interest for the region. After the Plague had ravaged the country, the old ways of communication were broken and the Swedish-Norwegian kingdom was disintegrated, and so the King probably had use for income. His encouragement in 1358 to resume production in Østerdalen with privileges after old customs should probably be seen in relation to this. That the iron production despite this never reached the same heights must be seen in the context of development of new distribution channels and actors in the late Medieval era. Acknowledgments Warm thanks to Associate Professor Randi Barndon, Department of Archeology, History, Cultural Studies and Religion, University of Bergen; Professor Christopher Prescott, Department of Archaeology, Conservation and History, University of Oslo (UiO); Associate Professor Jan Henning Larsen, Museum of Cultural History (KHM), UiO; and Advisor Ann Kathrin Jantsch, Vestfold County Council, for commenting earlier drafts of this paper. Also thanks to Lars Torgersen, KHM, UiO for help with map production.

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Mobility, points and people. Technological and social changes towards the Neolithic of Southern Norway Steinar Solheim University of Oslo

Abstract During the Late Mesolithic and Early Neolithic in Southern Norway a gradual development towards a more sedentary settlement system took place. Parallel to an increasing sedentism, a distinct change in the archaeological assemblages can be observed. During this period a change from flint edge points with inserted microblades to flint and stone points occured. In Eastern Norway this change took place from c. 4500 cal. BC and in Western Norway from c. 4000 cal. BC. Early Neolithic sites in Southern Norway show a large amount of different flint and stone points; tanged-, transverse- and single-edged points. The main hypothesis presented is that high frequencies of such points at Early Neolithic sites are related to increased sedentism and task group mobility. It is argued that the production of flint edge projectiles was complex, in material, technological and social aspects. It is further assumed that task group mobility demanded a projectile technology that was not as complex as the production of flint edge points. The increasing use of task-groups facilitated a material and social change towards a less complex technology and increasing degree of social differentiation.

Introduction A society does not only consist of persons but also of material things which play an important role in social practice (Durkheim, 1995, 173). As an integrated part of society, technology and material culture have a strong social dimension. Material culture and the production of it reflect, influence and reproduce the social organization of a society. The entanglement of the social and the material is of vital importance when discussing changes of Mesolithic and Neolithic societies in Southern Norway. In this paper I will address one specific material change in these societies, namely the change from composite flint edge projectiles to flint and stone points. This will be discussed in relation to changes in the social structures, such as an increasing use of task-groups and the possibility for individuals to change their social status (fig. 1). The change is observed in the archaeological assemblages between c. 4600/4500 cal. BC and 3800 cal. BC in both Western and Eastern Norway.1 The development is different in the two regions and the transition occurred at a slightly different time, but still within a period of about 400 years. Nevertheless, a main hypothesis is that the change in the material culture might be for quite similar reasons, which is an increasing segmentation of the groups related to task group’s activities. In order to discuss the change I will briefly sketch the settlement patterns as proposed by other researchers. The chronological development and the empirical situation in the two regions will also be outlined in order to consider the technological change in relation to the social structure.

In Norwegian archaeology, the introduction of flint and stone tipped arrows has been - and still is - given considerable attention in chronological studies and in establishing chronological sequences. The arrowheads are emphasized in particular in relation to the MesolithicNeolithic transition (Bergsvik 2002a, 292; Glørstad 2004.

Figure 1: Surveyed and excavated sites in Skatestraumen, Fosnstraumen and at Kollsnes, Western Norway (see figure 3). The diagramme shows the distribution of long term and short term sites in the

LM and EN/MN. Skatestraumen and Fosnstraumen

are resource rich marine tidal current channels,

  The chronological frame work is slightly different between the eastern and western parts of Norway. The LM starts at 6300 cal. BC in both areas and ends at 4000 cal. BC in Western Norway and 3800 cal. BC in Eastern Norway. The LM of Eastern Norway is divided into two phases, with the second phase, phase 4, starting at c. 4600/500 cal. BC. 1

while

Kollsnes is located in a resource rich marine Reproduced after Bergsvik (2006:31).

enviroment in the outer skerry.

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Figure 2: Surveyed and excavated sites in the marine tidal current channel Skatestraumen, Nordfjord, Western Norway. The figure illustrates the topographical location and clustering of sites in specific landscapes or areas, as well as the increasing number of sites during the EN/MN compared to the LM. Illustration after Bergsvik (2002a:306-307).

45; Nærøy 1993, 91), and the change has been given both economical and eco-functionalistic explanations (e.g. Mikkelsen, 1984:90). Being such a pronounced change in the archaeological assemblages makes it a prominent feature for discussions of chronology and in defining archaeological periods and phases. However, in my opinion the introduction of flint and stone points should be given greater attention from a social perspective. I will argue that the introduction of flint and stone points during the Late Mesolithic and toward the Early Neolithic was concurrent with an increasing degree of sedentism and task group activities, and ultimately led to changes in the social structure.

Theoretical assumptions - the material, the social and the structuring of society First of all, it is necessary to understand that material culture relates to, interacts with and is conditioned by the society in which it is embedded (Durkheim 1995, 173; Vandkilde 2000, 4). This means that artefacts are not randomly produced within a society, but are parts of daily technological and social challenges. How these challenges are met will again reproduce or change the dispositions for social practice. The interaction between people, material culture and social structures will constitute the framework for social practice within the society, and how people act

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Steinar Solheim: Mobility, points and people

Figure 3: Map of Southern Norway showing geographical areas and archaeological sites mentioned in the text. Illustration: Steinar Solheim.

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N-TAG TEN in and perceive the world is a product of a certain habitus (Bourdieu and Wasquant 1993, 123, Dietler and Herbich 1998, 246-247). According to Pierre Bourdieu, the social world exists twice, or in a twofold way, through material things and in the minds; in social fields and habitus; and outside and inside the individual (Bourdieu and Wasquant 1993, 113). This twofoldedness is, however, not questioned, it just is. Consequently, the concept and production of artefacts is a part of the social and material world at the same time. This implies that social practice takes place within material surroundings and that the material is a part of this practice and rooted in the social and historical setting of a group or society. When people express and execute their goals and intensions this is often done with use of tools, weapons, symbols i.e. through different kinds of material means or matter (Østerberg 1978, 8-9). The way this is done is necessarily not by conscious choices, but structured through a certain habitus. Social practice is often focused around changing material surroundings, and to optimize material conditions needed for social practice within a social and/or cultural framework. The material culture itself, the production of it and the use and display of material culture is a part of social practice or social relations, and thus material culture together with social practice form the socio-material framework of a given society (Østerberg 1978, 9). Changes in material culture can in this way represent changes in social structures. Empirical background Turning to the archaeological material, the Late Mesolithic of Southern Norway is considered as a period with increasing regional differences in material culture. The explanations for this vary from ecological factors via economic strategies to formation of social territories and social boundaries (e.g. Bergsvik and Olsen 2003; Bjerck 2007; Glørstad 2002; Gundersen 2004; Skjelstad 2003). The material culture of the Late Mesolithic is traditionally characterized by presence of different types of stone axes (Jaksland 2005; Olsen and Alsaker 1984; Shetelig 1922) Another dominant feature of the archaeological assemblages is an abundance of microblades and microblade cores. At sites with good conditions for preservation of organic material, remains of bone tools are preserved, and both in Western and Eastern Norway fragments of flint edge tools are identified (Åstveit 2008, 402; Lindblom et al. n.d.; Mikkelsen 1975a, 80-81; Olsen 1992, 175,179). A flint edge point, or slotted bone point, consists of a grooved and polished piece of bone, with rows of microblades, microliths or small flakes attached to it with the use of birch bark tar or resin (figure 4). Although rare, there are examples where artefacts are found with residues of birch bark tar and with microblades still inserted into the grooved slots (Gjessing 1920, fig. 6). The points are usually made of leg bones from large mammals such as elk or deer. The finds of slotted bone points, together with great quantities of microblades and microblade cores, are considered to be strong indications of the importance of

Figure 4: Bone slotted point with inserted microblades. Photo: Steinar Solheim. composite bone points in the material culture of the Late Mesolithic. The lack of flint and stone points before c. 4600/4500 cal. BC in Eastern Norway (Glørstad 2004, 45; Mikkelsen 1975b, 30) and before 4000 cal. BC in Western Norway (Bergsvik 2002a, 288; Olsen 1992, 124) clearly demonstrates the importance this artefact must have had in the daily life of the Late Mesolithic groups in Southern Norway. Furthermore, the lack of flint and stone points should indicate that slotted bone points where used as projectiles or arrowheads (Olsen 1992, 176), which is further illustrated through finds of slotted bone points attached to arrow shafts (Malmer 1969 in Indrelid, 1994, 243-244). During the Early Neolithic the differences in material culture are even more pronounced than in the preceding Late Mesolithic period. The archaeological assemblages are showing a higher degree of variation at both regional and local levels both in terms of artefacts, techniques and raw materials. Consequently, the material culture is quite different in Western Norway compared to Eastern Norway, and there is also variation within the two regions (e.g. Boaz 1998; Bergsvik 2006; Olsen 1992; Østmo 1988; Solheim 2009). Considering the development in Eastern Norway, the introduction of flint points (transverse, single edged and tanged points) seems to have been gradual. From c. 4500 cal. BC, transverse points are gradually introduced at coastal sites as well as at inland and mountain sites (Boaz 1997; Fuglestvedt 1995; Glørstad 2004; Indrelid 1994; Mikkelsen 1975b; Østmo 1976). The introduction of transverse points is considered to be defining for the division of the Mesolithic period into a Late Mesolithic phase 3 and phase 4. The points from Eastern Norway are mainly made of flakes, but some blade points have also 208

Steinar Solheim: Mobility, points and people (Olsen 1992, 93). The archaeological assemblages from different Early Neolithic sites are characterized by the presence and domination of cylindrical blade cores, small blades (8-12 mm) and tanged blade points (Bergsvik 2002a, 292-293; Olsen 1992, 93; Simpson 1992, 98-101). The tanged points are self pointed in the distal end and have a retouch at both sides of the proximal base (figure 5). At the central parts of the Western Norwegian coast this technique is especially associated with use of the local raw material rhyolite, while flint is dominating further south (Alsaker 1987, 59; Bergsvik 2006, 76, 79; Solheim 2007, 62-63).

Figure 5: Rhyolite cylindrical core and tanged blade point (A-point). These are the typical elements of the Early Neolithic period of Western Norway. Photo: AmS.

To summarize; in Southern Norway in general, the change in the projectile material took place during the last part of the Late Mesolithic. The transition seems to have been more abrupt in the western region compared to the eastern region, where the process seems to have happened more gradually. At the same time, slotted bone points completely disappear from the archaeological assemblages in both regions, primarily indicated by the disappearance of the regular microblades and microblade cores. As will be demonstrated below, the changes identified in the archaeological assemblages take place within an increasingly sedentary society where the use of task groups is important. Settlement systems and sedentism – a brief outline

been identified. During the last part of phase 4, single edged and tanged points appear more regularly in the lithic assemblages, and from the transition to the Neolithic (3800 cal. BC) all three point types are common in Eastern Norway (figure 6) (Glørstad 2004, 44-45). The trend with an increasing amount of flint points through the Late Mesolithic culminates in the Early Neolithic with greater quantities of flint points at the sites. Around 4000 cal. BC, what seems to be a rapid introduction of flint and stone points took place in Western Norway

In order to sketch the background and some of the basic assumptions for the discussion presented below, a brief introduction to research on settlement systems and sedentism in Southern Norway will be given. Late Mesolithic and Early Neolithic settlement structure has been a central topic in the Stone Age research of Southern Norway during the last 20-30 years. In general, it is argued for an increasing degree of sedentism. The various models will not be challenged here but are presented in order to illustrate the general trends in the research debate on the topic.

Figure 6: Transverse point, single-edged point and tanged point, all flint, from the Early Neolithic site Vestgård 6, Svinesund. Photo: Steinar Solheim. 209

N-TAG TEN The increasing size of sites and the archaeological assemblages, in combination with the topographical location as well as botanical and osteological evidence, have led different scholars to argue for an increasing degree of sedentism in the Late Mesolithic and Early Neolithic of Western Norway (Nærøy 2000, 202). Especially large coastal sites with deep layered organic deposits and rich archaeological assemblages have been important elements in the discussions of long term habitation (e.g. Olsen 1992, 237). Clustering of sites in resource rich marine environments and the lack of long term sites outside the tidal currents channels (figure 1 and 2) further illustrates the connection to specific landscapes or areas, rather than to specific sites (Bergsvik 2001, 100). This is also central for understanding the increase in task group acitivites discussed below. Bergsvik has argued that the degree of residential mobility, defined as movement of entire local groups, was higher during the Late Mesolithic than in the Neolithic periods (Bergsvik 1995, 127). This view was also supported by Asle Bruen Olsen who argued for a periodical occupation of the large, multi-component site Kotedalen in Fosnstraumen during the Late Mesolithic. Kotedalen’s Early Neolithic phases indicated occupation throughout the year on a more sedentary basis (Olsen 1992, 241). Later, Arne Johan Nærøy argued against the view of Neolithic hunter-fisher groups of the Norwegian west coast as fully sedentary, and suggested a semi-nomadic/ semi-sedentary lifestyle during the Early Neolithic as well as the Late Mesolithic. A fully sedentary life style was, in Nærøy’s view, not present until the Late Neolithic (Nærøy 2000, 204). Thus, in Western Norwegian research tradition, some scholars have argued for fully sedentary groups settled at large coastal sites, while others have argued for a more nomadic or semi-sedentary lifestyle. My impression of this debate is that it seems to be general agreement about the fact that there has been a certain level of sedentism in Western Norway from the Late Mesolithic and that is increases towards the Neolithic. The disagreement appears to concern the question of what sedentism actually involves and how the concept should be defined. The view of groups as sedentary is supported here. In Eastern Norway there appears to be more consensus regarding settlement systems. The settlement structures did vary, but several researchers have argued for a general trend from a nomadic society with residential mobility towards a more sedentary settlement system during the Late Mesolithic (e.g. Birkelund 2007; Glørstad 2004; Lindblom 1984; Mikkelsen 1984). The tendency is however not as clear as in Western Norway, and the settlement system in the east seems to be rather similar from the Late Mesolithic and the first part of the Early Neolitihic, with clustering of sites and repeated use of certain areas (Glørstad 2010, 263-265, 278; cf. Glørstad 2004; Lindblom 1984; Mikkelsen 1975a; Østmo 1988). However, there are greater problems relating to the preservation of organic deposits at sites in Eastern Norway, due to the acidic soils. Heavy podzolisation also makes it relatively harder to identify different stratigraphically defined cultural layers.

Consequently, and contrary to the complex and stratified sites identified in Western Norway, it is more difficult to determine the length of stays and seasonal occupation at Eastern Norwegian sites. However, it is assumed that the groups were sedentary, indicated by large residential site and clustering of sites and extensive use of delimited areas or landscape, such as the prehistoric island of Svinesund (Glørstad 2004, 59). Fast and flexible: Stone Age task groups In sedentary groups, task group activity is central and of importance in different aspects. When settled more permanently in a landscape, there would have been a need for resources that could not be found in the immediate vicinity of the settlements (Binford 1980). This does not necessarily mean economic resources, but also social resources, such as establishing social network and retrieving prestigious objects (Bergsvik, 2002b, 18-21; Binford 1980, 345-346). Increasing degree of sedentism will therefore have led to an increased mobility on a lower level of the group’s organizational system. The responsibility of obtaining different resources was probably transferred to a more mobile level of the group – most likely specialized crews (Bergsvik, 2002b, 6; Helm, 1965, 378). Such task groups have been organized for a varying time period; from a couple of days up to several weeks (Helm 1965, 378, 381), and one of the basic qualities of a task group is its mobile character. Being fast and flexible travellers, task groups could cover great distances and utilize different resources efficiently (Bergsvik 2001, 21). The time and distance that separated the task groups from the rest of the group is a central aspect when considering the change in the projectile material. In Western Norway, there are strong indications for increased task group mobility, where the number of short term sites are about three times as high in the Early Neolithic as in the Late Mesolithic, while the number of long-term camps are doubled (Bergsvik 2002b, 8). Due to the distribution of sites in the landscape, the concept of task group activities is also relevant for Eastern Norway. A considerable amount of the sites seems to have been used for a rather short period of time, and this is especially relevant in relation to the use of mountain and inland sites (Boaz 1998, 313-314; Indrelid 1994, 287-288; Solheim 2010, 32-34). The hut and the hunt The increasing dependence and importance of the task groups during the Late Mesolithic towards the Neolithic have probably led to social as well as material changes, because of the mobility and isolation from the main part of the group. Returning to the slotted bone points and looking closer at the production of them, there might be reasons to think that the social aspects involved in the production process came under pressure with increasing group segmentation. As the empirical background is sketched, I will move on to discuss the changes in the projectile material in relation to the social setting or framework.

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Figure 7: The hut is considered to have been a central institution in the LM, connecting different aspects of society together, such as production of artefacts, the hunt and the prey. Illustration: Kristina Steen in Glørstad (2008:75).

Looking at the production of composite flint edge points, it seems clear that it is an extensive task involving different raw materials and skills. As it is time consuming to make these tools, much of the time has likely been used to make the bone point itself, but even the production of inserts should be considered as a complicated part of the process (Glørstad 2010, 165-166; Knutsson 2009, 158; Sundström and Apel 1998, 81-182). Experimental production of flint edge points indicate that it is a time consuming task to make the tools . Kjel Knutsson have recently suggested, based on experimental work, that the production of flint edge points takes approximately one hour when the animal bones were cleaned and prepared (Knutsson 2009, 156). The production of artifacts is often considered as an individual practice, but perhaps it should rather be considered as a shared or communal activity. While including different material components (bone, flint, birch bark tar etc.) and several different operations, the production of flint edge points might have been a process that actively stimulated co-operation between several members of a household or social group (Finlay 2003; Glørstad 2010). If understood as a co-operative process where different members of the household took part, the production and use of flint edge points can be understood as connected to several members of the household (Glørstad 2010, 265266). When considering the production of projectiles as a cooperative task, the artifact is not a product of either one of the persons, but of everyone involved (cf. MacKenzie

1991, 161). One person’s contribution is the counterpart – or a complement - to the others, and in light of this, it could be argued that a shared effort in the production of artifacts did negotiate the social structures or social roles between the members of the group. Håkon Glørstad has convincingly argued for the production of flint edge points as a process involving different members of the household. Central to his argument is the hut as an important institution in the social life of Late Mesolithic groups in Eastern Norway, and possibly Scandinavia in general (figure 7). The hut structured and reproduced the household’s basic social structure as well as symbolical and cosmological ones (Glørstad 2010, 164-169). The distribution of microblades and microblade cores inside house depressions and huts indicate that flint edge points, or at least vital parts of the production, have taken place inside the dwellings (cf. Boaz 1997, 59; Jaksland 2002, 59, 61). As such, Glørstad considered the dwellings as a socio-material framework for production of tools, hunting, ancestors and the prey, and for reproduction of practical, social and cosmological life. The production of composite flint edge tools inside huts is seen as a reflection of the reproduction of the order of society, and integrating different members of the group into the reproduction of society (Glørstad 2010, 154-155). In line with this, he considers the flint edge points as parts of the reproductive cycle, connecting different members of the groups with the hut and the hunting ground or the wider natural surroundings outside the settlement site (Glørstad 2010, 265-266). Changes in technology and changes in social structure Considering the increasing use of task groups it is possible to argue for a breakdown of this social structure. An initial hypothesis when writing this paper was that high subgroup mobility (task-groups) demanded a less complex technology. When considering the development in Southern Norway in general this might be a possible explanation for the development in the projectile material, or at least a part of it. In the Eastern Norwegian case we can see that flint edge points and transverse points were in use concurrently for a time, but gradually flint points came to dominate. The transition was a rather slow process lasting for a period of about 400-500 years. There should be no doubt as to how effective the slotted bone points were as projectiles; the type and technology had already proven suitable for hunting for a considerable time period (Olsen 1992, 176). However, considering the particular social setting discussed here, it can be argued that the projectile type was no longer adequate or able to meet the functional and social demands in a changing society with increasing task group mobility and segmentation of the household or group. As argued above the flint edge points integrated the members of the group, but the heterogenous expression of the flint points seems to indicate that the individual hunter was responsible for the production of the points. As a contrast to Knutsson’s example mentioned above, experiments with transverse points have shown that it takes just over four hours to make one hundred points, or about 2.5 minutes per point, including procurement 211

N-TAG TEN of raw materials (Fischer 1989, 29), clearly indicating a less complex production process. Another aspect is that production of microblades is a standardized and fixed process and microblades have limited possibilities of use. The flint points are in general made of flakes, which in many ways is a more flexible technological strategy, as it can be used not only for making points but also for a range of other small tools. With the introduction of flint and stone points, the flint edge points can be considered as a having become an inferior technology or artefact. Of course, such an argument has only relevance in regard to this specific social and temporal context (Pinch and Bijker 1993, 25). Of importance in this regard is the fact that problems related to production of artefacts are not only solved because of functional reasons, but also due to social and/or cultural motives (Dietler and Herbich 1998, 247248, Pinch and Bijker 1993, 38-39; Sundström and Apel 1998, 182). This should imply that in Eastern Norway the social and symbolical aspects connected to the production and use of flint edge technology were challenged, and eventually broke down, by increasing production and use of flint and stone points and greater reliance on task groups. Considering the increasing importance of task groups, the technology and production of flint and stone points were far more effective for the small mobile crews when moving in the landscape, compared to the time consuming process and the social aspects connected to production of flint edge points. Because of the time task groups were separated from the remaining group, I reckon that members of task groups needed to rely on a less complex technology, involving fewer material components than what production of slotted bone points did. The technological processes connected to the flint and stone points were simply more efficient in this social setting, and at the same time the everyday social challenges caused by segmentation of the groups facilitated a material and technological change. This might consequently have led to a change in the social structures. Accordingly, social practice, social structures and the material qualities were changed – the sociomaterial framework as a whole was affected. The aim of points and people With the introduction of a more flexible projectile technology, the flint edge point lost its importance and central place in the material culture and in society at large. The reproduction and negotiation of society and social roles, through the co-operative production of the composite tools were hindered through increasing taskgroup activities. Consequently this could also open for increasing social inequality between individuals. Stone and flint points are often discussed in relation to big game hunting (Bergsvik, 2006:140-141; Glørstad, 2010:267; Solheim, 2009:58), and in the Eastern Norwegian inland and mountain areas there are an increase in sites with evidence of big game hunting in the Late Mesolithic and Early Neolithic (Boaz 1996; Indrelid, 1994; Glørstad

1999). The large number of short term sites in Western Norway can also probably be related to an increase in activities such as hunting. An increase in big game hunting would have lead to a greater demand for hunting tools, such as projectiles. In Eastern Norway this is demonstrated by large amounts of flint points at sites dated to around 3800-3650 cal. BC (Glørstad, 2004:45). This development has been discussed in connection to an intensified prestige economy and the hunter’s possibility to increase his social status (Glørstad 1999). The large amount of points and the heterogenous expression of the points might indicate that more and more socially ambitious individuals took part in the struggle for increased social status. Hunting would probably have been done in close vicinity to residential sites, but there are indications of long distance travel with task groups to areas such as the subalpine Hardangervidda mountain plateau, most likely for hunting reindeer during the summer and early fall (Solheim 2010, 42). This activity has been organized for a varying time period, most likely for several weeks. Time is of course a relative and contextually defined phenomenon, but separation from the rest of the group may have had a positive effect for ambitious individuals, giving them the possibility to pursue individual strategies (Helms 1988). Members of the task groups have, through their journeys to distant realms, been the part of the group which most frequently met people from other areas and other social groups. These journeys increased the potential for establishing long distance social relations, retrieving information and exotic objects and later convert this into social prestige or status (Bergsvik 2002b, 25). The possibility to increase social status through mobility and hunting, and being part of large exchange and social networks seem to become of greater importance in the Early Neolithic period in Southern Norway (Bergsvik 2002b, Glørstad 2004, cf. Fischer 2002, Jennbert 1984). The relation between the increasing use of task groups, mobility, hunting and changes in the social structure is thus a possible framework in which to understand the introduction of flint and stone points. It is important here to asses these elements as entangled with each other, and to further understand that socio-material relations were vital parts of how Mesolithic and Neolithic hunter-gatherers interacted in a social field. The hunter is trying to take part in the prestige economy connected to the hunt, and by altering the material qualities he is seeking to increase his social capital and improve his position within the group. This was done be altering one of the main material components in the hunt – the projectile. Conclusion The introduction of flint and stone points was intimately connected to different aspects of the society, both at a material and social level. Trying to understand this change in the material culture and its relation to the Mesolithic and Neolithic society is complex. However, as I have argued, the increasing task group activities and mobility may have 212

Steinar Solheim: Mobility, points and people facilitated a change from composite flint edge projectiles to a new projectile technology based on less complex flint and stone points. This technological change was parts of changes in society at large, hindering the reproduction of the social structures and facilitating differentiation between persons. What we see here is that a technological or material change is also a social change, and as a material product of human practice, the projectiles were involved in and influenced the structuration of the social world. The development and change in the projectile material should therefore be considered as a response to the daily social and technological challenges, a change in habitus. As a part of the social processes it caused a change in the sociomaterial framework. Ultimately, this shows that material culture is vital in the production of social relationships and for the reproduction of society. The projectiles can thus be regarded as important elements in the social interaction and the reproduction of society; as a material component that structured the social framework of Late Mesolithic and Early Neolithic hunter-gatherer societies of Southern Norway. Acknowledgements Thanks to Lotte Eigeland and Per Ditlef Fredriksen for reading and commenting on the text.

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Nærøy, A. J. 2000. Stone Age Living Spaces in Western Norway. British Archaeological Reports, International Series 857. Oxford, BAR Publishing. Østerberg, D. 1978. Handling og samfunn. Sosiologisk teori i utvalg. Oslo, Pax forlag. Østmo, E. 1976. Torsrød. En senmesolittisk kystboplass i Vestfold. Universitetets Oldsaksamling Årbok 19721974, 41-52. Østmo, E. 1988. Etableringen av jordbrukskultur i Østfold i steinalderen. Universitetets Oldsaksamlings skrifter. Ny rekke. 10. Oslo, Universitetets Oldsaksamling. Olsen, A. B. 1992. Kotedalen – en boplass gjennom 5000 år. Bind 1: fangstbosetning og tidlig jordbruk i vestnorsk steinalder: Nye funn og nye perspektiver. Bergen, Historisk Museum. Olsen, A. B. and S. Alsaker 1984, Greenstone and diabase utilization in the Stone Age of Western Norway: Technological and socio-cultural aspects of axe and adze production and distribution. Norwegian Archaeological Review 17 (2), 71-103. Pinch, T. J. and W.E. Bijker 1993. The social construction of facts and artifacts: Or how the sociology of science and the sociology of technology might benefit each other. In W. E. Bijker, T. P. Hughes and T. J. Pinch (eds.), The social construction of technological systems. New directions in the technology and history of technology. Massachussets, The MIT Press Shetelig, H. 1922. Primitive tider i Norge. En oversigt over stenalderen. Bergen, John Grieg. Simpson, D. N. 1992. Archaeological excavations at Krossnes, Flatøy 1988-1991. Arkeologiske rapporter 18. Bergen, Bergen Museum. Skjelstad, G. 2003. Regionalitet i vestnorsk mesolitikum. Råstoffbruk og sosiale grenser på Vestlandskysten i mellom- og senmesolitikum. Unpublished Cand. philol. Thesis, University of Bergen. Solheim, S. 2007. Sørvest-Norge i tidligneolittisk tid. En analyse av etniske grenser. Unpublihed MA thesi, University of Bergen. Solheim, S. 2009. En sosialt konstruert grense i vestnorsk tidligneolitikum. Primitive tider 11, 51-62. Solheim, S. 2010. Der øst møter vest. Til høgfjellets forhistorie. Viking 73, 29-48. Sundström, L. and J. Apel 1998. An early Neolithic axe production and distribution system within a semi-sedentary farming society in eastern central Sweden, c. 3500 BC. In L. Holm and K. Knutsson (eds.), Proceedings from the Third Flint Alternatives Conference at Uppsala, Sweden, October 18-20, 1996. Uppsala, Department of Archaeology and Ancient History. Vandkilde, H. 2000. Material culture and Scandinavian archaeology: A review of the concept of form, function and context. In D. Olausson and H. Vandkilde (eds.), Form, Function and Context. Material Culture Studies in Scandinavian Archaeology. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia. Series in 8°, no. 31, Lund.

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Steinar Solheim: Mobility, points and people Steinar Solheim University of Oslo Museum of Cultural History Department of Heritage Management St.Olavs gate 29, P.O. Box 6762 St. Olavs Plass NO-0130 Oslo, Norway

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The (sluggish and modest) introduction of iron in southern Sweden – insufficient technology or unprepared receivers? A case study from iron usage in Halland Per Wranning

Kulturmiljö Halland and University of Gothenburg Abstract This paper deals with the question “when did the Iron Age actually start?” Why is it that the traditional starting date for the archaeological period Scandinavian Iron Age – 500 BC –coincides neither with the first appearance of iron or the first increase of local iron production, nor with the final acceptance of iron in society? The case study focus on the situation in the county of Halland on the Swedish west coast and takes its starting-point in a recently excavated Pre Roman cemetery in the parish of Tjärby, but also involves material from southern Scandinavia. The author claims that the “start” of the Iron Age according to the more frequent use and fully acceptance of iron, in fact seems to have been a very slow transition which was not fully completed until several hundred years after the first introduction of iron.

The archaeological period we call the Iron Age began in Scandinavia at about 500 BC. Or did it really? Just imagine how nice and easy it would have been if that date also, in any sort of way, had coincided with the actual start of iron usage. In this paper I have chosen to study the introduction of usage and production of the material iron and raise the hypothetical question: if iron actually was be the single characterizer for the Iron Age, when did the Iron Age really begin? In order to answer this, my subsequent question is: does the increased amount of iron production during the middle of the Pre Roman Iron Age actually mean that iron by then was fully accepted by all means or can we trace different steps and levels of acceptance – partly for functional/practical use and partly for symbolic and ritual practice? The studies focus on the situation specifically in the Swedish county of Halland and, in more general terms, in the rest of southern Scandinavia. Background In my work as a contract archaeologist in the county of Halland, in southern Sweden (fig. 1), I have had the opportunity to excavate remains from early iron production on the Swedish west coast on an off for many years (Wranning, 2004, 225ff). This work has of course also involved studying other known contemporary remains in the same region, in order to interpret the role and impact of iron in the early Iron Age society (Wranning 2005; 2009). At the moment I am writing the report of a contract archaeological excavation at a Pre Roman cemetery, close to the village Tjärby in Tjärby parish (Wranning 2010a). The material from the Tjärby excavations forms the basis of my licentiate thesis, which is a work in progress. My interest in and studies of the Pre Roman Iron Age also recently led to my involvement in studies around a cremation burial contained in an imported Celtic bronze and iron cauldron (fig. 2), which almost by accident was found during a public demonstration excavation in 2008

Figure 1: Southern Scandinavia with the county of Halland situated on the Swedish west coast, here marked in dark green. Illustration: Monica Bülow Björk (Wranning 2010b, 2010c). Working with this somewhat diverse Pre Roman material once again made me think about the course of events during the prolonged introduction of the new material iron in southern Scandinavia. If the raw material was available and the knowledge was spread, how come we do not find more evidence of usage or even of presence in graves or hoards until the late Pre Roman Iron Age? My thoughts ended up as a paper for the Nordic TAG meeting in Trondheim and, now in a slightly remodeled shape, as this present article. So, in order to connect back to my initial statement; if we choose to focus on iron - the material that has given name to the entire period - when did the Iron Age actually start? 217

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Figure 2: The Celtic cauldron from Skrea, here the rim of iron placed upside down. Photo: Inger Nyström Godfrey,

From bronze to iron – the simple explanation In the second half of Montelius period V the central European cultures which until then had provided northern Europe with bronze, started to focus their trading interests towards southern Mediterranean Europe instead. This led to northern Germany, northern Poland and Scandinavia slowly becoming a periphery with drastically decreasing long distance trade contacts (Jensen 1997, 217ff, Kristiansen 1998:68f, Solberg 2000:33f). A commonly used, but far too simplified explanation about how, when and why the Iron Age started is that there was lack of bronze due to the ceasing imports and in need of more metal, the Scandinavians then chose to turn to their own home ground, where sufficient raw material for iron production could be found and started to produce their own metal. The fact that the raw material was to be found at home also meant that everyone now easily could get access to metal. Iron very soon became everyman’s possession. As simple as that. The reason for the technical evolution and for the quick and frictionless transition from Bronze Age to Iron Age becomes all clear and easy with this explanation – society needed a substitute for the no longer available bronze, which lead to the rapid development of an iron producing technology as well as the society’s rapid warm and embracing welcome of the new metal. End of story. This kind of simplified history-writing probably originates from the misunderstanding of CJ Thompsens’ three-age system and is an astoundingly common point of view that handles the prehistoric periods (the three ages) as totally individual phenomena, closed contexts strictly separated by completely safe and watertight bulkheads. As archaeologists we of course all know that neither this, nor any other change in society has been this fast and easy.

The beginning of the Scandinavian Pre-Roman Iron Age 500-400 BC was suggested already by Montelius in 1870 (Montelius 1913) and 500 BC could finally be defined by Becker 1961). Since then the internal evolution and development of the period have been pinpointed in more and more detail, dependant on different material and geographical spheres (see for example Martens 1997). Change is a constantly ongoing, mostly slow flowing process, unaware and independent of the periodical definitions and boundaries set by scholars in order to make the prehistory more coherent. However, I am afraid and quite certain that this simplified explanation of the process of transition from Bronze to Iron Age still lingers. The process described may still be the version that many kids learn in school today. From bronze to iron – a more diversified point of view For the elite of the stratified society that started to take shape during the Late Neolithic and slowly evolved into the Bronze Age society, artifacts of copper and bronze were an important attribute (Larsson1986, 13ff, Kristiansen and Larsson 2005, 317). Neither copper nor tin were available in Scandinavia, so good long distance trading contacts were needed in order to get hold of bronze (Jensen 2006, 11). This fact may have been one of the reasons that the metal itself became the symbol that maybe most clearly manifested the constellation of the leadership as well as the entire Bronze Age society. The both secular and religious leaders visualized their widespread network of long-distant trade contacts with the imported bronze and at the same time also visualized their long-distant religious contacts – the contacts with the gods – by recurring rituals that included sacrifice and offerings of bronze artifacts 218

Per Wranning: The (sluggish and modest) introduction of iron in southern Sweden (Helms 1993, 81). In other words, bronze played an enormously important role in the maintenance of the established leadership structure as well as the prevailing world picture. The Scandinavian Bronze Age culture had already come to an end during Montelius period V (Jensen, 1997, 193ff, Kristiansen 1998 68f), while period VI actually differs so much that even Montelius himself somewhat regretted his own periodic system and expressed doubts if there ever had been a real period VI (Montelius 1913, 75, 77). The final fall of the Bronze Age culture seems to have been preceded by a successive decline over a period of many years. As Thomas B Larsson has shown there was a massive increase of ritual sacrifice of bronze artifacts in the southwestern parts of Sweden during period V and also a slight increase of swords during the same period (Larsson 1986, 174ff, 68ff). We also know that new grave mounds were constructed during this time (Andersson 1999, 9ff; Artelius 1996, 74; Lundborg 1972: 72ff). All in all, this can be interpreted as signs of structural instability and an increasing need for leaders to manifest their power and reinforce old values and customs. However, the distant trade contacts failed and so did the gods. Around this time, the old trading partners within the Hallstatt culture begun to focus their trade towards southern Europe instead of Scandinavia (Jensen 1997, 193). In southern Scandinavia years of heavy grazing as well as cultivation without any use of fertilizer had slowly opened up and partly eroded the landscape (Påsse 2002, 153; Viklund 2004, 64ff; Welinder 1998, 189-193). In some areas, for example in southern Halland, the problems seem to have been worse than elsewhere since the exposure of the mainly lightweight and sandy soils led to problems with flying sand and erosion (Johansson and Wranning, 2002, 83; Lundborg 1972, 67f, 73f,; Svensson 2008, 24ff; Welinder 1998, 25,). During this period the climate also turned colder which led to increased rainfall, rising water levels and more acid and dystrophic soils (Pedersen and Widgren 1998, 250). In spite of the increasing rate of sacrifices, the gods seemed to have turned their divine hands away for good. Without the long distance contacts of imported bronze and without benevolent gods the Bronze Age society was doomed.

indicate that artisans, who already were familiar with other metals, produced this first iron (Hjärtner-Holdar 1992). Did the Iron Age actually start already then, around 800 BC? No, it certainly did not. The traces of iron production and iron artefacts from late Bronze Age are far too few in Scandinavia to claim this. Bronze Age iron rather seems to have been a bit of a short-lived novelty. After an initial phase of introduction and experimentation, the interest for this new material declined for some reason. Bo Strömberg claims that in order for new knowledge and techniques to be perceived positively, an economic as well as a social preparation must exist among the receivers (Strömberg 1991, 36) and the Scandinavian Bronze Age society did not seem to be prepared to embrace the new metal. So why did iron not immediately become the substitute for the missing bronze? Was this early local iron production perhaps only a phase of experimenting, with insufficient technology and mainly bad results? There are only a few finds and even fewer analyses of iron objects produced at this time but it seems that this was not the case at all. An example of this is the iron knife that was found in 2002 in a grave in Öggestorp (RAÄ 195, 14) Öggestorp parish), twenty kilometers south of the big lake Vättern in the county of Jönköping. The knife has been 14C-dated to 800-350 BC and analysis of the metal shows that the blade actually was made of steel. In other words, the artisan that made this Late Bronze Age/Early Pre-Roman Iron Age knife had very good knowledge about the raw material as well as about the different stages in the production. It is not known if the knife from Öggestorp actually was locally produced but it should be pointed out that a furnace for iron production (RAÄ 195 Öggestorp parish), 14C-dated to 780-400 BC, also was found at the same site (Grandin and Häggström 2004; Häggström 2005, 53ff).

However – and this is rather peculiar – the lack of bronze did not actually mean the lack of metals. Via excavated graves and hoards (for example RAÄ 4 Snöstorp parish, RAÄ 9 Trönninge parish and RAÄ 88 Vessige parish, Halland) we know that by this time items of iron, such as knives and sickles, were already in use in southern Sweden (Hjärthner Holdar 1992; Lundborg 1972, 70f; Welinder 1998, 233). Furthermore, analyses of pieces of slag from secure contexts (for example RAÄ 25 Fjärås parish and RAÄ 44 Harplinge parish, Halland) clearly show that iron actually was being locally produced during period V, maybe even as early as during period IV. Finds of crucibles and moulds found in the same contexts as the iron slag

Figure 3: The important role of bronze as a tool for manifesting the power of the leaders in the Bronze Age society, where interaction between long-distance trade-contacts and long-distance religious contacts (with the gods) leads to increasing power, and vice versa. 219

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Figure 4: All known sites with remains (furnaces and/or pieces of slag) of Pre Roman iron production in the county of Halland 220

Per Wranning: The (sluggish and modest) introduction of iron in southern Sweden So why did iron not “make it” immediately then? I think we must look beyond the strictly practical reasons in order to understand why. As I have described above, bronze was more than a metal for people in Bronze Age society. Bronze and the “trade and gifts system” surrounding it – the long-distant trade and the long-distant sacrifice – was a fundamental pillar for the entire Bronze Age society, heavily surrounded by hundreds of years of symbolism and traditions. Iron clearly was not. It was a good metal, in some respects perhaps even better from a practical point of view but the magic and symbolic power was absent (fig. 3). Regardless if the items of iron were imported or if they were locally produced, they did not seem to increase in impact or respond to any obvious demand. Very little iron seems to have been in use during the earliest Pre Roman Iron Age. In Halland there are no known finds of iron artefacts or any convincing evidence of iron production from the earliest Pre Roman Iron Age (fig. 4). The 14C-datings from this period are extremely problematic (see for example the discussion in Rahbek and Lund Rasmussen 1997), which makes interpretation even more difficult. However, it is likely that some local iron production was performed during this period that produced the “know-how” used during the second introduction of iron technology during the fourth century BC, rather than this knowledge first being lost and then re-gained. However, until any finds appear that clearly indicates the presence of local iron production in Halland during the early Pre Roman Iron Age, this question remains open.

The fourth – third century BC In the middle of the Pre Roman Iron Age a rapid increase of iron production becomes evident in southern Sweden. Quite a few sites in Halland with preserved furnaces from this middle and late part of Pre Roman Iron Age have been excavated during the last fifteen years. Lars Nørbach recently showed that this obvious increase in iron production during the second half of the Pre Roman Iron Age also took place in Denmark (Nørbach 1998, 53ff; 1999, 237ff). However, iron craftsmen in Halland were not influenced by contacts with Denmark alone since furnaces of both the Danish Skovmark-type (see Voss 2003) with frames and walls of clay and stone-frame furnaces typical for the Scandinavian peninsula (Serning 1987) are found all over the county, sometimes even side by side at one and the same site as in Daggarp (RAÄ 64), Tjärby parish and Fyllinge (RAÄ 106), Snöstorp parish (Wranning 2005, 129f). Using the site-catchment analysis method (Vita-Finzi and Higgs 1970), I analyzed the surroundings of all iron production sites found in Halland a few years ago (Wranning 2004; 2005). Considering parameters such as topography, soils, geology, hydrology as well as known historic usage and the characteristics and amount of known ancient remains and the composition of remains (type and dating) at the actual site (fig. 5), I came to the conclusion that the earliest traces of iron production in Halland – dating back to the Bronze Age - are found

Figure 5: The picture shows the settlement Hjälm (RAÄ 25, parish of Fjärås) in northern Halland Traces of iron production during late Bronze Age have been excavated here (Jonsäter, 1979, Hjärthner-Holdar 1993,:38-45, Strömberg 1995:39f) The settlement is situated in the middle of a fully developed Bronze Age landscape.

and its surrounding kilometer.

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Fig 6: The production sites in Leregård (RAÄ 160, Årstad Parish) in the middle of Halland, and Daggarp (RAÄ 64, Tjärby Parish) in southern Halland, and their surrounding kilometers. Note that there is clay everywhere, but absolutely no traces of close

settlements, graves or stray finds from any preceding period.

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Per Wranning: The (sluggish and modest) introduction of iron in southern Sweden within settlements with bronze production, situated along main ancient travel routes and surrounded by numbers of ancient remains as mounds and cairns; all in all, in central positions in the Bronze Age landscape. Starting at approximately 300 BC the iron production moves out from the actual settlements and the furnaces are now being built closer to the source of raw material, in areas that apparently had not been in much use before (or maybe used as outlying grassland), with very few or no other ancient remains in the nearby areas (Wranning 2004; 2005). We find furnaces in the middle of areas of heavy clay (clay presumably being of great importance when building and repairing the furnaces shafts) and close to bogs where ore could be found. The areas of heavy clay soil and poor natural drainage had – for obvious reasons – not been cultivated or settled yet and could therefore most probably also offer plenty of the wood that the iron production demanded in large quantities. This assumption is also supported by recent Danish landscape studies that shows that place-names with the word skov (wood/ forest) occur more often in areas with clay soils (Fabech pers. comm. 2003, Höll et al. 2002). Furthermore these new production sites seem to be entirely designed for iron production, as there are no traces of other (bronze) metalwork. It is not fully known who produced the iron or who controlled the production at these production sites but there are indications that, at least in some cases, people from wealthy groups in the society were involved. For example, at the iron production site in Daggarp, Tjärby Parish (RAÄ 64) plenty of notably high quality ceramic vessels were present in the clay-pit that was used for the furnaces (Toreld 2005, 87ff) (fig. 6). Did the Iron Age actually start sometime during the fourth or third centuries BC then? No, not really. Looking at this notable increase in production – and with that a presumed accompanying increase in usage – we may be misled to believe that iron by this time finally had been fully accepted and given the symbolic and ritual power previously held by bronze. However, that was not the case. Bronze items such as neck and arm rings were still chosen as sacrifices and gifts to the gods. This has been demonstrated in the Danish material by Lotte Hedeager (1990. 78, 84, 195f,) and by Bertil Helgesson in the material from Scania in southernmost Sweden (Helgesson 2002, 117f). Metal depositions or hoards dated to this period are however absent in Halland but in the burial material we find a similar situation. After a few hundred years, from the latest Bronze Age through the earliest Iron Age with a burial tradition of anonymous graves without burial gifts, objects of metal were once again included in some graves during the 4th century BC. However, it was not items of iron that was chosen. On the contrary, once again bronze artifacts were selected to follow the deceased on the funeral pyre. During this time, a new cemetery was founded in Tjärby Parish (RAÄ 69), southern Halland. The cemetery would be in use until the transition to Roman Iron Age or, in other words, until the years around the birth of Christ. During these 300-350 years of usage

approximately seventy cremation burials were interred here. It is clear that bronze was the preferred metal in the graves during the first 150-200 years that the cemetery was in use. Even as late as in the first half of the 2nd century BC iron items in the Tjärby graves seems to mainly only have played a practical role as a hidden, functional part of a bronze object, for example the needle on a T-shaped fibulae, hidden beneath a decorated shield of bronze. In other words, people in Tjärby had accepted to use iron for practical reasons but they still seem to have preferred displaying the bronze. 150 BC At approximately 150 BC (during the transition from middle to late Pre Roman Iron Age in Scandinavia and from middle to late La Téne in Europe) a notable change occurs at the cemetery in Tjärby. From now on and during the next 150-200 years of usage, until the burial ground is abandoned, there will be no more burial gifts of bronze added in the graves. Instead, all objects of metal – fibulas, knives, sickles and needles – are made of iron. And this is certainly not an isolated, local phenomenon. On the contrary, all around southern Scandinavia during the late Pre Roman Iron Age this new tradition with gifts of iron in graves is the common pattern (Becker 1990; Björk 2005, 69ff; Pedersen and Widgren 1998, 261ff; Ragnesten 1996:43ff; Nicklasson 1997; Rødsrud 2008, 402). Did the Iron Age start in 150 BC then? Yes, in many ways it actually seems so and this mental turning point does not only seem to be in regard of the use of iron. As a peculiar parenthesis in this discussion it could also be mentioned that cooking pits, so closely connected to Bronze Age contexts but also in some use during Pre Roman Iron Age, finally cease to exist in the settlement-material from Halland around this time (see for example Lundqvist and Persson 1998, 72). There have been varying suggestions over the years about how cooking pits actually were used but we still do not know for sure. A common interpretation is though that they were used mainly for food preparation. Regarding this slow and protracted ending of the use of cooking pits, we should keep in mind that when change occurs in a culture (whether by force, by population movement or by evolution), the last stronghold against change is very often the traditions connected to food and eating. Especially many feasts, festivals and annual celebrations are closely connected to a certain kinds of foods (see Bringéus 1976) and food traditions from the old region or country is often regarded as an important part of the ethnic identity of many immigrants, even for those that in all other respects are fully assimilated into their new society (Brembech et al 2007). A not too farfetched interpretation might be that in the disappearing of cooking pit usage we actually can sense that the last memories connected to the traditions of the Bronze Age society are finally fading. As previously mentioned, we also find examples of ritual sacrifice of iron artifacts from this period (Helgesson 2002, 223

N-TAG TEN 117ff). I would like to suggest the following interpretation to the reason for this apparently sudden introduction of iron in graves and hoards. Since the production of iron moved away from the settlement areas some 150-200 years earlier and by that movement also became invisible for most people in the society, the knowledge about the technology slowly became exclusive and centered to a small group of artisans. The technical process became some sort of rite de passage in the beholders eyes, when the artisans went away with raw material to the “invisible” production site and returned with forgeable iron. This led to new myths and traditions surrounding the metal itself as well as the artisans – the powerful blacksmiths, the masters of fire, with knowledge to transform raw material into artifacts –started to appear. Simultaneously, the socio-economic importance of iron increased. By the time around 150 BC Iron was probably already in quite frequent practical use, at least in some groups of the society, but now it also finally became fully accepted from a symbolic point of view – just like in the case with the blacksmiths it now had become surrounded by many of the powerful and symbolic values and traditions earlier connected to bronze and bronze smiths. In other words, Iron finally had become worthy enough for ritual sacrifice and as grave gifts. Alas, I object to the popular belief that iron was produced by more or less every household. Rather, too few places with indications of iron production has been found in relation

to the number of excavated settlements of Pre Roman Iron Age dating for this claim to be valid. Was it only the symbolic power that was important then? I would say no. As previously pointed out, iron is a useful metal, from a practical point of view at least as good as bronze. Another category of artifacts that appears in the material during the Late Pre Roman Iron Age, for the first time since the late Bronze Age, is weapons (Nicklasson 1997). The weapon graves indicate the appearance of new elite groups within the Iron Age society. Kristiansen claims that these new groups with growing political, social and religious power most probably developed slowly within the society but are not detectable in the material until the second century BC (Kristiansen 1998, 305). Exactly as during the early Bronze Age, Montelius period II, the emerging elite groups used the new metal for weapons in order to gain, manifest and retain their power. To uphold power it was not sufficient only to use the metal, it was also necessary to control its production and distribution. From the latest Pre Roman Iron Age we find the furnaces located in direct proximity to the settlements containing the biggest longhouses, the chieftain farms. As two good examples of this phenomenon the settlements in Fyllinge and Kårarp near Halmstad could be mentioned (Carlie in manuscript, Wranning 2005). In this case history indeed seems to repeat itself. Who were these new chieftains,

Figure 7: Fyllinge, an example of a wealthy farm located in an area quite unusual for ordinary agrarian settlement. 224

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Figure 8: Celtic cauldron made of iron and bronze. Taken from Eggers 1951. this newly established, rapidly growing elite that seems to have appeared more or less from out of nowhere from a context that could be described as several hundred years of low scale, anonymous equality? It may not be a completely far-fetched thought to assume that the new upcoming leadership actually sprang from the iron artisans themselves. The theoretical knowledge and practical ability to produce iron was powerful and an important part of the development of the entire Iron Age society. During this late part of Pre Roman Iron Age we can also see the next steps in the “evolution of the production site”. There are examples when iron production moves back to the settlement (Allarp, RAÄ 26 Skummeslöv Parish) (Viking and Fors 1995, Wranning 2004; 2005), but there are also examples when farms seems to move out to the production sites or at least are established in areas less suited for settlement and cultivation (Fyllinge, RAÄ 106 Snöstorp Parish) (Wranning 2005). This can be interpreted as that the iron production may have been

the main economical livelihood for such particular farms. The longhouse in Fyllinge (fig. 7) is the biggest known Pre Roman building in Halland, which indicates that this was a wealthy and powerful farm. Bo Strömberg discusses the concept of marginality and the fact that living in the geographic marginality of the agrarian society did not have to be negative. On the contrary, that situation can often lead to a positive expansion of subsistence, specialization and trade (Strömberg 2009, 22). During the late Pre Roman Iron Age it seems to have become as important – or even more important – for the elite to control land areas suitable for iron production as it was to control the long-distance trade contacts had been earlier (Rødsrud 2008, 403). The location of the big farm in Fyllinge seems to be a very good Pre Roman example supporting this assumption. A cremation burial in a large Celtic cauldron was found in the parish of Skrea on the Swedish west-coast in the autumn of 2008. The cauldron – Eggers’ type 4 – can be dated to the middle of the 2nd century BC (the earliest 225

N-TAG TEN part of late La Tène Period) and it had most probably been manufactured somewhere in the area that later would become the Roman provinces of Raetia and Noricum, south of Danube and north of the Alps (Eggers 1951; Lund-Hansen 1987). The cauldron had been used as a burial vessel for three individuals and the grave was located in a visually prominent place, on the top of a hill with an impressive view in all directions. Imported early cauldrons like this one (Eggers 1951) can in some ways be seen as epitomizing symbols for all those changes that occurred in south Scandinavian society at this time (fig. 8). As previously mentioned, during the same period, weapon burials reappear in Scandinavia after an absence since the late Bronze Age (Niklasso, 1997). These observations tell us about the appearance of a new stratified society, with leaders who – exactly as during the early Bronze Age – took, upheld and manifested their power with weapons of metal and once again also chose to manifest themselves with imported, long distance trade objects. However, this time they chose not just another bronze artifact but an artefact of bronze and iron. The heavy rim and upper wall of the cauldron are made of iron, tightly riveted together with the bottom which is made of bronze. The new metal that rests upon and is closely connected to the fundament of the old metal indicates that both metals were equally important for the appearance of the final product and this was obviously regarded so attractive that these cauldrons were suitable for chieftain burials in Scandinavia. Conclusion As we all know, the starting date of the archaeological period named the Iron Age in Scandinavia has been set to 500 BC. However, when studying the archeological record of circulation, usage and production of iron, this set date does not correlate very well, at least not on the Swedish west coast. So when did the Iron Age start? Was it during Bronze Age period V, when circulation of occasional iron artifacts begun and artisans were experimenting with iron technology? Or was it in 300 BC when the production of iron began to be located to specific production sites and a marked increase in the production can be seen? Or was it not until 150 BC when it seems that iron was finally fully accepted as a functional as well as a symbolic and ritual metal, now also under chieftain control? Of course the answer  to these questions  depends  largely on the parameters we study at a given time, but as said, in this paper I have deliberately chosen to study iron only. What we do know is that society did not develop due to technological advancements only and the new technology did not become fully accepted solely due to public demand for metal either. My conclusion is that the process that led from the first introduction of iron to the consolidation and full acceptance of the same material was very slow and not dependent as much on the actual technology as on the cultural framework. It was not until a framework of history, myths and legends surrounding both the material as well as the iron craftsmen had been established, more than 600 years after its first introduction in southern Scandinavia, that iron finally became fully accepted.

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Per Wranning: The (sluggish and modest) introduction of iron in southern Sweden Bind 15. København, Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab Jensen, J. 2006. Danmarks oldtid. Bronzealder 2000-500 f.Kr. København, Gyldendal Johansson, N. And P. Wranning 2002. Tröingebergsboplatsen, område B, arkeologisk undersökning 1998. In N. Johansson.et al. (ed.),. Landskap i förändring 4. Teknisk rapport från de arkeologiska undersökningarna av RAÄ 127:1-2 och fastigheten Tröinge 4 (9), Vinbergs socken, Halland. Arkeologiska rapporter från Hallands länsmuseer, Halmstad Jonsäter, M. 1979. Fornlämning 25 och 26, gravfält med underliggande boplas och ensamliggande röse, äldre bronsålder – folkvandringstid. Arkeologisk undersökning 1973-74. Riksantikvarieämbetet och Statens Historiska Museer, rapport, Uppdragsverksamheten 1979 (8) Kristiansen, K. 1998. Europe Before History. New Studies in Archaeology. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kristiansen, K., and T. B. Larsson 2005. The Rise of the Bronze Age Society. Travels, Transmissions and Transformations. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press Larsson, T. B. 1986. The Bronze Age Metalwork in Sweden. Aspects of Social and Spatial Organization 1800-500 BC. Archaeology and Environment 6. Umeå, Department of Archaeology, University of Umeå Lundborg, L. 1972. Undersökningar av bronsåldershögar och bronsåldersgravar i södra Halland. Höks, Tönnersjö och Halmstad härader under åren 18541970. Hallands Museum 2. Halmstad Lundqvist, L. And K. Persson. 1999. Skrea 177 – boplats från bronsålder och järnålder. In Lundqvist, L. (ed). Bebyggelse och kulturlandskap i mellersta Halland. Arkeologi längs väg E6/E20 i södra Halland. Del II. 1991-1995. Sträckan Getinge-Heberg. Riksantikvarieämbetet. Arkeologiska Resultat UV Väst rapport 1998 (1). Kungsbacka Martens, J. (ed.., 1997. ChronologicalpProblems of the PreRoman Iron Age in northern Europe. Arkaeologiske Skrifter 7. København Montelius, O. 1913. När började man allmänt använda järn? Fornvännen 8, 61-91. Nicklasson, P. 1997. Svärdet ljuger inte. Vapenfynd från äldre järnålder på Sveriges fastland. Acta Archaeologica Lundensia, Series Prima in 4°, 22. Lund Nørbach, L. C. 1998. Ironworking in Denmark. From the Late Bronze Age to the Early Roman Iron Age. Acta Archaeologica 69, 53-75. Nørbach, L. C. 1999. Organising iron production and settlement in Northwestern Europe during the Iron Age. In C. Fabech and J. Ringtved. (eds.). Settlement and Landscape. Proceedings of a conference in Århus, Denmark, May 4-7 1998. Jutland Archaeological Society. Moesgård

Pedersen, E. A., and M& Widgren11998. Järnålder. 500 f.Kr.-1000 e.Kr. Det svenska jordbrukets historia. Jordbrukets första femtusen år. Stockholm Påsse, T. 2002. Geologisk beskrivning av lagerföljden vid område A och C, Tröinge 2 (59) (Bengtsgård), Vinbergs socken. In Johanson, Streiffert an & Wranning (eds.) LLandskap i förändring 4. Teknisk rapport från de arkelogiska undersökningarna av RAÄ 127 (1-2) och fastigheten Tröinge 4:9, Vinbergs socken, Halland. Landsantikvarien, Halmstad/Riksantikvarieämbetet, Kungsbacka. Göteborg Ragnesten, U. 1996. Bruk av järn i västsvensk förhistoria. GOTARC Serie C. Arkeologiska skrifter 14. Department of Archaeology, Göteborg University. Göteborg Rahbek, U. and K. Lund Rasmussen 1997. Radiocarbon dating in the Pre-Roman Iron Age. In J. Martens (ed.). 1997. Chronological problems of the Pre-Roman Iron Age in northern Europe. Arkaeologiske Skrifter 7. København Rødsrud, C. L. 2008. Kontinuitet i en brytningstid? Samfunnsutviklingen under førromersk jernalder. Facets of Archaeology. Essays in Honour of Lotte Hedeager on Her 60th Birthday. OAS 10. Oslo Serning, I.1987. Malm – metall – föremål. Arkeometallurgiska institutet, Stockholms Universitet. Stockholm Solberg, B. 2000. Jernalderen i Norge. Ca. 500 fKr.-1030 e.Kr. Oslo Strömberg, B. 1991. Järnhantering på boplatser i Halland under äldre järnålder – en kronologisk och naturgeografisk analys. Nya bidrag till Hallands äldsta historia. 4. Kungsbacke, Riksantikvarieämbetet Strömberg, B. 1995. Spår av järnhantering i Halland från äldre järnålder till sen medeltid. In S-O. Olsson (ed.). Medeltida danskt järn. Framställning av och handel med järn i Skåneland och Småland under medeltiden, s. 36-51. Forskning i Halmstad 1. Centrum för Sydsvensk Kulturmiljöforskning. Högskolan, Halmstad Svensson, M. 2008. Nolshögen – boplats, samlingsplats och gravplats. Arkeologiska rapporter från Hallands Länsmuseer 2008 (3). Halmstad Toreld, C. 2005. Keramikskärvor – slängda sopor eller betydelsebärande bitar? In C. Toreld and P. Wranning. (eds.). Förromersk järnålder i fokus. Framgrävt förflutet från Fylling, 2,:58-95. Landsantikvarien. Halmstad Viklund, K. 2004. Hallands tidiga odling. In L. Carlie, E. Rydberg, J. Streiffert and P. Wranning. (eds.). Hållplatser i det förgångna. Landskap i förändring 6: 55-67. Riksantikvarieämbetet/Landsantikvarien Viking, U. and T.& Fors 1995. Från stenålder till medeltid på fem månader. RAÄ 26, Avfart väg E6, Skummeslövs sn, Halland. Arkeologisk undersökning 1991. Stiftelsen Hallands länsmuseer, Halmstad, Landsantikvarien Vita-Finzi, C. and E. S. Higgs 1970. Prehistoric economy in the Mount Carmel area of Palestine: site catchment analysis. Proceeedings of the prehistoric society 36,:137

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N-TAG TEN Voss, O. 2003. The archaeology of iron smelting in Denmark. Archeometallurgy in Europe 1, 497-505. Milano Welinder, S. 1998. Neoliticum – bronsålder 3900-500 f.Kr. Det svenska jordbrukets historia. Jordbrukets första femtusen år. Stockholm Wranning, P. 2004. Halländsk järnhantering under äldre järnålder. In I. Carlie, E. Ryberg, J. Streiffert and P.&Wranning (eds.). Hållplatser i det förgångna. Landskap i förändring 6, 225-249. Riksantikvarieämbetet/Landsantikvarien Wranning, P. 2005. Järnframställarnas stora gård. In C. Toreld and P. Wranning (eds., Förromersk järnålder i fokus. Framgrävt förflutet från Fyllinge 2: 96-172. Halmstad, Landsantikvaried. Wranning, P. 2009. Det äldsta halländska järnet introduktion, utveckling och förändring under de första århundradena ur ett socioekonomiskt perspektiv. In B. Helgesson (ed.),. Järnets roll. Skånelands och södra Smålands järnframställning under förhistorisk och historisk tid. Kristianstad, Regionmuseet Kristianstad/ Landsantikvarien i Skånd. Wranning, P. 2010a. Tjärby Norra – ett förromerskt gravfält och gårdar från romersk järnålder. Människan och landskapsrummets olika dimensioner, teknisk rapport. Arkeologiprojekt utmed Väg 117, Daggarp – Skogaby. Arkeologiska rapporter från Hallands länsmuseer 2009:6. Halland, Tjärby socken, Tjärby 2:3, 3:2, 9:4, RAÄ 68. Halmstad Wranning, P. 2010b. Kitteln på Skrea Backe. In Situ 2008, 87-98. Göteborgs Universitet Wranning, P.. 2010c. En högättad kvinnas praktbegravning på Skrea Backes åskrön – nya rön kring det sensationella kittelfyndet. Gemensamt arv Gemensamt ansvar. Länsantikvariens årsredogörelse 2009,. 28-34. Halmstad Per Wranning, Kulturmiljö Halland, Bastionsgatan 3 SE-302 43 Halmstad, Sweden. E-mail: [email protected] [email protected]

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Dealing with consequences: The importance of placement Ulla Isabel Zagal-Mach Lund University

Abstract This article represents the second part of a presentation on the consequences of the introduction of sails to Scandinavia, given at the X Nordic TAG by Lise Bender Jørgensen and the author. Bender Jørgensen explored how data, established by experimental archaeology and the ethnology of fishing-and-farming societies in 19th and early 20th century Norway, reflect on what demands for raw materials and labour this innovation may have caused. This paper explores the theoretical and methodological implications of Bender Jørgnsen’s results and how they can be employed in the study of technology and changes in craft-tradition from archaeological data. I will argue that technology and craft should always be studied as a situated social activity (Ingold 2000). The concepts of space and place are thus to hold central positions in any discussion of technology and production. In focus is the placement of technology, and attempts to discern how one can understand the landscape and place in relation to textile production.

Introduction1 The population of pre-historic Scandinavia seems to have maintained a longstanding tradition of oars-driven boats. The archaeological record of south Scandinavia does not give us any remains of textiles that can be presumed to be sails until the beginning of the Scandinavian Viking Age, around 800 AD in the Oseberg burial (Ingstad 2006). Nevertheless, depictions on, for instance, the Gotlandic picture stones (Andersen and Andersen 1998, 102; Varenius 2006) and the remains of a developed rig found in the Oseberg ship and later finds, do show us that a development took place in Scandinavia during the late Iron Age, presumably during the Vendel period 500-800 AD. This development eventually changed and combined the longstanding tradition of oars-driven boats (Westerdahl 1995) with the blossoming of a skilled use of rig and sail. What instigated such a radical change of technological practice? A change that brought about not only an enormous increase in the demand for cloth, that is to say mass and processing of fibres (Andersson 1999; 2003; Bender Jørgensen this volume), but also a radical change in the boat-building practice and in handling of the ship on water. Presumably, this change must initially have been felt most acutely by the people involved in processing the fibres and shaping the boats, as both groups of craftsmen had to accommodate new standards, and as a consequence of this their entire crafts changed, to accommodate the continuing development of rig and sail. This development is the focus of my Ph. D. study: the change in craft tradition that brought about the use of sails on Scandinavian boats. The transition that put sails on boats is to be studied from a craft-oriented perspective,

 This article constitutes a work in progress and is part of my dissertation work. Parts of the discussion have been published earlier.

1

that is, with the craft-traditions as study objects not the product. In archaeology, technological transitions have most often been defined by changes in the products’ appearance, function or even apparent value. This is a natural consequence of the focus of our field on material culture. However, to understand the full extent of a technological change it is not enough merely to study the changes in or the use of the products, it is also vital to understand the changes in the organization, structure and dynamics of the production i.e. the craft. A number of studies have contributed greatly to the body of knowledge on the established shape, material, use and production of the Viking Age sails in Scandinavia.2 However, they have had their focus on the established product, and they do not tell us a lot about the change that must have occurred in the organization, technology, technique and skill of the craftsmen who actually made the early sails and ships. To understand such a change, it is necessary to study the specific properties of the craft, for instance the tools used (Andersson 1999; 2003), the assortment of products, the range of the network and the people involved in the production and the area where the production took place. It follows that archaeological finds and contexts of textile tools, i.e., implements for textile production from the Vendel Period shape the core of the material I will investigate. Thus the empirical data for this study are comprised of the archaeological sites and contexts that have textile implements, as well as the implements themselves, i.e. the production sites. Factors that are involved in the craft tradition are, for instance, the craftsmen’s habitus (Zagal-Mach 2009): knowledge, technique, skills, tools, social interaction,   For discussion see (Andersen 1998; Christensen 1974; Cooke et al. 2002, Möller-Wiering 2002; Varenius 2006)

2

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N-TAG TEN technological choices (Lemonnier 1993), and way of learning; and the craftsmen’s context (Zagal-Mach 2009): environmental preconditions, cultural and cross-cultural preferences and influences.

this involvement is not predetermined and can vary a great deal between economies, societies and cultures (Mitcham 1978). Use, degree of involvement and the choices made are all determined by and linked together in the specific knowledge matrix of the society.

This paper will concern itself mainly with the research strategy that allows for a thorough study of craft traditions in general where the above-mentioned variables are included, and with a particular focus on my primary sources - the production sites. The research strategy will thus be discussed in relation to textile production.

It is reasonable to assume that a change in technology might be detectable in the spatial organization of the workspace, the use of tools and the signs of use of raw material, all of which are determined by social construction. In the following, I will discuss how I intend to work with the aspect of production places in my dissertation. First, I will briefly present my research model and key terminology and subsequently, I will discuss the places of technology and how we can attempt to analyze these through the material culture available to us as archaeological remains

The article comprises two parts. The first part will explore the definition of place and technology from a theoretical perspective and will present the research strategy. This section also includes a discussion of one of the basic concepts for my study, that of object-levels and an attempt to define these in line with the definition of craft. In the second part the technological-place and how production and crafts in prehistory can be studied by analysing production sites archaeologically will be discussed by the use of the term taskscape.

1.2 The research model The process of creating an object is a highly complex arrangement influenced by the entirety of the craftsman’s being, taking part in the communal knowledge. To understand a change in technology it is necessary to understand the craft-tradition involved.

1. Nothing happens nowhere- Placing Technology 1.1 Technology

I have attempted to develop a model for archaeological study of crafts and technology (Zagal-Mach 2009). This model presents the primary analytical tool in the project. Textile craft/ technology is studied by means of this model to establish how much information the archaeological material can, in fact, provide.

Technology is the articulated, and/or implicit, knowledge matrix of the society or group in which the embodied knowledge of the craftsman is entrenched. To be more precise, it is a social structure, collective to the society and within which technical relations exist or come into being as social relations (Ingold 2000, 315). In this collective knowledge matrix, crafts become social networks, with their own rules, taboos, and social roles.

I have earlier established that craft can be said to be both structurally ordered as well as being a process that culminates in a finished object (Zagal-Mach 2009). A set of conceptual tools forms the basis for my research model (fig. 1), the foundation for which is the division between the structure and the process of craft.

Technology stands out as being a chain of events and actions with an element of volition (Mitcham 1978). These involve the individual, the natural world of elements, plants and animals, as well as the society but

Châine Opératiore Figure 1. The structuring factors

Step x

Step y

Step v

Step q

of technology and

craft.

Each little box

illustrates a step in the

operational chain.

Each

step in the operational

Social context of production: objects

   

Primary function Secondary function Construction Related object-groups

Structuring factors

chain constitutes an

Craftman’s habitus: his/or hers   

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Learning process Room for creativity in execution of craft Organization of production

event, that of the

creation of an object, and involves one or more persons, engaging in an

act, the act of creating, or performing his or her’s craft.

Ulla Isabel Zagal-Mach: Dealing with consequences: The importance of placement Category Definition

Example

1

Object-type Objects that share the same basic materials and are made with the same set of tools. Thus, an object- type is categorized by the materials, tools and techniques involved. An object-type can have within it many different groups of objects Textiles

Object-group Defined by the same specific functions and social connotation. Within the object-group, there can be a wide variety of objects that nevertheless have the same functions and social meaning

Object-item The specific unique item. An object-item always belongs to both an objectgroup and an object-type

A sail

The Textile group C from the Oseberg grave, interpreted as remains from the sail1 The Oseberg C textile are part of the object-group: sails, and the object-type: textiles.

  Ingestad 2006:234f

Table 1: The analytical categorization of products. It is important to attempt a comprehensive grasp on all levels of interaction, that is, all the technological, social and craft-traditional choices, habits, deliberations, possibilities and constraints. 1.3 Understanding objects as products- an analytical definition For the aim of mapping the different types of technological changes it is relevant to discuss the products – the objects a little further. The aim is to differentiate between different properties of the products and, in turn, the production. This is done through an analytical distinction of the term object. I distinguish between object-type,3 object-group, and the specific object. The structure of craft and craft-tradition is multifaceted and complex. However, defining the different affiliations of a product can help provide a closer understanding of the organization of the production. Furthermore, the differentiated understanding of the products’ properties can help us when deciding which approach to take in an archaeological study. When the archaeologist finds an object, let us say, a textile, with a specific appearance not encountered earlier, should this be assumed to be a new technique/technology/fashion in textiles as an object-group or is it possibly the mood and inclination of an individual craftsman expressed in a particular object? The tools needed to create the object-group sails, are the same as the ones used when creating, for instance, objectgroups such as tents or outer garments. They require roughly the same properties (water-repellent, reduced air permeability) and, thus, the same kind of web and thread quality. The difference among these object-groups lie in the later stages of the creation, that is in shaping the  The use of the word type in this article distinguish itself from the use of type in the classical archaeological sense, and means a group of objects connected through their raw materials.

3

product (sewing it into a sail) and later treatments of the finished object (Möller-Wiering 2002), for instance the smoerring (Cooke et al. 2002). The importance of considering the archaeological sites and locations as agents in a study of technology and production, non of which can be divorced from a spatial setting, is clear when taking into account the following: • The origin of raw material (Bender Jørgensen 2010; this volume) • The workspace, be it a production at home or organized workshops or factories (Costin 1991) • The communication between producers and consumers, craftsmen both masters and apprentices • The social relationships that are the foundation of the activity of craft • The logistics of transporting raw-material, semimanufactured and finished products, and even the craftsmen. • The distribution of the product when ready. All of these aspects of technology and production have a designated spatial significance and constitute human engagement with environment and places. 1.4 Production places It is a challenging task to attempt to glimpse prehistoric places, as it constitutes attempting to grasp social meaning. “We experience our surroundings and enrich them with meaning. These meanings are derived from individual or collective perceptions about the world, be they functional, economic or cosmological” (Nord 2009, 33) Because of the randomness of our empirical data: the archaeological artefacts, and contexts, sites and locations, the puzzle of a prehistoric landscape, made up as it is by 231

N-TAG TEN pre-conceptions and social connotations, is even more complex to piece together. These prehistoric or historic places were created in a past reality and have been modified, have lost and gained meaning throughout their existence in different times. To us, today, they are both places with particular socially relevant meaning as archaeological sites, as well as being sources of empirical data, fragments of a complex past, and use of space. Translated to a study of our time, to attempt such an understanding of places in a middle-sized Swedish city would include understanding differentiated meanings and use of wartime memorials, comprehending the use of a sound-wall along a larger road, as opposed to the remains of a medieval city-wall along the outskirts of the town, the outlay of a fenced kindergarten playground that is used as a thoroughfare at night-time, when the children are not there playing, as well as a little fence on a sidewalk circling the outdoors area of a cafe, that all pedestrians seem to respect even at night-time when tables and chairs are stacked away. The complex reasoning behind these behaviours and interactions with the places of our world comprise a challenging study. One way to go about it is to focus the study to places in connection with a specific social behaviour such as the execution of a particular craft, that is, on a larger scale the placement of a technology within the framework of the society’s structuring of space. In archaeology as in other disciplines the concepts of space and place have inspired discussion (E.g. Ingold 2000; Nord 2009; Tilley 1994). How do we define and subscribe meaning to the settings of our lives and world? Nord uses the term place to denominate the space that has been given meaning and has boundaries. “Place opposed to space is a limited piece of land with a boundary often invisible in its character. This, subjectively, located boundary marks where place ends and space continues” (Nord 2009, 33) One might describe the place as having a social identity. The term space constitutes the continuation (Nord 2009, 33) or could be said to be a collection of unidentified spaces. One might also say that the places are social spaces. The social space is created through interaction with humans and humans are shaped by the interaction with the space created by the social structures of the societies and the activities of the members of the societies. If we accept that technology, craft and even technique all are social interactions, albeit on different levels, it is clear that the interactions must come about at a specific place. Furthermore, it is obvious that the structuring principles of the craft and the process itself are closely bound to the specific place where they exist and are negotiated. The social logic behind these principles can be as simple as

the reality of raw-material supply, of a sail being made of flax in one part of the world and of wool in another, or as complex as the moving patterns of a weaver in the workshop or specific genders and ages attached to specific tasks in the production. Nothing happens outside of the physical placement or as Casey puts it: “it is becoming increasingly clear that all events – human and nonhuman alike occur nowhere else than in place.” (Casey 2008, 44) One might add that nothing is independent of where it exists. We do not as humans have the ability to divorce ourselves from the physical reality in which we live. Thus, the physical reality is an ever present factor in all decisions and acts and never more so than in our technological choices (Lemonnier 1993) In an analytical model, the question can be put as follows: On what level of spatial understanding can we see the various aspects of technology, that is, craft, production, technique and so on? What is it, in essence, that the places of productions can show us, few and randomly preserved as they are? Furthermore, how can we grasp the inherent logic and the interaction with places of production? Ingold´s concept of taskscapes (Ingold 2000, 194f) presents one way of involving agency in the way we think about our world and how we move in it (Nord 2009, 35). “It is to the entire ensemble of tasks, in their mutual interlocking, that I refer by the concept of taskscape. Just as the landscape in an array of related features, so – by analogy – the taskscape is an array of related activities. And as with the landscape, it is qualitative and heterogeneous: we can ask of a taskscape, as of a landscape, what it is like, but not how much of it there is” (Ingold 2000,195) How do we answer such a question? How can we describe what a taskscape is like? One simplified way is to make use of the concept of Chaîne Opératoire, as it at least allows us to see the involvement of tasks. However, it has the disadvantage of making production seem disconnected from the social, which would be misleading. Keeping that in mind, I nevertheless will use the Chaîne Opératoire to help me in the discussion of technological space and production place Making a sail can be drawn up as a chaîne opératoire. However, it is important to stress that this does not mean that the production can be seen as a whole, or as necessarily being performed at the same place (Conneller 2006). If, for argument’s sake, we presume that the sail was made of wool, the life history of the sail might look something like the following: 1. Grazing the sheep or goats. 2. Pulling or cutting the wool. 3. Picking impurities out of the wool, sorting it and possibly combing. 4. Spinning the yarn and the thread. 232

Ulla Isabel Zagal-Mach: Dealing with consequences: The importance of placement The environment, which here is understood to be 1) the places of specific tasks - constituting a taskscape, and 2) the landscape - the provider of raw material – and as such shaped by the dialectical relationship with humans.

5. Weaving the fabric. 6. After-treatments of the fabric. 7. Sewing the fabrics together into a sail, using a thread. 8. Sewing on the ropes and strengthening certain parts of the sail. 9. Pre-sailing the sail. 10. After-treatment and adjustments of the sail to the specific boat. 11. Use of the sail. 12. Possible re-use of the entire sail or parts of the sail. 13. Discarding parts or entire sail.

The society,- here understood to be the larger collective group providing demand for the finished product or the thread – in this society there are standards and expectations for the outcome. The social networks and relations of the spinner both as an individual and the structure of the social role The technique will be deeply rooted in the physical and cognitive capabilities and weaknesses of the individual person, in this case the spinner

It can be assumed that some of these activities take place at the same place and involve the same people. It is, for instance, likely that plucking the wool will take place more or less in the vicinity of the place where the sheep are grazing. Following this argument, the process can be said to be divided into seven stages in the production that spatially are unattached.

The technology, here understood as the collective habits and choices concerning textile production – for instance, why we spin one way and not another. The tools – the spindle - and how it is used by the spinner. Each point in châine opératoire is a different setting, a different process, each time a thread is spun and each time all of the mentioned factors will be activated.

The figure below presents (figure 2) the different stages that are directly connected to the creation of the sail and attempts to illustrate the different potential spatial settings. However, I must stress that it is not assumed that the actual making of a sail was as streamlined and spatially operational as this figure suggests. It would be faulty to assume that the process of production in prehistory was necessarily organized as the factory models we find so logical and next to natural today (Conneller 2006). However, these are the activities necessary in the production of a sail, and except for the last two stages, in any textile production.

Each creation of a thread is an event, which involves acts of individuals. Both event and act must always be situated. When studying technologies, it is my conviction that you cannot attempt to interpret crafts and the event of production without understanding the setting of the activities. The archaeological challenge is to recognize these production places. 2. Technological space and production place

If we, for instance, look at spinning a thread – it is possible to discern a number of factors that will influence the outcome:

Step 1a Procuring Fibre -rearing

/growing -plucking /collecting

Step 1b Processing Fibres - cleaning/

retting etc. -sorting -combing /preparing -storing

Step 2a Producing Thread -preparing – setting up the spinning position, with or without distaff

Step 2b Processing Thread -arrange threads -storing

Bender Jørgensen points out two major factors in the introduction of the sail. The first one is the consideration of

Step 3a Producing Fabric -setting up the loom -weaving

Step 3b Processing Fabric -treating the web -storing

Step 4 Producing sail -collecting fabrics. - deciding shape and size of sail -sewing fabric -sewing on ropes and strengthening certain parts of the sail together. -weaving -treating the web for instance fulling.

Step 5 Processing sail

- smoerring the sail -pre-sailing the sail -after-treatments -adjusting the sail -storage

Figure 2: The eight production phases in the production of sails, arranged spatially Each box is a place where a step in the production could be separately situated.

according to the production activity and process concerned.

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Production places

2500 2000 Site

Serie1

1500

Local

1000 500

Region

0 Flax

Hemp

Technological space

Wool

 

Figure 4: Shows the different spatial levels in the The main focus is the technological places (including both production sites and sites for procurement of raw material etc.), set in a social-network context (the site) as well as in the network of communication (the local) and of the communal technological and societal context (the region).

Figure 3: shows the amount of Ha needed for a sail, as NN estimated it based on ethnographic sources from 19th century North Norwegian sail production and Scandinavian land management, as well as from archaeological experiments. NN made the estimation

analysis of textile production.

for flax and hemp based on a sail for a large warship and the estimation for the amount of wool needed for

100 m2 sail ( NN 2010 this volume).

the quantity. As Bender Jørgensen among others (Andersen and Andersen 1998; Andersen et al. 1989, Andersson 2003; Lightfoot 1997) have noted, the most apparent change when the sail was introduced might be said to be in the demand for a massive quantity of fibres. It is important to note that at this point we do not know what fibres the south Scandinavian sails were made of. It is possible that they, like the sails of the Viking Age, were made of wool, but it is also quite possible that they were made of plant fibres. Bender Jørgensen’s (this volume) discussion of the amounts of land needed for the procurement of sufficient fibre indicates the vast areas of land that are involved. “Whether these estimates are applicable to the Viking Age is a good question, and certainly one that it would be interesting to pursue. Regardless, it follows that the cultivation of flax or hemp for sailcloth would have necessitated the setting aside of good arable lands for the purpose of fibre production. Wool farming requires large expanses of land, but much less arable” (Bender Jørgensen this volume) One might expect that the logistic reorganization and organisation of the production, allowing for such a change, might be apparent in the archaeological record. As a consequence it is not merely in the tool-kit composition the introduction of the sail will be apparent. Rather we ought to investigate a textile production as a regional phenomenon including a large enough area that allows for the agricultural demands. Furthermore, we need to look at the textile production-places. Finally, we should examine implements suitable for making cloth appropriate for sails and their distribution on sites and in the region. The latter include the signs of use of the toolkit, as it can be seen in the signs of use-wear on implements; the quantity and quality of tools on the sites, and any signs of organized and unified production.

The significance of this to my study is the importance of a contextual analysis of the textile production. That is, to place the production spatially and thus to attempt to understand the textile production in a local as well as larger regional perspective. It is necessary to allow for the specificity of the actual object-group – the sail – its mobility and intrinsic connection to infrastructure of both land and waterways. It is viewed as necessary to put the focal study of the technological places into the context of the social networks, strategies for communication and larger societal organization. 2.1 Regional - Scania I have limited the study to the region of Scania, Sweden. The region is an area of 11.243 km2 of which only the northern part is bordered by land stretching for about 150 km. The remainder of Scania’s circumference, about 350 km. is bordered by water; the Baltic to the east and south, Oresund and Kattegat to the west (Helgesson 2002). The timeframe is AD 500-800 representing a before and after the presumed introduction of the sail in the local textile production, set to be around the 8th century. All sites are recorded in the primary database, and the textile implements are registered in a contextual database, that is, a database that has the context as its focal point. The infrastructural analysis and the analysis of the workspace will be facilitated by the use of GIS. The aim is thus to attempt a glimpse of both the landscape of textile production during the late Iron Age (that is the landscape of the object type), as well as the places of production of fibres, thread, cloth of a specific character (the places of the production of the object group) and sails (the object). Just as importantly, the aim is to attempt to understand the connection and network of the textile 234

Ulla Isabel Zagal-Mach: Dealing with consequences: The importance of placement production. As a whole, one might say that what is attempted here is to get an understanding of the components of the technological places of South Scandinavia during the Vendel Period.

that I hope to be able to say something about the production organization, as well as the habitus of the textile craftsmen.

2.2 Local

The empirical material used for the study of the textile craft-tradition consists of material that can give information on the technology and the technique, that is, the specific actions involved in different processes in the textile production (fig. 3). It is concerned with the actual workspace used by the craftsman, as well as the workspace relation to the rest of the settlement structure, and last but not least the infrastructure of the workspace and other spaces belonging to the craft. The hope is to be able to say something about the use of and movement within the workspace as well as specific tool-use. Generally speaking, what is attempted here is to glimpse the processes of the textile production.

During the registration, Scania was divided into five areas, corresponding to Helgesson’s (Helgesson 2002, 157) tentative map of central places and areas in Scania during the Migration period. The Migration period constitutes the beginning of the period that I study and therefore the sociopolitical division of land becomes of interest. The areas are Uppåkra to the west, Vä, Ravlunda, Järrestad, to the east and Dybäck to the south. Each area is examined according to the following parameters: The local geography, the cultural landscapes, the outlay of the production places, signs of specific agriculture, production logistics and signs of transportation routes. The hope is that the technology logistics of the area, local variation and communication between the different areas will become apparent. That is, I hope to be able to discern sources for raw material procurement, and specialized textile production sites, and any change within these structures. 2.3 The site 163 Scanian sites dated to AD 500-800 (the Migration and Vendel period) are included in the study. 74 sites had registered textile implements, 72 of which can be said to be production places (two are gravesites and will not be discussed here), and 89 had no textile implements registered. The textile implements found from the sites are mainly spindle-whorls, loom-weights, most often in fragments and some needles and a few scissors. From the sites with textile implements, the wish is to be able to distinguish the preferred technique, as well as the structural features from my research model. That is to say,

Textile implements from Scania

Spindlewhorls Loomweights Needles Other

Figure 5: The textile implements from Scania dated to the Migration- and Vendel-period.

2.4 Production place

2.5 A note on reality What I present here is a highly theoretical model. It is a means for analysis, which although useful when attempting a thorough, transparent and source-critical study of a change in craft tradition, also tends to make the human element seem very remote. We must not forget that what we are dealing with is the scattered material remembrance of a specific production. Not a structure, not habits or rules, although embedded in both, but a unique set of fingers, holding the fibres lightly as the spindle-whorl turns fast. Producing that one thread, that was woven into that one web, that was sewn into that one sail, that sailed the sound of Öresund in a past so far away that no trace is left but the acknowledgement of the act and the fragments of the spindle-whorl. 3. Dealing with consequences As shown by NN, the inclusion of sail production into an established textile production constituted a substantial change. Even though it did not include new tools or necessarily techniques, the increased scale must have resonated through out the region of the craft-tradition and have had significant social impact, both in as much as the craftsmen had to cooperate in new ways, as well as in the logistics of the production. Furthermore, there is reason to believe that such a substantial amount of material needed, even demanded the inclusion of larger areas. That is, a change in the social backdrop might have preceded the introduction of the sail in the textile production allowing such cooperation to proceed. The consequence of these changes is presumed to be spatial reorganization and the challenge is therefore to find a way to grasp these changes archaeologically. In this article I have attempted to theoretically define the different areas of technological space taking the case-study from my Ph.D. thesis as an example and discussed how I

235

N-TAG TEN intend to study the textile production of Scania, Sweden. I use the differentiation between Space and Place that Nord 2009 established, and define Technology as a social interaction. Thus, the spaces invariably become the social spaces. I differentiate between different analytical levels of products: Object-types, Object-groups and Object-items, so as to be able to understand where in the craft-tradition changes occur. Finally, I discuss the research model I have developed for my Ph.D thesis and how I work analytically and practically with place as a essential part of technology and explore the archaeological material´s potential for such a study. Acknowledgements I would like to express my gratitude to colleagues and friends for inspirational discussions, and insightful comments on previous versions of this paper. I would especially like to extend my sincere gratitude to Professor Lise Bender Jørgensen for asking me to deliver a paper together with her at Nordic TAG, as well as for constructive comments and constant encouragement. I am also indebted to the The SoDiTeCh network, my colleagues at Lund University, the staff at Roskilde Viking Age Museum and Lejre Research Centre, as well as The Danish National Research Foundation’s Centre for Textile Research. I would like to thank Professor Deborah Olausson, Dr. Frederik Ekengren, M.A. Michaela Helmbrecht and R. E. Mach for valuable observations and many enjoyable conversations on the topic. Any oversights are of course strictly my own. Last but not least, I would like to thank NTNU in Trondheim, especially Martin Callanan, for a successful and stimulating conference in May 2009.

References Andersen, E. and B. Andersen 1998, Råsejlets Dragens Vinge, Roskilde, Roskilde Vikingeskibsmuseum. Andersen, E., J. Milland and E. Myhre 1989. Uldsejl i 1000 år, Roskilde, Roskilde Vikingeskibsmusem. Andersson, E. 1999. The Common Thread Textile Production in the Late Iron Age - Viking Age. Lund: University of Lund. Andersson, E. 2003. Excavations in the Black Earth 19901995 Tools for Textile Production from Hedeby and Birka. Birka studies 8. Stockholm Casey, E. S. 2008, Place in landscape archaeology: A Philosophical Prelude. In D. Bruno and J. Thomas (ed.), Handbook of Landscape Archaeology. Walnut Creek, Left Coast Press. Christensen, A. E. 1974. Skandinaviska skepp från begynnelsen till vikingarna.In G. F. Bass (ed.), Sjöfartens historia baserad på undervattensarkeologi, 159-181. Malmø, Bernces förlag.

Cooke, B., L. Christiansen and L. Hammerlund 2002. Viking woolen square-sails and fabric cover factor. The International Journal of Nautical Archaeology, 31(2), 9. Conneller, C. 2006, The Space and Time of the Châine opèratoire: Technological Approaches to Past Landscapes. Archaeological Review from Cambridge 21 (1), 38-49. Costin, C. L. 1991. Craft Specialization: Issues in Defining, Documenting and Explaining the Organization of Production. In M. B. Schiffer (ed.), Archaeological Method and Theory(Vol.3). Tucson, University of Arizona Press, 1-57. Helgesson, B. 2002. Järnålderns Skåne samhälle, centra och regioner Uppåkra Studier 5 Acta Archaeologica Lundensia Series in 8°, 38. Lund, Almqvist & Wiksell International. Ingstad. A. S. 2006. Brukstektilene. In A. E. Christensen and M. Nockert (eds.), Tekstilene. Osebergfunnet Bind IV, 185-276. Oslo, Kulturhistorisk museum Universitet i Oslo Ingold, T. 2000. The perception of the environment – essays in livelihood, dwelling and skill, London, Routledge. Lemonnier, P. (ed.) 1993. Technological Choices Transformation in Material Cultures Since the Neolithic. London, Routledge. Lightfoot, A. 1997. Ullseil i tusen år. Spor 1997 (2), 10-15. Mitcham,C. 1978, Types of technology, Research in philosophy and technology. An Annual Compilation of Research (Vol 1). Durbin (Edit), 229-294. Möller-Wiering, S. 2002. Segeltuch und Emballage Textilien im mittelalterlichen Warentransport auf Nord- und Ostsee Internationale Archäologie band 70. Rahden/Westf., Verlag Marie Leidorf GmbH. Sternke, F. and L.-J. Costa 2006. Prehistoric huntergatherers in transition: environmental adaptation or social transformation? Archaeological Review from Cambridge 21 (1), 6-37. Westerdahl, C. 1995. Society and sail. In O. CrumlinPedersen and B. Munch Thye (eds.), The Ship as Symbol – Papers from an International Research Seminar at the Danish National Museum Copenhagen 5th-7th May 1994, 51-58. Copenhagen, PNM. Zagal-Mach, U. I. 2009. Transitions in craft tradition (TCT) – A theoretical discussion of a research Strateg. In M. Sørensen and P. Desrosiers (eds.), Technology in Archaeology Proceedings of the SILA Workshop: The study of Technology as a method for gaining insight into social and cultural aspects of Prehistory, Copenhagen, November 2-4, 2005. Copenhagen, PNM. Ulla Isabel Zagal-Mach, M.A., M.Soc.Sc., Ph. D. Candidate Lund University Department of Archaeology and Ancient History P.O. Box 117, SE-221 00 Lund, Sweden. Visiting Address: Sandgatan 1, SE-221 00 Lund, Sweden.

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On war and memory and the memory of war – the Middle Bronze Age burial from Hvidegården on Zealand in Denmark revisited Joakim Goldhahn Linnaeus University

Abstract This paper discusses various memory practices and how they may have been manifested in a particular context, the famous burial from Hvidegård on Zealand in Denmark. The theoretical perspective is inspired by Jan Assmann’s thoughts about cultural memory. Assmann suggests that our memory comes in various forms, which are presented and analyzed here in relation to the Hvidegård burial. The article contains a new analysis of the content of the fascinating belt-purse from Hvidegård and an analysis of the cremated bones from this burial. A conclusion from these analyses could be that different kinds of memory practice are always interwoven. This might create both problems and opportunities for an interpretative archaeology.

D-Day – 60 plus 5 years later Some years ago, a holiday I spent in Normandy and Brittany coincided with a commemoration of the Allied landing sixty years earlier – the legendary D-Day, 6 June 1944. At the war museum in Caen, scarred veterans, French, German, English, Australian, Italian, and American, were conversing with each other in a manner that suggested a jovial and longed-for class reunion. After an invigorating swim at Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer – better known as Omaha Beach, a place where it is now hard to picture the inferno which raged all those years ago (Ambrose 1994) – I spent some days visiting war cemeteries. Surrounded by an ocean of gravestones and memorials, one could hardly avoid trying to visualise some of the youths and men whose presence could still be felt behind the anonymous symbols; many of them never left their ’teens. Here and there were mourning relatives – children who never saw their fathers, mothers left alone with their children, grandchildren deprived of the chance of knowing their grandfathers. Sixty years on, the sorrow and loss were still tangible. Many gravestones were adorned with flowers and evocative texts that slowly but surely engraved themselves in my consciousness, in my heart: “From comrades of the U.S. 1st Infantry Division – You are not forgotten!”, “Thank you for saving my life”, “You have always been with me”, “To the father I never had”, and so on. The dead continued to have a manifest, vivid existence. A matter which struck me during this journey was the mixture of memorial practices that these war cemeteries exhibited; in particular, of course, the difference between the memory practices of the Allied forces and those of the Third Reich. The Victors’ dead are all laid to rest under symbols in white (fig. 1), the colour of innocence and eternity, while the German soldiers lie beneath sombre basalt crosses or slabs of grey concrete with red memorial stones.

The memory practices even differ somewhat among the Allied forces, above all because the American cemeteries have a more pronounced element of staging and direction. Most of the 36,000 or so American soldiers who died in Normandy in the summer of 1944 were repatriated. Those who were buried in France are concentrated to just a few, big cemeteries (www.abmc.gov); the largest number, 9,387 soldiers, among them two sons of the president Theodore Roosevelt, Quentin and Theodore Roosevelt Jr., together with a memorial to another 1,557 missing persons, are in the Normandy American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer (fig. 1). This war cemetery – well-known, clearly signposted and much attended (around one million visitors a year) – is located right on top of Omaha Beach, where the American forces with the largest casualties landed on June 6th. On arrival one encounters an informative visitors centre and uniformed military police. The cemetery is vast, around 70 hectares or some 170 acres (fig. 1). Visitors are encouraged to join a guided tour. The graves are democratically similar, regardless of the incumbent’s rank. They all face west, towards America. The religious affiliation of the fallen soldiers is clearly marked by the shape of the gravestones: crosses for Christians and Stars of David for Jews. On my visit, American church choirs had been flown in to sing Christian hymns and the American national anthem. The pond in front of the memorial monument, where also General Dwight D. “Ike” Eisenhower is honoured, mirrored heaven – eternity. Although actual memories of the war were few, memories of war were still alive and strong among the visitors. The commemoration of the fallen British soldiers follows a somewhat different pattern (www.cwgc.org). These war cemeteries are less prominent and more clearly linked to specific battles and events. The biggest is located in Bayeux, where the Allies set up their field headquarters, and it contains 4,265 fallen soldiers (fig. 1). Another lies across the road with an additional 1,801 soldiers. The large 237

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Figure 1. (A) The Normandy American Cemetery at Colleville-sur-Mer, (B) the English war cemetery at Bayeux, (C) the German cemetery at La Cambs. Photos by the author.

numbers are explained by the central field hospital that was located in Bayeux during the invasion of Normandy.

of rank but the English soldiers’ religious affiliation cannot not be deduced from the shape of the tombstones.

However, the most of the British war cemeteries hold around a hundred graves, some only a dozen. Those at Cahagnes and Livry (Le repas) have only one each: Lieutenant Gerald James Marshall-Cornwall and Captain George Charles Gray, both buried at the place where they fell. This more geographically scattered memory practice is possibly a reflection of the recognized English gentleman’s honour. Even if this might be interpreted in several ways, but it surly reflects another attitude the war and to death than what is materialised at the Normandy American Cemetery.

Even the losers had to be put to rest (www.volksbund.de / kgs). The largest of the four German war cemeteries in Normandy, La Cambs, about 30 km from Bayeux (fig. 1), is poorly signposted and difficult to find. I found the visitors’ centre desolate and empty; a single pimply boy, playing war games on his computer, was the only one running it. He paid no attention to my presence.

None of the British war cemeteries I visited had a visitor centre or guides. Their gravestones are similar regardless

The entrance to this war cemetery is marked with a small stone building with a minimal opening. Through this “needle’s eye” you may glimpse a mound, approximately 30 metres in diameter and six metres high, covering a Kameradengraben where 296 unidentified soldiers found their final rest (fig. 1). On top of the mound, which clearly 238

Joakim Goldhahn: On war and memory and the memory of war refers to prehistoric monuments, stands a gigantic basalt cross; around its base are the graves of the most senior officers. The cemetery itself covers only 7 hectares or some 17 acres and makes a desolate impression, caused by the fact that only the top commanders have been honoured with a raised gravestone, again of basalt. Some of the lower ranks are indeed commemorated with basalt crosses but most of them with just a slab of grey concrete with a red memorial stone (fig. 1). Despite this desolate impression, La Cambs is Normandy’s largest war cemetery from World War II. An area approximately one-tenth of that of the American war cemetery at Omaha Beach houses the bodies of no less than 21,222 soldiers. The “logistical solution” was to place soldiers closer and on top of each other; some graves contain up to four persons. The proportion of unidentified soldiers at La Cambs is more striking than at any of the other war cemeteries I visited during my stay in Normandy in the summer of 2004. Cultural memories The remembrance and memory practices discussed above link the life stories of individuals to collective, national and, in this case, world events. However, in the materiality of the war cemeteries in Normandy we find not only the faith of individuals and the outcome of a specific historical event but also clearly pronounced cultural characteristics that united and divided the people who fought for their nations and their ideologies. Memories of the dead are also memories for the living (Oestigaard and Goldhahn 2006). It is through tangible monuments like the war cemeteries of Normandy that those who survived this event express their memories, losses and stories, as well as their visions and ideals of the future “good society” and (Ashplant et al. 2004; Cappelletto 2005; Kidd and Murdoch 2004; Mosse 1990; Tatum 2003; Winter and Sivan 1999). The separate yet related memory practices could be said to express what the German Egyptologist Jan Assmann (1992) calls a specific cultural memory. Assmann’s purpose with this notion is to have a vehicle for considering a society’s memory practice as a social and cultural construction that serves to create and reestablish emotional bonds between individuals, families, groups and communities, as well as within and between cultural groups and nations, as in the examples above. The technologies of remembrance at man’s disposal, which based on the broadest definition can be understood as a cultural text (Assmann 1992, 2006, 123f), are languages and oral history, actions, rituals and, last but not least, communicative resources and mnemonic devices in the form of material culture (Connerton 1989; Halbwachs 1992; Jones 2007; Tilley 2006). Following Assmann, it is possible to distinguish between episodic and semantic memory practices. The former

are more individualized and based on the life-stories and biography of single human beings, while the latter reflect the way we ascribe cultural values to shared memories (Assmann 1992). These episodic and semantic memory practices, as we have seen above, are interwoven (Assmann 2006, 38). It is impossible to distinguish them from one another because they are both social and cultural constructions. These memory practices are both the means and the outcome of each other, they build on each other and constitute one another (Goldhahn 2009a). Before these memory practices can be transformed into traditions, legends, myths and history, they need to be memorized and materialized. In communities that we, for want of better notions, label “traditional”, “cold”, “oral” or, even worse, “low-technological”, these phenomena are often interwoven with a ritualised cosmic world view (Assmann 2006, 11). It is through rituals and the use of material culture that different but yet related cultural memory practices can be formulated, staged, framed and transmitted (Barth 1987; Bell 1992). Assmann calls this communicative memory. The purpose of these ritualized memory practices, where past and future merge with the present (Assmann 2006, 10), is to create a bond between individuals and social groups, what Assmann calls bonding memory. It is through these memory practices that the society is able to formulate and reformulate different normative and cultural values: “Hence just as we can speak of ‘collective’ memory, we can also speak of a ‘connective’ memory. When collectives ‘remember’, they thereby secure a unifying, ‘connective’ semantics that ‘holds them inwardly together’ and reintegrates their individual ‘members’ so that they possess a common point of view” (Assmann 2006, 11). For obvious reasons, during her lifetime, a person is formed by and related to a variety of memory practices. First, there are those that can be linked to an individual’s personal history and the rite of passage she undergoes during her life journey. These transitional rituals often begin before a person is born and usually continue long after she has died (van Gennep 1960). Then there are the memory practices that relate the individual to the groups with whom she interacts and is a part of during her lifetime. Regardless of how a society is composed and structured, it will contain a diversity of memory practices that affect and are related to a single human being. Together, this web builds up a background of standards and values, which Assmann calls cultural memory: “Cultural memory can be understood as the ‘institutionalization’ of the invisible religion […] the totality of the forms in which a comprehensive symbolic world of meaning can be communicated and handed down” (Assmann 2006, 37). Assmann underlines the dialectical structure of these memory practices by reminding us of the fact that “remembering” is also a sublime euphemism for “forgetting”: “For a functioning communicative memory, 239

N-TAG TEN forgetting is just as vital as remembering […] Remembering means pushing other things into the background, making distinctions, obliterating many things in order to shed light on others” (Assmann 2006, 3).

The latter cemetery also appeals more directly to the past. It does not require much historical knowledge to comprehend that these cultural memories reflect the different ideals and cultural values that were at play in World War II.

By stressing that personal episodic memories are socially and culturally constructed, as well as vice versa, a field is created for negotiation and renegotiation. What is and what shall be remembered and why? There is no given answer and in these choices we might find ways to access some of the cultural characteristics that unite and divide people and cultures, both in the past, in our present, and in our common future.

By following Assmann’s manifold memory practices and focusing on an archaeological analysis, we might get the opportunity to study how different parts of a community created and recreated related values and normative systems. We then open up and broaden our archaeological analysis to several fields and analytical levels. That not only allows us to study how different memory practices related to each other, but also the tensions, breaking points and contradictions that might be important for our understanding of the historical processes that brought us to the society we all share today. This also gives us the opportunity to overcome the unproductive dichotomy that has arisen between different macro and micro perspectives in contemporary archaeology.

Assmann’s vision of a society’s cultural memory is clearly related to other approaches to commemoration and remembrance that have been formulated recently in the archaeological field (e.g. Bradley 2002; van Dyke and Alcock 2003; Jones 2007; Mills and Walker 2008; Nordbladh 2007; Williams 2003, 2006, Yoffee 2007). One thing that may distinguish Assmann’s perspective from others is his emphasis on the importance of studying different bonding memory practices, that is, how diverse memory practices are formulated and articulated, not only by whom but also where, when and why this happened. In addition, he stresses the importance of studying how different memory practices are related to each other. The memory practices discussed in the introduction of this paper create ties, identities, meanings and ideals around which to gather. But these practices differ. The war cemeteries in Normandy may be similar and relate to the same historical event, but the Allied war cemeteries have a more democratic structure, while the war cemetery at La Cambs is structurally and semantically more hierarchic.

In what follows, I will not discuss how war and violence were conducted and performed during the Bronze Age in Scandinavia per se (Goldhahn 2009a: 15–50). Instead I shall try to relate this to Assmann’s notions about cultural memory and different mnemonic practices and see how this was manifested in a single archaeological context – the famous burial from Hvidegård near Lyngby on Zealand in Denmark (Goldhahn 2009a, 2009b, Herbst 1848; Kaul 1998; Lomborg 1981). This might enable us to demonstrate how different kinds of episodic, semantic, bonding and connective memory practices – what could be referred to as different kinds of memoryscapes – are related to each other. In doing so, I hope to demonstrate how this intricate web of relationships might be useful for an interpretative archaeology.

Figure 2. The Hvidegård grave. After Herbst 1848. 240

Joakim Goldhahn: On war and memory and the memory of war The burial from Hvidegård The Middle Bronze Age burial from Hvidegård, dated to approximately 1300–1100 cal BC, is well known and often quoted. One of the reasons for this is that the burial was excavated by the world-famous Christian Jürgensen Thomsen (1788-1865), founder of the Three-Age System (Gräslund 1987). Moreover, the burial can be seen as a great paradox (Goldhahn 2009b), consisting as it does of a stone cist (which usually contains one or several

inhumation burials) in which were found only cremated bones (Kaul 2005). In addition, a very well preserved leather belt-purse was found in the grave, with contents that have surprised and amazed generation after generation of archaeologists. The stone coffin was found in a barrow that measured about 6 metres in diameter and was about 2 metres high (fig. 2). After removing the roof slabs, Thomsen saw a piece of brown cloth lying on the floor (fig. 3). The stone

Figure 3. Original field drawing of the Hvidegård cist by J. Magnus Pedersen, now in the archive of the National Museum of Copenhagen. 241

N-TAG TEN some preserved leather straps which were held in place by three bronze buttons with star ornaments (fig. 4), which dates the find to the Montelius Period III, 1300–1100 cal BC. They also found a well-preserved belt-purse attached to the leather straps, and next to it a bronze fibula (Herbst 1848, 340). Were it not for the belt-purse and its contents, the finds from Hvidegård were not extraordinary and would never have earned their fame (fig. 4). The belt-purse, about 14 centimetres long and 5 centimetres wide, was ornamented and held a number of – for us –enigmatic objects (Herbst 1848, 342, see fig. 5): a flint dagger that was used as a strike-a-light (1), a bronze knife wrapped in a leather sheath (2), a bronze razor with a handle in the form of a horse’s head (3), bronze tweezers (4), a fragmented amber bead (5) a red stone (not reproduced here), a small piece of flint (not reproduced here), and a small shell known only from the Mediterranean Sea (L. Conus mediterraneus

Figure 4. The sword, fibula and belt-purse from Hvidegård. After Herbst 1848. coffin, approximately 2.15 meters long and 0.5 meters wide, was oriented NE-E to W-SW and its eastern end was slightly wider than the western. Thomsen also found a wooden vessel in the western end of the stone cist but it was so dissolved that it was beyond preservation. The cloth originated from a cloak that had been placed on the skin of an ox. Judging from the position of the cloak, especially its shoulder part, the deceased’s head was at the eastern end (fig. 3). Among the remains of the cloak Thomsen saw a bronze sword and a few vertebrae of an adult human being (fig. 4). The handle of the sword was in the “foot end” of the coffin and the tip pointed east. Thus the sword seemed to have been placed “upside down” in relation to the “corpse”. The horn handle was so dissolved that it could not be saved. The sword was found in a scabbard made of wood and leather; this was the first time that a scabbard from the Bronze Age was found. When they lifted the scabbard, Thomsen found it had been attached to

Figure 5. The content of the belt-purse from Hvidegård. After Herbst 1848.

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Joakim Goldhahn: On war and memory and the memory of war Hwass) that had been pierced so it could be worn in a strap as a talisman or amulet (6). There was also some tinder and touchwood that could be used to create fire (not reproduced here), multiple roots of various kinds (not reproduced here), a square piece of wood (7), bark (not reproduced here), the claw of a bird of prey, probably a falcon (8) and the tail of a young snake (L. Coluber laevis) (9). Inside the belt-purse there was also a small bag made out of bowel or bladder (10), in which were found additional objects: the lower jaw of a young squirrel (11), some “small pebbles” (12) and a piece of bowel or bladder that contained some more “pebbles” (fig. 5). The sword, razor, tweezers and the strike-a-light seem to indicate a male-attributed burial (Bergerbrant 2007), while the inventory from the belt-purse seems to speak for itself; it has been interpreted in religious and magical terms since 1845 (Herbst 1848). Accordingly, P.V. Glob identified the deceased as a “medicine man” (Glob 1970, 93), Klavs Randsborg as a “warrior-shaman” (Randsborg 1993, 122), Jørgen Jensen as a “shaman” (Jensen 2002, 301-303) and Flemming Kaul as a “sorcerer or priest” (Kaul 1998, 1620). Whatever label we choose to attach to the deceased, something that first and foremost seems to depend on personal taste and preferences, the person in question can be defined as a ritual specialist (Goldhahn 2007, 2009a–c; Kaul 2007). Today we know of more than 30 similar finds of belt-purses from Denmark (Glob 1970: 93; Gunnarsson 2007; Lomborg 1966). Most of them originate from burials which also contained swords or daggers of bronze, which led Ebbe Lomborg to suggest that these “magicians” belonged to the upper social and political strata of the Middle Bronze Age (Lomborg 1981, 78-79). This is the most common and accepted image of the man from Hvidegård. Memory practices In what follows, we shall reconnect to Assmann’s thoughts about cultural memory and see how different memory practices may have been manifested in the burial from Hvidegård. In doing so we shall not highlight a general cultural-historical perspective, but primarily concentrate on a specific in-depth analysis of this context. The aspects to consider are the memory practice connected with the creation of the burial monument, the content of the enigmatic belt-purse, and a new analysis of the cremated bones that were found in the cist. The monument The most notable memory practice during the Bronze Age and one that has survived to our day, is the countless monuments that were created to commemorate the dead and the living, what Assmann would describe as a kind of bonding memory. Analysing the Hvidegård monument is difficult. All we know is its diameter and height. The

mound was perceived as an old-fashioned display case and the excavation was undertaken simply to get at closed finds in order to improve the existing museum collection and chronologies (cf. Gansum 2004; Gräslund 1987; Svestad 1995). In addition, Thomsen was interested in spectacular discoveries that he could present in his exhibition at the Oldnordiske Museum in Copenhagen (Jensen 1992). Today we know better. The creation of a barrow like that at Hvidegård was a collective work, guided by traditions and beliefs. It thus also ties in with Assmann’s thoughts about both collective and connecting memory. The monument thus related to two different recollections: a memory of what has been, the deceased individual; and the future, the survivors involved in the creation of the monument and the generations that would follow them (Goldhahn 2008). Recent excavations and analyses of Bronze Age monuments in Scandinavia have shown that the construction of a barrow was preceded by numerous preparations, detailed planning and rituals (Goldhahn 1999; 2008; Holst et al. 2004; Kyvik 2005; Linge 2007; Myhre 2004; Thrane 1984). The location of the monuments seems to have been chosen with care. Sometimes the surface was burnt and/or levelled to facilitate the construction of the monument (Goldhahn 1999). Sometimes the earth beneath the barrows was ploughed. Care was also taken with the selection of materials for the monument: stones, rocks, oak for the coffin, peat and soil, but also the seaweed, beach sand, shells and other phenomena that were considered essential for this task (Goldhahn 1999; 2008; Jensen 1998; Myhre 2004; Kyvik 2005; Linge 2005). Those who were commemorated with these ‘larger-than-life monuments’ seem to have been selected with the same care (Jensen 1998; Larsson 1986; Randsborg 1974; Thedéen 2004). According to ingenious calculations, each cubic meter of the finished monuments seems to correspond to a working day for an adult (Goldhahn 1999, 226). In the case of Hvidegård, the mound corresponds to a week’s work for one person, which could hardly have put off those concerned in the Middle Bronze Age, given that the construction of Lusehøj on Fyn in Denmark is estimated to have taken 3,200 working days to create (Thrane 1984), while according to the same calculation, the Håga barrow outside Uppsala in Sweden required 7,500 days (Lindstrom 2009). Moreover, Bredarör on Kivik in southeastern Scania in Sweden should have taken approximately 15,650 days for one person to construct, or 43 people working full-time for a year (Goldhahn 2008, 60). Although the Hvidegård barrow should not be compared with the latter monuments, it was surely a tangible manifestation of the forces that built it. Through such burial rituals, the eschatology of the deceased and the descendents was negotiated and renegotiated in relation to myths and cosmology (Goldhahn 1999). Different episodic memory practices bonded to create and recreate semantic values.

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N-TAG TEN Another matter to bring up in this context is that the creation of such a monument was never done in isolation. The Hvidegård burial is in fact just one of a dozen burial monuments that we know of from the same farmstead (Goldhahn 2009a, 70–71, 81–86). One of these other burials has been excavated and is more or less contemporary with Hvidegård and we shall return to it below. Similar concentrations of burial mounds from the Bronze Age are not uncommon (see Artursson 2007; Jensen 2002; Larsson and Petré 1993). At Hvidegård, they are clearly positioned in relation to each other, suggesting that they explicitly relate to the same connective memory practice. Nevertheless, similar concentrations of barrows have usually been considered as specific manifestations of individuals (for criticisms see Goldhahn 2008; 2009c). Assmann’s thoughts about diverse memory practices challenge this approach, as we shall soon experience on purely empirical grounds in the case of the Hvidegård burial. The belt-purse Without doubt it is the fascinating belt-purse and its remarkable contents that have attracted most interest in the scientific world’s treatment of the finds from Hvidegård. Similar belt-purse findings are rather rare, but those we know of represent a correspondingly peculiar material culture (Gunnarsson 2007; Lomborg 1966). Most of them seem to contain some kind of ritual paraphernalia. As with the small pebbles wrapped in bladder, it is hard to know what all these objects were used for. Lomborg (1981) suggested that the pebbles, which are only about 2-3 mm across, originate from the gastric content of a bird, possibly the falcon whose claws were found in the same belt-purse. The remains of the young squirrel could then have served as the bird’s last meal. We know that like the Etruscans and Romans, Germanic tribes used birds’ flight in the sky and the liver of birds to construct omens and predict the future (Tacitus 1963, 45–47; Jannot 2005, 27–28, 215). Possibly, the gastric content of a bird of prey was used for a similar purpose, to forecast the future (Schnittger 1912, 105). The notion of prophesy and omen is substantiated by the other contents of the belt-purse which could refer to black art, magic and foresight. Anyhow, the objects that were found in the belt-purse from Hvidegård make up a remarkable collection that may have marvellous cosmological connotations. Several Danish scholars, for instance PV Glob (1970), Ebbe Lomborg (1981), Jørgen Jensen (2002) and Flemming Kaul (1998, 2004), have also noted this. Klavs Randsborg has summarized it well as follows (1993, 124): “…we find ‘the human kingdom’ clearly represented: both male and female domains, as well as native and foreign worlds. And likewise ‘the animal kingdom’ – in the depths of the sea, on land, in vegetation, in the sky (cf. the shaman’s ability to ‘fly’) – and ‘the plant kingdom’ above and below ground; even parts

of the ‘mineral kingdom’ and the element of fire are represented”. According to Randsborg, the contents of the belt-purse mirror a tripartite cosmological model of the world, which Assmann would link to a semantic memory practice. Other objects in the belt-purse seem to be associated with a more personal episodic memory practice. I am thinking here of the shell from the Mediterranean Sea, the fragmented amber bead, the small piece of flint, and the fragmented red stone, which all seem to carry their own cultural biography (e.g. Kopytoff 1986), stories that were probably associated with the owner’s life history. Several of these objects, though not the shell, were placed in the belt-purse in a fragmented state (fig. 6). The fragmentation seems quite deliberate and it is tempting to relate these finds to John Chapman’s thoughts about the enchainment of memory practice (Chapman 2000). The amber most probably originated from the Atlantic coast of western Jutland in Denmark (Jensen 2000). Judging from its shape and finish, Randsborg (1993, 124) suggests that it was reworked to a bead in the “Upper Rhine” area in Germany where similar beads are found, before finding its way to Hvidegården on Zealand in eastern Denmark. Also the piece of flint may have originated from a destroyed object, but today it is impossible to determine what kind of artefact it might have been a part of. Here, the little red stone is also of some interest (fig. 6). It has been assessed as reddish hematite, which is not common in Denmark, and can accordingly belong among the other exotic and esoteric objects from the belt-purse: the shell from the Mediterranean Sea and the amber bead from Germany. Although the stone is fragmented, it has undoubtedly been worked and used as a stone tool; its edges are faceted and clearly shaped by human hand. One possible interpretation is that it originates from the equipment of a bronze smith, used perhaps to polish the metal and its “seam” after the casting process. Similar findings are known from several Bronze Age workshops in Scandinavia (Goldhahn 2007 with references) and from burials that have been associated with smiths and ritual specialists (Goldhahn 2007; Piggott 1938; Randsborg 1986; Shell 2000; Thrane 2009). To these fragmented objects we can add a decorated piece of bronze that was found close to the belt-purse (Goldhahn 2009a; 2009b). It is only 29 mm long and 8 mm wide (fig. 6). The decoration consists of parallel lines and there is no doubt that it was once a part of an ornamented artefact. The cortex is well preserved and the patina indicates that the object was used over a considerable time. The decorated face is slightly convex, while the other face does not seem to have been processed with the same care. In another context I have suggested that it derives from the fragmented sword blade, a spear or a ceremonial axe, where similar ornamentations are known from period III (Goldhahn 2009b).

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Joakim Goldhahn: On war and memory and the memory of war

Figure 6. Fragmented artefacts from the Hvidegård grave. Photo by the author. Similar findings of fragmented metal objects, bronze or gold, are fairly common in related finds of belt-purses from the Middle Bronze Age, here approximately 1500– 1100 cal BC. In his study of “Belt-purses in southern Scandinavia during the Bronze Age”, from 2007, Fredrik Gunnarsson lists about 30 similar finds; more than a third of them contained fragmentary bronze or gold objects. The phenomena are widespread. But how are these fragments to be interpreted? Lomborg (1981, 79) suggested that they served as a form of payment, as a primitive kind of “bronze currency”, an explanation that I have opposed in other contexts (Goldhahn 2009a; 2009b). Instead I suggest that these fragments should be regarded as a kind of episodic and semantic memory practice, as “trophies” taken in battle or after a successful duel like those depicted on Bronze Age rock art from Scandinavia (fig. 7). They might also be interpreted as a ritualized way of encapsulating the mana and power of defeated enemies, as a sign that the owner had taken a just revenge. Furthermore, this memory practice might be connected to an episodic memory practice, as a sign that the person in question was initiated into the brotherhood of warriors (Goldhahn 2009a). For all we know, war, in its broadest definition, is a ritualised world (Haas 1990; Otto et al 2006; Harding 2007; Goldhahn 2009a). This applies to individual episodic memory training as well as to the semantic context of war. To remember war is in many ways just as important as the fighting and killing themselves. War shapes cultural texts that connect the individual with the cultural values of his or her society, and the eternal negotiation and renegotiation of cultural memory. According to my altered state of reality, the fragmented objects from Hvidegård and related contexts appear to be directly linked to different yet related forms of memory practice. The talisman from the Mediterranean Sea, the amber bead, the red stone, the small piece of flint, and the fragmented bronze object, can all be seen as an

Figure 7. Bronze Age duel, rock art from the great Fossum panel in Tanum parish, northern Bohuslän. Photo by the author. enchainment of memory practices, connected both with the episodic individual biography, a bygone era, and to a more semantic world view and the cosmological connotations that can be associated with the various objects in the beltpurse (Jensen 2002; Kaul 2004; Glob 1970; Lomborg 1981; Randsborg 1993). The collection of small pebbles and the squirrel’s jaw may indicate that its owner was able to explore the future, to pronounce omens and forecasts (Goldhahn 2007, 2009a, 2009b). The content of the beltpurse can thus be understood as an archive that was related to an episodic memory practice, but also as a semantic microcosm, a fragmented world full of wondrous things that reflected the nature of the world, to what once was, but also to what might be in the future. The deceased individual Who, then, was the human being who was buried at Hvidegården? The artefacts, such as the sword, the razor, tweezers and the strike-a-like, all point to a male-attributed person (Bergerbrant 2007). The cremated bones, deposited in the central part of the stone cist, indicate a more ambiguous picture (Goldhahn 2009a, 2009b). Caroline Arcini’s analysis shows that the remains of at least three individuals where deposited together in the Hvidegård cist: an adult man, aged 20–40 years, a teenager aged 17– 19 years and a child aged 3–4 years. As all the cremated bones were found wrapped in the cloak, it is reasonable 245

N-TAG TEN to suggest that they were deposited together. Moreover, the identified bones make up a rather unusual whole, not least in that some bones, such as the pars petrosa, that are usually well preserved after a cremation (see Arcini 2005; Arcini and Lönn 2009), were missing. Three individuals indicate six pars petrosa but only one was found. Moreover, bones from the upper part of the body were very poorly represented, while those from the lower parts were overrepresented. Arcini’s interpretation of this pattern, based on her experience of analyzing more than 3,000 cremation burials, is that the identified individuals must have been cremated together and that the ‘missing’ bones were deposited elsewhere. A rather remarkable circumstance in this context is that another cremation burial from a barrow of similar size and from the same period as the more famous Hvidegård burial has been excavated at the same farmstead. This burial, referred to here as Hvidegård II (Aner and Kersten 1973, no. 398), presents the same peculiar combination of inhumation and cremation burial practices, consisting as it does of an “inhumation stone cist” with a deposition of cremated bones in the central part of the cist (fig. 8). This barrow was excavated in 1923 and was clearly visible from Hvidegård I, 70 metres away (Aner and Kersten 1973, 142-143; Goldhahn 2009a, 70, 81–86). The similarities between Hvidegård I and II are underscored by the fact that both stone cists were slightly trapezoidal in shape (see fig. 3, 7). Could all these similarities be a coincidence? To ascertain the relationship between these graves, we decided to analyze the cremated bones from the Hvidegård II burial. Our suspicions were strengthened when Arcini identified two individuals in this material: an adult and an adolescent in the same age ranges as the grown-ups from Hvidegård I. As with the bones from Hivdegård I, only parts of their bodies are represented in the cremated bone material that were preserved, but this time with an overrepresentation of bones from the upper part of the body and an underrepresentation from the lower part. Arcini’s analysis also showed that bones identified in one burial were “missing” from the other. For example, the right femur with trochanter minor from the adult was identified in Hivdegård I and was missing in Hvidegård II, and vice versa; both the adult’s and the teenager’s left femurs with trochanter minor were found in Hvidegård II but were missing in Hvidegård I (Goldhahn 2009a). Despite these positive correlations, a total match between the bones from the two contexts could not be achieved. Furthermore, no bones from the child were identified in the Hvidegård II material. Even so, the strong correlations between the contexts do suggest that the burials are connected: * The barrows were similar in date and size, and located within sight from each other. * The trapezoid stone cists were both made as if they could house an inhumation burial but contained cremated bones that had been deposited in the central part of the cist.

* Both samples contained bones from an adult and an adolescent in the late teens. * In Hvidegård I the lower body was overrepresented, while the opposite was the case in Hivdegård II. * The adult man’s right femur was found in Hvidegård I and was missing in Hvidegård II, while both the adult’s and the teenager’s left femurs were found in Hvidegård II and were missing in Hvidegård I. All this suggests that the individuals who have been identified in Hvidegård I and II were killed and cremated at the same time, but that their remains were collected and deposited in different burial monuments. Elsewhere I have suggested that their deaths were caused by structured violence or war, a possibility that is indicated by the signs of trauma in form of a sword-cut on one of the skull bones from Hvidegård II (Goldhahn 2009a). Discussion and conclusions Human existence is bound to memory. We are what we remember and we only remember what we are. Our ability to memorise bridges the gap between past and present. Memory is thus crucial to how we act in the future. How we and our society remember, what we choose to forget, the memory practice that is formulated and articulated through our social interaction and the use of material culture, are thus an important source of past and present cultures (Assmann 2006; Connerton 1989; Halbwachs 1992; Jones 2007; Tilley 2006). This paper has dealt with some different kinds of memory practice in relation to a single burial monument – Hvidegård I. It has not been my intent to discuss the question of how war and structured violence were performed in Bronze Age Scandinavia per se (Harding 2007; Osgood 2000; Osgood & Monks; 2006; Otto et al. 2006; Randsborg 1995) rather how these practices were commemorated and materialized. Using an analogy from the Second World War in this context may seem far-fetched and artificial. However, archaeology evolves around the question of how people express themselves through the use of material culture and how that material culture then goes about expressing itself in people (Tilley 2006). In this case: how memories of war reflect and shape societal ideals, norms and values – cultural memory. Although the war cemeteries discussed in the beginning of this paper are similar in age and character and are actually shaped by and reflect the same historical events, they also differ. This is evident in, for instance, the materialization of the Third Reich’s hierarchical ideals and how this contrasts with the Allied forces’ more pronounced democratic ideals. Only a fraction of the dead German soldiers are commemorated with individual tombstones, whereas the American soldiers have equivalent graves regardless of status and rank. A telling illustration of this is that two of U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt’s sons are buried in the same way as the soldiers who served more 246

Joakim Goldhahn: On war and memory and the memory of war

Figure 8. The Hvidegård II burial. Photo and documentation from the excavation 1923, now in the archive of the National Museum of Copenhagen.

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N-TAG TEN or less as cannon fodder on D-Day. The same democratic ideal permeates the British war cemeteries. These different cultural values are very consciously expressed in the materiality of the different war cemeteries, in their intentional architecture and aesthetics. Without doubt, the deceased individuals from Hvidegård I and II lived and died in another context. Yet their death caused a similar kind of reaction and related memory practices that seem to be triggered by sudden death. Judging from Arcini’s analysis of the cremated bones, they all seem to have been cremated together, so it can be suggested that they met their deaths in a relatively short timeframe and that the triggering factor seems to have been some kind of structured violence. The monuments that were created at Hvidegård in Lyngby on Zealand after that event were probably linked to some form of episodic memory which paid tribute to the deceased individuals, but also served as a bonding and semantic memory for the descendents (Goldhahn 1999, 2008). The memory practices – stories, legends and myths – that were linked to monuments like Hvidegård I and II were probably just as charged for the Bronze Age people as the Normandy war cemeteries are for a visitor today. The monument ensured that the dead continued to have a manifest, vivid existence. In this respect, people are the same. Moreover, monuments such as these barrows were especially important for mobilizing community forces to face these kinds of danger, but they also served as a cultural memory to bond around with the purpose of avoiding new raids, wars and other kinds of structured violence in the future. Another kind of memory practice seems to be connected to the fascinating belt-purse from Hvidegård I, where the fragmentation of objects and animals seems to have been a deliberate and conscious memory practice (Chapman 2000). Some of these objects – for instance the talisman from the Mediterranean Sea, the amber bead, the red stone, the small pieces of flint and bronze objects – clearly had their own biography that links them to an episodic memory practice. Some of these objects, as well as the other ritual paraphernalia in the belt-purse, also expressed a semantic memory practice that mirrored the Bronze Age tripartite cosmology. The small stones and the jaw from a young squirrel, which may all stem from the gastric content of a bird of prey, suggest for their part that the owner of this belt-purse possessed the esoteric ability to pronounce omens and forecast the future. Though the belt-purse was attached to the same leather belt as the sword, it might be reasonable to also relate the latter ability more explicitly to structured violence in the Middle Bronze Age (Goldhahn 2009a; Harding 2007; Otto et al 2006). The outcome of endemic wars, raids, lootings or individual duels is usually unpredictable but a series of anthropological and historical sources tells us that this esoteric knowledge was sought after. For instance, from Cornelius Tacitus’ (55-117 evt) Germania we learn that

“the barbarians of the north” used various techniques to predict the future: bird and horse watching, through sticks, etc. (Strabo 1989: VII, Ch. II; Tacitus 1963: 45–47). To conclude: different but related memory practices were mediated and embodied in the burial monument and the enigmatic material culture from the belt-purse. The beltpurse from Hvidegård ought to be regarded both as an archive for an episodic memory and as a semantic memory, maybe serving as a microcosm. The belt-purse appears as a fragmented world full of wondrous things that testified to the nature of the world, but also to what had been and what the future held in its hands. In this paper it has also been suggested that the fragmentation of the objects from the belt-purse could have been taken as a kind of episodic and semantic trophies after a battle or duel, like those depicted on Bronze Age rock art. It may have been an explicit memory practice that served to rob and preserve the mana and power of fallen enemies, or as a sign that the owner of the fragmentary objects had taken revenge and was a warrior of rank. In short: a memoryscape of structured violence, of war. A conclusion from the analyses presented in this paper could be that different kinds of memory practice are always interwoven, often in one and the same object and archaeological context. This might create both problems and opportunities for an interpretative archaeology.

Acknowledgements I wish to thank Flemming Kaul at the National Museum in Copenhagen and Caroline Arcini at the Swedish National Heritage Board for their nourishing cooperation in analysing the finds from Hvidegård. Patrick Hort has revised my use of the English language. Thanks! Despite their essential efforts, none of those mentioned is responsible for the thoughts expressed in this paper. There is an extended version of the paper in Swedish in Goldhahn 2009a (see goldhahn.se/publicerat.html). References Ambrose, S. E. 1994. D-Day. June 6, 1944. The Battle for the Normandy Beaches. London, Simon and Schuster. Aner, E. and Kersten, K. 1973. Die Funde der älteren Bronzezeit des nordischen Kreises in Dänemark, Schleswig-Holstein und Niedersachsen. Bd 1, Frederiksborg und Københavns Amt. København. Arcini, C. 2005. Pyre sites before our eyes. In T. Artelius and F. Svanberg (eds.), Dealing with the Dead. Archaeological Perspective on Prehistoric Scandinavian Burial Ritual. Stockholm: Riksantikvarieämbetet Arkeologiska Undersökningar, Skrifter 65, 63–72. Arcini, C. and Lönn, M. 2009. Tvärvetenskap länkar bålplats till grav. In Situ 2006/2007, 145–150.

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Joakim Goldhahn: On war and memory and the memory of war Artursson, M. (ed.) 2007. Vägar till Vætland – en bronsåldersbygd i nordöstra Skåne 2300-500 f. Kr. Stockholm, Riksantikvarieämbetets förlag. Ashplant, T. G., Dawson, G. and Roper, M. (eds.) 2004. Commemorating War. The Politics of Memory. New Brunswick, N.J., Transaction Publishers. Assmann, J. 1992. Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen. München. Beck. Assmann, J. 1997. Moses the Egyptian. The Memory of Egypt in Western Monotheism. Cambridge, Mass. and London, Harvard University Press. Assmann, J. 2006. Religion and Cultural Memory. Stanford, Stanford University Press. Barth, F. 1987. Cosmologies in the making. A generative approach to cultural variation in Inner New Guinea. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Bell, C. M. 1992. Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. New York, Oxford University Press. Bergerbrant, S. 2007. Bronze Age Identities – Costume, Conflict and Contact in Northern Europe 1600–1300 BC. Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 43. Stockholm. Bradley, R. 2002. The Past in Prehistoric Societies. London, Routledge. Cappelletto, F. (ed.) 2005. Memory and World War II. An Ethnographic Approach. Oxford and New York, Berg. Chapman, J. 2000. Fragmentation in Archaeology. People, Places and Broken Objects in the Prehistory of South Eastern Europe. London, Routledge. Connerton, P. 1989. How Societies Remember. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Gansum, T. 2004. Hauger som konstruksjoner – arkeologiske forventninger gjennom 200 år. Gotarc Serie B. Archaeological Thesis 33. Göteborg. Glob, P. V. 1970. Højfolket. Bronzealderens mennesker bevaret i 3000 år. København: Gyldendal. Goldhahn, J. 1999. Sagaholm – hällristningar och gravritual. Studia Archaeologica Universitatis Umensis 11. Umeå. Goldhahn, J. 2007. Dödens hand – en essä om brons- och hällsmed. Gotarc Serie C. Arkeologiska Skrifter 65. Göteborg. Goldhahn, J. 2008. From monuments in landscape to landscapes in monument: monuments, death and landscape in Early Bronze Age Scandinavia. In A. Jones (ed.), Prehistoric Europe. Theory and practice, 56-85. Oxford and New York, Blackwell Studies in Global Archaeology. Goldhahn, J. 2009a. Om krig och minnen och att minnas krig – Hvidegårdsgraven revisited #2. Kalmar Studies in Archaeology V. Kalmar. Goldhahn, J. 2009b. I döda personers sällskap? Några tankar om Hvidegårdsgraven och arkeologins tanatologiska semantik. In I-M. Back Danielsson, I. Gustin, A. Larsson, N. Myrberg and S. Thedéen (eds.). Döda personers sällskap. Gravmaterialens identiteter och kulturella uttryck. Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 47, 85-111. Stockholm.

Goldhahn, J. 2009c. Smeden som kosmolog och kosmograf – några tankar om bronsålderns hantverk och produktion. In J. Lund and L. Melheim (eds.), Håndverk og produksjon. Et møte mellom ulike perspektiver. Oslo Arkeologiske Serie 12, 163–196. Oslo Gräslund, B. 1987. The Birth of Prehistoric Chronology – Dating Methods and Dating Systems in NineteenthCentury Scandinavian Archaeology. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Gunnarsson, F. 2007. Läderpungar i Sydskandinavien under den äldre bronsåldern. Opubl. CD-Uppsats i Arkeologi. Umeå Universitet. Umeå. Haas, J. (ed) 1990. The Anthropology of War. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Halbwachs, M. 1992. On Collective Memory. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Harding, A. 2007. Warriors and Weapons in Bronze Age Europe. Archaeolingua Series Minor 25. Budapest. Herbst, C. F. 1848. Hvidegaards Fundet. Annaler for Nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie 1848, 336–352. Holst, M. K., M. Rasmussen and H. Breuning-Madsen 2004. Skelhøj. Et bygningsværk fra den ældre bronzealder. Nationalmuseets Arbejdsmark 2004, 11– 23. Jannot, J.-R. 2005. Religion in Ancient Etruria. Madison, University of Wisconsin Press. Jensen, Jørgen. 1992. Thomsens museum. Historien om Nationalmuseet. København, Gyldendal. Jensen, J. 1998. Manden i kisten: hvad bronzealderens gravhøje gemte. København, Gyldendal. Jensen, J. 2000. Rav. Nordens guld. København, Gyldendal. Jensen, J. 2002. Danmarks Oldtid. Bronzealder 2000–500 f Kr. København, Gyldendal. Jones, A. 2007. Memory and Material Culture. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kaul, F. 1998. Ship on bronzes. A study in Bronze Age religion and iconography. National Museum, PNM Studies in Archaeology and History 3:1/2. København. Kaul, F. 2004. Bronzealderens religion – studier af den nordiske bronzealders ikonografi. København, Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab. Kaul, F. 2005. Hvad skete med den dødes sjæl? Sjælsforestillinger i Bronzealderen. In Goldhahn, J. (eds). Mellan sten och järn. Gotarc Serie C. Arkeologiska Skrifter 59, 263–278. Gøteborg. Kaul, F. 2007. Sotetorp – endnu engang. Adoranten 2007, 51–75. Kidd, William. and Murdoch, Brian. (eds.) 2004. Memory and Memorials. The Commemorative Century. London, Ashgate. Kopytoff, I. (1986). The cultural biography of things. Commoditization as process. In A. Appadurai (ed.), The Social Life of Things, 64-94. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Kyvik, G. 2005. Fenomenologiske perspektiver. Gravritualer i bronsealder. Universitetet i Bergen, Arkeologiske Skrifter, Hovedfag/Master 1. Bergen.

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N-TAG TEN Larsson, L. and R. Petré (eds.), 1993. Bronsålderns gravhögar. Rapport från ett symposium i Lund 15.XI-16.XI 1991. University of Lund, Institute of Archaeology, Report Series 48. Lund. Larsson, T. B. 1986. The Bronze Age Metalwork in Southern Sweden. Aspects of Social and Spatial Organization 1800–500 BC. Archaeology and Environment 6. Umeå. Lindström, J. 2009. Bronsåldersmordet. Om arkeologi och ond bråd död. Stockholm: Norstedts. Linge, T. 2007. Mjeltehaugen – fragment frå gravritual. Universitetet i Bergen, Arkeologiske Skrifter, Hovedfag/Master 3. Bergen. Lomborg, E. 1966. Troldmands tasken. Skalk 1966 (5), 3–8. Lomborg, E. 1981. Et tøjstykke fra Hvidegårdsfundet – en hilsen fra Christian Jürgensen Thomsen. I R. Egevang (ed.), Det skabende menneske. Kulturhistoriske skitser tilegnet P. V. Glob, 64-84. København, Nationalmuseet. Mills, B. J. and W. H. Walker (eds.) 2008. Memory Works – Archaeologies of Material Practices. Santa Fe, School for Advanced Research Press. Mosse, G. L. 1990. Fallen Soldiers – Reshaping the Memory of the World Wars. New York, Oxford University Press. Myhre, L. N. 2004. Trialectic Archaeology. Monuments and Space in Southwest Norway 1700–500 BC. AmSSkrifter 18. Stavanger. Nordbladh, E. 2007. Aska och Rök – om minne och materiell kultur i nordisk vikingatid. In B. Petersson, B. And P. Skoglund (eds.). Arkeologi och identitet, 169188. Lund, Institutionen för Arkeologi och Antikens Historia. Oestigaard, T. and J. Goldhahn 2006. From the dead to the living. Death as transaction and re-negotiations. Norwegian Archaeological Review 39 (1), 27–48. Osgood, R, and S. Monks, S. with J. Toms. 2000. Bronze Age Warfare. Stroud, Sutton Publishing. Osgood, R. 1998. Warfare in the Late Bronze Age of North Europe. BAR International Series 694. Oxford, BAR Publishing. Osgood, R. 2006. The dead of Tormarton: Bronze Age combat victims? In T. Otto, H. Thrane, and H. Vandkilde (eds.), Warfare and Society. Archaeological and Social Anthropological Perspectives, 331-340. Aarhus, Aarhus University Press. Otto, T., H. Thrane and H. Vandkilde (eds.), 2006. Warfare and Society. Archaeological and Social Anthropological Perspectives. Aarhus: Aarhus University Press. Piggott, S. 1938. The Early Bronze Age in Wessex. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 4, 52–106. Randsborg, K. 1974. Social stratification in Early Bronze Age Denmark. Prähistorische Zeitschrift 49, 38–61. Randsborg, K. 1986. A Bronze Age grave on Funen containing a Metal Worker’s tools. Acta Archaeologica 55, 185–189. Randsborg, K.. 1993. Kivik. Archaeology and iconography. Munksgaard: Acta Archaeologica 64 (1). Randsborg, K. 1995. Hjortspring. Warfare and Sacrifice in Early Europe. Aarhus, Aarhus University Press.

Schnittger, B. 1912. En trolldosa från vikingatiden. Ett bidrag till kännedom om ormens betydelse inom folkmedicinen. Fataburen 1912, 98–109. Shell, C. A. 2000. Metalworker or shaman. Early Bronze Age Upton Lovell G2a burial. Antiquity 74, 271–272. Strabon. 1989. The Geography of Strabo. H. L. Jones and J. R. S. Sterrett, J. R. S. (eds.): London, Heinemann. Svestad, A. 1995. Oldsakenes orden. Om tilkomsten av arkeologi. Oslo, Universitetsforlaget. Tacitus, C. [98] 1963. Germania. Stockholm, Natur och Kultur. Tatum, J. 2003. The Mourner’s Song. War and Remembrance from the Iliad to Vietnam. Chicago, University of Chicago Press. Thedéen, S. 2004. Gränser i livet – gränser i landskapet. Generationsrelationer och rituella praktiker i södermanländska bronsålderslandskap. Stockholm Studies in Archaeology 33. Stockholm. Thrane, H. 1984. Lusehøj ved Voldtofte – en sydvestfynsk storhøj fra yngre broncealder. Fynske Studier XIII. Odense. Thrane, H. 2009. Galgehøj endnu en gang. Aarbøger for Nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie 2005, 87–98. Tilley, C. (ed) 2006. Handbook of Material Culture. London, Sage. van Dyke, R. and S. E. Alcock (eds.) 2003. Archaeologies of Memory. Malden, MA, Blackwell. van Gennep, Arnold. 1960. The Rites of Passage. Chicago, The Univeristy of Chicago Press. Williams, H. (ed.) 2003. Archaeologies of Remembrance – Death and Memory in Past Societies. New York, Kluwer Academic. Williams, H. 2006. Death and Memory in Early Medieval Britain. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Winter, J. M. and E. Sivan (eds.) 1999. War and Remembrance in the Twentieth Century. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Yoffee, N. (ed.) 2007. Negotiating the Past in the Past. Tucson, The University of Arizona Press. Joakim Goldhahn Linnaeus University, School of Cultural Sciences S-391 82 Kalmar, Sweden [email protected]

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Merovingian men – fulltime warriors? Weapon graves of the continental Merovingian Period of the Munich Gravel Plain and the social and age structure of the contemporary society – a case study Doris Gutsmiedl-Schümann

Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn

Abstract The main archaeological sources of the continental Merovingian Period are cemeteries and graves. Many of these graves are richly furnished. Furthermore their respective grave goods show a close connection to the buried person. In men’s burials weapons are often seen as dominant, but they are by far not the only objects that followed the deceased into the grave. In recently excavated Merovingian cemeteries the archaeological analysis of the grave goods was supplemented by an anthropological analysis of the skeletons of the dead – thus not only details of the grave and its grave goods are available for these burials but information about the age and diseases of the buried persons as well. Four sites of the Munich Gravel Plain, Upper Bavaria, Germany, are considered in this paper: The cemeteries of AschheimBajuwarenring, Altenerding, München-Aubing and Pliening, which have all been published with both archaeological evaluation of the graves and anthropological analysis of the deceased. Assuming that men with weapons can be seen as warriors, this paper wants to show the different social dimensions that are exposed in men’s burials, as found in the cemeteries included in this case study, and hence ask, how visible warrior identity was in the daily life of a continental Merovingian society.

Introduction In men’s graves weapons and armament are commonly seen as the main grave goods, or at least as the most dominant ones – especially when Merovingian archaeology, particularly the male role in Merovingian society, are presented to a wider public. Hence, all major exhibitions regarding time and people, i.e. exhibitions regarding the Bajuwarians (Dannheimer and Dopsch 1988), the Franks (Wieczorek, Périn, v. Welck and Menghin 1996), and the Alemanni (Archäologisches Landesmuseum BadenWürttemberg1 1997), presented warriors when intending to visualise Merovingian male clothing (fig. 1). In the catalogue of the exhibition on sixth century Franks Frank Siegmund explicitly writes: „Mag der gelebte Alltag des Mannes auch anders ausgesehen haben, im Tod zeigte er sich als Krieger“2 (Siegmund, 1996:700). Yet, it is easily overlooked that weapons and armoury are not the only objects that followed the deceased into their graves. Therefore I want to ask the following question in this case study: Were Merovingian men really fulltime warriors? And if not, which other social identities can be deduced from the grave goods displayed in their burials? In this context the evidence presented by the early medieval Reihengräberfelder (row grave cemeteries) with their rich and ornate furnishings, which include parts of clothing, weapons, jewellery, tools, and items of daily life, represent   State Museum of Archaeology of Baden-Württemberg   Even if every-day life of a [Merovingian/common] man might have looked quite different, in death he presented himself as a warrior. 1

Fig. 1: A typical Merovingian man? (Dannheimer and Dopsch 1988, 243 fig. 167).

2

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Aschheim-Bajuwarenring (ASH) 1997-1998

480/490-670/680

Girls or Women’s Graves with Gravesgoods

Dated

1966-1969, 1973 450-670/680

Girls or Women’s Graves

Altenerding (AE)

Excavated in

Cemetery

The cemetery of Altenerding was systematically excavated by Walter Sage from 1966 to 1969 and in 1973 (Sage, 1973,

1521 441

318

480

382

Boys or Men’s Graves

The necropolis of the case study

Boys or Men’s Graves with Gravegoods

213-214; Sage 1984, 10-11). The necropolis consisted of 1521 burials (Sage 1984, 14), which makes the site the largest one included in this study. Some of the graves had to be saved under most difficult conditions before regular archaeological excavation began (Sage 1984, 9-10). Thus, skeletal material could be evaluated by anthropological methods only for 1321 burials; comprehensive osteological analysis was undertaken by Hermann Helmuth (Helmuth 1996). 441 of the deceased were determined to be boys or men, 480 to be girls or women (Helmuth 1996, 10). 318 of the boys or men’s graves contained grave goods, and hence could be analysed also with archaeological methods, as could 382 of the girls or women’s graves (see table 1, figure 2). The oldest graves from Altenerding date to about 450 A.D, the youngest ones to 670/680 (Losert 2003, 492-494).

Number of Graves

a major source for investigation. These graves usually contain the remains of a single individual; his or her gender and age can be determined by anthropological methods (see Alt and Röder 2009, 94-110). Regarding the Munich gravel plain, such interdisciplinary data pools exist for the early medieval grave cemeteries of Altenerding (Losert 2003; Sage 1984), Aschheim-Bajuwarenring (GutsmiedlSchümann 2010), München-Aubing (Dannheimer 1998), and Pliening (Codreanu-Windauer 1997) – which are on the one hand the largest early medieval cemeteries on the Munich gravel plain, and on the other hand the only ones that are in use during the whole Merovingian Period. First, I will briefly introduce these sites.

444

179

123

193

158

München-Aubing (AU)

1938; 1961-1963 late 5th century – beginning 8th century

881

198

110

185

145

Pliening (PLI)

1937; 1972

231

60

39

51

38

around 500 – end of 7th century

Table 1: Table of the cemeteries used in this case study: Altenerding (Sage 1984; Losert 2003), Aschheim-Bajuwarenring (Gutsmiedl-Schümann 2010), München-Aubing (Dannheimer 1998), Pliening (Codreanu-Windauer 1997).

Fig. 2: Map of the area, where the cemeteries used in this case study are

located.

1: MünchenAubing, 2: AschheimBajuwarenring, 3: Pliening, 4: Altenerding.

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Doris Gutsmiedl-Schümann: Merovingian men – fulltime warriors? The first graves of the necropolis of AschheimBajuwarenring were found during construction works in 1997. The whole cemetery was excavated in the spring of 1998; the excavation was undertaken by ARDI Archäologische Dienstleistungen GbR, an excavation company run by the archaeologists Hans-Peter Volpert and Mauritz Thannabaur (Gutsmiedl-Schümann 2010, 19-21). The cemetery contained 444 graves (fig. 2) and dates to the period of 480/490 to 670/680 (Gutsmiedl-Schümann 2010, 113-114). Osteological analysis of skeletal remains was undertaken by Anja Staskiewicz. 179 individuals were determined to be male skeletons; of these 123 had been buried with grave goods. 193 graves were identified as girls or women’s graves, and of these 158 had been furnished with grave goods (Staskiewicz 2007, 39). In the late 1930s some early medieval graves were discovered in a gravel pit, situated in the district of Aubing, city of Munich. Immediately after the discovery a first excavation was begun, lasting from autumn to winter of 1938. During this campaign 358 burials of the northern part of the cemetery could be recovered (Dannheimer 1998, 11). Because the skeletal material was lost during World War II, no anthropological data exist for these burials (Dannheimer 1998, 37), even though the archaeological evidence survived. In 1960 Hermann Dannheimer searched for the remaining graves in the southern part of the necropolis of Aubing. The remaining graves were excavated from 1961 to 1963 (Dannheimer 1998, 12-13). All in all 881 graves were excavated (Dannheimer 1998, 24). Skeletal remains were preserved from 523 graves for anthropological evaluation, which was undertaken by Gerfried Ziegelmayer and Ingo Hertrich (fig. 2). 198 of the grave were determined to be graves of boys or men, 110 of these contained archaeological findings as well. 185 individuals were determined to be girls or women, of these 145 were buried with grave goods (Dannheimer 1998, 38-52). The earliest graves of München-Aubing date to the time of 500 A.D. The necropolis was given up at the beginning of the eighth century (Dannheimer 1987, 11). The fourth and last necropolis included in this case study is the cemetery of Pliening. The first graves were found there in 1937; the whole cemetery, containing 231 graves, was excavated in 1972 by Wolfgang Czysz. Osteological analysis was undertaken by Gerfried Ziegelmayer (Codreanu-Windauer 1997, 9, 12; 14-15). 60 graves were identified as boys or men’s graves, 39 of these graves contained grave goods (fig. 2). 51 burials were identified as girls or women’s graves, 38 of them had been furnished with grave goods (Codreanu-Windauer 1997, 16-17). The necropolis of Pliening was in use from about 500 to the end of the seventh century (Codreanu-Windauer 1997, 108-110). All four of the included necropoli have in common that they were used during the whole Merovingian period, and that a major number of their burials were evaluated archaeologically as well as anthropologically. Only those graves are used in the following case study. Anthropological

results not only included sex analysis of the individuals but also a morphological determination of age at death (fig. 2). In some cases it was impossible fit the age of an individual into the established age groups. In such cases the findings were prorated to the respective age groups according to the following pattern: one half of the data of the grave and grave goods of, for example, a man belonging to the age group adultus-maturus was added to the age group adultus, the other half to the age group maturus. Some thoughts on the Origin and Development of Burial Evidence Graves and their inventories are those material remains of burial ceremonies and grave rituals that are still visible to us today. The graves of the so-called Reihengräberfelder are a good starting point for developing an understanding of burial rites based on archaeological evidence, and hence of the community the deceased had been taken from. The normal burial practice/rite is based on single inhumations in these burial grounds; a grave and its particular inventory can therefore generally be allocated to a single individual. The grave thus represents the closest connection between a deceased person and his or her surrounding material culture that can be found in the archaeological record (Härke 2003, Hofmann 2008, 360-363). In the ritual context of the burial ceremonies it can be assumed that clothing and equipment of the individual deceased were carefully chosen. This pushes grave finds close to intended tradition like written records and narrative historical sources. Nevertheless, the incompleteness of burial evidence, due to the differential preservation of many materials, has to be taken into account (Härke 1997, 23-25; Sasse 2007, 47). Individuals who take part in burial rites can be allocated to three groups: the first comprise the deceased themselves, the second are those individuals who execute the burial rites and actually bury the dead person. These can be assumed to have been members of the family as well as persons recruited from the close social environment of the deceased. The wider social environment, in which the first two groups are embedded, constitutes the third group that attends the burial as a quasi-audience (Brather 2009, 248). The deceased themselves had only minor influence on the burial rites. Rather, the furnishings and the burial ceremony offered a ‘social stage’ for the family concerned on which the social standing3 of the deceased could be displayed to the public. Furthermore, the family of the deceased could claim a certain place within social stratification of a given community in the way they exhibited the burial rites as well as through the furnishings of the grave (Hofmann 2008, 357-358). At the same time, we can assume that the equipment of the dead ought not to contradict the idea which the participants of the burial had cultivated of the deceased in their in everyday life before they died (Brather 2007a; 2009). Thus, this last public appearance  After Linton, 1979:97-99, the social standing of a deceased includes all social roles the deceased has performed during his or her lifetime. This definition will be used in this paper. 3

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Fig. 3: Weapons on the Munich gravel plain in men’s graves. of the deceased must have had a huge impact on common remembrance: ‘It is in those final moments that the living memories of the dead person are congealed’. (Parker Pearson 2003, 9). In many cases, the social position and the inherent different social roles the deceased performed during their lifetime are visualised by external signs, e.g. specific clothing or the wearing and usage of particular items. It can be assumed that some of these signs followed them into the grave as well. These can be traced through material culture and hence are recorded as archaeological evidence (Arnold 2008; Brather 2009). Thus, all parts of clothing, such as belt fittings, as well as weapons and tools found in men’s graves, which are included in this paper, should be regarded as such external signals. The individual equipment of a Merovingian man may be interpreted as signs for his social environment. Yet, in case of a living man carrying belts, armament, and tools, such insignia will have different signalling ranges according to Bettina Arnold and H. M Wobst. Smaller items of clothing and tools such as belts and belt fittings or tool-sets are only visible in the immediate surroundings of the bearer and hence are meant for a closer social environment, while weapons, especially multi-parted armory, significantly change the silhouette of their bearer to such an extent that their meaning can be recognised from far away and thus by members of other groups or even communities (Arnold 2008; Wobst 1977). In contrast, during burial rites we can assume that the dead person and his or her clothing and furnishings were displayed to visitors for a certain time. The range of the signal effect and the information transfer of those insignia, i.e. belts, armoury, and tools, was therefore restricted to the participants of the burial ceremony. The death of an individual not only left a void

in his family or rural community, but in the local society as a whole, a void that had to be filled. Hence, one easily may assume that the burial rites not only mirrored the social standing of the individual and his or her family, but that the local community employed their burials rites as communicative and highly symbolic process during which it re-adjusted its own social reality (Hofmann 2008, 357358). Within their social environment individuals are confronted with various role models and role expectations, depending on the counterpart they interact with, in a given situation. Such expectations can derive from gender-specific role models as well as the standing of individuals within their family, role models determined by a professional or religious framework, or age, to mention just a few. In crucial moments, such as death, there is a tendency to represent as many roles as possible (Brather 2008, 152154). The social roles of an individual are intermingled to form a multi-layered picture of the deceased – mirrored in their grave inventories – that cannot easily be picked apart and might even be contradictory in some cases (Arnold 2008). The individual components of a grave inventory hence can be interpreted as insignia of the different social roles which a person performed during his or her life. This approach will be employed in the following study. Grave Inventories of Early Medieval Men and Boys 590 burials from the necropolis of Altenerding, AschheimBajuwarenring, München-Aubing and Pliening could be assigned to boys and men, whose age at death has been anthropologically determined and whose graves contained grave goods as well (table 1). The latter findings were grouped into the object classes of ‘weapons and armament’, ‘tools and utensils’, and ‘(magnificent) belts’.

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Doris Gutsmiedl-Schümann: Merovingian men – fulltime warriors? 1. Weapons and Armament In the male graves of the Munich gravel plain the following weapons are found: seax (one-edged sword), arrow, spatha (two-edged sword), lance, shield, and axe (fig. 3). 259 of the burials in the area under investigation for this study contained weaponry. Of this group 155 boys and men were buried with only one weapon or weapons of only one weapon type, 44 graves contained weapons of two different types, 14 graves contained weapons of three weapon types. Four different weapon types were found only in 6 graves. When these results are allocated to the age groups, they show that only a limited number of weapons are found in boys’ graves. The graves of the age group infans 1

only contain seax and arrows, in burials of the age group infans 2 a lance can be found occasionally. Only the graves of adults contained weapons of all types, in various combinations, with spatha, lance, and shield as the most commonly associated weapons in men’s graves. The number of individual weapons is highest in graves of the age group adultus, decreasing for the age groups maturus and senilis, while all kinds of weapons and armament can still be found in the graves of old men (fig. 4). While spatha, lance, and shield obviously can be used only in warfare and hence are defined as pure weapons, arrows can also be used for hunting (Riesch 1999). Axes can be used by craftsmen in their daily work as well as in warfare (Heindel 1990, 254-256). The same can be said for seaxes, at least in principle, especially for those types of seax that

Fig. 4: Weapons on the Munich gravel plain in the different age groups.

Fig. 5: The connection between spatha, seax and tools in adult men’s graves of the Munich gravel plain. 255

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Fig. 6: Tools in men’s graves of the Munich gravel plain.

more or less resemble long knives. This interpretation is supported by those findings where objects from the class ‘tools and utensils’ are associated with spathas and seaxes (fig. 7). 379 of the boys’ and men’s graves in the investigated area contained one or more tools and utensils. In 66 of these inventories tools and utensils were combined with a seax, in only 25 cases tools were associated with a spatha. Of the 186 graves containing one or more tools and utensils, 34 contained a seax, 15 contained a spatha. In only 19 or 3.2 % of the men’s graves of the Munich gravel plain two or more tools were associated with two or more weapons. Tools and utensils and weapon and armament are in general rarely associated; however, if such associations occur, it is far more likely to find a seax in such combined inventories than a spatha. 2. Tools and Utensils A total of 379 graves were furnished with tools and utensils, with 186 graves containing objects from two or more types. The most prominent objects in the boys’ and men’s graves of the Munich gravel plain are knives, followed by flints, awls, and combs. While needles, hooks, tweezers, and fire steels are also frequently found, inventories containing shears, folding knives, scales, whetstones, whorls, drills, and chisels are very rare (fig. 6). Often these tools are found in a narrowly limited space within the grave, carefully arranged and orientated in the same direction (fig. 7), (Aschheim Grab 205/206) (Gutsmiedl-Schümann 2010, Taf. 62). This shows that the tools had been arranged in a tool-bag or some other pouch made of organic material, which was has not been preserved. In a few exceptional cases metal components of these containers can be detected, such as handles, small buckles, or metal fittings (as have been found in grave 812 of the necropolis of München-Aubing: Dannheimer, 1998, 188-192; Losert,2003, 372).

Fig. 7: Aschheim-Bajuwarenring Grave 205/206: The tools in burial 206 next to the seax are lying close together and are oriented in the same direction, suggesting they were placed in a tool-bag (GutsmiedlSchümann 2010,Taf. 62). 256

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Fig. 8: Tools on the Munich gravel plain in the different age groups. The inventories of boys’ graves of the age groups infans 1 and infans 2 only contain knives, flint, awls, needles, and hooks. In the age group juvenilis tweezers are also included. Combs are found in graves of the age groups infans 1 and juvenilis, but none was found in graves of the age group of infans 2 (fig. 8).

tools and utensils (fig. 9). Nevertheless, it its noteworthy that a complete variety of objects from the object class ‘tools and utensils’, which occur in grave inventories of the necropoleis of Altenerding, Aschheim-Bajuwarenring, München-Aubing und Pliening, are only found in the graves of the age group adultus.

In boy’s graves of the age groups infans 1 not more than two different types of tools and utensils are found, in boy’s graves of the age group infans 2 not more than three. Only the graves of adult men contain four and more different types of tools and utensils, with a maximum variation of eight different types. Though the number of types as well as the absolute number of tools decreases with age, even graves of old men contain extensive ensembles of

Knives, awls, and hooks can be used for a wide range of tasks and needs; their occurrence is in no way restricted to a special craft. Flint and fire-steel have often been called a strike-a-light (for example see Losert 2003, 375-376) and share the everyday characteristic of knives, awls and hooks. In contrast, whorls and needles are easily associated with textile working, whereas combs and tweezers can be assigned to hair and beard care (Codreanu-Windauer 1997,

Fig. 9: Different kinds of tools in the different age groups. 257

N-TAG TEN 67-68; Losert 2003, 385). The combination of shears and combs can also be linked to personal hygiene (cutting ones hair for example), while a combination of whorls, needles, and shears indicate craftsmanship within the field of textile work. The scales present a special case. They suggest a range of uses (Knaut 2001; Koch 2007b, 341-344). Artefact combinations, such as found in grave 423 of the necropolis of Altending, where scales are combined with a fine smithing hammer and an awl, which in itself is a multifunctional tool that may be identified as a punch in the context of metalworking, suggests that the balance was used to weigh precious metal by a craftsman (Losert 2003, 390). Yet, scales were also used for trade, especially for testing coins by weighing them (Steuer 1987; Werner 1954). In general, precise scales are used for any task that demands the weighing of small and smallest amounts. This is supported by small weights that are occasionally found associated with the balances (Steuer 1990). Besides the already mentioned use in trade and metalworking, scales might also be an indicator for crafts requiring the measurement of exact amounts of ingredients such as medicines, drugs, and dyes.

3. Magnificent Belts All in all a great variety of belt buckles and fittings can be found in the men’s graves of the Munich gravel plain, ranging from simple buckles made of iron or non-ferrous metals to sophisticated belt sets of multi-piece design with ornate fittings. Only the latter will be considered for this case study. Such belt sets were found in 220 graves and will be called magnificent belts form here on. Apart from their decorative function they can also be interpreted as status symbols and insignia (Fehr 1999, 110-111). Magnificent belts are not restricted to special age groups, although the majority is found in the adult group (fig. 10). Magnificent Belts as Insignia and their Association with Weapons and Armament and Tools and Utensils The data found so far leads us examine how the occurrence of tools, weapons and magnificent belts in the graves of Merovingian men might follow a systematic pattern and which conclusions can be drawn from such patterns regarding the stratifications within the early medieval society living on the Munich gravel plain. In all six graves,

According to the evidence so far Merovingian men’s graves of the Munich gravel plain can be divided into two major groups: the ‘craftsmen’, identified by inventories containing quite numerous tools and utensils, and the ‘warriors, who were buried with weapons and armament but with no or only few tools and utensils. This leads us to the question, whether and how the two groups related to each other in Merovingian society. To obtain a first view of their interdependencies a third object class shall be employed: the belts.

Infans 1

(Inf 1)

up to 7 years old

Infans 2

(Inf 2)

about 7 – 14 years old

Juvenilis

(Juv)

about 14 – 20 years old

Adultus

(Ad)

about 20 – 40 years old

Maturus

(Mat)

about 40 – 60 years old

Senilis

(S)

more than 60 years old

Table 2: Anthropological age groups and their translation into years.

Fig. 10: Magnificent belts on the Munich gravel plain in the different age groups.

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men’s graves with weapons men’s graves with weapons and magnificent belt

total (1-4 weapon types) 1 weapon type 259 184 86 129

2 weapon types 44

3 weapon types 14

4 weapon types 6

26

11

6

‘warrior’

‘warrior’

‘warrior’

Table 3: Men’s graves with weapons and men’s graves with weapons and magnificent belts.

men’s graves with tools men’s graves with tools and magnificent belts

total 379 117

1 tool type 193 67

2 or more tool types 186 50 ‘craftsmen’

Table 4: Men’s graves with tools and men’s graves with tools and magnificent belts. which contained the maximum of four weapon types, magnificent belts were found. Eleven of the 14 graves with three weapon types contained such belts as well. In total 64% of the graves, which contained two or more weapon types, included magnificent belts (Table 3). 186 of the men’s graves contained two or more tools and utensils, but magnificent belts were found only in 50 or 27% of these (Table 4). In the necropolis of the Munich gravel plain 25% of graves containing inventories with two or more weapon types or two or more types of tools can be identified as burials of ‘warriors’ and 75% can be seen as burials of ‘craftsmen’. If those graves are taken into account, that are furnished with grave goods, but where the inventories cannot be associated with craftsmen or warriors, the fraction of the ‘warriors’ decreases to 11% and the fraction of ‘craftsmen’ to 31.5% of those deceased who were buried with grave goods. Expanding the results to the whole male population

buried in these necropolis, i.e. all individuals that could be identified anthropologically as boys and men, regardless of whether they had been buried with or without grave goods (Table 2), only 7.3% of the men can be assigned to the group of ‘warriors’ and 21% to the group of ‘craftsmen’. There is thus a significantly higher probability for a man who was buried with weapons to possess a magnificent belt as well. This hints at a high social standing of the ‘warrior’ within Merovingian society as well suggesting that they constituted a powerful group within that society. Considerably more of the deceased can be allocated to the group of ‘craftsmen’. Within that group the number of grave inventories containing magnificent belts is comparatively low, implying that the craftsmen had fewer members with a high social status. This indicates that their importance within the Merovingian society was lower than that of the warrior group.

Fig. 11: The connection between weapons, tools and magnificent belts in men’s graves of the Munich gravel plain. 259

N-TAG TEN Conclusion In this case study a total of 590 boys’ and men’s graves equipped with grave goods from the early Merovingian necropolis of Altenerding, Aschheim-Bajuwarenring, München-Aubing, and Pliening were evaluated, their grave goods were assigned to the categories of ‘weapons’, ‘tools’, and ‘magnificent belts’. According to the above thoughts on the origin of grave inventories these three categories are taken as insignia of the social roles the deceased held during his lifetime. First the graves were categorised according to whether they contained weapons or tools. There are such men’s grave which contain two or more weapons and such which contain two or more tools. An overlap of artefacts from both categories is rare. The two groups were then labelled graves of ‘warriors’ and ‘craftsmen. Men who had been buried with two or more weapons were allocated to the ‘warriors’, men whose graves contained two or more tools were allocated to the ‘craftsmen’. To evaluate the ratio of those two groups within Merovingian society the third category of grave goods, the magnificent belts, are employed as tracers of high social standing. Even though the group of the ‘warriors’ with 64 graves is significantly smaller than that of the ‘craftsmen’ with 186 graves, the first contained a higher number of magnificent belts and hence can be attributed to higher social standing. Thus, in contrast to the popular idea of the early medieval warrior bristling with weapons, which is presented so readily and often as the typical representation of the Merovingian man, the grave inventories of the necropolis of Altenerding, Aschheim-Bajuwarenring, MünchenAubing und Pliening draw a significantly different picture. Although there are graves of warriors furnished with weaponry, their number is low, showing that the fraction of ‘warriors’ within early medieval society is far smaller than commonly thought. Furthermore, a considerably larger group of men buried with tools could be identified. This group, which has only scarcely been recognised so far, can be considered as the one that draws a far more realistic picture of average Merovingian men who most probably used their tools every day, but their weapons on only rare occasions.

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Mittelalters. Zeitschrift für Archäologie des Mittelalters 35, 185-206. Brather, S. 2007b. Bestattungsrituale zur Merowingerzeit. Frühmittelalterliche Reihengräber und der Umgang mit dem Tod. In C. Kümmel, B. Schweizer, and U. Veit (eds.). Körperinszenierung, Objektsammlung, Monumentalisierung. Totenritual und Grabkult in frühen Gesellschaften. Archäologische Quellen in kulturwissenschaftlicher Perspektive. Tübinger Archäologische Taschenbücher 6. Münster, Waxmann. Brather, S. 2008. Kleidung, Bestattung, Identität. Die Präsentation sozialer Rollen im Frühmittelalter. In S. Brather (ed.). Zwischen Spätantike und Frühmittelalter. RGA-Ergänzungsband 57. Berlin – New York, Walter de Gruyter. Brather, S. 2009. Memoria und Repräsentation. Frühmittelalterliche Bestattungen zwischen Erinnerung und Erwartung. In S. Brather (ed.). Historia archaeologica. Festschrift für Heiko Steuer zum 70. Geburtstag. RGA-Ergänzungsband 70. Berlin – New Yoprk, Walter de Gruyter. Codreanu-Windauer, S. 1997. Pliening im Frühmittelalter. Bajuwarisches Gräberfeld, Siedlungsbefunde und Kirche. Materialhefte zur Bayerischen Vorgeschichte A 74. Kallmüntz/Opf, Verlag Michael Lassleben. Dannheimer, H. 1987. Auf den Spuren der Bajuwaren. Archäologie des frühen Mittelalters in Altbaiern. Pfaffenhofen, W. Ludwig Verlag. Dannheimer, H. 1998. Das bajuwarische Reihengräberfeld von Aubing, Stadt München. Monographien der prähistorischen Staatsssammlung 1. Stuttgart, Konrad Theiss Verlag. Dannheimer H. and H. Dopsch (eds.). 1988. Die Bajuwaren. Von Severin bis Tassillo 488-788. Rosenheim-Mattsee, Gemeinsame Landesausstellung des Freistaates Bayern und des Landes Salzburg. Arbeitsgruppe Bajuwarenausstellung. Fehr, H. 1999. Zur Deutung der Prunkgürtelsitte der jüngeren Merowingerzeit. In S. Brather, C. Brücker, and M. Hoeper (eds.). Archäologie als Sozialgeschichte. Studien zu Siedlung, Wirtschaft und Gesellschaft im frühgeschichtlichen Mitteleuropa. Festschrift für Heiko Steuer. Studia honoraria 9. Rahden/Westf., Verlag Marie Leidorf.. Gutsmiedl-Schümann, D. 2010. Das frühmittelalterliche Gräberfeld Aschheim-Bajuwarenring. Materialhefte zur Bayerischen Vorgeschichte A 94. Kallmünz/Opf., Verlag Michael Lassleben. Härke, H. 1997. The nature of burial data. In C. K. Jensen and K. Høilund Nielsen (eds.). Burial and society. The chronological and social analysis of burial data. Århus, Århus Univ. Press. Härke, H. 2003. Beigabensitte und Erinnerung: Überlegungen zu einem Aspekt des frühmittelalterlichen Bestattungsrituals. In J. Jarnut and M. Wemhoff (eds.). Erinngerungskultur im Bestattungsritual. Archäologisch-Historisches Forum. Mittelalterstudien 3. München, Fink.

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S. Burmeister, H. Derks, and J. v. Richthofen, Zweiundvierzig. Festschrift für Michael Gebühr zum 65. Geburtstag. Studia honoraria 25. Rahden/Westf., Verlag Marie Leidorf. Siegmund F. 1996. Kleidung und Bewaffnung der Männer im östlichen Frankenreich. In A. Wieczorek, P. Périn, K. v. Welck, and W. Menghin (eds.). Die Franken – Wegbereiter Europas. Mainz, Verlag Philipp von Zabern. Stadler P. 2005. Quantitative Studien zur Archäologie der Awaren I. Mitteilungen der Prähistorischen Kommission 60. Wien, Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Staskiewicz, A. 2007. The early medieval cemetery at Aschheim-Bajuwarenring – a Merovingian population under the influence of pestilence? In G. Grupe and J. Peters (eds.). Skeletal series and their socio-economic context. Documenta Archaeobiologiae 5. Rahden/ Westf., Verlag Marie Leidorf. Steuer, H. 1987. Gewichtsgeldwirtschaften im frühgeschichtlichen Europa. In K. Düwel, H. Jankuhn, H. Siems, and D. Timpe (eds.). Untersuchungen zu Handel und Verkehr der vor- und frühgeschichtlichen Zeit in Mittel- und Nordeuropa Teil IV: Der Handel der Karolinger- und Wikingerzeit. Bericht über die Kolloquien der Kommission für die Altertumskunde Mittel- und Nordeuropas in den Jahren 1980–1983. Göttingen, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Steuer, H. 1990. Spätrömische und byzantinische Gewichte in Südwestdeutschland. Archäologische Nachrichten aus Baden 43, 43–59. Werner, J. 1954. Waage und Geld in der Merowingerzeit. Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-historische Klasse, Heft 1/1954. München, Verlag der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Wieczorek A., P. Périn, K. v. Welck, and W. Menghin (eds.). 1996. Die Franken – Wegbereiter Europas. Mainz, Verlag Philipp von Zabern. Wobst, H. M. 1977. Stylistic behavior and information exchange. In C. E. Cleland (ed.) For the Director: Research in honor of James B. Griffin. Anthropological Papers 61, 317–342. Doris Gutsmiedl-Schümann Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn, Vorund Frühgeschichtliche Archäologie Regina-Pacis-Weg 7 D-53113 Bonn, Germany [email protected] [email protected]

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‘Painful Heritage’. Cultural landscapes of the Second World War in Norway: a new approach Marek E. Jasinski

Norwegian University of Science and Technology

Marianne Neerland Soleim

Falstad Memorial and Human Rights Centre

Leiv Sem

Falstad Memorial and Human Rights Centre Abstract Traumatic experiences of war often play a dominant role in establishing a group identity, not least in modern nation states (Mosse 1990). As in so many other nations, the Second World War is a central part of the collective memory of Norway. In fact, it has been argued that the collective memory of war has the function of a contemporary national founding myth, stressing the resistance, solidarity and equality of the Norwegian population (Eriksen 1995). However, the cultural landscapes and material traces of the war have been given little attention from both scholars and heritage management authorities, and physical traces of the war that are not connected to the national narrative of resistance are most often neglected. The physical remains of military installations, POW camps, war infrastructure, construction plants and acts of warfare harbour together with war graves and memorials important data on what WWII was about, how it was conducted and at what costs. In many instances, this lack of interest in such remains by both Norwegian scholars and Norwegian heritage authorities can offer valuable lessons regarding politics of collective memory and the formation of national identity after WWII. The present paper presents outlines of a new interdisciplinary research project focusing on these aspects, with its theoretical framework, main research questions and methodology.

Introduction In January 2009 the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) and The Falstad Centre initiated a joint research project called Painful Heritage - Cultural Landscapes of the Second World War in Norway. Phenomenology, Lessons and Heritage Management Systems. The Painful Heritage Project consists of three interrelated sub-projects run by the present authors within archaeology, history and folkloristic: 1. Archaeology: Landscape of Evil: Nazi POW Camps and Construction Plants as Cultural Heritage within Norwegian Landscapes . 2. History: The Memory, Management and Use of Eastern European War Graves in Northern Europe.. 3. Folkloristics: Battlefields: Conflicts of Memory and Landscape The present phase of the project (2009-2011) is financed by the Research Council of Norway, and seeks to invigorate research on the material and cognitive aspects related to the cultural landscapes of the Second World War and to increase attention on heritage management, documentation and preservation of the WWII sites in Norway. The project focuses on the social values of cultural heritage from the WWII while studying the dynamic interaction between manufacturing of collective memory, national identity

building, and related aspects of protection and management of cultural heritage. Background and theoretical framework During the Second World War, Norway was accorded a special status within Nazi Germany’s war strategy. According to Hitler himself, Norway was the “area of destiny” for determining the outcome of the war. As a consequence, enormous numbers of Nazi troops, weapons, navy ships and other military resources were deployed in Norway during the period from 1940 to 1945. The construction of Festung Norwegen, with the Atlanterhavsvollen and other giant German investments in occupied Norway such as the main communication routes, the Arctic Railway and main North-South motorway, demanded a massive and constant supply of manpower (Fig. 1). On a per capita basis, Norway had a larger number of German troops and foreign prisoners in relation to the native population than any other occupied country in Europe. More than 140,000 prisoners of war and slave labourers from at least 16 European nations (both from Eastern and Western Europe) were transported to Norway. The largest groups by nationality came from the Soviet Union, Poland, Yugoslavia, and Germany. As a result, a network of approximately 500 Nazi camps for prisoners of war, slave labourers, political and criminal prisoners and Norwegian Jews was established (Soleim 2004). The camp network was administrated by the

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Figure 1. Nazi Coastal Fort Ergan in Bud. Photo: Marek E. Jasinski.

Wehrmacht (in cooperation with Organisation Todt) and the SS in the period from 1940 to 1944, and exclusively by the SS from 1944 until the end of the war (Reitan 1999). Approximately 20.000 of these prisoners died before Norway was liberated in 1945. As part of the giant Nazi construction projects in Norway, numerous Norwegian state and private enterprises were awarded huge industrial contracts in which slave labour was used.

heritage is often understood as an expression of meanings, values, claims and memories placed in that landscape (see, e.g. Skeates 2000, based on Hodder 1993, 17). Heritage can also be regarded as a dynamic process involving the declaration of our memory of past events and actions which has been refashioned for present-day purposes such as identity, community, and the legalization of power and authority (e.g. Lowenthal 1997; Shore 1996, 11).

Today, these camps are almost completely erased, not only as physical remains, but indeed as elements of the collective memory. The same is the case with a number of other significant themes regarding WWII in Norway. Elements of cultural landscapes disappear due to modern human activity and a lack of capacity or competence. Yet, another factor is that aspects and elements of cultural landscapes can be considered so painful or directly unwanted within the collective remembrance by presentday society that they are neglected or wiped out from the collective memory. To forget such events is often an active choice with both practical and symbolical consequences (Wertsch 2002). This evaporation may be considered the flip side of the concept of heritage. The term heritage has been the subject of many theoretical considerations the last decades, and has been discussed from the perspectives of several disciplines (e.g. Lowenthal 1997). It can be defined on two distinct levels. On the one hand, heritage can be understood as a description of a physical entity created within a particular landscape by human action (Layton and Ucko 1999, 1), while on the other, the term

In the convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage (UNESCO 1972), UNESCO defines heritage as our legacy from the past, what we live with today and what we pass on to future generations. The convention refers to monuments, groups of buildings and sites with historical, aesthetic, archaeological, scientific, ethnological or anthropological value (after Skeates 2000, 11). It must be stressed here that any cultural landscape is characterized by its dynamism (ever changing elements), temporality and changing values/priorities in social perception (Ingold 2000, 510-530), which complicates the issue of protection priorities and strategies. Nevertheless, as Brit Solli has written, “Today’s research will generate the values to be protected tomorrow. It is never the other way around because what is already protected has been discovered through previous research” (Solli 1999, 97). From this, we may assume that the parallel disappearance of certain themes in the collective memory and cultural landscape features are connected. The process itself and its mechanisms, however, are yet to be fully understood. In this 264

Marek E. Jasinski, Marianne Neerland Soleim and Leiv Sem: ‘Painful Heritage’ regard, the cultural landscape of the Second World War in Norway is a valuable laboratory for studying the dynamic interaction of the cognitive and physical components within the landscape. Furthermore, it is important to document, analyse and preserve the landscape itself, with the role of the cultural heritage management authorities being critical in this regard. What these national institutions choose to preserve, and what they choose to neglect, may be important sources for a scrutinizing of how the national conception of the war has been formed. For that reason, a scientific reassessment of their engagement towards the cultural landscape of war should be carried out. The project, which is outlined in the following, seeks to invigorate research on the cultural landscapes of the Second World War in addition to putting focus on heritage management, documentation and preservation. It highlights the dynamics of the two dimensions of the cultural landscape by using a triangular approach, combining the disciplines of archaeology, history and folkloristics. The main aims of this project are: to analyse the relationship between national identity and the cultural landscapes of war, to document neglected cultural landscapes, to reassess the criteria for protection under the Norwegian Cultural Heritage Act, and to develop models for future management of the cultural heritage and landscapes of the Second World War in Norway. The research is being conducted by an interdisciplinary group of scholars from the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU) and the Falstad Memorial and Human Rights Centre. The heart of the project is an interdisciplinary examination that brings together a multitude of various theoretical and methodological orientations. Moreover, the

individual sub-projects which we present in the following, examine, to a certain extent, the same geographical areas. 1. Landscape of evil: Nazi POW camps and construction plants as Cultural Heritage in Norwegian landscapes Archaeological research upon physical remains of WWI, WWII and other modern times conflicts is a relatively new but strong trend around the world. In the last decade we are observing rapidly growing number of new research projects and publications regarding this subject including, among other objectives, research upon diverse types of Nazi camps in occupied Europe (e.g. Jasinski et al 2009; Kola 2000; 2005; Logan and Reeves 2009: Schofield et al. 2002; Skriebeleit 2009; with further references). There are several reasons for this phenomenon but the most important of these is of course the acknowledgement that material culture is an independent source of research data regardless of the chronology of studied events and processes (e.g. Jasinski 1994; Sabloff 2008). Today, material culture and cultural landscapes of contemporary pasts is a solidly established research field within archaeology and anthropology (e.g Buchli and Lucas 2001). In recent archaeological literature, the concept of cultural landscape is increasingly seen as a sociocultural construction with emphasis on the landscape as a collective memory (e.g. Gould 2007; Holloway and Klevnas 2007; Schama 1995; Thomas 2000). When a place receives historical significance within a narrative tradition, collective memories are sorted, selected and possibly idealized (Tuovinen 2002, 69-71). But what happens in other situations – when traces are dismantled and/

Figure 2. The Falstad Camp in 1945. Photo: Archive of the Falstad Centre.

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N-TAG TEN or neglected for one reason or another after a disturbing and painful past? It seems in such cases that only cultural knowledge based on new research can again associate places with events of the past and re-create their narrative interpretations. As already mentioned above, during the Second World War, Norway was accorded a special status within Nazi Germany’s war strategy. The gigantic construction projects like Festung Norwegen with the Atlanterhavsvollen, the Arctic Railway, production plants and motorways, demanded a massive and constant supply of labour. More than 140,000 prisoners of war and slave labourers from at least 16 European nations were transported to Norway (Fig. 2). As a result, a network of approximately 500 Nazi camps for prisoners of war, slave labourers, political and criminal prisoners and Norwegian Jews was established (Soleim 2004). Approximately 20.000 of these prisoners died before Norway was liberated in 1945. Today, few physical traces of Nazi POW camps and slave labour camps are visible within the Norwegian cultural landscape, and both the knowledge and awareness of these relics are scarce among the general public in Norway. The situation becomes even more urgent as the last generation of direct witnesses to the events between 1940 and 1945 dies out and local oral traditions on the subject become weaker and weaker. At the end of the war, Nazi authorities and troops went to great lengths to destroy archives and other documentation that described their POW camps in Norway, and to a large degree they succeeded in doing so.

The first post-war Norwegian generations also attempted to erase the physical remains from their landscapes left behind by the hated regime. Therefore, a large majority of the Nazi camps in Norway have never been documented as physical structures. Nor are there clearly defined or effective strategies in place to guide the management and preservation of these sites within the framework of the Norwegian Cultural Management System. Against this backdrop, it seems clear that archaeological survey methods and techniques will play a key role in research aimed at increasing our knowledge and understanding of this heritage category in order for responsible and sustainable management decisions and strategies to be formed for both present and future generations (Fig. 3). Research objectives and methods: The first of the four main goals of this particular subproject is to assess the general state of research and state of our knowledge with regard to Nazi construction plants, sites and prisoners camps as cultural heritage elements within the Norwegian landscapes, based on studies of existing literature and archive sources. The second goal is to analyse the present status of the Nazi prisoner camps and construction plants within the Norwegian cultural heritage management system. This analysis will be carried out based on a study and analysis of relevant Norwegian Cultural Heritage laws

Figure 3. Archaeological - Geophysical survey of the Falstad Camp. Photo: Marek E. Jasinski 266

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Figure 4. Tjøtta War Cemetery 1951. Owner of photo: Johan Ottesen. and regulations, as well as central steering documents elaborated on by Norwegian authorities pertaining to this subject. The third goal is to elaborate on the current state of Nazi construction sites and the prisoner camp network as material structures within Norwegian landscapes, their typology and state of preservation, their potential as a research data source and their perception within the Norwegian and international public. This analysis will be based on two types of data. Firstly, the written sources, iconography, photos and other types of information from the archives of three selected Norwegian counties: Møre and Romsdal County, Nord-Trøndelag County and Nordland County. Secondly, a series of surveys at Nazi camp sites will be carried out in these three counties. A representative selection of the campsites will be thoroughly documented by the application of archaeological survey methods (Fig. 4).

2. The memory, management, and use of Eastern European graves in Northern Europe War graves and memorials are an important part of the cultural and mental landscape of the Second World War. Victims of various nationalities are buried in Norway, but the graves of the Eastern European victims have not been a part of the Norwegian collective memory. Research objectives: The main objective of this particular project is to analyse the memory, management and use of Soviet, Yugoslavian and Polish war graves in Northern Europe, including the symbolic and historical value of the war graves in the context of the general patterns of national collective memory. Secondary objectives include the following subgoals: 1. To accomplish the registration of all Eastern European war graves in the four northernmost Norwegian counties, as these were the territory with the most dense distribution of slave labour camps in Norway. 2. To analyse the local and Norwegian national involvement in the preservation of Eastern uropean, Soviet, Yugoslavian and Polish war graves in Northern Norway.

The fourth goal is to elaborate on efficient models for the future management of these sites within the framework of the Norwegian cultural heritage management system and to define future research perspectives based on results of the first three goals. The results of all four research objectives will be put into a comparative perspective with respect to the current overall situation in Poland, Russia, the UK, Germany and Austria. 267

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Figure 5. Ruined monument at Saltfjellet 2003. Owner of photo: Harry Bjerkli. 3. To improve the capacity of the regional museums in maintaining a consultative function in the management and use of war graves and memorials. 4. To include a comparative study for the management and use of Eastern European war memorials in Finland, Russia and Germany. As mentioned above, this sub-project will register and analyse all war graves and memorials for Eastern European victims in Northern Norway. This will include more than 40 monuments raised in memory of Soviet prisoners of war, four graveyards and seven monuments in memory of Yugoslavian victims, and approximately 165 Polish victims buried in different graveyards throughout Norway. Many of the war graves and memorials in Nordland County are situated on the site of the former prisoner of war camps. At the former camps for the Yugoslavian prisoners, there are still war graves that have not been registered. The project will undertake a study of the case at Øvre Jernvann in Narvik, where there remains a great deal of surveying still to be done. Conflicts in memory occur differentially at multiple levels between local factions, as well as between community and national memories and other forms of remembrance (Lambek 2005, xiv). The main graveyard for nearly 8,000 Soviet victims is the Tjøtta International Graveyard in Helgeland, Nordland County. This graveyard in itself represents a conflict in memory. In 1951 Norwegian

Figure 6. Remains of trench at the forgotten battlefield of

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Kaprolat. Photo: Leiv Sem.

Marek E. Jasinski, Marianne Neerland Soleim and Leiv Sem: ‘Painful Heritage’ authorities decided that all Soviet war graves in Northern Norway should be moved to this graveyard, and many monuments were destroyed to make way for this operation. Today, the names of the identified Soviet victims have been removed from the war graves at Tjøtta by the graveyard management, and the Soviet prisoners buried there are rendered anonymous victims. The project will analyse the symbolic and historic value of this graveyard within a national context (Fig. 5). War graves and memorials are sites of memory used to discourage forgetfulness and encourage the will to remember. The sub-project includes an analysis of how these memorials are used in the commemoration of the war at both the local and national level in the collective Norwegian memory of today. Despite the fact that the Soviet prisoners of war represented the nationality with the largest amount of casualties on Norwegian soil during the war, they have for decades been given very little attention in the national collective memory of the occupation (Soleim 2004, Epilogue). The history of Eastern European prisoners of war serves as a good example of how dramatic war experiences from the Eastern front were transferred to Norway, and individual and collective memories attached to these prisoners demonstrates the will to remember ‘the others’ in a national context. Memorials and war graves certify the involvement of both individuals and entire communities in the historical drama. A challenge to this involvement is that the remembrance of the Eastern European prisoners of war is connected to a foreign group, and the management and use of war graves in the national collective identity represents society’s will to remember what took place in their country during the Second World War. A question that must still be answered is in what way are the war graves of the Soviet, Yugoslavian and Polish victims in Northern Europe a part of the collective memory of these nations (and their successors) of the Second World War? The politics of memory is a field of negotiation and contestation between interests of different parties (e.g. Jensen et al. 1996). The authorities are a main agent in these negotiations, and there are several fields of expression such as school, research and cultural celebrations. The Soviet prisoners of war have hardly been included in this activity and there is very little knowledge about the Polish prisoners of war in Norway. On a local level, the memory of the Yugoslavian prisoners of war is very strong in some areas of Northern Norway, although not on a national level. As such, the subject of Eastern European prisoners of war is something strange and forgotten in the Norwegian history of the occupation, but is familiar through all the local historical knowledge in both oral and written terms. Still, this knowledge is not used in a broader national perspective and the result is a limited memory. The establishment and maintenance of war graves and memorials dedicated to Eastern European prisoners of war who died on Norwegian soil is dependent on local initiatives (Soleim 2004). What effects has the absence and lack of interest in such memorials had on the community’s

will to remember the destiny of other nationalities in Norway during the Second World War? (Fig. 6). The terms ‘sites of memory’, ‘collective’ and ‘collected memory’ are central concepts in the project’s analysis of the role of monuments in the remembrance of the Eastern European victims. The historian James Young suggests collected memory an alternative to collective memory (Young 1993, xi). He claims that public memory and its meanings depend not just on the forms and figures of the monument itself, but on the viewer’s response to the monument, how it is used politically and religiously within the community, who seeks it out and under what circumstances, how it is remoulded in different media and recast in new surroundings. In and of themselves, memorials remain inert and amnesiac, and are wholly dependent on visitors for whatever memories they finally produce. A memorial creates an illusion of a common or collective memory (Young 1993, 6). A monument’s role is to contribute to a dialogue between memory and history, representing a sign that something ‘historical’ has occurred and a society’s will to remember it (Savage 1994, 130-131). Monuments are therefore the materialization of collective memory and an expression of a society’s wish to remember. To understand the management and use of war graves from a broader perspective, the project will include a comparative study of the management and use of Eastern European war memorials in Finland, Belarus, Poland and Germany. Can the Soviet, Yugoslavian and Polish prisoners of war be described as forgotten victims in the culture of remembrance in Europe? The cemetery for the Soviet prisoners of war in Lamsdorf (Poland), the memorial at Khatyn outside Minsk (Belarus), sites of memory in Finland and the Treptower monument in Berlin will all be used in the comparative analysis. 3. Battlefields: conflicts of memory and landscape Sites of historical battles are often especially important parts of the collective memory of a social group, offering means to express their birth, character or tragic fate (Linenthal 1991; Winter 1995). The heroism, righteousness and victimization of the Norwegian people all have several designated landscapes (Sem 2009, 170ff). These have been important not only as physical landscapes, but also as lieux de mémoire in the sense of the French historian Pierre Nora: immaterial symbols in which a social group invests its identity and core values (Nora 1989). Their role in building and moulding identity is crucial, to which both the vast scholarly literature and widespread public use attest. Other sites, including some of the worst of those afflicted by acts of war, have not been as easily included in the national memory, although the abundance of studies in local history yearbooks, newspaper articles, etc. demonstrates the attachment of strong personal and local memories, in addition to explicit attempts of attaching them to the national collective memory. One way of understanding their exclusion is as a reflection of how a 269

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Figure 7. Norwegian/Russian team working to find, identify and repatriate the remains of Norwegian SS soldiers on Kaprolat on the Eastern Front. Photo: Leiv Sem. society views itself and regards its memory. In other words they may be excluded because they affront the culture of war remembrance in Norway. The ‘Battlefields’ sub-project explores the relationship between identity, memory and terrain, and the dynamic interplay between the physical and cognitive aspects of landscape in a current Norwegian context. Through a selection of battlefield case studies, the project discusses the discourse and cultural praxis connected to them such as the public use and manner of their management. The sub-project brings a cultural-historical, text-oriented approach to the main project’s examination of cultural landscape (Fairclough 1992; Schama 1995). Bringing a distinct contribution to the overall examination, this individual project also recognizes its dependence on the other two approaches if a comprehensive understanding of the subject is to be achieved. The key concepts such as cultural heritage, social space and collective memory are all taken from cultural theory (de Certeau 1984; Lowenthal 1997; Olick 2007). Against this backdrop, this sub-project analyses post-war discourse and cultural practice for a selection of landscapes, all vital to understanding the national and historic identity of Norwegians, as well as their relationship to both landscape and memory (Fig. 7). The sub-project examines several different forms of public discourse on the meaning and management of

these cultural landscapes and concentrates on three types of negotiations between: local and national identities, the physical and cognitive aspects of cultural landscape, and the national narrative and conflicting memories. In distinct ways, the cases are used for studying the negotiations between different attitudes (popular, bureaucratic and academic) towards the relationship between landscape and memory. To varying degrees, the cases chosen represent undesired, problematic memories in one way or another. How are (painful) memories marked and inscribed in the landscape? How are memory and identity shaped by the cultural landscape? How is the relationship between identity, memory and landscape understood, and how are the various conceptions of this reflected in the discourse, use and management of these cultural landscapes? Seeking the broadest possible understanding of the relationship between memory and landscape, the cases are chosen to ensure variety in terms of geographical distribution, the character of the historical war act and the degree of inclusion in the national narrative, as well as to when the negotiations have taken place. The empirical material will consist of various texts in which the selected landscapes and their meaning are discussed. Here, ‘texts’ are used in the broadest sense of the term: newspaper articles, memoirs, local historical periodicals, notes and reports

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Marek E. Jasinski, Marianne Neerland Soleim and Leiv Sem: ‘Painful Heritage’ from heritage management authorities, and monuments and ritual praxis (Fairclough 1992). The project starts by reviewing three to five nationally and locally treasured battlefields, while discussing the literature, ritual use and commemorative activity attached to each of them. On this basis, the project discusses a selection of ‘battlefields’ marginalized in public or collective commemoration culture, although they are all scenes of traumatic and nationally and locally significant episodes of the war. The landscapes represent a variety in geographical location and size, the character and magnitude of the traumatic war episode and of degree of memory marginalization. This sub-project has two central case studies: Civilian casualties of friendly fire These have been hard to incorporate into a collective memory dominated by clear-cut categories of good and evil. Though often the subject of substantial local interest, this memory has only occasionally been raised to the national level and invariably in dubious forms. How are the considerations of the national narrative and those of the local memories negotiated, and what role does the landscape play in these negotiations? The battlefields of the Norwegian SS volunteers on the Eastern Front At some of these sites, the remains of fallen Norwegians have up until now been lying where they fell, unburied and unidentified. Strewn with human remains, the landscape is at once inscribed with both memory and the mark of forgetfulness. Recently, questions have been publicly raised about identifying and giving the remains a decent burial, either on the site or by bringing them home. Another question is what responsibility the Norwegian State has towards these men, who were citizens of Norway, but also enemy combatants. Concerning a foreign landscape, this problem transcends national boundaries and traditional responsibilities. Furthermore, this cultural landscape, which is invested with so much symbolic value, is geographically distant for most Norwegians and is nothing more than a name. How is this landscape constructed through linguistic means? What is the relationship between the actual landscape and the landscape as it is represented in the current debate? What type of meaning is invested here in these far-away landscapes, and what relationship is constructed between landscape and memory? Like the studies of the Nazi camps and of the war graves of Eastern Europeans, each of these battlefield cases all question the national narrative and concept of cultural landscape in their own way. These case studies of the investment of identity and meaning in landscape and of the management and use of cultural landscapes are helpful in yielding new insight into our understanding of ourselves and of our handling of history as well.

Closing remarks The individual sub-projects described above represent three different disciplinary approaches to the study of the collective memory of the Second World War in Norway. All three sub-projects focus on elements that have been marginalized for decades, and all study these in the perspective of national identities. However, the projects vary in what manner, and in what level, they see national identities are at work. Furthermore, all three sub-projects investigate the relationship between the collective memory and the material landscape. On the one hand, the material landscape structures and informs the collective memory. On the other hand, the landscape has itself been formed in concordance with what the collective memory highlights, cherishes and preserves. By such a dual perspective, we hope to capture at least the most important factors and elements of the complex dynamics in this relationship. By bringing together approaches that varies in where weight and focus is placed in the duality of material and cognitive aspects, the overall ambition of the Painful Heritage project is to create an arena for interdisciplinary debate in order to reach new and deeper levels of understanding and knowledge. As only an oscillation between the cognitive and material dimension of this subject can yield validity to our analyses, the tension between the dominant narrative of WWII in Norway and the numerous traumatic and eagerly forgotten landscapes is a valuable resource in the dissemination of our results. With this, we hope to instigate debate both among the public and among the cultural heritage management authorities. Through this reconsideration of the cultural landscape of the Second World War in Norway, we hope to contribute to a new and heightened awareness of the dynamic relationship between the cognitive and material aspects of the cultural landscapes, of the national bias governing the management of the cultural heritage of the WWII landscapes and, indeed, of the fabric of our national self-conception.

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N-TAG TEN Eriksen, A. 1995. Det var noe annet under krigen. 2. verdenskrig i norsk kollektivtradisjon. Oslo Fairclough, N. 1992. Discourse and Social Change. Cambridge. Feldman, G. D. and W. Seibel (eds.), 2004. Networks of Nazi Persecution: Bureaucracy, Business, and the Organization of the Holocaust. New York. Gilbert, M. 1998. Holocaust Journey. Travelling in Search of the Past. London. Gould, R., J. 2007. Disaster Archaeology. Lake City. Götz, A. and S. Heim 2002. Architects of Annihilation. Auschwitz and the Logic of Destruction. London. Herf, J. 1997. Divided Memory: the Nazi Past in the Two Germanys. Cambridge. Hodder, I. 1993. Changing configurations: the relationship between theory and practice. In J. Hunter and I. Ralston (eds.), Archaeological Resource Management in the UK: an Introduction. Gloucestershire, Stroud. Holloway, J. and A. Klevnas (eds.), 2007. The Disturbing Past. Archaeological Review from Cambridge 22 (2). Ingold, T. 2000. The Temporality of the Landscape. In Thomas, J. (ed.), Interpretative Archaeology. A Reader. Leicester. Jahn, P. (ed.) 2005. Triumph und Trauma. Sowjetische und Postsowjetische Erinnerung an den Krieg 1941-1945. Museum Berlin-Karlshorst. Jasinski, M. E. 1997. West European Commercial Whaling Reconsidered. Archaeological data. Medieval Europe 1997 (3), 119-129. Jasinski, M., E. Soleim, M. Neerland and L. Sem 2009. Smertefull Kulturarv. Spor 2009 (2), 40-43. Jensen, B. E., C. T. Nielsen and T. Weinreich (eds.), 1996. Erindringens og glemslens politik. Roskilde. Koch, B. 1988. De sovjetiske, polske og jugoslaviske krigsfanger i tysk fangenskap i Norge 1941-1945. MA thesis, History, University of Oslo. Kola, A. 2000. Belzec. The Nazi Camp for Jews in the Light of Archaeological Sources. Excavations 19971999. Warszawa. Kola, A. 2005. Archeologia Zbrodni. Oficerowie polscy na cmentarzu ofiar NKWD w Charkowie. Torun, UMK. Kurilo, O. 2006. Der Zweite Weltkrieg im deutschen und russischen Gedächtnis. Berlin Lambek, M. 2005. Foreword. In F. Cappelletto (ed.), Memory and World War II. Oxford and New York Langenheim, H. 1999. Orte der Vernichtung im Krieg gegen die Sowjetunion. Museum Berlin- Karlshorst. Layton. R. and P. J. Ucko 1999. Introduction: Gazing on the landscape and encountering the environment. In P. J. Ucko and R. Layton (eds.), The Archaeology and Anthropology of Landscape: Sharing Your Landscape. London and New York. Linenthal, E. T. 1991. Sacred Ground: Americans and Their Battlefields. Illinois. Logan, W. and K. Reeves (eds.), (2009) Places of Pain and Shame. Dealing with Difficult Heritage. London and New York.

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Marek Jasinski Norwegian University of Science and Technology Department of Archaeology and Studies of Religion & Museum of Natural History and Archaeology Trondheim, Norway e-mail: [email protected] Marianne Neerland Solheim and Leiv Sem Falstad Memorial and Human Right Centre Ekne, Norway

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Tools of lethal play. Weapon burials reflecting power structures and group cohesion during the Iron Age in Ostrobothnia, Finland Jari-Matti Kuusela University of Oulo

Abstract This paper examines Iron Age weapon burials in Ostrobothnia following the reasoning that a context of a burial is a context of ritual and ideology and everything in such a context is there for a reason and bears a meaning. Weapons have evidently been an important symbol pertaining to death rituals and thus their meaning to the group that conducted the weapon burials had to be significant. I pair archaeology with social theory, especially the thoughts of Erving Goffman, and suggest that weapons speak of a martial code among the group, whom the burials represent, and that this group might have formed a part of a social elite partly basing its position within the society on the role of a warrior. Within this context formal violence may have been a means for the warrior elite to maintain group cohesion and reproduce the social structures that legitimized and defined their position within the society.

Introduction In Finland the nature of Iron Age formal violence is difficult to prove as we are lacking many of the important archaeological indicators of violence, such as plentiful osteological material and thoroughly excavated dwelling sites that include destruction layers. We have sites that are classified as hillforts, and some of them no doubt did genuinely functioned as forts, but they have not been widely studied. Regarding the Finnish hillforts the dissertation of Jussi-Pekka Taavitsainen (1990) is still the seminal work and no new updates or extensive fieldwork pertaining to hillforts have been carried out for a long time. Thus the nature, and more specifically the dating, of many hillforts is still unknown. Of the traditional archaeological indicators for violence the Finnish Iron Age record includes only one – weapons. They are a recurring feature in the Iron Age burials occurring from the early to the younger Iron Age being especially prominent during the 7th and 8th centuries AD. It is safe to say that weapons are an important symbolical part of the Iron Age burials and it is this symbolism I plan to explore. I will discuss how the weapons may symbolise a martial code within the society’s social elite and how formal violence plays a role in the society’s power structures. In this paper I begin by presenting some problems of definition pertaining to weapon burials after which I present my chosen material which includes burials from altogether 76 sites in Ostrobothnia. After roughly establishing the chronology of the occurrence of weapons in burials, I use the sociologist Erving Goffman’s ideas (Goffman 1959 [1984]; 1963; 1967 [1982]) as a starting point for my interpretation of them. I conclude by presenting a possible way of how the role of the warrior may have been used by the Iron Age social elite to legitimize local power structures.

Geographical study

and chronological dimensions of the

The geographical dimension of this study is limited to the Finnish side of the Bothnian Bay coast henceforward referred to as Ostrobothnia (figure 1). This area is interesting for a couple of reasons, first because it has strongly been affected by the post Ice Age isostatic land uplift – a phenomenon that has had a strong impact on the landscape and settlement patterns through prehistory and resulting in a general pattern of older archaeological remains being located on higher elevations than younger (e.g. Okkonen 2001, 2003; Vaneeckhout 2008; 2009). On the present study-area, the Iron Age shore-threshold is situated between ca. 21–22 metres above current sealevel (for the shoreline displacement of Northern- and Middle Ostrobothnia see Okkonen 2003, 84–96 and for Southern Ostrobothnia Holmblad 2010, 42–48). A second interesting feature of this area is that, especially its southern parts, have a strong Iron Age record from the early to the middle Iron Age but only rudimentary record from the later Iron Age. Due to this, it is still maintained that during the later Iron Age Southern Ostrobothnia was largely uninhabited for some reason (e.g. Ahtela 1981, 129–131; Meinander 1950 151–152; 1977, 42–43). The Middle and Northern Ostrobothnia on the other hand have a very scant Iron Age record. In these areas the known Iron Age sites are from the earlier and middle Iron Age with the younger Iron Age (after 800 AD) being represented only with stray finds (Paavola 1984; Sarkkinen and Torvinen 2003, 18–20). The lack of material from the Middle and Northern Ostrobothnia is likely a reflection of a research bias favouring Southern Finland rather than a true void. Due to the above mentioned features of my research area, the chronological span of my study includes the earlier and middle Iron Ages from the Pre-Roman Iron Age to 275

N-TAG TEN The problem of individual burials

Figure 1. Research area.

Figure 2. The Iron Age chronology of Finland.

the end of the Merovingian Period. This covers the time between 500 BC and 800 AD. As the Finnish Iron Age chronology, or terminology, does not fully correspond with the chronologies of the neighbouring countries, it is presented in figure 2.

Through most of the Finnish Iron Age, cremation has dominated as a burial form and it is often difficult to distinguish individual burials from each other (LehtosaloHilander 1982, 7; Hirviluoto 1994, 19; Wickholm 2005, 32). This is especially the case in the distinct form of collective burial, known as a cremation cemetery, below level ground where the burnt bones of individuals have been scattered over a wide area (e.g. Wessman 2009a; 2010, 19–22 with references); Wickholm 2008, 90–91 with references; Wickholm and Raninen 2006) but this problem persists even with single cairns (see Hirviluoto 1994, 19). This means that without osteological analyses and exact documentation of the distribution of burnt bone, separating individual burials is nigh impossible. Though some osteological analyses of the Finnish Iron Age cremation burials have been made and the number of buried individuals established (e.g. Formisto 1996; Hirviluoto and Vormisto 1984; Miettinen 1998, 123–135) the documentation of the exact distribution of bone is often inadequate with only the most rudimentary techniques being used (e.g. see Heikkurinen-Montell 1996). From the Merovingian Period (ca. 550/600–800 AD) is known a phenomenon where individual weapon burials can be identified from some of the cremation cemeteries below level ground and these have been interpreted as signifying an individual form of burial coexisting with the collective burial form (Wickholm and Raninen 2006). Though possible this interpretation is not unproblematic as the osteological material does not give straightforward support to it (see Heikkurinen-Montell 1996, 94–95). There is no doubt that during the Merovingian Period weapons were sometimes buried as individual clusters but this does not automatically mean that they signify individual burials of people. It is also problematic to draw a correlation with the number of artefacts and buried individuals as there is indication that these two factors may not correlate (Hirviluoto and Vormisto 1984). Equally dangerous would be to identify individual weapon burials based on the combination of weapons as it may be that weapons deposited in burials do not represent the actual weapon combination used by the warriors of the time (Härke 1997b). As individual burials, or number of buried individual, can be isolated only in the cases where osteological analyses have been made, I have opted to use a minimum number method where I define the minumum number of burials within a site. Where osteological analyses are available I have used these to determine the number of burials within a single burial construct. Results of such analyses have been available to me only from Mujanvainio-Hietaanmetsä and Vuoruusenmäki from Laihia, Southern Ostrobothnia, which have been published by Mirja Miettinen (1998). In some cases the excavations have revealed traces of the deceased, a so-called “corpse shadow”, which is the case for example at Välikangas in Oulu (Mäkivuoti 1998) and Tervakangas in Raahe (Forss et al. 1991; 1992; 1993; 1994) or signs of cists within a single cairn which could indicate separate burials. In lieu of other evidence I have 276

Jari-Matti Kuusela: Tools of lethal play determined the minimum amount of burials with the number of individual burial structures i.e. cairns. When determining the minimum number of weapon burials I have used a method where the minimum number of weapon burials, if weapons occur in the burial, is always one unless the context is such that the weapons can be clearly linked to a different burial. This occurs when weapons are recovered from, for example, different cists within the same cairn. Further problems are posed by two curious examples of inhumation burial sites from the Merovingian Period – those of Levänluhta in Isokyrö and Käldamäki in VöyriMaksamaa in Southern Ostrobothnia. These sites include inhumation burials made into ancient lakes (see Wessman 2009b for a recent discussion). From Levänluhta some 52 individuals have been identified and seven from Käldamäki (Meinander 1950, 138, 140). In these cases it is relatively easy to determine the number of burials but as the other burials from Merovingian Period are cremations, doing so would badly skew any statistics. However, Levänluhta and Käldamäki are interesting for the fact that they seem to completely differ from the standard archaeologically known burial forms of the time. Recent osteological reanalyses of the Levänluhta material indicates that the dead are actually mostly female (Niskanen 2006). Furthermore it seems that their living conditions and diet were less than optimal and thus they might have belonged to a rather low social class (Niskanen 2006, 34). The relatively few grave goods, which do not include weapons, might further support this hypothesis. Thus, as this article is concerned with the social elite of the Iron Age society, and because Levänluhta’s and Käldamäki’s burials would skew the statistics even further, I will exclude them from my calculations when studying the rough development trend of the weapon burials. These sites are, however, worth of a mention for they demonstrate the varying burial practices within the study area during the time-span of this study. Defining a weapon burial Often only fragments of weapons have survived in the burials. It may be that only fragments of the artefacts had been deposited in the final burial place to begin with and/or they are the results of post-depositional factors. If the answer is the former, it may represent a pars pro toto -approach where a piece of an artifact has been placed in the burial as representative of the whole. Thus in many cases a sword may be present only, for example, as a hilt or a fragment of the hilt while in some cases the whole weapon may have been recovered. I have opted to classify all burials with identifiable pieces of weapons as weapon burials and include in the category of weapons the following artefacts – sword, shield, scramaseax, axe, javelin and spear, that is weapons usable, or connected with, hand-to-hand combat. Axes are problematic as they may also represent tools but as they have no doubt also been used as weapons I have chosen to include them.

Problems of dating Most datings of the Iron Age burials in Finland are based on typology. As a relative dating method typology can naturally provide only a rough estimation of a site’s age. This is especially true in the case of burials as objects significantly older than the burial itself may have been given as grave goods, or several burials during different periods may have been made on the site resulting in a mixed context from which it is impossible to build a clear chronology (Pihlman 1990, 54; Lillios 1999, 238). Thus datings based on typology are naturally very rough. Cairns without finds constitute a special problem. The isostatic land uplift can be used to provide a TPQ-dating but like typology, this can be used only to make a rough estimation of a site’s age. However, as there is strong indication that the cairns of Ostrobothnia have been closely shorebound especially during the Bronze- and early Iron Age (Okkonen 2001), the shoreline displacement is a useful tool for dating findless cairns. Usually findless cairns are connected with the early Iron Age, mainly the Pre-Roman Iron Age, and true enough, many of them can be found from heights that correlate with early Iron Age shorelines. However it would be careless to label them all as burials as they can be relatively young remains (Jarva 1986; Okkonen 2000a, 200b; 2003: 81–83). Some early Iron Age cairns have typological features that help in their rough dating – in Southern Ostrobothnia a distinctive cairn type, identified by the red sandstone slabs covering it, has been strongly linked with Pre-Roman and Early Roman Iron Age (Miettinen 1986a; 1998, 67, 87; Holmblad and Herrgård 2005, 134) but this easily recognizable feature is limited to the area of Southern Ostrobothnia where the red sandstone is naturally found, although a recent excavation in Northern Finland has revealed the possibility that different kind of a red-coloured stone may have been used to cover a cairn in lieu of red sandstone indicating that the idea of a “red cover” in an early Iron Age cairn is more widely spread in Finland than originally thought (Okkonen 2008; 2010). Another typological feature linked with the early Iron Age is a square-like form (Okkonen 2003, 62) or a stone cist like in the recently excavated Muhojoki cairn in Ii, Northern Ostrobothnia (Okkonen 2008, 2010). Sometimes the site’s combination of remains gives a clue to the dating of the cairns (Okkonen 2003, 62–63). One example is Viirikallio in Laihia, Southern Ostrobothnia, where several pits, dated with C14 to the end of the Bronze Age or the beginning of the Pre-Roman Iron Age, are located nearby a cluster of cairns one of which one is covered with red sandstone slabs (Miettinen 1998, 176). In appendix 1 I present 76 sites I have chosen from my study area that can on reasonable grounds be interpreted as burials. All these sites either include excavated burials or have yielded stray finds that can with reasonable certainty be tied to a burial. I have roughly arranged them chronologically based on their current elevation above sea level as well as studies conducted by other scholars. I have isolated the burials that include weapons and burials that 277

N-TAG TEN do not, where this is reasonably possible, in order to build a rough chronology of the occurence of weapon burials. Concerning the dating and previous studies of the sites, I refer to the appropriate scholars in appendix 1 but some sites require further elaboration from my part. Sulva Kivnesskogen, named Sulva Knivnässkogen in the excavation reports (Honkanen 1983b; 1984c), contains several cairns of which altogehter six have been excavated in the early 80’s (Honkanen 1983b; 1984c). Two of these cairns contained a lining stone circle whereas the rest were more ambiguous in nature. Honkanen, the excavator, interpretes them as man-made but suspects that they are remains from the historical period without giving a reason for this interpretation (Honkanen 1984c, 3). The elevation of the site is between 25 and 29 m a.s.l. which corresponds with the elevations of early Iron Age cairns. It seems to me that at least the cairns with the lining stone circles could be interpreted as prehistorical and based on their form and elevation I have dated them to the Pre-Roman Iron Age. Sulva Lassmaberget contains three cairns of which two have been excavated, one in 1985 and the other in 1987 (Engblom 1989; NBA 2009). The weapon find, a spearhead (NM 23280), was found during the 1985 excavations but the report is missing from the topographical archives of the National Board of Antiquities. According to the online register of antiquities upheld by the National Board of Antiquities (NBA 2009), the spearhead is estimated to belong to the Migration Period. No datable finds were recovered during the excavations of 1987. An axeblade (NM 10105:10) found from a cairn in EsseLillmossbacken, Pedersöre, cannot be dated via typology as the artefact was already partly destroyed when found (Paavola 1984, 17). Meinander dates the axeblade loosely to the earlier Iron Age (Meinander 1977, 26). The site’s elevation of 19 m a.s.l. gives a TPQ-dating of ca. 100 AD and thus I have dated the site to the Early Roman Iron Age. Lågpeltkangas in Vöyri-Maksamaa was excavated by bank director Jacob Tegengren in the first half of the 20th century (Tegengren 1929; Meinander 1950, 181– 184). Being unskilled and uneducated in archaeology he mistakenly thought Lågpelkangas to be a cairn cemetery but it includes five cairns and a cremation cemetery below level ground (Meinander 1950, 181–182). The dating of the cemetery is likely from the Late Roman Iron Age to the Merovingian Period but the cremation cemetery is dealt with here as a Merovingian Period site as a clear majority of the datable artefacts from the evident cremation cemetery have been dated to this period (Meinander 1950, 181–184). Pörnullbacken in Vöyri-Maksamaa contains weapon burials from two periods and the more problematic one is the one I have chosen to date to the Merovingian Period. The weapons from this intact cremation burial include

a sword, a scramaseax, a shield buckle and an ango (Gullberg 2002). Aside from the sword all weapons are dated typologically to the Merovingian Period yet Kurt Gullberg dates the burial to the Viking Age based on the sword he interprets as a type belonging to the early Viking Age (Gullberg 2002, 164). He takes further evidence from the fact that of the 28 C14-samples from Pörnullbacken, eight give Viking Age datings (Gullberg 2002, 172). Though the C14-datings do indicate Viking Age activity in the area, a single typological indicator from the weapon burial does not make a strong case for a younger dating when all the other indicators favour the burial belonging to the Merovingian Period. Thus, though I view Gullberg’s interpretation as a possible one, I date Pörnullbacken’s weapon burial rather to the late Merovingian Period than the early Viking Age. Distribution of burials in the study area I estimate that the 76 sites in my study area contain altogether at least 179 datable individual burials based on the number of individual burial structures and the number of identified individuals where this is possible (see appendix 1). Of these 32 belong to the Pre-Roman Iron Age, 21 to the Early Roman Iron Age, 27 to the Late Roman Iron Age, 67 to the Migration Period and 32 to the Merovingian Period. All sites used in this study are presented in figure 3 a–e in relation to the shorelines of 250 BC, 150 AD, 300 AD, 500 AD and 700 AD respectively. In appendix 2 I present the weapon burials and their respective weapon finds and in figure 4 the number of weapon burials as opposed to burials without weapons. It is obvious that the material is so small that it does not allow sophisticated statistical analyses and thus I limit myself to a very rough presentation of the development of weapon burials from 500 BC to 800 AD. I believe that even such simple statistics do give interesting insights into the phenomenon. The lack of weapons from Pre-Roman Iron Age is not as distinctive as one might think because during this time the burials generally do not contain grave goods. Once grave goods start to occur in burials so do weapons. During the Merovingian Period the number of burials including weapons outnumbers burials that do not by a significant degree but here the fact that many Merovingian Burial sites are cremation cemeteries where the number of individual burials cannot be determined is sure to affect the results and the relation between weapon and weaponless burials is not as steep as the figure suggests. There is however a stronger emphasis on weapons as grave goods during the Merovingian Period than during other periods and the weapon assemblages of this period often include more different types of weapons than previously (Pihlman 1990, 230–231; see also appendix 2). Also, in the cremation cemeteries below level ground of this period, especially the weapon burials may stand out from the otherwise collective burial form.

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Figure 3. A – Pre-Roman Iron Age burial sites in relation to shorelines of ca. 250 BC. B – Elder Roman Iron Age burial sites 150 AD. C – Younger Roman Iron Age burial sites in relation to shorelines of ca. 300 AD. D – Migration Period burials in relation to shorelines of ca. 500 AD. E – Merovingian Period burial sites in relation to the shorelines of ca. 700 AD. in relation to shorelines of ca.

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Figure 4. Studied burials from the Pre-Roman Iron Age to the Merovingian Period. Datings as are as follows: A – Pre-Roman Iron Age, B – Elder Roman Iron Age, C – Younger Roman Iron Age, D – Migration Period, E – Merovingian Period. Burials as social fronts – weapons as signifiers of ideology It is evident that weapons have had strong symbolical meaning, for example swords have often been given a special place among artefacts (e.g. Creutz 2003: 121, 199; Mägi 2002, 122; Price 2002; 176). Not to deny their evident symbolical aspect it is well to remember that weapons have a functional aspect that seems hard to dispute – they are tools meant for fighting. It is their role as tools of killing that the interpretation of their symbolic value should be based on (Härke 1997b, 120; see also Raninen 2005, 2006). Agents use their appearance to communicate their traits and properties to the outside world via a social front (Goffman 1959 [1984]; Goffman 1967 [1982]). The social front is a way for agents to look the role they are supposed to play. In other words, if they are to fulfill a certain role in the society, the rest of the society expects that they also dress and act the role (Goffman 1963, 24–26; 33–35; 1967 [1982], 77, 259). Thus it is easy to see how material culture is closely related with the social front (Goffman 1967 [1982], 259, 268–269) and as social roles of the living affect the rituals performed upon their death (Trinkaus 1995, 54), it is likely that artefacts recurring in burial contexts have been closely connected with the Iron Age social front. As weapons are such a recurring artefact group, they have likely been a part of the social front of at least one group represented in the burials. Burial finds are finds that people conducting the burials have wanted to leave behind. This means that these artefacts have been instilled with social meaning pertaining to death rituals. In other words, burials are contexts where everything is in its right place (Härke 1997a, 23;

Fontijn 2008). Thus burials reflect the social front of the burying group – they are staged social ritual settings where ideological ideals have been played out (Diinhoff 1997, 111; Härke 1997a, 23; Morris 1987, 32; Trinkaus 1995, 56–57). From such a context one can expect to find a reflection of the society as it is ideally perceived to be by the buriers. If the symbolism of weapons is connected with violence, as seems reasonable to suggest, and they have been a part of the social front of at least a part of the group represented in the burials, and these burials can be considered to be social fronts as described previously, the following suggestion can be made. Weapons are likely to represent a martial code among the group conducting the burials (see also Raninen 2005; 2006). This does not have to mean that every single person buried with weapons would have been a warrior, rather that the weapons themselves signify ideological inclusion of violence in the social structures of the burying group (Raninen 2006, 8–9). In such context, violence is embedded in the social structures of the society and is thus formal and under the control of social norms. Conclusions There is segmentation and stratification amongst the elite and violence as part of the Iron Age power structures. Thus it is important that Iron Age weapons occur mainly in burials which are likely to represent only a part of the society (Pihlman 2004; Asplund 2008, 355) – probably the social elite. The previously mentioned burials of Levänluhta and Käldamäki might reflect the manner in which members of lower social status were buried, as their skeletons showed signs of malnutrition as well as a relatively short stature (Niskanen 2006).

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Jari-Matti Kuusela: Tools of lethal play In figure 4 we see that during the Merovingian Period, weapons are slightly more prominent than earlier. This is also supported by the fact that during the Merovingian Period, the quantity of weapons in a single burial is often greater than previously (Pihlman 1990, 231). Also weapons alone in the collective cremation cemeteries below level ground seem to have received a special treatment in «individual» weapon burials (Wickholm and Raninen 2006). This also indicates their special role pertaining to death rituals especially during this time. However it should be noted that the weapon burials are far from dominating even during the Merovingian Period. This means that not all of the social elite were buried with weapons and this is likely to represent social segmentation within the elite – not all groups felt necessary to emphasize warrior identity through burial rituals. However the increase in weapon burials during the Merovingian Period does, to a degree, indicate stratification within the elite – the warrior identity likely became more important during this time and the warrior segment rose higher in the social stratification of the elite. I have previously argued that the change in burial practice during the Merovingian Period is connected with the aggregation and centralisation of power structures (Kuusela 2009). Following this reasoning, if during the Merovingian Period the role of the warrior was adopted more frequently by a larger segment of the social elite, then the warrior role became an integrated part of the Iron Age power structures and power in general. This leads us to the question pertaining to the nature of power and power structures. All power must be based on a power resource (Olsen 1970, 4) and a role fulfilled within a society can work as a power resource. In such a case the role has to fulfill a function that is perceived to be necessary for the society to survive and thrive. Another important aspect is that in order to create a stable and enduring power structure, the power resource has to be embedded within the social structures and social reality of the society (Bottomore 1964 [1985], 43; Bourdieu 1977, 183–184). Thus if a role is to function as a power resource then the role, and more importantly the perceived need for the role, has to be embedded within the social structures of the society. Based on this reasoning, if the role of a warrior is to function as a power resource, then the society has to perceive the role of a warrior as necessary and in order for this social structure to remain stable, there must be a continuous perceived need for warriors. In other words, there must be battles to fight or at least a perceived, and socially very real, possibility of battle and violence. But this is not enough. The combatants must be limited to a well-defined group if this group is to use the role of the warrior as a power resource. This group then creates the perceived presence, or threat, of violence thus legitimizing their own existence. They will periodically engage each other in battle which is likely to be governed by strict rules of engagement to act as a controlling mechanism on the violence but perhaps more importantly to mystify the actual event of combat and to

recreate, via the violent ritual that the combat is, the social structures surrounding the concept of the warrior. Thus combat, though being an act of hostility, upkeeps group cohesion within the warrior elite. In such a case the enemy, in a sense, becomes a friend – the warrior elite does not want to eradicate their enemy because doing so would take away their power resource, the perceived need for warriors within the society. Instead, they continue to fight them continuously and periodically to maintain the presence of violence and thus the continuous perceived need for warriors. Acknowledgements I wish to extend my thanks to my supervisor PhD Jari Okkonen for his help and comments. Any mistakes are naturally the sole responsibility of the author. The work resulting in this article was made possible by the grant bestowed to me by the Oulu University Tyyni Tani fund in 2009.

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Jari-Matti Kuusela: Tools of lethal play Kivikoski, E. 1946. Suomen rautakauden kuvasto I. Helsinki, WSOY. Kotivuori, H. 1987. Uusikaarlepyy, Jepua, Råbacken 2. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Kotivuori, H. 1992. Röbacken – en rösegrupp från förromersk järnålder i Nykarleby, Österbotten, Finland. Arkeologi i norr 3, 105–138. Kuusela, J.-M. 2009. Masters of the burial grounds – elites, power and ritual during the middle iron age in Vähäkyrö. Fennoscandia archaeologica 26, 39–52. Kuusela, J.-M. 2010. Laihian Viirikallion myöhäisen pronssikauden / varhaisen rautakauden röykkiön tutkimus 2009. Unpublished excavation report in the Oulu University Archaeology Laboratory. Kuusela, J.-M., S. Vaneeckhout and J. Okkonen 2010. Places of importance and social communication – studying the pre-roman cairn field of Viirikallio in Laihia, Finland. Estonian Journal of Archaeology 14 (1), 22–39. Lauren, J. 1995. Korsholm, Solf 25, Mässbacksskogen E. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Lehtosalo-Hilander, P.-L. 1982. Luistari I. The graves. Suomen muinaismuistoyhdistyksen aikakauskirja 82:1. Vammala, The Finnish antiquarian society.. Leppiaho, A. 2005. ”Kivikehiä pirunpellossa” Raahen Saloisten Tervakankaan rautakautinen kalmisto. An unpublished master’s thesis. Oulu, University of Oulu. Lillios, K. 1999. Objects of memory: the ethnography and archaeology of heirlooms. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 6(3), 235–262. Luho, V. 1957. Suur-Lohtajan muinaiset vaiheet. In SuurLohtajan historia I, 11-25. Kokkola, Suur-Lohtajan historiatoimikunta. Meinander, C. 1945. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Meinander, C. 1946. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Meinander, C. 1950. Etelä-Pohjanmaan historia I. Esihistoria. Helsinki, Etelä-Pohjanmaan historiatoimikunta. Meinander, C. 1977. Forntiden i Svenska Österbotten. In Svenska Österbottens historia I, 11-43. Vaasa, Svenska Österbottens landskapsförbund. Miettinen, M. 1980. Forntid i Pörtom. Vaasa, Pörtom hembygdsförening. Miettinen, M. 1984. Övermark (Ylimarkku), Frönäs Udden. Röykkiön kaivaus 1979–1980. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Miettinen, M. 1985 Många fynd från merovingetiden. I rågens rike 5, 85–87. Miettinen, M. 1986a. An early iron age cairn from Frönasudden, Southern Ostrobothnia. Fennoscandia archaeologica 3, 59–66.

Miettinen, M. 1986b. Maalahti, Storsjön, Nisseshagen. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Miettinen, M. 1986c. Järnåldersbosättningen kring Strosjön, Malax sn, i ljuset av arkeologiska fynd och pollenanalys. In T. Edgren (ed.), XVII Nordiska arkeologmötet i Åbo 1985. Iskos 7, 197-200. Vammala, Suomen muinaismuistoyhdistys. Miettinen, M. 1986d. An early iron age cairn from Fönäsudden, Southern Ostrobothnia. Fennoscandia archaeologica 3, 59–66. Miettinen, M. 1991a. Laihia Viirikallio – röykkiöalueen ja asuinpaikan koekaivaus 1987. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Miettinen, M. 1991b. Närpiö/Pirttikylä, Pörtbäck röykkiön kaivaus. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Miettinen, M. 1991c. Närpiö, Norrskogens Fäbobacke. Varhaismetallikautisen röykkiön kaivaus 1987–1988. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Miettinen, M. 1992. Laihian Viirikallio varhaismetallikautisen asuinpaikan kaivaus 1988–1988. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Miettinen, M. 1994a. Viirikallio, epineolithic dwelling site in Laihia, Southern Ostrobothnia. In: P. Purhonen (ed.), Fenno-ugri et slavi 1992. Prehistoric economy and means of livelihood, 43-51 Arkeologian osaston julkaisu 5. Helsinki, National board of antiquities. Miettinen, M. 1994b. Maalahti, ent. Petolahti, Rimossbacken röykkiötutkimukset 1974 ja 1975. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Miettinen, M. 1998. Laihian historia I. Esihistoria. Laihia, Municipality of Laihia. Miettinen, M. 2005. Mustasaari, Sulva, Finnmossbacken 2. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Morris, I. 1987. Burial and Society. The Rise of the Greek City-State. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. Mägi, M. 2002. At the Crossroads of Space and Time. Graves, Changing Society and Ideology on Saaremaa (Ösel) 9th–13th centuries AD. CCC papers 6. Tallin, University of Tallinn. Mäkivuoti, M. 1983. Kempeleen Linnakankaan lapinrauniotutkimus kesällä 1983. Faravid 7, 29–37. Mäkivuoti, M. 1985. Kempeleen Linnakankaan löydöistä ja ajoituksesta. Faravid 9. 25–30. Mäkivuoti, M. 1996. Oulun Kaakkurin Välikankaan kalmisto. An unpublished licentiate thesis. Oulu, University of Oulu. Mäkivuoti, M. 2009. Huomioita eräiden Kaakkurin kalmiston esineiden ajoituksesta ja alkuperästä. In J. Ikäheimo and S. Lipponen (eds.), Ei kiveäkään

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N-TAG TEN kääntämättä – juhlakirja Pentti Koivuselle, pgs 183194. Tornio, Pentti Koivusen juhlakirjatoimikunta. NBA 2009. National board of antiquities online register of antiquities. (Retrieved 11. september 2009 from Http://kulttuuriymparisto.nba.fi/ netsovellus/rekisteriportaali/portti/ default.aspx?sovellus=mjrekiτlu=T_ KOHDE&tunnus=769010009). Niskanen, M. 2006. Stature of the Merovingian-period inhabitants from Levänluhta, Finland. Fennoscandia archaeologica 23, 24–36. Norrman, R. 1985. Lövbacka. Studia arhcaeologica Ostrobotniensia, 71–77. Okkonen, J. 2000a. Ii Jussinkangas. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Okkonen, J. 2000b. Kempele Haukkasuo. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Okkonen, J. 2001. Cairns and cultural landscape: an attempt to define Stone Age and Bronze Age land use and territoriality in Ostrobothnia, Finland. Faravid 25, 23–35. Okkonen, J. 2003. Jättiläisten hautoja ja hirveitä kiviröykkiöitä – Pohjanmaan muinaisten kivirakennelmien arkeologiaa. Acta Universitatis Ouluensis Humaniora B 52. Oulu, University of Oulu. Okkonen, J. 2008. Iin Muhojoen etelärannan röykkiötutkimus keväällä 2008. Unpublished excavation report at the Oulu university laboratory of archaeology. Okkonen, J. 2010. Excavation of an early metal age burial cairn in Ii, Northern Ostrobothnia. Faravid 34, 17–28. Olsen, M. 1970. Power in Societies. New York, The McMillan Company. Paavola, K. 1984. Piirteitä keskisen Pohjanmaan rautakaudesta. Faravid 8, 13–23. Pihlman, S. 1990. Kansainvaellus- ja varhaisen merovinkiajan aseet Suomessa. Typologia, kronologia ja aseet ryhmästrategioissa. Iskos 10. The Finnish antiquarian society, Vammala. Pihlman, S. (2004) Väestöräjähdys historiallisella ajalla? Voisiko aineistoja tulkita toisinkin? Aboa 66–67, 44– 77. Price, N. 2002. The Viking Way. Religion and War in Late Iron Age Scandinavia. Aun 31. Uppsala, University of Uppsala. Pursiainen, E. and R. Norrman 1985 Lövbacka-fyndet i bild. Studia archaeologica Ostrobotniensia, 78–94. Pykälä-Aho, P. 1984. Maalahti, Storsjön, Nisseshagen. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Raninen, S. 2005. Tuskan teatteri Turun Kärsämäessä. Ajatuksia ja sitaatteja roomalaisesta rautakaudesta. I osa: Maarian Kärsämäki ja Itämeren maailma. Muinaistutkija 2005 (4), 40–71. Raninen, S. 2006. Tuskan teatteri Turun Kärsämäessä.. II osa: väkivalta varhaisrautakauden kontekstissa. Muinaistutkija 2006 (3), 2–22.

Risla, P. 2006. Isokyrö Valtaala Rapakkojenkallio. Unpublished inspection report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Sarkkinen, M. and M. Torvinen 2003. Pohjois-Pohjanmaan kiinteät muinaisjäännökset osa 4. Oulu, PohjoisPohjanmaan liitto. Sarvas, A. 1977. Vöyri, Lågpelt, Svedjeholmen. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Salminen, E. 1997. Mustasaari, Västersolf, Kalasar. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Salmo, H. 1938. Die Waffen der Merowingerzeit in Finnland. Suomen muinaismuistoyhdistuksen aikakauskirja 42 (1). Helsinki, The Finnish antiquarian society. Salo, U. 1968. Die Frührömische Zeit in Finnland. Suomen muinaismuistoyhdistyksen aikakauskirja 67. Vammala, The Finnish antiquarian society. Sarasmo, E. 1937. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Sarasmo, E. 1939. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Smeds, R. 2004. Djurpynt of guldmynt på Gulldynt. Den folkvandringstida/merovingertida boplatsen/ gravplatsen vid Gulldynt i Vörå, Österbotten, Finland. CD-uppsats i arkeologi, Umeå universitet. Svarvar, K. 2002. Brandgravfältet vid Pörnullbacken. Tolkningar av gravskick och gravritual. In K. Viklund and K. Gullberg (eds.), Från romartid till vikingatid, 121-157. Vaasa, Scriptum. Taavitsainen, J.-P. 1990 Ancient hillforts of Finland: problems of analysis, chronology and interpretation with special reference to the hillfort of Kuhmoinen. Suomen muinaismuistoyhdistyksen aikakauskirja 94. Ekenäs, The Finnish antiquarian society. Tallgren, A. 1912. Unpublished excavation report in the topographical archives of the National board of antiquities. Tegengren, J. 1929. Gravfältet på Lågpeltkangas i Vörå. Arkiv för Svenska Österbotten II (1), 3–21. Trinkaus, K. 1995. Mortuary behavior, labor organization, and social rank. In L. Beck (ed.), Regional approaches to mortuary analysis, 53-75. New York, Plenum Press. Vaneeckhout, S. 2008. Sedentism on the Finnish northwest coast: shoreline reduction and reduced mobility. Fennoscandia archaeologica 25, 61–72. Vaneeckhout, S. 2009. Aggregation and polarization in northwest coastal Finland. Socio-ecological evolution between 6500 and 4000 cal BP. Unpublished PhD dissertation. Pulu, University of Oulu. Wessman, A. 2009a. Polttokenttäkalmistot muistojen maisemassa. Arkeologipäivät 2008, 30–37. Wessman, A. 2009b. Levänluhta – a place of punishment, sacrifice or just a common cemetery? Fennoscandia archaeologica 26, 81–105.

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N-TAG TEN APPENDIX 1 Chosen burial sites in the research area In this appendix the excavated burials in the 86 sites used in the study are listed. The number of burials is an estimation based on what is known of the site. As few osteological analyses have been made of the burials, often the exact number of individual burials cannot be determined. The scholars, who have studied the sites, are referred to in the tables. Numbers in parenthesis denote weapon burials. Note that Levänluhta and Käldamäki are presented in this table for reference and are not included, for reasons explained in the text, in any analyses. Dating code A B C D E U

Period Pre-Roman Iron Age Early Roman Iron Age Late Roman Iron Age Migration Period Merovingian Period Undated

286

Laihia Laihia Laihia Laihia Laihia Maalahti Maalahti Maalahti Maalahti Maalahti Maalahti Mustasaari Mustasaari Mustasaari Mustasaari Mustasaari Mustasaari Mustasaari Närpiö Närpiö Närpiö

Municipality Ii Isokyrö Isokyrö Isokyrö Isokyrö Isokyrö Isokyrö Kempele Kokkola Kokkola Kokkola Laihia Laihia Laihia Laihia Laihia Laihia

Site Dating Muhojoen eteläranta A Kaaminmäki/Hiisimäki D Leväluhta E Niemenmaanmäki D Pukkila D–E Rapakkojenkallio E Rinta-Ulvinen E Linnakangas A Dalaskogen B Rajakallio C Strömmes A Kalkkivuori 2 A Kalliolaakso/Kiimakangas D–E Karjatarhanmäki länsi C Kiviniemenmäki D Käyppälän Palomäki D Mujanvainion-Hietaanmetsän C–E alue Nuorisoseurantalo D–E Nyysti E Riitasaari A Viirikallio A Vuoruusenmäki D Junkarsbränna D Kopparbacken D–E Langerskogen D Lilltelsar D Nisseshagen S–N C–E Petalax–Rimossbacken A Middagshult B Storhällorna 1–2 A Sulva Finnmossbacken A Sulva Kalasar A Sulva Kivnesskogen A Sulva Lassmaberget D Sulva Mässbäcksskogen E A Norrskogens Fäbobacke B Edsbacken C–D Pörtom-Pörtbäcken A

287 2

1

3 1 1 2

3

4 3

2 2

1

A 1

1

3

1

B

1

1

1(1)

1

1

C

1

(1)

6(1) (1) 1 1(1) (1) (1)

(2)

(1) 3 9

(1)

1 (1)

(1)

D

(2)

(1) (1)

(1)

1

(2) (1) (1)

52

E

REFERENCES Okkonen 2008; 2010 Sarasmo 1937 Meinander 1950; Niskanen 2006; Wessman 2009 3 Sarasmo 1939; Meinander 1950 Hackman 1938; Meinander 1950; Pihlman 1990 Hackman 1920; Salmo 1938; Risla 2006 Äyräpää 1935; Kivikoski 1936; Meinander 1950 Mäkivuoti 1983; 1985 Meinander 1946; Okkonen 2003 1 Luho 1957; Meinander 1977; Paavola 1984; Okkonen 2003 Meinander 1946; Okkonen 2003 Miettinen 1998, Okkonen 2003 2 Meinander 1950; Miettinen 1998 Meinander 1950; Miettinen 1998 Hackman 1910; Meinander 1950; Miettinen 1998 1 Meinander 1950; Keskitalo 1979; Miettinen 1998 Ignatius 1874; Salmo 1938; Meinander 1945; 1950; Keskitalo 1979; Miettinen 1998 Aspelin 1899; Hackman 1905; Meinander 1950; Miettinen 1998 Ignatius 1874; Meinander 1950, Miettinen 1998 Miettinen 1998 Miettinen 1991a; 1992; 1994; 1998; Kuusela 2010; Kuusela et al. 2010 Meinander 1945; 1950; Miettinen 1998 Hackman 1905; Meinander 1950; Pihlman 1990 Salmo 1938; Meinander 1950 Hackman 1905; Meinander 1950; Pihlman 1990 Äyräpää 1936; Meinander 1950 Kivikoski 1946; Meinander 1950; Pykälä-Aho 1984; Miettinen 1986b; 1986c Miettinen 1994b Honkanen 1983a Honkanen 1984a, b Miettinen 2005 Salminen 1997 Honkanen 1983b; 1984c 1 Engblom 1989; NBA 2009 Lauren 1995 Miettinen 1991c 4(2) Meinander 1950; Keskitalo 1979 Miettinen 1991b

U

Jari-Matti Kuusela: Tools of lethal play

Esse-Träskbacken

Tervakangas

Helgabacken Jepua Råbacken 2 Ainmaa-Palolakso Alhonmäki-Pahamäki Haavistonmäki Kaavontönkkä Kirstinmäki

Kotsalonmäki KullahanmäkiHeikinluhdanmäki Linnanpelto Mahlaistentönkkä Ojamäki Palomäki Prutanmäki Pääkköönmäki-Vuorenmaa Ristimäki Tervajoki – AittomäkiKarpinmäki Tervajoki – Höysälänmäki Tervajoki – Koppelomäki Tervajoki – Pajuperkiönmäki Tervajoki – Peltoisenmäki Vallinmäki Gulldynt Kaparkullen Käldamäki Latjineliden Lågpeltkangas

Pedersöre

Raahe

Uusikaarlepyy Uusikaarlepyy Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö

Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö

288

Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa

Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö Vähäkyrö

Site Pörtom-Velkanebäcken Övermark-Fönäs udden Välikangas Esse-Högbacken

Municipality Närpiö Närpiö Oulu Pedersöre

D D B D D D–E E U C–E C, E

D–E D–E D–E D E C–D E C–D

E C

C A D D–E E E D–E

B–C

B

Dating A B C–D C–D

1

A 5

2(7)

4(1)

(1)

1

B

1(1) (1)

2

1

1

(1) 1 (1)

1 1

1

1 2(1) (1) 1

1(2)

2(1) 2

1(3) 1

D

2(1)

(1)

(1)

2

2(4) 1(1)

C

(1) 1(1)

(1) (1)

(1)

(1)

(1) 1(1) (1)

(2)

(1) (1) (1)

E

Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 (1) Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 6(1) Meinander 1950; Salo 1968; Ahtela 1981 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 1 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 Salmo 1938; Meinander 1950; 1977; Pihlman 1990; Smeds 2004 Meinander 1950 7 Meinander 1950; 1977 2 Meinander 1950; Keskitalo 1979 Tegengren 1929; Salmo 1938; Meinander 1950; Keskitalo 1979; Baudou 1988; Pihlman 1990

Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981; Pihlman 1990 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 1 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 3 Meinander 1950; Keskitalo 1979; Ahtela 1981 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 1(1) Meinander 1950; Keskitalo 1979; Ahtela 1981 4

Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 Meinander 1950; Keskitalo 1979; Ahtela 1981

REFERENCES Tallgren 1912 Miettinen 1984; 1986d 2(1) Mäkivuoti 1996; 2009 Okkonen 2003, based on Okkonen, this site has probably been confused in previous research with other sites, see Paavola 1984. Meinander 1977; Paavola 1984; Okkonen 2003. According to Okkonen this site is the “Lillmossbacken” mentioned in earlier research. 3 Forss et al. 1991; 1992; 1993; 1994; Forss and Jarva 1992; Jarva 1999; Leppiaho 2005 3 Keskitalo 1979; Paavola 1984; Okkonen 2003 Kotivuori 1987; 1992; Gestrin 1988 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981 2 Meinander 1950; Ahtela 1981; Pihlman 1990

U

N-TAG TEN

Municipality Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa Vöyri-Maksamaa

Site Lövbacken Pörnullbacken Sandbacka-Lågpeld Soldat-Stomparen Svedjeholmen Tunis Viskusbacken

Dating E C–E D–E E C E D–E

A

B

2

1 (1)1

(1)

1

D

C

(1) (1)

E (1) (1) 1 (1)

1

2

U

REFERENCES Miettinen 1985; Norrman 1985; Pursiainen & Norrman 1985 Keskitalo 1979; Gullberg 2002; Svarvar 2002 Hackman 1921; Meinander 1950; Pihlman 1990 Meinander 1950 Sarvas 1977 Meinander 1950; Pihlman 1990 Meinander 1950

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