Human Expeditions: Inspired by Bruce Trigger 9781442664555

Table of contents :
Contents
Contributors
Acknowledgments
Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar
1.The Land of Punt and Recent Archaeological and Textual Evidence from the Pharaonic Harbour at Mersa/ Wadi Gawasis, Egypt
2. The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics
3. “Slaves” and Slave Raiding on the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land
4. Contextualizing the Phenomenology of Landscape
5. The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology
6. Experiments and Their Application to Lithic Archaeology: An Experimental Essay
7. The History of Archaeology as a Field: From Marginality to Recognition
8. Cultural Continuity, Identity, and Archaeological Practice in the Indian Context
9. A Citation Analysis of the Works Included in Americanist Culture History: Fundamentals of Time, Space, and Form
10. Bruce Trigger: “A Second International Marxist”?
11. Bruce Trigger and the Philosophical Matrix of Scientific Research
12. What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity?
13. Age, Equality, and Inequality: A New Model for Social Evolution
14. Figurative Activity in an Evolutionary Perspective
References
Index

Citation preview

HUMAN EXPEDITIONS Inspired by Bruce Trigger Edited by Stephen Chrisomalis and Andre Costopoulos

In its obituary of Bruce Trigger ( – ), the Times of London referred to the Canadian anthropologist and archaeologist as “Canada’s leading prehistorian” and “one of the most influential archaeologists of his time.” Trained at Yale University and a faculty member at McGill University for more than forty years, he was best known for his History of Archaeological Thought, which the Times called “monumental.” Trigger inspired scholars all over the world through his questioning of assumptions and his engagement with social and political causes. Human Expeditions pays tribute to Trigger’s immense legacy by bringing together cu ing-edge work from internationally recognized and emerging researchers whom he inspired. Covering the length and breadth of Trigger’s wide-ranging interests – from Egyptology to the history of archaeological theory to North American aboriginal cultures – this volume highlights the diversity of his academic work and the magnitude of his impact in many different areas of scholarship. is an assistant professor in the Department of Anthropology at Wayne State University. is an associate professor in the Department of Anthropology at McGill University.

Bruce Trigger. Courtesy of McGill University.

Human Expeditions Inspired by Bruce Trigger

EDITED BY STEPHEN CHRISOMALIS AND ANDRE COSTOPOULOS

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO PRESS Toronto Buffalo London

© University of Toronto Press Toronto Buffalo London www.utppublishing.com Printed in Canada ISBN

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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Human expeditions : inspired by Bruce Trigger / edited by Stephen Chrisomalis and Andre Costopoulos. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN -. Trigger, Bruce G.  . Trigger, Bruce G – Influence.  . Archaeology – Canada.  . Anthropology – Canada. I. Chrisomalis, Stephen, – II. Costopoulos, Andre, – CC

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This book has been published with the help of a grant from the Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences, through the Awards to Scholarly Publications Program, using funds provided by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial assistance to its publishing program of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.    University of Toronto Press acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.

Contents

Contributors vii Acknowledgments xi Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar xiii

 The Land of Punt and Recent Archaeological and Textual Evidence from the Pharaonic Harbour at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis, Egypt  .  The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics   “Slaves” and Slave Raiding on the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land   Contextualizing the Phenomenology of Landscape   The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology  .  Experiments and Their Application to Lithic Archaeology: An Experimental Essay 

vi Contents

   The History of Archaeology as a Field: From Marginality to Recognition     Cultural Continuity, Identity, and Archaeological Practice in the Indian Context     A Citation Analysis of the Works Included in Americanist Culture History: Fundamentals of Time, Space, and Form   Bruce Trigger: “A Second International Marxist”?  .  Bruce Trigger and the Philosophical Matrix of Scientific Research   What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity?   Age, Equality, and Inequality: A New Model for Social Evolution   Figurative Activity in an Evolutionary Perspective  . References  Index 

Contributors

Stephen Chrisomalis is assistant professor of anthropology at Wayne State University. A specialist in the study of numerals and cross-cultural mathematics, he is the author of Numerical Notation: A Comparative History. His other research interests include comparative anthropology, writing systems and literacy, and cognitive anthropology. Andre Costopoulos is associate professor of anthropology and associate dean of student affairs at McGill University. His research interests include Neolithic European archaeology, agent-based simulations, and computational methods in archaeology. He is the co-editor of Simulating Change: Archaeology into the Twenty-First Century. Kathryn Bard is professor of archaeology at Boston University. One of the world’s experts on late prehistoric Egypt, she has published numerous articles and books in this field, and is the editor of the Encyclopedia of the Archaeology of Ancient Egypt. She is a recipient of the National Geographic Society’s Chairman’s Award for Exploration and is a fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences. Martin Bernal is professor emeritus of government and Near Eastern studies at Cornell University. His wide intellectual interests range from Chinese and Southeast Asian history to the relationship between classical and African civilizations. His controversial three-volume masterwork Black Athena ( – ) brings his work into contact with anthropology, archaeology, and linguistics.

viii Contributors

John Bintliff is professor of classical archaeology at the University of Leiden. He is a renowned figure in Mediterranean archaeology, specializing in landscape archaeology and archaeological theory. Elected a Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries in , he has published numerous books and articles in prehistoric, classical, and medieval archaeology. Jennifer Bracewell is a doctoral candidate in anthropology at McGill University. Her research focuses on Iron Age Finland, the archaeology of landscapes and of monumental architecture, and on cognitive and semiotic approaches to archaeology. Her work has been published in the Archaeological Review from Cambridge. Mario Bunge is professor emeritus of philosophy at McGill University. He is one of the world’s pre-eminent philosophers of science, a fellow of the American Association for the Advancement of Science and of the Royal Society of Canada, and most recently, a Guggenheim Fellow. He has wri en over five hundred papers and fi y books across multiple fields of philosophy, physics, and mathematics, most notably his ninevolume Treatise on Basic Philosophy ( – ). Jerimy Cunningham is assistant professor of anthropology at the University of Lethbridge. His research interests include the archaeology of Africa, ethnoarchaeology, ceramic analysis, and archaeological theory. His research has appeared in the Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute and the Journal of Anthropological Archaeology. Csilla Dallos is associate professor of anthropology at St. Thomas University. She is a sociocultural anthropologist whose research focuses on hunter-gatherers, Southeast Asia, and social inequality and autonomy. Her monograph, From Equality to Inequality: Social Change among Newly Sedentary Lanoh Hunter-Gatherer Traders of Peninsular Malaysia, was published by the University of Toronto Press in . Rodolfo Fa ovich is professor of Ethiopian archaeology at the Università degli Studi di Napoli “L’Orientale.” He is the co-director (with Kathryn Bard) of excavations at the port of Wadi Gawasis, a major Middle Kingdom Egyptian site. A specialist in the kingdom of Aksum, he has published several major monographs and research reports on this subject.

Contributors ix

Neha Gupta completed her doctorate in anthropology at McGill University in . Her areas of specialty include the history of archaeology, geographical information systems, and the archaeology of India. Her recent research features in the volume Scientists and Scholars in the Field: Studies in the History of Fieldwork and Expeditions. Alice Beck Kehoe is professor emerita of anthropology at Marque e University. Her research foci include American archaeology, cultural contact and trade, the history of archaeology, and North American ethnohistory. Her critical histories of archaeology, including The Land of Prehistory and Controversies in Archaeology, represent major contributions to archaeological theory, methodology, and history. Leo Klejn is professor emeritus of archaeology at the European University at Saint Petersburg. He is one of the most prominent figures in Russian archaeological theory over the last several decades, and has published over five hundred articles and monographs in English, German, and Russian over that time. Arrested and imprisoned for his political and intellectual positions in the s, following perestroika he was restored to his position at Saint Petersburg, and also co-founded and taught at the European University at Saint Petersburg until his retirement. Harry Lerner is a post-doctoral research fellow in archaeology at Université Laval. He specializes in lithics, experimental archaeology, and use-wear analysis in the prehistoric American Southwest and Ontario. His work has been featured in the Journal of Archaeological Science. Oscar Moro Abadía is assistant professor of archaeology at Memorial University of Newfoundland. He is a specialist in the history of archaeology, the history and philosophy of social and historical sciences, and Paleolithic art. His book, Arqueología Prehistórica e Historia de la ciencia: Hacia una historia crítica de la arqueología, is a major contribution to the critical history of archaeology. Thomas Pa erson is distinguished professor and chair of anthropology at the University of California, Riverside. He is a world-renowned specialist in Andean archaeology, the history of anthropology and archaeology, and Marxist and critical thought. He has published over twenty books and one hundred articles and chapters over his career.

x Contributors

Jérôme Rousseau is professor of anthropology at McGill University. He is a sociocultural anthropologist specializing in Southeast Asia, the evolution of social complexity, the anthropology of religion, and cognitive anthropology. His most recent monograph is Rethinking Social Evolution: The Perspective from Middle-Range Societies.

Acknowledgments

This volume originated out of discussions in and around the Department of Anthropology at McGill University in – , at which time both of us were junior scholars who should have known be er. Fortunately, neither of us had the good sense to think too deeply on the labour that would lie ahead of us. We would like to thank Rosalyn Trigger for her initial comments on our proposal to put together this volume and her insight regarding the guiding philosophy under which we have prepared it. Michael Bisson, one of Bruce’s closest friends, was of significant assistance in thinking about the relationship of this volume to the earlier The Archaeology of Bruce Trigger: Theoretical Empiricism (Williamson and Bisson 2006), and in encouraging us throughout. Doug Hildebrand, our editor at the University of Toronto Press, has been the genial shepherd of this project despite our occasional tendency to behave as cats rather than sheep, for which he has our endless gratitude. Our student research assistants, Jessica Dolan, David Groves, and Kenneth Stilwell, participated in various stages of editorial work, in particular ensuring consistency among the various chapters. Sherylyn Briller provided an essential piece of advice at a tipping point in the volume’s history. We wish to thank the anonymous peer reviewers whose comments on versions of the manuscript have greatly improved it, and the staff at the University of Toronto Press who have worked to produce the volume from start to finish, particularly Kate Baltais and Katherine MacIvor. Our gratitude, of course, extends to all of the authors whose marvellous contributions to the volume stand as a testament to the ongoing influence of Bruce Trigger’s ideas on contemporary scholarship. When we initially sent out a request for contributions, we had only an inkling

xii Acknowledgments

of the response we would eventually receive, including numerous notes of regret from scholars who were unable to contribute but who wished to recount an anecdote about Bruce’s influence or reflect on his importance to scholarship. These have greatly shaped our thinking in compiling the volume, and we thank them also. Funding for the preparation of this volume has been provided by the Dean of Arts, McGill University; the Office of the Vice-President for Research, Wayne State University; and the Awards to Scholarly Publications Program, Canadian Federation for the Humanities and Social Sciences. Lastly, but foremost, we wish to thank our families for their love and support. Stephen Chrisomalis would like to thank his wife, Julia Pope, for her understanding and tolerance over the past four years, and his son Arthur for helping to keep things in perspective. Andre Costopoulos would like to thank his long-suffering wife Nicole and his children Alexis and Ariane.

Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar

This volume is not a memorial. Our conviction is that our friend and mentor, Bruce Trigger (1937– 2006) would hardly have wanted to see in print yet another set of heartfelt but ultimately sterile testimonials to his life and work. Now, several years a er his death, the time for such tributes is past. This volume exists, not because of what Trigger did or did not do during forty years of productive academic labour, but because so much work along lines we think he would have endorsed remains unfinished, unbegun, or even unthinkable, in the present intellectual climate. Bruce Trigger was deeply unimpressed by orthodoxy. He pursued and evaluated ideas regardless of their origin and rigorously examined the implications of theoretical statements, whether or not they were dominant. His willingness to question received wisdom, combined with the exceptional rigour of his thought and the clarity of his writing, allowed him to position himself as reviewer and arbiter in debates in which most were mere protagonists. This role did not always endear him to those protagonists, as when Lewis Binford infamously opined, following the publication of Beyond History (Trigger 1968a), that Trigger was be er suited to become a shoe salesman than an archaeologist (cf. Trigger 1998: 78; Schiffer 1995: 3). That Trigger should have so many of us willing and eager to continue his work, despite the perils of this sometimes liminal position, is a testament to the fact that, as Bruce showed us, one can be unflinching without being unkind. As testimonial to this ability, Bruce Trigger is remembered and recognized for two contributions that are usually seen as opposed and contradictory endeavours. He was at once keenly aware of the importance of historical understanding and contextualization, while also

xiv Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar

remaining a relentless advocate for the need for general explanatory frameworks. He inspired work that produces detailed and rigorous descriptions of archaeological and historical contexts, and at the same time he inspired work that seeks to weave data from a number of contexts into explanatory frameworks using comparative methods and cognitive and evolutionary theories. This ability to challenge dominance without falling into a muddled moderacy makes it difficult to identify particular work as “Triggerian,” and it is not our desire (nor indeed would it have been Bruce’s) to form or inspire a school of thought. Bruce told graduate students in his renowned archaeological theory seminar that the most important reason to know theory is to avoid becoming a theoretician. In reading the bibliography of Trigger’s publications found in The Archaeology of Bruce Trigger (2006: 259–91), one is struck by how many of his writings would be essentially unpublishable today, in a climate that simultaneously praises interdisciplinarity while forcing narrow labels onto scholarship. Where, for instance, would “Brecht and ethnohistory” (1975) or “Akhenaten and Durkheim” (1981b) find a home? What junior archaeologist today would be encouraged to write several speculative papers on eastern Sudanic linguistics (Trigger 1964, 1966) – even as it culminated in an understanding of ancient Meroitic that has largely been vindicated (see Rilly 2008)? Where would a junior professor and an amateur archaeologist jointly be able to publish a full-length monograph (Pendergast and Trigger 1972)? Trigger’s work invites reflection on an alternate history of the social sciences in which conformity to convention is not an expectation. But as Trigger reminded us so o en, human beings do have agency to bring about change (within limits) in social practices and behaviour. The authors of the contributions to this volume come from a wide range of disciplines, in all career stages, but all have been influenced by Bruce Trigger. The most senior authors are his contemporaries, and they had a lifelong academic dialogue with him. Some were students when he was a young professor and are now senior figures whose work was given an initial impetus by contact with Bruce Trigger’s ideas. Others are his recent students, even some who were undergraduates when he passed away and are now embarking on academic careers, in no small part thanks to his influence. In flouting the disciplinary custom of acknowledging student assistants in all-too-o en unread lists of names, we once again recognize here the work of our own student assistants,

Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar xv

Jessica Dolan, David Groves, and Kenneth Stilwell in proofreading, editing, and compiling this text, and corresponding with authors. The Archaeology of Bruce Trigger: Theoretical Empiricism (Williamson and Bisson 2006) was an outgrowth of a 2004 Society for American Archaeology symposium, and was published just two months before Trigger’s death in December 2006. It serves as a monumental tribute to Trigger’s influence in anthropological archaeology, and we recognize and thank Ron Williamson and Michael Bisson for their tremendous efforts in compiling it. Yet, Trigger’s scholarly reach goes much further than archaeology, narrowly defined – into Egyptology, ethnohistory, evolutionary anthropology, Marxist theory, Native American studies, and the history and philosophy of science, in all of which his work is read deeply, and in all of which he has students and friends wishing to pay him tribute. No full reckoning of Bruce Trigger’s influence could be complete without the inclusion of scholarship from this full range of fields, as well as anthropological archaeology. In an age when interdisciplinarity is a convenient buzzword, we seek to inject into contemporary intellectual discourse a plea for a more diverse historical science of humanity. This volume was inspired by work we undertook cataloguing Bruce Trigger’s papers (now held at the McGill University Archives) and academic library in 2007, during which we discovered anew his extensive network of friends and colleagues through his charming practice (if frustrating from an archival perspective) of placing correspondents’ le ers in their own books in his library. The presence of old issues of the New Diffusionist and Catastrophist Geology reminded us of Bruce’s insistence on the importance of taking seriously ideas outside the present mainstream, a view reinforced by Bruce’s own experiences as an undergraduate in the 1950s in an era when continental dri was considered to be superstition (Trigger 1998a: 24). Given Trigger’s interest in discontinuity in the history of knowledge, we think it apt to return to discontinuities evident today through work that fills in terra incognita on the maps of the contemporary human sciences. Thus, how be er to begin, than with a literal terra incognita, the land of Punt? The importance of Trigger’s work on the southern periphery of the ancient Egyptian world is today viewed, through a methodological lens, as a contribution to se lement archaeology or to comparative studies of civilizations. These are the only ways that anthropological archaeology has been able to incorporate Egyptological scholarship, which is

xvi Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar

otherwise viewed as a classical and philological discipline. Yet, for Trigger, Egyptology was a social and historical science even when it was not comparative (Trigger 1979). His Nubia under the Pharaohs (Trigger 1976a) is at least as much of a work of anthropology as his Children of Aataentsic (Trigger 1976b), which appeared in the same year. Kathryn Bard and Rodolfo Fa ovich take an important step in bringing to bear textual and archaeological evidence on the question of the location of Punt. This is the sort of detailed archaeological work on which Trigger’s comparative method relied, and with which he was intimately familiar. Trigger’s frequent lack of proper regard for orthodoxy inspired and encouraged others to follow unorthodox paths and to explore ideas that find disfavour with the reviewers of academic journals. Martin Bernal’s body of scholarship, always controversial (and with which Trigger certainly had disagreements), exemplifies this principle. Although Trigger disagreed with many of Bernal’s conclusions in Black Athena (1987–2006), we believe he would receive the contribution to the present volume congenially. Bernal’s chapter illustrates the ways in which empirical and social factors integrate in explaining European scholars’ perceptions of the blackness of Africa in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. It thus stands as an interesting complement to Trigger’s Archaeology and the Image of the American Indian (1980). So, too, the work of Alice Kehoe reflects the precept of principled scholarly dissent (including dissent with Trigger himself). Trigger’s extensive work in Iroquoian ethnohistory was not merely an accounting of cultural history, but rather constituted a deep reflection on the nature of social inequality in pre-contact and early contact indigenous peoples of the Americas, and the epistemological and social difficulties involved in theorizing that inequality. Kehoe’s contribution to this volume, confronting thorny conceptual and interpretative issues relating to slave raiding in the ethnohistorical record of the Great Plains, reflects that spirit admirably. In presenting an account of pre- and proto-historic inequality, Kehoe reminds us that to paint a portrait of societies in all their full humanity requires that we acknowledge that humanity is not always humane, or, as Trigger reminds us, All People Are [Not] Good (2003b). Starting from a “post-it” note on an offprint of Trigger’s Early Native North American Responses to European Contact (1991a), John Bintliff takes us on a journey that challenges radically relativistic views of perception and embodied experience. Bintliff ’s account of the phenomenology of landscape criticizes contemporary post-processual archaeology on its own terms, deconstructing its own dualities. Using historical evidence

Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar xvii

to theorize the human co-evolution with the environment, Bintliff contextualizes landscape archaeologists and shows them to be trapped in determinisms of their own creation, instead offering a vision of humans in holistic interaction with their natural and built environments as well as their own evolved perceptual capacities. Trigger’s moderate scientific realism was never just “theory for theory’s sake”; he sought to instil in his students the awareness that their methodologies carried consequences for their theories. In his chapter, Jerimy Cunningham tries to decouple ethnoarchaeology from its roots in the New Archaeology, seeking instead a scientific moderate relativism grounded in the ethnographic reality of modern cultural life, and in which ethnoarchaeology’s contributions are complementary to those of archaeology itself. Cunningham thus follows in the footsteps of Trigger (1981a), who argued that archaeology is vital for understanding ethnographic evidence but should not define itself by the goals of ethnology. Harry Lerner, another former student of Trigger at McGill, follows Trigger’s constant injunction to improve the methods that link our observations with our explanatory frameworks. Lerner’s methodologically but also historically oriented chapter stands at this epistemological crossroads that mobilized a great deal of Trigger’s interest. In If Childe Were Alive Today, Trigger claimed, “Childe would almost certainly approve the growing importance of experimental archaeology, especially efforts to determine by means of controlled replication how stone, bone, and other tools were made and used” (1982a: 8). If Trigger were alive today, he would almost certainly approve of Lerner’s methodologically inclusive, historically situated account of experimental methods in lithics. Trigger’s work in the history of archaeology is perhaps his most monumental contribution in a body of scholarship with many such pinnacles. Building on Trigger’s own remarks on the historiography of archaeology (2001), Oscar Moro Abadía takes us one step further and begins to consider the history of the history of archaeology. In doing so, Moro Abadía not only begins to place the history of archaeology as a sub-discipline of archaeology, but also begins to place Trigger himself in the history that he in some ways initiated. Indeed, if one were to contrast Trigger’s earliest systematic foray into the history of archaeology (1968b) with the second edition of A History of Archaeological Thought (2006a), his pioneering role in moving the history of archaeology beyond its progressivist roots is made clear at a biographical scale.

xviii Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar

We cannot imagine that Trigger would have collected a set of papers of interest to him without including the work of scholars still finishing their doctorates. Neha Gupta, who came to McGill’s anthropology department as a PhD student in the last year of Trigger’s life, presents a history of post-colonial Indian archaeology that addresses and questions essentialist models of race, language, and caste. Gupta is dealing with dangerous material here, striking at the heart of the theory of cultural continuity and biological essentialism in Indian archaeology, and whereas Trigger did so (1984b) from a position of security as a senior scholar, Gupta’s account is made as a junior scholar. It invites comparison with Trigger’s early paradigm-challenging work on race, such as his sadly forgo en yet incisive review essay, “Coon’s Theory on The Origin of Races” (Trigger 1965), published before he received tenure at McGill. Jennifer Bracewell presents the results of a citation analysis conducted at Trigger’s urging, in the context of one of the last iterations of his course on the history of archaeological theory. Although he never conducted such research himself, Trigger was aware of the value of citation analysis to the history of archaeology as early as 1985, far before it enjoyed its current popularity in an era of electronic online databases (Trigger 1985b). Bracewell’s essay is self-reflective and deeply personal, an experiment in returning to Trigger’s classroom in which every student was a junior scholar whose ideas were worthy of respect, and a reminder of the way that our students should be treated in an era when mentorship is rapidly being alienated within the academy. Thomas Pa erson presents a reflective account of Trigger’s archaeology and its relationship to Marxism. While Trigger was always uneasy with the unqualified label “Marxist,” the question was never whether he was a Marxist, but exactly what sort of Marxist he could be, given the intellectual perils he had so trenchantly demonstrated to exist in many varieties of Marxist thought (see Trigger 1993). The answer, it turns out, comes from Trigger himself, in a casual remark made at the lunch table, coupled with a detailed analysis of Trigger’s own writings on the matter. Pa erson reminds us that Trigger, just as he could at once embrace historical texture and general explanatory frameworks, was more than capable of being a detached observer and rigorous scholar while at the same time being an engaged activist and citizen. Trigger the scholar and Trigger the activist were never separate entities, which perhaps became clearest in his very public advocacy for Aboriginal North Americans’ custodianship of their own material culture.

Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar xix

Mario Bunge, Trigger’s long-time friend and colleague at McGill University, reflects very differently on Trigger’s philosophy and legacy, placing him in the context of materialist “scientific realism,” not chiefly as a Marxist but rather as a sceptical scientist. Bunge frames his argument in terms of the history and philosophy of the physical and biological sciences over the past half-millennium. Trigger’s rejection of hyper-relativism and adoption of a materialist, scientific realist position was no mere posture, but a reflection of his conviction that philosophers needed to become more aware of the value of scientific inquiry for answering any question of value, including ultimate questions of epistemology and ontology (Trigger 1998a). Jérôme Rousseau reminds us that regardless of the context in which they were born, of the reasons for which they are a acked or defended, or of whether they are dominant or peripheral, the implications and consequences of theoretical statements and positions must be rigorously worked out and evaluated. Rousseau’s account of the origin of cognitive domains is non-Chomskyan and non-adaptationist, but certainly not non-evolutionary. Trigger’s own cognitive anthropology was complex and understated in most of his publications – perhaps his best-kept secret. It is best reflected in his AAA distinguished lecture in archaeology, Constraint and Freedom (Trigger 1991b), as well as in the remarkable assertions in Understanding Early Civilizations (Trigger 2003a) that inspired Rousseau’s account. Csilla Dallos, a student of Trigger and of Rousseau, presents an account of social and political evolution and egalitarianism that likewise pays close a ention to the cognitive and biological processes underlying all human activity, without relegating evolutionary anthropology to the role of passive recipient of biological thought. In his course lectures, Trigger o en stressed that evolutionary theory was at least as old in the social sciences as it was in biology, and that social evolution was not, and should not be, a simple application of biological ideas to culture. In his publications on social inequality in smaller-scale societies like Iroquoian polities, Trigger (1990), like Dallos, reminds us that sociocultural evolution is not only about states, but about cultural processes and behaviours underlying inequality in all societies. Trigger actively and vocally defended the intellectual liberty of those who faced more overt and dangerous orthodoxies than those faced by Western scholars. Along with Ezra Zubrow, in the late 1970s Trigger led a campaign to have prominent Soviet archaeologist and political prisoner Leo Klejn freed from captivity. He then worked to bring

xx Bruce Trigger: Citizen Scholar

Klejn’s views on archaeological theory to Western audiences, initiating a mutually beneficial, open dialogue that anticipated perestroika by a decade. We end the volume with Klejn’s radical, materialist, and somewhat speculative envisioning of the evolution of art. In Understanding Early Civilizations (2003a), the masterwork of his late career, Trigger located stronger cross-cultural similarities and evolutionary pa erns in ideational domains such as religion, art, and literacy than he did in the material conditions of existence, just as Klejn does. This is not a memorial. Indeed it is not a Festschri , intended to look back on the body of a scholar’s prodigious contributions. Rather, it is an anti-Festschri . We aim to further Trigger’s multiple lines of scholarship – to engage in our own “human expeditions” inspired by Bruce Trigger’s path-clearing research. The only fi ing way to honour our mentor and friend is to produce challenging and productive work that, we hope, will inspire others in turn. The inclusion of both senior and junior scholars for Human Expeditions reflects this hope. The choice of scholarly topics reflects Trigger’s support for groundbreaking work that challenges dominant paradigms. The scope of disciplines reflects Trigger’s own catholic a itudes to disciplinary boundaries and the range of research that can usefully be called “anthropological.” The intellectual legacy of Bruce Trigger’s scholarship cannot be fully known, and our accounting of his influence is necessarily partial. Above all else, we aspire to bring work to light that otherwise might not find a scholarly home, and to continue the human expeditions upon which our friend, mentor, and colleague has set us.

HUMAN EXPEDITIONS Inspired by Bruce Trigger

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1 The Land of Punt and Recent Archaeological and Textual Evidence from the Pharaonic Harbour at Mersa/ Wadi Gawasis, Egypt .

The land of Punt (see Figure . for map) is mentioned briefly in Bruce Trigger’s important book Nubia under the Pharaohs (Trigger a: ). Punt was where the ancient Egyptians obtained exotic raw materials not found in Egypt or its adjacent deserts, especially incense, elephant ivory, and ebony (Kitchen ). Gold/electrum was also brought from Punt. Following Kitchen ( ), Trigger placed Punt in Ethiopia or Somalia, and stated that it was reached from Egypt by overland routes up the Nile Valley through Nubia as well as by seafaring expeditions along the Red Sea (Trigger a: ). What Trigger did not know when he wrote his book, however, was the location of the staging point and harbour for the seafaring expeditions, a site named Saww (modern Mersa Gawasis, Egypt), which was discovered by Egyptologist Abdel Monem Sayed (University of Alexandria) in . Sayed spent two field seasons at this site and found textual evidence of Egyptian expeditions to Punt in the Middle Kingdom (ca. – BC), including an expedition of , men directed by Intefoqer (Intf-Ikr), the vizier of King Senusret I (Sayed , ). Reinvestigation of the harbour site began in by a joint project of the University of Naples “l’Orientale” and Boston University. Mersa Gawasis is located on the Red Sea about twenty-three kilometres south of the modern port of Safaga. Running inland from the bay of Mersa Gawasis is Wadi Gawasis, to the north of which most of the archaeological evidence has been excavated. Geological investigations by Duncan FitzGerald and Christopher Hein have demonstrated that the ancient harbour was located at least seven hundred metres inland from the present shoreline, and wadi silts have been deposited where an ancient

 Kathryn A. Bard and Rodolfo Fa ovich Figure 1.1. General map of the area showing the site of Mersa Gawasis.

lagoon was present between , and , years ago (FitzGerald and Hein ). The harbour of Saww was located near the shortest overland route from the Nile Valley in Upper Egypt to the Red Sea, starting at Qi / Coptos on the Qena Bend of the Nile – an estimated nine- or ten-day trek through wadis across the Eastern Desert. The sea route to Punt was an alternative to the river/land routes, and it was much less frequently undertaken because of the complexity of the logistics required for such expeditions, and the risky nature of long-distance voyages to and from the southern Red Sea region, about , to , kilometres to the south. The rise of the kingdom of Kerma, the second oldest state in Africa, in the late third millennium BC (and its eventual control of the Upper Nile) was probably the major impetus for the organization

The Land of Punt 

of seafaring expeditions to Punt in the Middle Kingdom, the period to which most of the excavated material at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis dates. There may also have been threats on overland routes across the Eastern Desert/Mountains from desert peoples that were belligerent or simply capable of robbing Egyptian expeditions (Bard and Fa ovich ). To date, the textual and ceramic evidence demonstrates that this harbour was used mainly in the th Dynasty (ca. – BC), as do radiocarbon dates, but two blades from the steering oar/rudder of a ship were found associated with potsherds of the early New Kingdom (Bard et al. : ). Although there are no royal inscriptions on these ship parts, the ceramics are from the same period as the famous seafaring expedition to Punt of Queen Hatshepsut (ca. – BC), which is depicted in reliefs on the south wall of her mortuary temple at Deir elBahri (western Thebes). Surface remains at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis are found in an area of approximately fourteen hectares. Archaeological evidence includes ceremonial structures along the seashore, temporary shelters on top of a fossil coral terrace (tent circles and light structures with post holes), rock-cut storerooms/man-made caves in the coral terrace, and expedition camps in the beach area next to the harbour. At the foot of the western coral terrace is a large industrial area where specialized ceramics and stone tools were made. Unlike the seventeen large mud-brick forts that were built in Nubia during the th Dynasty (Trigger a: – ), there is no evidence of large permanent architecture at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis, and use of the site was temporary – for seafaring expeditions. The main problem for permanent habitation at Saww was a lack of fresh water, which must have been obtained by excavating wells/holes in the wadi. Although the sea could have provided edible protein, and some hunting of (scarce?) desert mammals was possible, emmer wheat and barley for bread and beer, the staples of ancient Egyptian life, could not be grown in the desert environment and had to be brought from the Nile Valley to supply all expeditions. Thus, the difficult environmental conditions, lack of resources, and logistical complexities all mitigated against permanent occupation at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis (Bard and Fattovich ). The ship timbers identified by Rainer Gerisch ( : ) are of two species: cedar (Cedrus libani) and Nile acacia (Acacia nilotica). The large cedar planks for these ships originated in Lebanon, while the Nile acacia wood came from the Nile Valley. Thus, there was much complex long-distance activity involved in the seafaring expeditions from Saww,

 Kathryn A. Bard and Rodolfo Fa ovich

as represented by the ship timbers alone. From the inscribed stela of Intefoqer that Sayed found at the site, we know that a er the cedar was brought to Egypt from Lebanon, it was taken up the Nile to a shipyard at Coptos where the ships were built – and then disassembled and carried across the desert to Saww (Sayed : ). Also transported across the desert wadis to Saww were most of the Egyptian ceramics found at the site, made of Marl wares or Nile wares (Wallace-Jones ). Emmer wheat and barley, found in storage areas and hearths at the site, were used to make bread and beer, and these cereals also had to have been brought from the Nile Valley (Borojevic ). Such evidence demonstrates the enormous organizational undertaking of the royal seafaring expeditions from Saww – which is truly impressive. Textual evidence at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis referring to Punt includes the well-preserved Stela , found in lying face-down in a deposit of wind-blown sand. The cartouche on this stela is that of King Amenemhat III (ca. – BC), and the main body of the text describes expeditions to Punt and Bia-Punt, led by the officials Amenhotep and Nebsu, respectively (Pirelli : – ). The location of Bia-Punt is unknown, and it has been translated as the “Mine(s) of Punt” (Sayed : ). Inscribed artefacts (several small stelae; two large shrines, of Ankhu and Intefoqer; and an ostracon) found earlier at the site by Sayed also included mention of Punt and Bia-Punt (Sayed ; : ). Actual products from Punt have also been excavated at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis, including isolated pieces of obsidian, a stone not found in Egypt (Lucarini : ), and ebony identified from charcoal by Gerisch ( : ; ). Over forty cargo boxes used on a Punt expedition have also been excavated at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis. Painted inscriptions were found on two of these boxes with the cartouche of King Amenemhat IV (ca. – BC), a date: Year of his reign, and a text describing what the boxes contained: the “wonders of Punt” (Mahfouz : ). Although the deposits within and around the boxes were carefully sieved, no evidence to suggest what they contained was found. It is likely that the contents from Punt were transferred into other containers (linen bags?) at the harbour site for easier transport to the Nile Valley by donkey caravan. Most of the cargo boxes were made of sycamore wood from the Nile Valley, but the small dowels that held them together were of Nile acacia or tamarisk (Gerisch : ). Most likely the cargo boxes were also transported disassembled to Mersa/Wadi

The Land of Punt 

Gawasis, and then were assembled there – or in Punt – using tamarisk for dowels which was available along the Red Sea. Other evidence from the southern Red Sea region includes potsherds of Ma’layba ware, from the Aden region (Manzo a), but also ceramics from the African side: from Eritrea (Manzo ) and eastern Sudan (Manzo b). Middle Nubian ceramics have also been identified at the site (Manzo c). Given the recently excavated evidence from Mersa/Wadi Gawasis, where was the land of Punt most likely located? Punt is mentioned in ancient Egyptian texts in the Old, Middle, and New Kingdoms, as well as in the early first millennium BC (Kitchen : – ), and there is extensive literature on where Punt may have been located. It is also possible that the actual location of Punt changed through time, over the approximately , years that it is mentioned in Egyptian texts (the only known ancient textual references), which is certainly the case for the different polities/peoples in Nubia that are also known by name in Egyptian texts. Or possibly the Egyptian geographical placement of Punt changed through time, as Kitchen ( : ) suggests: that in the New Kingdom (ca. – BC) or later the Egyptians, in search of aromatics went farther afield from “their northern Punt” to the coastal regions of what are today Eritrea and northern Somalia. Probably the best-known inscriptions about Punt are in the reliefs of an expedition there in the early New Kingdom during the reign of Queen Hatshepsut (see Kitchen : – ). The fragmented reliefs in her mortuary temple include scenes of five departing ships (from an Egyptian harbour), five returning ships (to the Egyptian harbour), and the land of Punt, where the phrase “chiefs of Punt” is used several times (p. ). One chief is mentioned by name, Parahu, and is depicted with his very heavy wife, Atiya (ibid.). The fauna of Punt in this relief include long- and short-horned ca le, donkeys, a giraffe, a baboon, and a rhinoceros (pp. – ). The Puntite houses are depicted as hemispherical ones entered by ladders, and the trees of this landscape include dôm palms and incense trees (“myrrh” according to Kitchen, p. ). Already felled logs of ebony are shown as part of the tribute brought to the Egyptians, which also included rings of gold and a pile of incense – as well as live incense trees in pots. Given such flora and fauna, the most likely location of Punt in the Hatshepsut reliefs is the Horn of Africa (eastern Sudan/Eritrea, northeastern Ethiopia/Somalia; Kitchen : ).

 Kathryn A. Bard and Rodolfo Fa ovich

Based on the textual evidence, other recent suggestions about the location of the land of Punt include Kenya (Wicker ) and Arabia (Meeks ), but there are problems with these arguments (see Kitchen : – ). While Harvey ( ) discusses the “landscapes” of Punt, based on the Hatshepsut reliefs and texts, he does not suggest a specific location for this land. Balanda’s study of the textual evidence relating to Punt suggests that Punt bordered to the northeast the area occupied by the Medjayu peoples, and was to the northwest of countries/areas of Yam/Irem and Amau, mentioned in Egyptian texts (Balanda – : ). According to Balanda (ibid.), the maritime trading centre of Punt stretched from the area of modern-day Djibouti northward along the coast of Eritrea and eastern Sudan – and extended on the Asian side of the Bab el-Mandeb along the Arabian coast as far as Oman. But Balanda (ibid.) also mentions that how far the hinterland of Punt extended into Africa “is academic as the ‘Puntites’ themselves most probably acquired them [goods supplied by Punt] by trade before selling them to the Egyptians.” Possibly, according to this study, Punt was located along the African coast of the southern Red Sea region (and Somalia), and the Puntites acquired raw materials for trade to the Egyptians from both the African hinterland and coastal regions of the Arabian Peninsula. A recently discovered inscription mentioning Punt reinforces its location in Africa closer to Upper Nubia. The inscription is from the tomb chapel of Sobeknakht at Elkab, which dates to the sixteenth century BC. The text mentions an invasion in Upper Egypt by the King of Kush (the Kerma kingdom then) with soldiers from Wawat, the “Khenthen-nufer” districts, the Medjayu, and Punt (Davies a, b). According to Kitchen ( : ), this inscription indicates that (western) Punt was located to the east of the Nile above the th Cataract. Kitchen ( : ) is more specific about Punt’s African location in relation to its neighbours in the New Kingdom: the Medjayu region was along the Red Sea coast and hills to the east of Wawat (Lower Nubia and desert areas to the south and east), to the south of which was the region of the ‘Amaw, which was entirely inland, with the land of Punt extending along the coastal region south of the Medjayu and east of the ‘Amaw, from the coastal region of eastern Sudan to the Gulf of Zula in Eritrea, and considerably far inland to Kassala and the upper reaches of the Atbara River. In terms of textual evidence, the products of Punt are listed in their fullest form in the Hatshepsut reliefs: herbs, myrrh resin and myrrh

The Land of Punt 

trees, ebony and other woods, ivory, gold, incense, eye paint, live fauna and people (Kitchen : ). From the known body of Egyptian texts about Punt, aromatics were the most important goods from Punt, followed by gold, and ebony and other valuable woods (ibid.). The specific locations of these three resources in modern times are discussed by Fa ovich ( : ), suggesting that Punt (and its hinterland), which provided the raw materials that the Egyptians sought, was located in the Horn of Africa. Frankincense and myrrh trees are found in the western lowlands of Eritrea and on the Tigrean plateau. Gold and electrum occur in the Red Sea Hills and rivers of eastern Sudan, and on the Hamasien plateau of northern Eritrea. Lastly, ebony trees grow in the Red Sea Hills of eastern Sudan and the western lowlands of Eritrea (ibid.). Although not mentioned in the Hatshepsut list of the products of Punt, obsidian was used in Egypt from Predynastic times onward. This hard natural glass of volcanic origin comes from both sides of the southern Red Sea region, in the Horn of Africa and the southern Arabian Peninsula (Zarins ). Actual archaeological evidence of Punt may be represented by evidence in the Kassala/Gash Delta region of eastern Sudan, where sites of the Gash Group culture, from approximately / to / BC, have been excavated by Rodolfo Fa ovich. The major raw materials of Punt – elephants/ivory, gold, ebony trees, and frankincense and myhrr trees – could all be found in the hinterland of the Gash Delta, where a complex society with a hierarchical se lement system had arisen by BC, when the culture was also expanding to the north and east (Fa ovich, Sadr, and Vitagliano : , ). At the Kassala site of Mahal Teglinos, in an excavation trench where Egyptian potsherds were collected on the surface in , Fa ovich later excavated a mud-brick building with three or more rectangular rooms. These rooms contained fragments of large storage jars and, based on the associated po ery, can be dated to the Late Gash Group (ca. – / BC; Fa ovich, Manzo, and Usai : ). The mudbrick architecture is unlike other structures of the Gash Group, but was the main type of building material used in Egypt for domestic architecture throughout Dynastic times. Possibly the mud-brick building at Mahal Teglinos was an Egyptian storage facility associated with their trade there. Although Egyptian po ery has been excavated in the Gash Delta in contexts of the Early Gash culture (ca. / – BC, contemporary

 Kathryn A. Bard and Rodolfo Fa ovich

with the Old Kingdom in Egypt), but mainly in Late Gash contexts (ca. – / BC, Second Intermediate Period and early New Kingdom in Egypt), there are no Egyptian ceramics in Middle and Classic Gash contexts (ca. – BC), and imported wares then are from Kerma (Manzo ). Thus, the ceramic evidence points to Egyptian (overland) contacts with the Gash Delta, a hinterland region of Punt, in the Old Kingdom and early New Kingdom (but very unlikely during the Second Intermediate Period when Kush/Kerma controlled both Lower and Upper Nubia). During the Middle Kingdom, when seafaring expeditions were sent to (coastal?) Punt from Egypt, exchange of the inland Middle and Classic Gash culture was only with Kerma. Historical and archaeological evidence points to the competitive and/ or hostile nature of Egyptian-Kerma relations in the first half of the second millennium BC, until the Kerma kingdom was finally vanquished and conquered by the early kings of the th Dynasty (Trigger a: – ). Thus, if the Kerma kingdom ca. – BC controlled the Upper Nile and overland trade routes of the hinterland of Punt to the east (the Gash Delta region), the Egyptians were forced to send expeditions on the much more logistically difficult and risky seafaring route to the southern Red Sea shores of Punt in the Middle Kingdom. A er potsherds of the Ma’layba culture were identified at Mersa/ Wadi Gawasis, Bard and Fa ovich suggested (unpublished) that Punt may have been located on both the African and Arabian sides of the southern Red Sea region. Given the Egyptian textual evidence, however, it seems more likely that the land of Punt was a region in Africa that the ancient Egyptians knew they could reach by both land and sea routes. Taking the land route(s) across the Eastern Desert from Nubia, Egyptian expeditions would have gone through hinterland regions of Punt, such as the Gash Delta/Kassala area, whereas seafaring expeditions may only have reached the coastal area(s) of Punt. Potsherds at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis of wares, perhaps originally containing goods from the Punt hinterland regions of the Gash Delta and Eritrea, were probably obtained at Puntite coastal sites. Already in the second millennium BC, there were probably seafaring contact and trade between the Puntites on the African side and peoples in southern Arabia, and the Egyptians possibly obtained South Arabian goods (incense contained in ceramics?) on the African coast of Punt – hence, the presence of Ma’layba ware at Mersa/Wadi Gawasis. Another, more unlikely possibility is that the Egyptian seafaring expeditions

The Land of Punt 

to Punt in the Middle Kingdom continued sailing through the Bab elMandab at the southern end of the Red Sea, and into the Gulf of Aden. How this Punt trade was organized at the Punt end, however, can only be resolved when coastal sites of the Horn of Africa and southern Arabia are excavated.

2 The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics

Author’s Note Sadly, I only met Bruce Trigger once. We were a ending a conference on archaeometry at the University of Toronto in May . Many of the sessions were interesting, but for me, the high points were the conversations with Bruce outside the hall. The weather was grey and sultry, and we were trapped in the grim stone buildings of the empty campus. The first volume of Black Athena had just been published, and I was still very nervous about its reception. Bruce’s response was extremely important to me, as for some time I had known of and admired his work on Nubia and Egypt. It would be fair to say that I was in awe of him. In the event, he was extraordinarily generous and open towards me, with what I have since learned was his usual frankness and freshness. What impressed and delighted me most was the breadth of his interests, and what became the three major prongs of his scholarship: the archaeology of Nubia and Egypt, the “prehistory” of peoples of eastern Canada, and the history of archaeological thought. During our conversations, he told me that he had shi ed his research interests from the Nile Valley to the Hurons and to archaeological theory. I was deeply impressed by the reason he gave for the moves: a desire to stay close to home so as not to leave his young family for the long periods required for working in Africa. His major works on archaeological thought and early civilizations were published a er our meeting, and I had not read his papers on these themes before I sketched the outlines of my project in the first volume of Black Athena. Thus, there could be no influence on this. Nevertheless, I have later found his brilliant, well-wri en, massive, and encyclopedic publications on archaeological theory and ancient civilizations extremely helpful in situating my own position on the “history

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

of prehistory.” My assimilation of his ideas was eased by our coming from similar intellectual milieux. Bruce’s Canadian origin and later studies at Yale University allowed him to draw on both U.S. and British scholarly traditions in these fields. My British childhood and adult alternation between Cambridge and Ithaca, New York, gave me a similar, although much shallower background, particularly weak in archaeology. Although, unlike Bruce, I have had no formal training in anthropology, I have always identified with the discipline. My mother had a close relationship with Bernard Deacon, an early icon of social anthropology, and she wanted me to follow in his footsteps. As an undergraduate, I lived for a year with Meyer Fortes, and I spent a lot of time with other distinguished anthropologists such as Edmund Leach, Jack Goody, Stephen Hugh-Jones, and Caroline Humphrey. While Bruce Trigger’s wide-ranging brilliance, clear writing, and general accessibility made it redundant, I believe that this common background in anthropology has been a factor in my feeling so much “at home” in his works. I also maintain that in both our cases, interest in this discipline inclined us to look beyond Europe. We are united in opposition to the Eurocentric biases still very much alive in contemporary historiography. In a “mixed” review of Black Athena I, Bruce described the book as “a contribution to post-processual archaeology.” My ignorance of developments in the field is revealed by the fact that I had never heard of the term “processual” before. What is more, I never felt a racted to the school, which I had known under its earlier name of “New Archaeology.” Thus, I was happy to accept the label of its antithesis “postprocessual.” Like Bruce, I believe that in addition to ecological constraints and material remains allowed by that school, one should use all the other approaches to reconstructing the past that are available: tradition, cult, language, and so forth. To the extent that “post-processual” involves having passed through “processual,” it does not apply to my work. My approach to prehistory and archaeology comes directly from the previous “culture-historical school.” This is not surprising, as the major influence on my early interest in archaeology was that of my father, J.D. Bernal, who for many years was in close touch with his friend and comrade, Gordon Childe, to whom I dedicated Black Athena II “as a champion of modified diffusionism.” This raises another important difference between the “processualists,” me, and, and to some extent Bruce himself: my denial of the claim that creativity requires more or less autochthonous development and that to consider diffusion from elsewhere is somehow to

 Martin Bernal

denigrate the recipient society. I do not accept that hybridity leads to sterility; a culture is not a mule! To my mind, adoption, adaptation, and selective rejection of outside influences are equally if not more creative processes. My chapter in this book has been affected by Bruce Trigger in two ways: first, that his publications and inspiration have reinforced my concerns with the social contexts of historiography, and second, it follows the redemptive aspect of his work by focusing on groups to whom too li le a ention has been given previously. Introduction There is no doubt that despite Christian objections, the predominant trend in eighteenth-century northern Europe was towards racism. At the same time, however, there was a considerable enthusiasm for ancient Egypt (Palter : – ; Bernal : – ). European uncertainty about the physical appearance of Egyptians before the onset of caste racism in the late seventeenth century disappeared among Egyptophils in the eighteenth. During the middle of that century, none of them considered the Ancient Egyptians to be Africans. They saw the ancient people as at least honorary Whites and as the originators of Western Civilization. Even many of those who disliked the Egyptians and admired Greece, men like Adam Smith, do not appear to have derived their hostility from racism, but rather from a belief in the stifling effects of tyranny. As Smith ( : , cited in Mill : – ) wrote before : It was, in them [Greece, and the Grecian colonies], that the first philosophers of whose doctrine we have any distinct account, appeared. Law and order seem indeed to have been established in the great monarchies of Asia and Egypt, long before they had any footing in Greece: Yet, a er all that has been said, concerning the learning of the Chaldeans and Egyptians, whether there ever was in those nations anything which deserved the name of science, or whether that despotism which is more destructive of security and leisure than anarchy itself, and which prevailed over all the East, prevented the growth of philosophy, is a question which, for want of monuments, cannot be determined with any degree of precision.

Those who disliked the Egyptians on other grounds only made a combination of an association of Egyptians with “Negroes” with a

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

denial that Egypt was the source of Western Civilization. For example, Johann Joachim Winckelmann, as a Proto-Romantic, loved the Greeks and disliked the Egyptians precisely for the reasons that the gentlemen of the Enlightenment admired both Egyptians and Romans: for the order, stability, and prosperity they established and maintained through military prowess. At the same time, however, Winckelmann a ributed the failure of Egyptian art to develop beyond his “first stage” to what he saw as the ugliness of the Egyptians. He followed Aristotle in seeing them as mostly bandy-legged and snub-nosed. It is clear that the “ugliness” Winckelmann ( : in Gilman : ) deplored was linked to “Negroid” features: “How can one find even a hint of beauty in their figures, when all or almost all of the originals on which they are based had the form of the African? That is they had, like them, pouting lips, receding and small chins, sunken and fla ened profiles. And not only like the African but also like the Ethiopian, they also had fla ened noses and a dark cast of skin. Thus all of the figures painted on the mummies had dark brown faces.” Edward Long ( : – ), the author of the famous, or infamous, History of Jamaica, extended these physical similarities to moral qualities: The Negroes seem to conform nearest in character to the Egyptians, in whose government, says the learned Goguet, there reigned a multitude of abuses, and essential defects, authorized by the laws, and by their fundamental principles. They were a people without taste, without genius or discernment: who had only ideas of grandeur ill-understood: knavish, cra y, so , lazy, cowardly, and servile, superstitious in excess and extremely beso ed with an absurd and monstrous theology; without any skill in eloquence, poetry, music, architecture, sculpture, or painting, navigation, commerce or the art military. Their intellect rising to but a very confused and imperfect idea of the general objects of human knowledge. But he allows that they invented some arts, and some li le knowledge of astronomy, geography and the mathematics; that they had some few good civil laws and political constitutions: Though their skill in sculpture and architecture rose not above flat mediocrity. In these acquisitions, however imperfect, they appear far superior to the Negroes who, perhaps, in their turn, as far transcend the Egyptians in the superlative perfection of their worst qualities. When we reflect on the nature of their men and their dissimilarity to the rest of mankind, must we not conclude that they are a different species of the same genus?

 Martin Bernal

Long did not provide a specific reference to Goguet. But in the latter’s best-known passage on the Ancient Egyptians (Goguet : ), following conventional opinion, he expressed precisely the opposite of the views Long a ributed to him: “Of all the peoples in Antiquity, the Egyptians most deserve our a ention. We are particularly interested in their history because through an uninterrupted chain the most polished nations of Europe have realized the first principles of laws, arts and sciences. The Egyptians instructed and enlightened the Greeks, and the Greeks rendered the same service to the Romans” (author’s translation). James Bruce In the s, however, a new historiographical possibility arose. The claim began to be made that the Egyptians were both Black and the source of Western civilization. The man most responsible for this shi was the intrepid Sco ish traveller and staunch conservative James Bruce. Bruce’s ostensible aim in going to Ethiopia was to “discover” the source of the Blue Nile. Doubts have been thrown on this goal by the fact that Portuguese priests Paez and Lobo had seen the river’s marshy source a hundred and fi y years before, in the early seventeenth century. Lobo had wri en in some detail about the “discovery.” Bruce certainly knew about this if only because in , Dr. Samuel Johnson had translated into English a French synopsis (from Lobo , Le Grand translation) of the Portuguese text of Lobo’s voyages. Johnson later wrote an Abyssinian epic, Rasselas, which was published in . Johnson also had a famous sympathy for Africans in general. He insisted that his Black servant Francis Barber was the most intelligent person he knew, and he once called on a distinguished gathering in Oxford to toast “the next insurrection of Negroes in the West Indies” (Pagliaro : xvi–xvii). Johnson clearly had sympathy for Blacks, but a major motive for making the toast was to épater les bourgeois, and as a conservative, he wanted to a ack the new or “sugar” money of the West India planters. To return to James Bruce, one does not have to follow Graham Hancock’s argument that he was looking for the Ark of the Covenant to accept that the Scot had other goals as well as the source of the Nile. Bruce had a reasonable knowledge of Hebrew, Aramaic, and Syriac, and he brought back Ancient Ethiopian texts, notably the Book of Enoch which was of great interest to him as a Freemason (Hancock : – ). His

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

direct experience of Ethiopia, his knowledge of Ge’ez and Amharic, and his concern with Ethiopian history made James Bruce unique in Europe at the time. This situation gave him a vested interest in the country’s great antiquity and widespread influence. Thus, where Bruce found parallels between Ancient Egypt and Ethiopia, he followed Diodorus Siculus (III. ) in claiming that the former was a colony of the la er, as he shows here (Bruce : ): “The Cushites then inhabited the mountains, whilst the northern colonies advanced from Meroe to Thebes, busy and intent upon the improvement of architecture and building of towns which they began to substitute for their caves; thus they became traders, farmers and artificers of all kinds, and even practical astronomers, from having a meridian free from clouds, for such was that of the Thebaid, ‘there were clouds to the south.’ Le ers too and at least one sort of them, and arithmetical characters, were invented by this middle part of the Cushites.” Bruce ( : ) clearly saw these inventors of civilization as “negro woolly haired Cushite(s).” On his return to Britain, Bruce’s reports of Ethiopia were ridiculed and a acked, especially by Dr. Johnson, who felt Abyssinia to be his special possession. Johnson also had a specific interest in the veracity of Lobo’s discovery of the source of the Nile, and on this he was correct. On other issues, Johnson’s a acks on Bruce were unfair. Bruce’s reports have stood the test of time very well. Another stick Bruce’s critics used to beat him with was that on his return to Europe in , he had stayed in France and Italy over a year before returning to Britain. Bruce was met at Marseilles by a number of scholars, including Georges-Louis Leclerc Buffon, the most celebrated naturalist of the time, who travelled with him to Paris. Bruce was lionized there and among cultivated French circles in Rome (Reid : – ). Thus, his influence on French thinking antedated the publication of his travels in . Interest in his travels is illustrated by the speed with which Bruce’s four huge volumes were translated. The first French translation appeared in the midst of the Revolution between and and the , Bruce’s works were used in the French radisecond in . A er cal tradition. Charles François Dupuis James Bruce’s sojourn in France and the great interest shown in his work can explain why the radical polymath and savant Charles François Dupuis should have expressed a very similar view of the origin

 Martin Bernal

of civilization. As his biographer M.P.R. Auguis ( : xiii) wrote of Dupuis’s views established before : “He proposed to demonstrate that that nation (the Pelasgians) coming originally from Ethiopia, first expanded along the coasts of Africa, Cyrenaica, Libya, etc., and from there had in prehistoric times, sent colonies and civilized Greece, Italy, Spain, and many other countries” (author’s translation). Dupuis firmly believed in the “Ancient Model,” that Egypt had provided Greece with its civilization and, in particular, with its religion. However, for Dupuis this religion was an allegorical system based on astronomical science, hidden from the masses. His main target, Christianity, he saw as the result of a mistaken jumble of fragments of this allegorical system. Therefore, for him, the invention of astronomy was of critical importance, and on this he agreed with Bruce that “astronomy was invented in Ethiopia in the confines of Upper Egypt” (Dupuis : ; author’s translation). Constantine Francis Chassebeuf de Volney The influence of Dupuis and his Origine de tous les cultes, first published in , remained strong until shaken by Champollion’s decipherment of hieroglyphs in the s (Bernal : – ). However, Dupuis’s popular acclaim was eclipsed by that of his friend and disciple Constantine Francis Chassebeuf de Volney. Volney first became famous for his travels in Egypt and Syria in the early s, which he published in (Volney , in French; , in English). In this, evidence of influence from Dupuis and ultimately from James Bruce is not as clear-cut as it later became. Nevertheless, Volney was already convinced that the Ancient Egyptians were Black like other Africans, an idea that he likely took from Bruce and Dupuis. He also followed convention in seeing Egypt as the source of Greek and, hence, all European culture. He went beyond both Bruce and Dupuis to contrast this achievement with the scorn with which Blacks were being treated during his time and, above all, the outrage of their enslavement. This is the first instance of what was to become a standard abolitionist argument. None of the earlier writers of this persuasion, Black or White, had used it. A er stating that the Sphinx was negroid and quoting Herodotus (II. ) on the Colchians being Black and curly-haired like the Egyptians, Volney ( : – ) continued: “That is to say that the Ancient Egyptians were true negroes as with all other natives of Africa. That race of black men, nowadays our slaves and object of our contempt, was that to which we owe

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

our arts our sciences even the use of words.” He then took a powerful swipe at the new United States: “Think then that it is in the midst of the people who call themselves ‘friends of liberty’ that the most barbarous of slavery is sanctioned and they question whether Black men have the intelligence of the white race.” As a well-known geographer and scholar of antiquity, Volney was elected to the Estates-General in . He played an active role there, calling for, among other things, the abolition of slavery. Between and , he spent time in the United States where he visited Jefferson and was shocked by the American’s brutal treatment of his slaves. Volney later returned to France. He was made a senator and then a peer by Napoleon, but having opposed the Empire, he was appointed to the House of Peers a er the Restoration of the Bourbons. A er his Voyage en Syrie et en Égypte, Volney wrote voluminously on many subjects concerning ancient history. He was best known, however, for his radical prose epic Ruines des Empires, first published in (Volney , in French, nd ed.; , in English), which he was encouraged to write a er a conversation with Dupuis. This work sweeps across the world involving debates between Kalmuks and Brahmins, Lutherans and Buddhists, and many others, but all suffused with the principles of liberty and equality, not only among classes but among races. The historians of the radical Atlantic, Marcus Rediker and Peter Linebaugh, maintain in their book, The Many Headed Hydra, that “wri en in an accessible, liberating style, Volney’s Ruins was as important to the age of revolution as Paine’s Rights of Man” ( : ). This may be an exaggeration, but Volney’s work certainly was massively influential. It is striking to note that while Paine’s call to White men is so well remembered, Volney’s multiracial one was largely forgo en in the twentieth century. Ruines was republished many times in the s and was translated into English, German, Spanish, Portuguese, Hungarian, Swedish, and even Welsh (Rediker and Linebaugh : ). Evidence of Volney’s intellectual debt to Dupuis and Bruce increased through successive editions of Ruines. In the second edition ( : ) it is evident in the sentence, “Thus, the Ethiopian of Thebes called the stars of the flood,” referring to Sirius “the dog” which Bruce had linked to Osiris. This, according to Volney, had led to the origins of astronomy. Volney was then personally involved in the production of the second (American) English translation of , in which there is a long

 Martin Bernal

footnote that specifies Dupuis’s theories on astral worship and his (extremely) long chronology. On the page that followed the footnote, Volney ( : – ) wrote: “It was, then, on the borders of the Upper Nile, among a black race of men, that was organized the complicated system of the worship of the stars, considered in relation to the productions of the earth and the labors of agriculture.” Radical though it was, this passage was less influential than Volney’s restatement in The Ruins of the argument made in his The Voyage (Volney : – ): “There [Ethiopian Upper Egypt] a people, now forgo en, discovered, while others were still barbarians, the elements of the arts and sciences. A race of men now rejected from society for their sable skin and frizzled hair, founded on the study of the laws of nature, those civil and religious systems which still govern the universe.” This passage, which appeared from the first edition on, apparently available in all the languages into which Ruines was translated became a staple for the abolitionist argument for the next seventy years, and it remains important to this day among Afrocentrists (Moses : – and – ). However, such ideas were be er known through the works of Henri Baptiste (Abbé) Grégoire. Henri Baptiste (Abbé) Grégoire Abbé Grégoire was one of the most remarkable and impressive figures in the French Revolution. A devout Roman Catholic, he supported the National Church set up under Thermidor. Throughout his career he opposed the death penalty and championed the rights of women, Jews, and Blacks. He was a passionate abolitionist and supporter of the Haitian Revolution, for which he is still honoured in that republic. His best-known work was De la Li érature des Nègres ( ), translated into English in as An Enquiry Concerning the Intellectual and Moral Faculties of Negroes. Thomas Jefferson, to whom Grégoire had sent a copy of the manuscript, did all he could to block distribution of the book. Nevertheless, he failed, and its influence was profound on Black intellectuals and White abolitionists, and remained so until the American Civil War (Hodge : ix–x; Bernal : – ). Abbé Grégoire ( : ) devoted the first chapter to Volney’s arguments, emphasizing that the Ancient Egyptians were “Negroes,” and concluded: “Without ascribing to Egypt the greatest degree of human knowledge, all antiquity decides in favour of those who consider it as

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

a celebrated school, from which proceeded many of the venerable and learned men of Greece.” While the evidence of influence from printed texts is clear, I have found no evidence to prove that Grégoire ever met Volney. Interestingly however, there is evidence to show that Grégoire met Dupuis. Napoleon, while he was First Consul, knew that Dupuis was an atheist. He was then surprised to see Dupuis at dinner talking animatedly with Grégoire. Napoleon asked them what they had in common, to which Grégoire replied they shared the religion of the nation (Auguis : xxvi). The Impact of the Writings of Volney and Grégoire on Peoples of African Descent As mentioned above, Volney’s Ruines was available in many languages almost as soon as it was first published in French in . The improved English version printed for Americans came out in . Grégoire’s De la Li érature was published in and in English translation in . Before these appeared, the image of Ancient Egypt among African Americans had been very different. In stark contrast to the labels “Negro” and “Nigger,” “Ethiopia” and “Ethiopian” had long provided an honourable lineage for peoples of African descent (Bernal , ). While the image of Ancient and Modern Ethiopia was uniformly positive among African Americans, that of Egypt was much more mixed. In the eighteenth century, African Americans had very li le respect for the country. Typically, the Black poet Phillis Wheatley ( : ) used it as a symbol of African darkness, reinforced by the Romantic image of Egypt as the kingdom of death: Twas not long since I le my native shore, The land of Errors and Egyptian gloom.

Elsewhere, Wheatley ( : ) portrayed Egypt as the epitome of slavery. As Christian African Americans identified themselves with the enslaved Israelites, the biblical stories of the sojourn in Egypt and the Exodus, the escape from slavery led by Moses, clearly labelled the Egyptians as the enemy, and Pharaoh as the epitome of heartless mammon. This tradition is expressed in many spirituals with such powerful lines as “tell ol’ Pharaoh to let my people go,” and celebrating with Moses’s sister Miriam that “Pharaoh’s army got drownded.” The theme

 Martin Bernal

remained central to African-American thinking throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. However, there was another African-American tradition of admiration for and identification with Ancient Egypt. The biblical Table of Nations associated the Egyptians with other Africans as sons of Ham (Egypt). Since the seventeenth century, northern European Protestants had picked up the Talmudic tradition that the curse of slavery made on Ham’s son Canaan applied to Ham and all his other descendants. Thus, some slaves of African descent accepted the identification with Egypt as sons of Ham, imposed upon them. By the beginning of the nineteenth century, in addition to Volney’s writings, there were new reasons to identify with Egypt when those who were educated in the European classics picked on the passage in Herodotus’s History that the Egyptians had “black skins and Curly hair.” Educated African Americans also knew the statement by Diodorus Siculus, mentioned above, that “they [the Egyptian priests] say that the Egyptians are colonists of the Ethiopians.” This was probably the Ethiopia of the ancient Nile Valley, not the modern one. However, as the African-American anthropologist and historian St. Clair Drake ( : ) pointed out: “The exact location of Ethiopia prior to the late th century was never a ma er of much concern to African Americans. Ethiopia was both the name of a place – whose location in Africa was somewhat vague – and a metaphor for a widely sca ered diaspora people, as the term Israel.” St. Clair Drake plausibly suggested that there was a status difference between those who approved of Egypt and those who disapproved. That is, while people under slavery saw themselves as Israelites enslaved by Pharaoh, some educated free men and women identified with the Egyptians. For instance, David Walker ( [ ]: ), in his massively influential and still widely read Appeal: To the Coloured Citizens of the World, but in Particular, and Very Expressly, to Those of the United States of America denied that the Egyptian enslavement of the Israelites had been dehumanizing: “I call upon the philanthropist, I call on the very tyrant himself, to show me a page of history, either sacred or profane, on which a verse can be found, which maintains that the Egyptians heaped the insupportable insult upon the children of Israel, by telling them that they were not of the human family.” This was part of Walker’s overwhelming case that there was no historical precedent for the horrors of American slavery. He also played down the cruel treatment of the Helots by the Spartans (Walker [ ]: ).

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

With the Egyptians, Walker ( [ ]: ) went further to laud their achievements and the cultural debt that the monstrous White masters owed to all the sons of Ham: “When we take a retrospective view of the arts and sciences – the wise legislators – the pyramids and other magnificent buildings – the turning of the channel of the river Nile, by the sons of Africa or of Ham, among whom learning originated, and was carried thence into Greece, where it was improved upon and refined. Thence among the Romans, and all over the then enlightened parts of the world.” As mentioned above, the Abbé Grégoire had a particularly close relationship with Haiti, and there the image of Ethio-Egyptian civilization and construction had tangible results in the castle of King Henri (Christophe) and its adjacent royal church of Milot completed in . The chancellor of the Kingdom, Baron Valentin de Vastey wrote (cited in Trouillot : ): “These two structures, erected by descendants of Africans, show that we have not lost the architectural taste and genius of our ancestors who covered Ethiopia, Egypt, Carthage and old Spain with their superb monuments.” European Views of Ancient Egypt in the Mid-Nineteenth Century Some scholars and others completely refused to accept the academic uncoupling of Ancient Egypt from Western civilization made in the s and s, discussed below. The Freemasons continued to follow their mysteries based on eighteenth-century reconstructions of the Egyptian ones. The Saint Simonians built up a new cult along similar lines. Naturally, however, these groups also preserved the Enlightenment image of the Egyptians as White. One of the many mistakes I made in the first volume of Black Athena was to neglect the persistence of such intellectual trends among cultivated non-academics well into the mid-nineteenth century. Florence Nightingale, who was a close friend of the “Egyptologist” Christian Bunsen, travelled up the Nile in the late s. In her diary, she wrote frequent praises of the Ancient Egyptians as the founders of modern civilization. For instance, on the th of December , she wrote of the Egyptians (Nightingale : ): You see a nation possessed of most of our civilization, and our philosophy and I believe most of our art and science, for much of theirs – that, for instance, of quarrying and raising the enormous blocks of their architecture,

 Martin Bernal is entirely lost: we have had no inheritance of their mechanical skill and but li le, I suppose of their chemical, mathematical and astronomical science. When you see painted in rock chambers of BC all the amusements of what we call the last refinements of a nation – the dancing, music, painting of Paris and London, – you cannot but imagine the beginning of this nation to have been long before the creation of a philosophy so deep that all which Solomon knew of legislation, all that Pythagoras and Plato guessed in ethics and spiritual theories seems to have been borrowed from them.

Like that of the right-wing mystic Schwaller de Lubicz in the twentieth century, this kind of passionate admiration was based on the assumption that the Ancient Egyptians were essentially White. Nightingale’s disdain for Mary Seacole, the Black hero of nursing in the Crimea, indicates that Nightingale was not free of racial prejudice. Abolitionists Volney and the Abbé Grégoire illustrate an admiration of Ancient Egypt based on a very different principle. They delighted in Egyptian material and philosophical triumphs, precisely because they saw them as Black achievements. These radicals were a minority in the movement as the majority of White abolitionists shared the racism of their society and were convinced of the mental if not the moral inferiority of Blacks. Victor Schoelcher was of the second generation of abolitionists, who as the last act of the Second Republic, in drew up the bill emancipating slaves in the French colonies. He cited passages from Volney, Grégoire, and Bruce with approval (Schoelcher ). Even at this stage, the radicalism of his position was in the claim that the Ancient Egyptians were Black rather than that they were the chief source of Greek civilization. Traces of this argument lasted even longer in England. In reply to an outrageous article by Thomas Carlyle ( ) entitled “Occasional Discourse on the Negro Question,” John Stuart Mill ( : – ) wrote: “It is curious withal, that the earliest known civilization was, we have the strongest reason to believe, a negro civilization. The original Egyptians are inferred, from the evidence of their sculptures, to have been a negro race: it was from negroes that the Greeks learnt their first lessons in civilization; and to the records and traditions of these negroes did the Greek philosophers to the very end of their career resort (I do not say with much fruit) as a treasury of mysterious wisdom.”

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

By this time, such views were far from academic orthodoxy in which the Aryan Model was becoming established. We should now turn to the emergence of the Aryan Model, which was central to the formation to the new discipline of Altertumswissenscha /classics. Before coming to this, however, it would seem useful to consider the impact of the ideas of Volney and Grégoire on Germany and upon the University of Göttingen, in particular. Christoph GoĴlob Heyne, Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, Georg Forster, and Ludwig Heeren The combined notion that Ancient Egyptian and other North African cultures were Black and that Egypt had played a central role in the formation of Ancient Greece was not confined to francophones and English speakers. Christoph Go lob Heyne, a dominant figure not merely in ancient studies at Gö ingen, but in the university as a whole, was surrounded by men concerned with this issue. His brother-in-law was Johann Friedrich Blumenbach, who wrote an introduction to and notes for the German translation of James Bruce’s Travels. Furthermore, Heyne’s Jacobin son-in-law Georg Forster had translated Volney’s Ruines into German. Heyne’s passionate romantic Philhellenism, shared with his friend Winkelmann, and his dislike of notions of Greek indebtedness to Egypt, even led him to declare as spurious Achilles’s statement (Iliad IX) that Egyptian Thebes was the greatest city in the world (von der Mühl : ). Nevertheless, Heyne’s choice or acceptance of Forster as a son-in-law – which he later bi erly regre ed – is not the only evidence of his interest in extra-European exploration (Bernal : , , ; Palter : – ; Bernal and Moore : ). His other son-in-law, A.H.L. Heeren, was also fascinated by the new explorations, although unlike Forster, he was an armchair academic. In the Gö ingen fashion, Heeren wrote voluminously on many topics, although he focused on economic and technical developments. In his magnum opus, Ideen über die Politik, den Verkehr und den Handel der vornehmsten Völker der alten Welt (Reflections on the Politics, Intercourse and Trade of the Principal Nations of Antiquity), Heeren ( ) combined knowledge of the new explorations of Africa and the Near East with ancient writings on the subject. His conclusions stressed the importance of Carthage, Ethiopia, and Egypt, all of which he saw as “Negro.” Also, somewhat apologetically, because he greatly admired Greece, Heeren retained the Ancient

 Martin Bernal

Model to explain the striking parallels he saw between these cultures and that of Greece (Heeren : vol. , – , and vol. , – ). Heeren was not treated well by those of his contemporaries who have had an influence on his posthumous reputation. Wilhelm von Humboldt considered him “rather a dull man,” and Heeren is best known today through Heinrich Heine’s ( – ) merciless caricature of the professor in his Reisebilder. It appears that Heeren was punished not merely for being a boring professor, but for continuing to hold the Ancient Model and adopting the new view of the North Africans as Black. Thus, during the first decades of the nineteenth century, which saw a crescendo of racist feelings (Rediker and Linebaugh : ), such inconvenient ideas were current in France, the United States, Great Britain, and Germany. The Fall of the Ancient Model The idea that Nilotic culture was essentially Black African suited many Romantics, who were turning away from Ancient Egypt with its associations with Freemasonry, the French Revolution, and Bonapartism. Just when knowledge of ancient Egypt became abundant as the result of the Napoleonic expedition, it now became seen not merely as oriental and exotic but also as African, doubly non-European. A new line now had to be drawn to establish what had been seen as the necessary separation of Africans from civilization. That is, as it became less easy to divide Egypt from the rest of Africa, it became more important to separate Egypt from Greece. Thus, in the s, the traditional belief that Greece had received much of its higher culture from Egypt was first challenged, and in the following decades overthrown among the newly professional classicists. The leading figure in this movement was Karl O fried Müller. Karl OĴfried Müller The Dutch historian of classics Josine Blok ( , , ; Bernal and Moore : – ) severely criticized my treatment of Karl O fried Müller. She rightly condemned my failure to read his correspondence and therefore my not having seen that when young he had been interested in Champollion’s decipherment, which I had denied. My only excuse here is that I could find no trace of such interest in his published works. Blok’s principal objection, however, is to my method, which she

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

sees as “political.” She, and many other defenders of academic orthodoxy appear to believe themselves free of that taint (Bernal and Moore : – ). Thus, Blok does not complain substantively against my conclusions, which are in fact very similar to hers. I completely agree with her emphasis on the religious and Romantic aspects of Müller’s thought, his insistence on the essential autochthony of all cultures, and especially that of Greece, and above all, his fierce opposition to any suggestion of Eastern influences (Blok : ). I have seen no objection from Blok to the statement made in by her friend and colleague Suzanne Marchand ( : ) that “Martin Bernal is undoubtedly right in underlining Müller’s role in the narrowing of classical scholarship in the mid-nineteenth century.” I knew that Müller, as a professor at Gö ingen, saw the Ancient Egyptians as incapable of colonizing Greece because they were “shy of strangers and bigoted” (Müller : ). Blok, however, points out something even more interesting that I had missed. In his Ueber den angeblich ägyptischen Ursprung der griechischen Kunst (On the Alleged Egyptian Origins of Greek Art), Müller ( : – ) maintained that Egyptian art was inferior to that of Greece. He did not follow Winckelmann’s argument that Egypt, and therefore, its art, were lower on an evolutionary scale, but rather the Herderian reasoning that it was the product of a qualitatively different and, for Müller, inferior people (Blok : ). Such a view fit with ideas expressed by Georg Forster in his translation of Volney, and A.H.L. Heeren, and presumably others at Gö ingen, that the Egyptians were Black. Quellen Kritik and the Destruction of the Ancient Model The view of a categorical separation of Egyptians and Greeks was now linked to the new historiographical principle of Quellen Kritik, “Source Criticism.” Connop Thirlwall ( : vol. , ), the first historian of Greece in the new style, wrote: In a comparatively late period – that which followed the rise of historical literature among the Greeks, we find a belief generally prevalent, both in the people and among the learned, that in ages of very remote antiquity, before the name and dominion of the Pelasgians had given way to that of the Hellenic race, foreigners had been led by various causes to the shores of Greece and there planted colonies, founded dynasties, built cities, and introduced useful arts and social institutions, before unknown to

 Martin Bernal the ruder natives. The same belief has been almost universally adopted by the learned of modern times. It required no li le boldness to venture even to throw a doubt as to a truth sanctioned by such authority and by prescription of such a long and undisputed possession of the public mind, and perhaps it might never have been questioned, if the inferences drawn from it had not provoked a jealous enquiry into the grounds on which it rests. (emphasis added)

Thirlwall did not specify what these inferences were, but given Müller’s work on the qualitative differences between Egyptians and Greeks, it is hard to see any alternatives to Romantic and racial ones. This statement by someone in close contact with the German scholars is important because it suggests that the criticism was applied not because there were formal inconsistencies, as Müller himself claimed in the case of Danaos, but because the legend’s content was objectionable. Thirlwall ( : vol. , ) continued: “When however this spirit once awakened, it was perceived that the current stories of these ancient se lements afforded great room for reasonable distrust, not merely in the marvelous features they exhibit but in the still more suspicious fact that with the lapse of time their number seems to increase and their details to be more accurately known and that the further we go back the less we hear of them, till, on consulting the Homeric poems we lose all trace of their existence.” Conclusion There is no doubt that in the mid- and late nineteenth century, denials of substantial Egyptian cultural influences on Greece became increasingly frequent (Bernal : – ). The question now arises whether this new view was the result of the Egyptians having been declared “Ethiopian” or “Black” by Romantics and radicals. The parallel denial of “Semitic” influences on Ancient Greece provides us with a clue to an answer. In this case, Eurocentrism and antisemitism made the idea of any substantial Levantine roots of Hellenic/European civilization unpleasant in the nineteenth century and intolerable from to , and again from to . Now it appears perfectly acceptable. There is, to my mind, no doubt that European fear of, and hatred towards Blacks is far stronger than the undoubted prejudices against other peoples of non-European origin, even “Semites.” I think, therefore, that a similar pa ern of temporary dismissal and later revival would have

The Impact of Blackness on the Formation of Classics 

occurred in the case of Ancient Egypt, had the Egyptians not been declared Black by Romantics and Radicals in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and by Afrocentrists a century later. The question remains whether the “Blackening” of Ancient Egypt in the early nineteenth century and the consequent emergence of the Aryan Model was necessary or contingent. Would it have taken place without James Bruce? I think it extremely likely, but this essay is concerned with the actual or superficial sequence of events rather than with the tectonic shi s taking place beneath them.

NOTES  1 “Racism” is, of course, a very slippery concept, I take here the definition used by Harold Pagliaro (1973: ix; pace Palter 1996: 364–71): “In the eighteenth century groups of whites – and individual whites as well – whenever they were faced with the social necessity of regarding persons of color en masse, found ways of denying them equality of whites and found theoretical support for such denial.” See Bernal and Moore (2001: 175–8).  2 Harris (1751: 417) expressed similar sentiments. It is possible that colour may have been involved and that Smith’s distaste for the Egyptians and other “dark” peoples may have started with direct or related memories of his kidnapping by Gypsies at the age of three.  3 Costera (1790–92) and Henri (1799). The first German translation (Volkmann 1790–91) is still more interesting in that it had an introduction and notes from the eminent “racial classifier” from Gö ingen, Johann Friedrich Blumenbach. That Blumenbach should have devoted time to a work so relatively positive towards Africans fits Robert Palter’s (1996: 378–90) recent interpretation that Blumenbach was never racist. It also fits mine that his views on race changed radically in favour of Africans in 1787 (Bernal and Moore 2001: 181–4).  4 It is probable that Stendhal’s grandfather Henri Gagnon owned the volumes of the first translation, which so inspired his grandson (Stendhal 1890: 103). It is impossible to tell which translation Napoleon had with him in Saint Helena (Las Cases 1823: 373).  5 Rediker and Linebaugh (2000: 342) put it in 1792. I followed the preface to the American edition of 1833, placing it in 1793 (Bernal and Moore 2001: 38).  6 The first German translation was by Georg Forster the scholar and naturalist. Forster sailed with Captain Cook. He became a son-in-law of Heyne and later the leading German Jacobin (Bernal 1987: 222; Palter 1996: 380–5;

 Martin Bernal

 7

 8

 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Bernal and Moore 2001: 183–5). The claim that Ruines was neglected might seem to be contradicted by its continued republication in the second half of the nineteenth century. However, the presses that published it were marginal, and Volney and his works tend not to appear in mainstream historiography. This is not to say that Jews were ahead of Christians in their anti-Black racism but merely that the Talmudic texts are the earliest still extant in which it was set out. St Clair Drake (1990: vol. 2, 4–30) deals gently but firmly with Ephraim Isaac’s contention that the association between the Curse of Canaan, Blacks, and slavery found in Talmudic and Midrashic texts was merely a misunderstanding. Drake (1990: vol. 2, 315n42; Evans 1980: 15– 43). Howe (1998: 56n2) provides further bibliography on this. Herodotus, II.104. For the massive literature on this, see the debate between Frank Snowden (1993) and Shomarka Keita (1993a, 1993b) in Arethusa 26: 295–334. Diodorus Siculus, III.3.1, translated by Oldfather (Diodorus Siculus 1979: 93). This is not to discount personal jealousy. Schoelcher quoted Bruce extensively on the Ethiopian expansion into Egypt ( Joyau 1977: 82–3). Iliad IX: 381–4. See von der Mühl (1952: 173). Humboldt to Caroline, 18 November 1823 in Von Sydow (1906–16: vol. 7, 173–4) and Heine (1830–31: vol. 2, 193). See the discussion between me and Robert Palter on this. Bernal (1987: 221), Palter (1996: 382–7), and Bernal and Moore (2001: 173–5). Clearly, my title Black Athena has not helped in this respect.

3 “Slaves” and Slave Raiding on the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land

Author’s Note Bruce Trigger knew that ethnohistory informed by ethnographic experience with descendant communities is essential for interpreting North American archaeology. To know that a scholar of Trigger’s intellectual breadth and grasp shared this conviction supported my own research when disdained by orthodox archaeologists. This essay reflects that cognizance of historical sources and commitment to empirical data that Bruce Trigger so cogently pursued. It reflects, too, the turn to First Nations ethnography for illuminating archaeology that was introduced by the man both Bruce and I knew from Edinburgh – although he died in – Daniel Wilson. That upright, intelligent, humane scientist who put “prehistory” in the English language ( ) came to seem like a mentor as we investigated his life and pondered his work. He surely ran to embrace Bruce Trigger at the pearly gates. Indigenous Slavery in North America What is a slave? “Person who is … bound to absolute obedience [to] another” (OED). The dictionary adds, “human cha el,” “cha el” being derived from the same Latin root as “capital” and “ca le,” not a helpful gloss for societies that didn’t own valuable livestock. Blackfoot use the root yinn, “seize, capture, hold,” indicating “captive” iiyaaminaiksi rather than slave in the sense of one born into a class of cha els. Certainly, there is a strong difference between societies institutionalizing a marked, reproducing class of debased persons and those without such a marked, transgenerational class. There is also the question whether

 Alice Beck Kehoe

areas of low population density such as the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land could support a marked permanent class. Nevertheless, as Ernest Burch argued in Alliance and Conflict ( ), low-density northern hunter-gatherer societies participated in very broad networks of trade and war extending to higher-density slave-holding Northwest Coast nations and pastoralist Chukchi. That Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land nations did take and hold captives was observed by Anthony Henday in ( : ), “this day [ February] Indian tents was pitch beside us, brought Eachithinues they had taken in Warr ... [ February] two tents of Indians came to us brought Archithinue Women, and scalps they had taken at war.” Also Henday noted “ Archithinue slave girls” (ibid.). The Shoshone girl called Sakakawea, sold to the voyageur Toussaint Charbonneau around , is a prime example of indigenous North American slavery. Her owner brought her along when Lewis and Clark hired Charbonneau as guide and interpreter once they le Fort Mandan. As every American schoolchild learns, the teenage girl with the cute baby proved invaluable to the Corps of Discovery led by Lewis and Clark. Her meeting with her kin among the Lemhi Shoshone was joyous, as Meriwether Lewis recorded, but she was not given back to them. Another European explorer ma er-of-factly bought two men, said to have been esclavos, from a pueblo near Pecos in . Coronado wanted the men, apparently Pawnee or Wichita, to guide his party to the riches of fabled Quivira. One of them, called El Turco by the Spaniards because he wore a turban (Southeastern style), described Mississippian kingdoms, but when the expedition’s long march failed to reach them, Coronado believed the man was lying and had him garroted. A recent historian speculates the two men may have been hostages rather than “slaves” (esclavos); he accepts that they were unfree subjects to the pueblo’s cacique (Flint : ). James Brooks ( : , ) cites twelve hundred captive Navajo baptized in New Mexico between and – likely slaves in Hispanic households – and states that, conversely, Navajo seized Paiutes, Utes, Hopis, Zuni, Pima, Havasupai, Mohave, Chiricahua, and Mescalero Apache, and Hispanic New Mexicans, and the neighbouring Utes seized Paiutes to sell to New Mexicans. Brooks quotes Navajo stating unequivocally, “when Navajos had slaves, the slaves changed hands just like the Negroes in the South. They were bought and sold by the bosses of the slaves” (p. ). Historic Southern Plains nations whose economies incorporated raiding for captives and either using them for labour

“Slaves” on the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land 

or trading (selling) them included Pawnee, Wichita, Kiowa, Apache, and Comanche (p. ). European colonies escalated but had not created the market for slaves (Ethridge : ; Gallay : ; Rushforth : , ; Thorne : ; Wiegers : ). In other words, raiding for captives was common practice, and captives could be sold. Captors or the persons who took captives as gi or trade could decide to adopt them into the family, that is, call them by a kin term. If not adopted, captives could be abused, tortured, or killed, with no one avenging them. Alternately, the captive could simply become a drudge labourer – but see Smits ( ) on European construction of “squaw drudges.” The difference between an autonomous person and one who might be called a slave may have been that captives had no kin to succor them. Henday noted ( : ) that one of the “Archithinue slave girls” he saw in was “murthered at York Fort gates by a home Indian in a fit of jealousy” in . Whether it is appropriate to term Indians’ captives “slaves” seems to me to be answered by its consistent use by eighteenth-century Hudson’s Bay Company factors and clerks. James Knight, Governor at York Fort a er its recovery from French control in , referred in his journals to Dené “Slave Women” and “Slave Boys” in his service (McCormack : ), of whom the most famous is Thanadelthur who led a York Fort party into her natal country to establish peaceful trade. The Subarctic volume of the Smithsonian’s Handbook of North American Indians ( ) mentions several Dené groups using captives as slaves: see, for example, De Laguna and McClellan (p. ) of Ahtna, “slave children purchased from the ‘Kolchane’ (Upper Ahtna?),” and Townsend (p. ) of Tanaina, “Slaves, o en Eskimos, were obtained in trade or during ba les.” Between Lesser Slave Lake and the confluence of the Smoky and Peace rivers was “a beaten path … which was their [Cree] war road” (Mackenzie, quoted in Russell : ), and Peter Pond said in , “These parts [between the Peace and Athabasca Rivers] are the least frequented by the Natives it being a War road” (Pond, quoted in Russell, p. ). There was also a war road between the lower Souris and upper Missouri in La Vérendrye’s time, (p. ). Michael Asch, in the Smithsonian Subarctic volume, states that contemporary use of “Slavey” by Dené Tha speaking English, continues the : ): Hudson’s Bay Company usage derived from Cree (see Parks The name Slave is a translation of Cree awaka’n “captive, slave” (pl. awahka’nak) … though some sources refer it to a Cree word meaning

 Alice Beck Kehoe literally “stranger”; Northern Plains Cree ayahciyiniw “Slavey” … but Southern Plains Cree aya·hciyiiw “member of the Blackfoot confederacy”… According to Mackenzie [ , ], the Cree applied the pejorative label “slave” to groups of Athapaskans that they had driven out of the Lake Athabasca region in late precontact times … Peter Pond in reported what appear to be Swampy Cree names for Great Slave Lake and the Slave River that contain Iotchinine and Iotchyininy, and he gave the explanation “Iotchininy signifies Slaves, or a savage and uncultivated people.” [Iotchininy = Archathinnu of Turnor ?] (Asch : )

Turnor, in , gave Dené Tha these Southern Cree names: Arch-athin-nu “stranger,” Wau-con “slave,” and Sack-a-ha-gan “lake” (Helm : ). Slaveys (Dené Tha) are Dené occupying the Northwest Territories west of Great Slave Lake, to the Liard and Mackenzie river areas. Russell ( : ) quotes Ma hew Cocking’s journal sent to Hudson’s Bay headquarters, in , that “Yeachithinnee Indians” (Archithinue) include both nations friendly to the Cree, the three Blackfoot divisions and the Sarsi, and four that were enemies: Snake, Hidatsa(?), Kutenai, and Flathead. The same usage from Cree companions, “Archithinue,” was extended to Blackfoot met in Rupert’s Land southwestern zone. Earlier, in , James Isham had seen only one Archithinue, “a slave brought down [to York Fort] by the Cree” (p. ). Regarding Crows’ war captives, a nineteenth-century trader, Edwin Denig, states: “A grown woman … is not adopted. They are retained to work, or if young and handsome are kept as one of the wives of their owners” (p. ). Denig claimed that only Gros Ventre and Crow spared women and children captives: “These, of course, are obliged to work, though not exactly in the character of slaves” ( : ). Presumably, he has in mind African plantation slaves as “the character of slaves.” Of the Blackfoot in war, Maximilian said (Thwaites : vol. , ), “the women, who are o en taken prisoners, are carried off as slaves, but a erwards not usually ill-treated” – how Maximilian knew this, considering how soon he returned to Europe, I do not know. Oscar Lewis ( : ) said that, at least in the hide trade period, “The effect of the sororate in eliminating hostilities diminished and at the same time the contrasts between the status of upper and lower wives were intensified. The native term for a wife lower than third or fourth means slave wife, which accurately describes their status. Lower wives performed the most difficult tasks, rarely put up Sun Dances, were most o en beaten and most o en suspected of adultery.”

“Slaves” on the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land 

A number of instances indicate Blackfoot were acquainted with the Southern Plains and Southwest nations engaged in slave trading. Alexander Mackenzie ( : ) said of the Pikuni Blackfoot, “they are the people who deal in horses and take them upon the war-parties toward Mexico.” David Thompson ( ) described a Piegan war party who re, turned to Saukamappee’s camp, where Thompson was staying in with horses from a Spanish caravan they raided “in about latitude degrees north … miles” straight south of where their people were camping (pp. – ). This story amuses because the Blackfoot dumped from mules’ packs the whitish rocks the animals were transporting, not realizing the rocks were silver ore. Brings-Down-the-Sun told McClintock ( : – ) of a small Blackfoot travelling group that went south to Mexico about , returning with a holy pipe bundle. Slave Trading: The Precursor of Horse Raiding? Raiding for slaves seems to have been continent-wide throughout North America before European invasions. On the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land, it was practised prior to the – smallpox epidemic – that is, it was not simply a means to rebuild populations a er that holocaust. John Ewers ( ) offered a provocative suggestion: The precursor of the horse raid in Blackfoot warfare must have been the slave raid … It seems fair to assume that the capture of female slaves, prominently mentioned by mid- th-century observers, was a survival from pre-horse times and did not originate in the few years between the acquisition of horses and the first historic mention of slave raiding in and near the Blackfoot country … (p. ; see also p. ) Many elements of the Illinois slave raid [ca. , against Pawnee and Quapaw] closely resembled those of Blackfoot horse raids of historic times. Particularly noteworthy are the following: ( ) the slave raid was distinguished in procedure from that of the large war party seeking scalps, ( ) slave-raiding parties were small, not ordinarily exceeding persons, ( ) members carried birdskin war medicines, ( ) youngest members performed menial tasks for experienced raiders, ( ) scouts were sent ahead of the outgoing party to reconnoiter the enemy, ( ) inexperienced members remained with the baggage in a concealed location, ( ) experienced men made a dawn a ack on the enemy camp to secure prisoners, ( ) the raiding party made a speedy departure with their prisoners, marching two days and nights without stopping, ( ) the capture

 Alice Beck Kehoe of a prisoner was reckoned as a war honor of higher rank than the killing of an enemy … The fact that a captured horse counted as a war honor served as a secondary stimulus to horse raiding … The primary motive for Blackfoot horse raiding in the th century … must have been economic – … to obtain animals needed for hunting buffalo and transporting baggage. I believe the economic motive remained dominant until the end of buffalo days. Need, not greed or glory, was the major stimulus. (p. )

A generation before Ewers, William Christie MacLeod (not cited by Ewers) had similarly argued, “Prisoners were eagerly desired for use as slaves, and internecine war in aboriginal days was o en li le more than slave-raiding. As the European influence ruined the native economy the demand for prisoner-slaves tended to fall off and disappear among the Indians, and prisoners were then adopted, sacrificed, or exchanged” ( : ). Ewers did not expand his recognition of the likely precursor of horse raiding. His position as a curator at the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History inclined him towards researching material culture rather than intangibles. Problems in Recognizing Indigenous Slavery Recognizing indigenous slavery in North America suffers from two difficulties: first, the general problem in ethnohistory of few data, compared with later periods with voluminous archives, and second, the lingering aura of the Noble Savage. First Nations understandably tend to see their forebears as good people, and academics were taught that only societies with large populations, class divisions, and highly productive agriculture could afford to keep slaves. Theory thus bu s heads against the data we do have. Our primary problem, relative paucity of data on indigenous slave raiding and slave holding, opened out at the beginning of the twentyfirst century with a collegial group of Southeastern ethnohistorians focusing on the initial European invasions period, the sixteenth to early eighteenth centuries. In the index of Ethridge and Shuck-Hall’s Mapping the Mississippian Sha er Zone ( ) there is a full page and a half of references to the word slave. The picture emerging from this focused collection of detailed scholarly papers is of a Late Pre-European Eastern Woodlands containing many small kingdoms (or cacicazgos, polities ruled by caciques, a Taino term used more generally by Spanish

“Slaves” on the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land 

invaders). Trade over established routes was extensive, using a lingua franca, Mobilian Jargon, and included trading captives as slaves (Ethridge : ). Patricia Galloway ( ), writing on her decades of research in Mississippi ethnohistory, and Barbara Belyea ( ), writing on her comparable work on Rupert’s Land, powerfully impress upon us not only the paucity of documentation but the slippery character of what we do have. Galloway tells us, “I have struggled – some would say too hard – with trying to wring blood from the stones of European incomprehension and representation of Native behavior and testimony” (p. ). Both Galloway and Belyea have strong backgrounds in rhetoric and comparative literature, grounding their research in expectation of variation, omissions, and contradictions in the primary sources. Furthermore, accepted “primary” sources for sixteenth- and seventeenth-century descriptions of North American Indians may be rather far from primary: Hernando de Soto, for example, died on the Mississippi in , and our accounts of what he and his men observed come years later from the memories of three members of the expedition and a book wri en by Peruvian aristocrat Garcilaso de la Vega, published in . Neither are daily journals nor ethnographic studies unproblematic. Such sources are apt to take for granted, and therefore not explicate, aspects of societies that do not seem unusual – for example, slavery. The second problem in recognizing indigenous slavery in North America comes from Western culture’s proclivity to idealize a distant society as antithesis of our own corrupted state. Noble Savages have been contrasted with decadent urbanites for more than two thousand years, as Lovejoy and Boas ( ) amply documented. Classical Greeks o en held the Scythians to exemplify “the simplest (or most honest) and least deceitful of men, far more frugal and self-sufficing than we” (quoted from Strabo’s Geographia in Lovejoy and Boas, p. ). Self-sufficing savages would not hold slaves. Turning from Strabo’s descriptive geography to Aristotle’s sociology, his Politics presents an evolution of society that already in its second phase, a er animal-like sexual and parental associations, is “‘the union of those who are by nature rulers and those who are by nature destined to be ruled,’ i.e. slaves” (Lovejoy and Boas, p. ). While Noble Savages roam, frugal and free, on the far peripheries of the world, people worth engaging inevitably live in hierarchies of power and labour. In each of the seven kingdoms (“civilizations”) he analysed to discover cross-cultural generalities in states, Bruce Trigger found slavery ( a: – ).

 Alice Beck Kehoe

William Y. Adams ( ) introduced the term “Indianology” for American anthropologists’ study of American First Nations (pp. – ). Adams suggests that “our distinctively American vision may have been shaped, for many of us, less by anthropological reading than by the books we read and the films we saw in our early youth: the basic, popular literature of twentieth-century Indianology … the Good Indian/Bad White Man myth [which] is, of course, only one manifestation of the more general philosophy of Primitivism” (pp. , ). Perspicaciously, Adams notes that “Primitivism has never been a significant component of anthropological theory … Primitivism is an emotional undercurrent rather than an overt theoretical stance” (p. ). It is this proclivity to see First Nations as “the simplest (or most honest) and least deceitful of men, far more frugal and self-sufficing than we” that melds the slave Sakakawea with the princess Pocahontas into Disney’s wood-sprite maiden. Writing from a Canadian archaeologist’s perspective, Robert McGhee ( ) decries the Romanticism and scientism that he, like Adams, sees prevalent among North American prehistorians. Primitivism, he states, “has meant the rejection of any concept of historical complexity among the prehistoric inhabitants of North America” (p. ). Trigger expounded on this theme in a lecture, published in as “Current Trends in American Archaeology.” He complained that the scientism of the New Archaeology le “li le sense of archaeology being part of a wider discipline of prehistory, in which the findings of archaeology, ethnography, linguistics, physical anthropology, folklore, and history are utilized together in an effort to interpret and understand the past” (Trigger a: ). Arguing that archaeologists should “recognize what is culturally-specific in their own thinking,” Trigger worked very hard to absorb First Nations modes of discourse and transmi ed histories, as well as academic historical and geographical research (p. ). Conclusion There are two major points to be made about aboriginal slave raiding and use. First, Ewers’s distinction between ba les and slave raiding clarifies our understanding of Northern Plains/Rupert’s Land indigenous economies and politics. Burch’s ( ) work among neighbouring Arctic nations supports this distinction and its ramifications (pp. , ). Second, if horse raiding was primarily economic, for transportation of baggage and as an alternative to building pounds, then prior

“Slaves” on the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land 

to the horse, transporting baggage would have been a major factor in maintaining a comfortable standard of living. For this, slave women – drudges – would have been highly valuable. Such women would have not only packed goods on their own backs, they would have managed pack dogs with travois. Given the mortality among young women, especially women subjected to heavy drudge labour, camps perhaps could never have enough slave women. As in the nineteenth century, more women could process more bison for the hide trade, more women could process food both fresh and dried, including pemmican to trade with agricultural towns; for example, Boyd and Sure e ( ) record evidence of maize in pre-contact sites well north of its cultivation zone. “Pemmican posts” established by both the Hudson’s Bay Company and the North West Company in the Canadian parklands beginning in drew upon the Prairies’ already existing production of pemmican for trade (Ray : – ). Captured women increased the yield from impounded herds, transported much more than their own meagre baggage, and processed food for both camp sustenance and trade. There is good reason to accept raiding for women, and keeping at least some captured women in drudge status, as aboriginal practice. When horses became available in the early eighteenth century, they amplified the capacity of camps for transporting baggage but did not replace women and dogs in this role, and by facilitating transport of large hides and large bags of pemmican, they underwrote the continuing value of drudge women for producing trade items. Of course, captive women could be used “for purposes of sexual gratification,” as Ewers ( : ) acknowledged, and incorporating foreign women into the gene pool would generally have been beneficial (as pointed out by Narcisse Blood, October , personal communication) as well as helping maintain viable population size. But above all, labour value long had been the principal stimulus to slave raiding and maintenance on the Northern Plains and Rupert’s Land.

ACKNOWLEDGMENT A version of this chapter was originally presented as a paper on November to the American Society for Ethnohistory annual meeting, in Santa Fe, New Mexico. James F. Brooks encouraged its preparation.

 Alice Beck Kehoe NOTES  1 Medievalists have ignored or glossed over slavery in Europe, in the same manner as Americanists have done for our continent: see Frantzen and Moffat (1994). Similarly, slavery in the Roman world has posed difficulties for researchers: see Webster (2010). The volume edited by Catherine Cameron (2008) surveys approaches to recognizing slavery through archaeological and ethnohistorical data from several continents.  2 Saukamappee was a Cree who joined a Piegan camp a er a ba le of Cree and Piegan against Snake, ca. 1730 (the last ba le with formations of soldiers behind large shields, ineffective against guns) (Russell 1991: 88–91).  3 Osage priestly ancestors magically killed a bison and used the ceremonial knife to cut a strong strap from its le hind leg, the prototype of the strap every warrior carried to tie up captives (La Flesche 1928: 85).

4 Contextualizing the Phenomenology of Landscape

Among my treasured offprints, in the “Theory” box, is a gi from Bruce Trigger: an article which is a tour de force, exploring the mentalities of native American peoples in early contact with European colonizers (Trigger a). I still retain the “post-it” piece of yellow adhesive paper on the cover, thanking me for sending a copy of a book I had edited, with the added comment “In return a few items.” Characteristic, and for me immensely mind-expanding, was his carefully constructed argument that extreme interpretative positions force us to fall short of human realities and cripple our ability to evaluate past societies, whereas careful historical analysis allows us instead to envisage the helpful complementarity of major “isms” instead of their opposition: The long-term alliances between idealism and romanticism and between materialism and rationalism are not historical accidents. Reason always serves some end. It may be used to promote goals that are wholly determined by the idiosyncrasies of a specific cultural system. Alternatively, it may allow the pursuit of more practical goals that sustain or alter a society’s relationship to the physical world and that create new pa erns for the production, distribution, and control of ma er, energy, and information. While no process of reasoning occurs independently of culture, practical reason has the capacity to transcend culture. (p. )

In the face of the intellectual onslaught of rampant New Archaeology in the s to s, and then the equally intolerant post-processual archaeology of the s onwards, Bruce remained a sceptic, challenging the way these mini-paradigms claimed a hegemony over how to study the past (Trigger c, a). His way was to favour many

 John Bintliff

collaborating approaches, derived from divergent philosophical or scientific traditions. In a later paper he put this very eloquently: “One of the major mistakes of early American processual archaeology was to abandon T.C. Chamberlain’s ( ) method of multiple working hypotheses in favour of a deductive approach that privileged various forms of ecological, technological and economic determinism. Doing so resulted in a premature theoretical closure, which for over a decade inhibited the development of archaeological understanding. This strategic error would only be duplicated, not corrected, if post-processual archaeologists were to substitute cultural determinism for ecological determinism” (Trigger c: ). It is precisely on this last point that the present tribute to Bruce Trigger will elaborate, through asking why a particular form of extreme culturalism has become so popular in representing how past humans saw their landscapes, and whether a range of complementary approaches (a Wi genstein “toolbox” of parallel discourses, Bintliff ), is better suited to the greater complexity of human behaviour in pre-modern times. I agree with Bruce that all human communities behave in ways that range from the clearly “practical” or “functional” to the clearly “symbolic” and “mystical,” but none of these behaviours need to be seen as “unreasonable” in terms of a particular society’s norms. Hence, for us, their material traces are always potentially comprehensible. Moreover, the internal logic that a society creates between such varying behaviours is rarely considered by its members as anything less than internally logical and coherent, as Evans-Pritchard ( ) taught us in his classic anthropological monograph on witchcra among the Azande. What I would like to do in this essay is to take the currently fashionable approach termed the “phenomenology of landscape,” essentially introduced to archaeological theory by Chris Tilley in a book with this title in , and contextualize it by se ing its appearance and popularity into our contemporary historical circumstances, especially in relation to the changing nature of the English countryside and society’s perceptions of it. Tilley’s book of begins with a now traditional dismissal of the failings of New Geography and New Archaeology, specifically in their misunderstanding of the human relationship to space. Tilley’s new vision sees humans in space as accessible to the modern researcher only through subjective re-experiencing of the past sensibility of the society under focus.

Contextualizing the Phenomenology of Landscape 

Tilley’s next gnomic u erance of importance, “space does not and cannot exist, apart from the events and activities within which it is implicated … space is socially produced” also reflects a standard postmodernist world-view: space is a social construct ( : ). We must, it appears, absolutely reject the perspective that humans are merely one player in an ecology with other animal, plant, and physical landscape components. The land is a mere blank sheet onto which the human intellect writes its character, and this is done in terms of purely human social concerns. As a humorous comment, we now realize that this also leaves the inhabitants of the pre-human Earth in a sorry state of not having any space at all to live in! As archaeologists, we don’t have any responsibility to empower dinosaurs, so let us continue to hold Tilley’s hand and be taken into his new spatial paradigm. Our next stopping place is to touch base with specific philosophical gurus of the past: Heidegger is quoted to give a succinct image of how we should now see humans in past spaces. Reading Heidegger certainly broadens our thinking about space; nevertheless, much of it sounds rather familiar. The use of wood for shelter, furniture, shrine, and coffin is a thought-provoking insight into the multiplicity of meanings a dominant natural material can take in a woodland society, bridging functional and symbolic life effortlessly. But at the same time, equally valid references by Heidegger to adaptive behaviour as suggested by the form and the micro- and macro-location of the house would be perfectly at home in a paper from one of the Cambridge palaeoeconomy volumes of twenty years ago. Actually, we are right to be puzzled: Tilley’s focus will not remain anywhere near as broad as Heidegger’s; his preferred view of human space is definitely much more restricted: “The aim is to underline the affective, emotional and symbolic significance of the landscape” ( : ). And, “What is clear ... is the symbolic, ancestral and temporal significance of the landscape. Writing about an economic ‘base’ in relation to resource utilization or landscape use seems quite irrelevant here” (p. ). Thus, it appears that landscape is really just about feelings and symbolic behaviour, while time means thinking about the ancestors. It is totally erroneous to examine something called resource utilization or the economics of land use. In any case, this new way of approaching humans in space or landscape is then very succinctly presented by Tilley (see Table . ) as nothing less than an entire philosophy for human space in the past, contrasted to that of the present.

 John Bintliff Table 4.1 Tilley’s World of the Past versus the Modern World Capitalist/Western Space

Pre-capitalist/Non-Western Space

infinitely open

different densities

desanctified

sanctified

control

sensuousness

surveillance/partitioning

ritualized/anthropomorphic

economic

cosmological

“useful” to act

“useful” to think

architectural forms resemble each other in architecture an embodiment of myth and “disciplinary” space cosmology landscape as background to action

landscape as sedimented ritual form

time linear and divorced from space

time constitutive of rhythms of social action in space-time

Source: Tilley (1994: 20–1).

Be that as it may, I shall leave you wondering how it can be, and focus on the very particular emphasis Tilley chooses for his pre-capitalist global list (on the right-hand side of Table . ): landscapes are places of human social interactions and ritual behaviours. Thus, the methodology Tilley will now propose for us is to undertake physical journeys around the landscape between the sites of past activity, trying to recapture the emotional and religious experience of past individuals as they walked along prehistoric cursus monuments, or sighted the barrows of their ancestors on the crests of hills while they travelled from farm to farm. The model of Australian Aborigine Dreamtime is generalized so that the entire landscape is asked to reveal its lost sacred names and legendary associations, or ties of certain kin groups, or individuals to places and spaces. Now that we have been shown the correct way to view the global pre-capitalist landscape, we realize that it was not, it seems, a place where people, let us be plain, “work” (Figure . ), or co-evolve with other species, or adapt to changing weather, or manage the constraints and possibilities of the physical landscape in order to sustain their families and a ain a stable economy, or even economic prosperity. Now you might rightly respond: maybe these things were of li le importance to past societies compared with their social life, or their

Contextualizing the Phenomenology of Landscape  Figure 4.1. Nineteenth-century French peasants seen secretly working the land. (Rosa Bonheur, 1849, Ploughing in the Nivernais)

relations to the spirits of the ancestors and to immortal supernatural forces or deities. I am simply not going to bother to react to your challenge. I shall leave you once again to think over that question for yourselves, because what I find more interesting here, and thus what I am prepared to tell you about, are what I am firmly convinced are the underlying reasons for Tilley’s very particular and dogmatic views on the meaning of landscape for all past societies. To do that requires me to position Chris Tilley and followers such as Barbara Bender into the history of the English landscape, because that is what they are talking about and doing research within, and as Tilley would surely ask us to do, we should contextualize Tilley and Bender themselves into their own time and space. In the Middle Ages, urban populations were a small percentage of the English populace. Towns and fortified centres of power were also small, so that those who did not work the land lived on islands immediately surrounded by a rural sea filled with farmers and herders. What happened a erwards has been the subject of many studies, one of the most influential being The Country and the City ( ) by Raymond Williams (see also Fleming and Gore , Williamson and Bellamy ). From the sixteenth century onwards, English landowners began to enclose the land for two reasons. First, they were inspired by new concepts of the aesthetic pleasure derivable from long vistas and

 John Bintliff

fake ruins around their country mansions. Second, capitalism began to encroach into farming, encouraging the displacement of small subsistence peasants and the creation of larger specialist estates. While the great landowners got richer and cultivated their Romantic sensibilities, the rural labourers got poorer or fled to the growing cities. The latter were painted in their hard-working poverty throughout Western Europe by radical artists with strong social consciences, like Courbet or Millet, whereas the landowners commissioned pictures where the peasants were dozing, resembling the happy shepherds found in the literary genre of classical pastoral poetry. Until the end of the nineteenth century, English peasants were still numerous, although the balance of national population was inexorably shi ing to the giant new industrial and commercial cities. During the twentieth century, British farms became dominated by giant estates, while the number of small farmers rapidly dwindled. Those who survived increasingly did so through diversification into non-agricultural pursuits, subsidies, and rural tourism. The following are some of the realities of today’s English countryside (Vidal , ): – Of the twenty-five million hectares of land in the United Kingdom, sixteen million belong to , landowners. – . per cent of the land is occupied by million town dwellers. – , small farmers have per cent of the land. – Almost per cent of income for European farmers comes from subsidies, most in Britain go to the largest estates. – Modern farms have very small workforces; and the small farmers increasingly live from subsidies, non-farming products, and rural heritage or “countryside theme park income.” Rural workforces are tiny compared with pre-modern times, making landscapes vast, open, and depopulated, ripe for exploration by the millions of sentimental city-dwellers in search of the authentic traditional countryside experience. Indeed, since Britain has moved from a farming population of around a million, half a century ago, to predictions of a mere twelve thousand in a generation or two from now, half or more of all rural houses are now being bought by town-dwellers, either as weekend retreats or as retirement homes. The British landscape is increasingly becoming an enormous theme park for the urban millions. As a recent tourist brochure for the Yorkshire Dales makes clear: “The whole region is a giant adventure play-

Contextualizing the Phenomenology of Landscape 

ground.” If older town-dwellers like to hike to enjoy rural beauty, the younger generation in the same brochure seem to prefer to contemplate it with a bo le of champagne, perhaps imitating the lords and ladies of the great country-houses of the last century. Public archaeologists have begun to seize their moment to benefit from the decline of rural productivity and the disappearance of farms and farmers, as well as the appearance of gigantic European subsidies, to reclassify U.K. landscapes according to a new concept called “landscape character” (Fairclough and Rippon ). Each region is mapped to reveal the distribution of varied types of historical land use or natural environments, so as not only to conserve as many of them as possible as a mosaic of past ways of using the landscape, but equally to utilize cultural landscapes for leisure and tourism. We have briefly run though the story of the English countryside up to the current extraordinary emphasis, an urban middle-class vision of it as a lost paradise of past lifeways, a place to rediscover a romantic response to nature, landscapes to visit for the weekend or holidays, and to retire to, but not of course landscapes to work in. The following developments should now require li le further explanation: two middleclass archaeological theorists from archaeological and anthropological institutes in Central London, neither associated with practical archaeology, Chris Tilley and Barbara Bender, set out into the remote English countryside to recapture the experience of being a Neolithic or Bronze Age person in that environment. Tilley walks along and around prehistoric monuments and collates the emotions and reactions to what becomes visible and intervisible to the receptive hiker. Bender and Tilley (Bender, Hamilton, and Tilley ) ironically deploy a picture-frame set on the edge of a prehistoric se lement, and gaze through it earnestly into the landscape, as the methodology to reach into the mind of an ancient rural inhabitant. It is not my business here to argue that such an approach, which tries to reconstruct sacred and social landscapes, is intrinsically suspect. In fact, I see it as an important new perspective. But if there is a moral to be drawn from my contextual analysis of the phenomenology of landscape movement, it is surely this: archaeological theorists project contemporary preoccupations in their society into dogmatic and absolute ideologies of how the world worked in the past, excluding other approaches as irrelevant and erroneous. What is consistently lacking in the history of archaeological theory has been a holistic vision of human society in its natural environment.

 John Bintliff Figure 4.2. a. The big picture: an English working landscape painted around 1700 AD. b. In more detail, other things are going on at the same time (bottom right-hand field). c. Morris dancers perform through the fields during busy harvest time. (Painter anonymous)

Contextualizing the Phenomenology of Landscape 

But is such a holistic world-view tenable? Let me take you to a beautifully detailed painting of a country scene around AD (Figure . a). It is still a full countryside, with people busy harvesting, thus a working landscape. But move in, and amid the labourers something else is going on, in the bo om of the close-up (Figure . b). Home in once more (Figure . c), and we see some villagers dancing a traditional Morris dance through the fields – with its origins in fertility rituals. These pre-modern countrypeople would not have agreed to collapse these varied activities into a rural world dominated by hard work, or one of social groups, or one of ceremonies; rather, the countryside has complementary and overlapping facets, each worthy of individual study and then analysis of their mutual interactions. How do I know this? Let the rural farmers speak for themselves. For example, our earliest personal statement of the countryman’s vision in the whole of Europe is by the Greek farmer-poet Hesiod (ca. BC). He was blissfully unaware that environmentalism, functionalism, and culturalism cannot coexist. He wrote in his Works and Days a holistic month-by-month calendar of his activities, shi ing his focus seamlessly from severely practical hints on mending fences and carving a plough, through observations on women and neighbours, to advice on rituals to follow through the day and at specific places in the landscape: When the Pleiades … start to rise begin your harvest; plough when they go down ...To sow your seed go naked; strip to plough and strip to reap, if you would harvest all Demeter’s yield in season. (pp. ff.) Make prayers to Zeus the farmer’s god and to Holy Demeter, for her sacred grain, to make it ripe and heavy, when you start to plough, and hold the handles in your hand, and strike the oxen as they tug the straps. (pp. ff.) Never pass through, on foot, a lovely brook of ever-flowing water, till you pray and look into the beauty of the stream, and in her clean, sweet water, wash your hands, for if you cross a river with your hands and crimes uncleansed, the gods will punish you. (pp. ff.)

There is a final irony. When Tilley and Bender walk a Neolithic cursus or sit to meditate on a landscape from a prehistoric se lement, they are not, as they fondly imagine, demonstrating the dominance and autonomy of the conscious human intellect in “creating nature.” There is very good reason to argue (Bintliff ) that they are just as much responding to deep subconscious drives and satisfactions we have inherited from our evolutionary hunter-gatherer past, where “reading the

 John Bintliff

landscape” and taking physical exercise and pleasure in its exploration and contemplation are adaptive human traits hard-wired into our brain-chemistry.

NOTE An earlier version of this chapter was published as J. Bintliff, “The Implications of a Phenomenology of Landscape,” in E. Olshausen and V. Sauer (eds.), Die Landscha und die Religion, Stu garter Kolloquium zur Historischen Geographie des Altertums 9, 2005, pp. 27–45 (Stu gart: Franz Steiner Verlag). Republished with permission.

5 The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology .

Ethnoarchaeology would seem to be at a crossroads in its history. While archaeology is no less dependent on “source-side” knowledge (following Watson ) now than it was during ethnoarchaeology’s heyday (see Kuznar and Jeske ; Trigger a: – ; Wylie ), the discipline has begun to show a marked ambivalence towards undertaking ethnographic research specifically for archaeology’s interpretive purposes. Some of this ambivalence has emerged from the significant ethical problems associated with ethnoarchaeology’s ethnographic “mining operations” (a er Meskell , see Fewster ), while others have found European social philosophers, such as Bourdieu, Giddens, Heidegger, and Foucault, to be a more useful baseline for interpretation than ethnographically derived models. At the Society for American Archaeology meetings in Austin, Texas, leading figures in the field were even assembled in a forum called “The Discipline of Archaeology” (organized by Douglas Price, Margaret Conkey, and Vin Steponaitis) to discuss whether archaeology in North America should break its traditional association with anthropology programs. University reorganization is giving archaeologists a chance to consider the benefits of being in free-standing archaeology departments at the same time that critical analyses are suggesting that the integration of the “four subdisciplines” in anthropology has generated few interpretive advantages (Borofsky , Segal and Yanagisako ). Underlying some of these discussions seems to be a tacit suggestion that the ethnographic knowledge produced by cultural anthropology is no longer needed to facilitate developments in archaeological theory (explicitly countered by Gillespie et al. and Skibo , but see Sullivan ).

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

My aim in the current discussion is to argue, albeit indirectly, for the continued value of ethnoarchaeology to archaeology. In many ways, this echoes the broad vision of archaeology that Bruce Trigger defended throughout his life. One of Trigger’s enduring legacies in archaeology will always be his unwillingness to embrace either a relativistic cultural determinism or positivist-based behaviouralism (see Trigger c). Instead, he defended a nuanced understanding of archaeology’s objectives and history, one that emphasized how the political interests of a middleclass discipline adjusted to the intractable and expanding archaeological record it produced (Trigger a). The net result is a vision of archaeology that keeps the dialectic between politics and archaeological data in careful focus. It embraces the optimistic hope that archaeologists, like society in general, will eventually become conscious of their assumptions and recognize their power to make themselves. My dissertation research, supervised by Bruce Trigger at McGill University, built from this legacy by exploring how archaeologists can use ethnographic research to reveal their assumptions and then produce more accurate interpretations of the past. When I began my ethnoarchaeological work on ceramic exchange and consumption with women po ers and consumers in the Inland Niger Delta of Mali, I found myself constantly struggling with a series of questions that seemed to originate in the expectations that people had for the research I was preparing to do. I was commi ed to doing ethnoarchaeology with the same level of ethical and interpretive rigour as any other cultural anthropologist. I also felt, following my reading of Ann Stahl (Stahl , also Thomas , Wilmsen ), that it was necessary to take into consideration the fact that the women I was intending to work with were not atemporal representations of some previous stage of cultural evolution, but were mired in a crushing, neo-colonial modernity that had a direct impact on their decisions surrounding material culture. The implication was that my ethnoarchaeology would have to be as much about women’s aspirations and sentiments within capitalism’s encroaching socio-economic context, as it was about their “traditional” pots. Such research immediately raised questions about the archaeological relevance my results would potentially have. Was I going to do “real ethnoarchaeology” and develop sound “middle-range principles,” or would my focus on modernity divert me into something else, perhaps a less applicable form of material culture studies? Did I face an ethical dilemma because my research started with archaeological questions?

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

What emerged for me in carrying out and writing up my research was a stark awareness of some of the dominant expectations that plague ethnoarchaeology, and the significant difference between these expectations and what I believe are the actual practices normally undertaken by ethnoarchaeologists. While I have elsewhere considered ethnoarchaeology’s diversity (Cunningham a) and relations to positivism (Cunningham a), my intent in the following discussion is to explore in some detail the notion that ethnoarchaeology and its associated (“middle range”) theory should be independent from archaeology’s explanatory theory. I show that this seemingly minor proposition about ethnoarchaeological research actually contributes significantly to the ambivalence plaguing the subfield. At the same time, however, it offers a possible way of rethinking ethnoarchaeology’s importance within the broader discipline. I begin by outlining what independence seems to have meant for its most vocal advocate, the late Lewis Binford. In the second half of the essay, I draw on the metaphor of “tacking” popularized in anthropology by Clifford Geertz and in archaeology by Alison Wylie to describe an alternative perspective on what ethnoarchaeology – and its independence – might offer archaeology. I end by introducing a brief case study drawn from my own ethnoarchaeological work in West Africa. Independence and the New Archaeology Theories generated about the past in the absence of middle range theory have li le hope of being related to relevant observations on the archaeological record ... Discussions of the past in such situations remain idle speculations ... accepted or rejected in terms of one’s subjective biases. – Binford ( : )

It should be no surprise that the points of origin for dominant understandings of ethnoarchaeology are found in the seminal works of Lewis Binford. While ethnoarchaeological research predates Binford’s work (e.g., Kleindienst and Watson , Watson ), and has o en diverged from many of his suggestions (Gould , Hodder ), it is in his hands that ethnoarchaeology emerged as one of archaeology’s most important subfields. Not only was ethnoarchaeology to identify ethnographic analogues and develop the middle-range principles that would decode the archaeological record, but the suggested independence of

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

middle-range theories it produced from archaeology’s general theory was expected to nullify the effects of theoretical holism identified by Thomas Kuhn ( [ ]). This la er suggestion has gained a new currency as post-positivist researchers have begun to emphasize the ways that conceptual independence allows archaeologists to acknowledge the role that background assumptions play in their research without slipping into hyper-relativism (Kosso , Tschauner , Wylie ). As a result, many of Binford’s original proposals have gained new life even as his own work diversified and in many ways so ened (Binford ). One of Binford’s primary concerns in his early rejection of “traditional” culture-historical archaeology was breaking away from pre-scientific forms of inference about the past. He was particularly concerned with finding an alternative to Raymond Thompson’s ( ) suggestions that interpretations of the past could only be validated by looking at the credentials of the archaeologist who made the interpretation (e.g., Binford a: ). The difference between the historical focus of traditional archaeology and a scientific approach was characterized as a change in epistemology: a scientific archaeology would add deductive testing to the usual archaeological toolkit of analogically based inductive interpretations (Binford b: ). Binford noted, however, that archaeology faces a problem in implementing deductive testing procedures. General theories, like the ecological model of culture that he favoured, focus on the explanation of human behaviour, not on the explanation of the archaeological record. As a result, in archaeology, “general theory remains in the air, adri from the empirical phenomena with which it could be profitably evaluated” (Binford : ). Building a mature, deductively based archaeology, therefore, requires that a science of the archaeological record also be developed that explains how material culture relates to the behaviours that are hypothesized to exist in general theory. Only by making such middle-range linkages can researchers use archaeological data in a deductive program to test broad-range theories of behaviour. As Binford ( : ) notes, deductive inferences “would be true ... only if the variables cited in one’s explanatory argument could be unambiguously operationalized to facts recoverable from the archaeological record. Of course this ability rests with the demonstration of unambiguous cause-and-effect relationships between the causal dynamics and the derivative statics that would be cited to warrant the use of chosen static facts as measures for the [behavioral] variables in question. In short, only if middle-range

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

research had justified the meanings assigned to archaeological observations as measures for the variables cited could such testing proceed” (emphasis added). In an early example, Binford ( a: , – ) provides some sense of how such knowledge should work in testing programs. An archaeologist might first observe a material pa ern and propose an inductively based explanation: a geographical break in rock paintings and engravings reflects the existence of two distinct cultural traditions. To assess this interpretation, the archaeologist generates a prediction that should be true if this original interpretation – and its overarching model – were true. If the rock art reflects two cultural traditions, then stylistic elements in other aspects of material culture, such as “bead forms, decoration on bone implements, projectile point forms, etc.” (Binford b: ), should demonstrate the same geographical discontinuity. The subsequent test relies on the fact that ethnoarchaeological work has already established that these other stylistic elements (e.g., “bead forms”) also vary in relation to cultural traditions and can serve as a relevant indicator of different cultures. Binford (e.g., Binford and Sabloff : ) suggests that this contrasts with the tautological testing programs of traditional archaeology. Here, archaeologists would surmise that the three distinct pa erns in ceramic decoration were indicative of distinct ethnic groups. Further testing would progress by focusing in more detail on decoration “as if” it was a reflection of ethnicity. Binford acutely notes that such deductive testing does not independently test the inductively generated interpretation because it relies on the same assumed relation between ceramic decoration and ethnicity. The development of a scientific archaeology thus required ethnoarchaeology to have identified those “other pa erns” in material culture that should be present if ethnic groups were responsible for the observed variation in po ery. Thus, while ethnoarchaeology might be used to identify ethnographic analogues for ancient societies (Binford ), its most important role was to develop the independent bridging principles upon which the New Archaeology would rely for its deductive testing strategies. Independence has a couple of different meanings in this context. First, it reflects the independence created by integrating different lines of evidence for an interpretation, so that the presence of two cultural traditions identified through rock art and/or ceramic styles would be tested through an independent line of evidence such as bead forms or projectile points. This particular version of independence is not unique

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

to Binford’s thought and – despite his misgivings about traditional archaeology – has been widely used. It is largely commensurate with the standard practices of culture-historical archaeology, has a close similarity with recent hermeneutic approaches focused on the “correspondence and coherence” among diverse archaeological data sets (e.g., Hodder ), and even appears again in recent calls for “inference to the best explanation” (Fogelin , following Kelley and Hanen ). Alison Wylie ( ) has coined the term “horizontal independence” to describe this tendency for archaeologists to assess their interpretations by triangulating evidence from a variety of material pa erns. Second, independence refers to the fact that ethnoarchaeology creates its middle-range theories in a context that is different from the archaeological se ings in which that theory is later deployed. Through time, Binford ( : ) becomes more explicitly interested in the significance for archaeology of the independence of middle-range theories from high-level or general theory, and states: “our methods for constructing the past must be intellectually independent of our theories for explaining the past. That is, the theories explaining the archaeological record, the work that provides our observational language and conveys meaning to archaeological phenomena, must be intellectually independent of our theories regarding the processes responsible for past events, pa erns of change, or stability. Our middle-range theory must be intellectually independent of our general theory” (original emphasis). This form of independence – what Wylie ( ) later describes as “vertical independence” – becomes a focal point of his solution to contextualist critiques of positivism (e.g, Hanson , Kuhn , Quine , Wylie for discussion). On the one hand, Binford ( : ) notes, in accordance with Kuhn and others, that knowledge is inherently subjective: “we cannot gain a direct knowledge of the essential properties of the world. Our cognition is neither direct nor objective, but may be indirect and subjective relative to our beliefs about the world (i.e., our paradigm).” Yet, through the judicious use of ethnoarchaeological research – in particular, by exploiting independently created middle-range theory – it is possible to achieve a methodological form of objectivity that neutralizes the circularity of archaeological interpretation (Binford : – , ) and enables “productive paradigm change through rational means” (Binford and Sabloff : ). Understanding how middle-range theories get this crucial version of independence requires an analysis of what Binford found so compelling about ethnoarchaeological research. Indeed, the key is not just that

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

ethnoarchaeology operates in an empirical context distinct from archaeology, but the way it mobilizes background knowledge to produce the middle-range theories that are later used in archaeological testing programs. Ethnoarchaeology and archaeology are thought to use two different types of knowledge to frame their research. Ethnoarchaeology relies on “paradigmatic” background knowledge, while archaeology relies on more “theoretical” knowledge. Binford ( : ) explains that a paradigm is a “conceptual tool of description,” while theory is a “conceptual tool of explanation.” Paradigms create definitions, like the notion of a storage room, while theories create hypotheses, such as the proposition that an increase in subsistence specialization results in an increasing dependence on stored food (Binford : – ). Paradigmatic knowledge originates in, and is affected by, “irrational” social and historical influences originating in the broader society. As an example, Binford and Sabloff ( ) point to the differences between Old World and New World visions of culture, which affect the ways that archaeological materials are defined. These different perspectives are a ributed to distinct social contexts in Europe and the United States. Such paradigms, however, are distinct from theories, which are the bodies of rational knowledge created by scientific research: “A paradigm is one’s world view, translating one’s experience into meaningful statements. A theory is an argument one makes about why the world is pa erned in a particular form ... theory makes prediction possible. Theory is thus derived from one’s paradigm: it is a subset of it” (Binford and Sabloff : ). Middle-range theories are independent from the general theory used in archaeology because ethnoarchaeologists draw on paradigmatic knowledge to document causal relations between human behaviours and material pa erning. Unlike archaeology, ethnoarchaeology is able to see both the action and its material residue – the “statics” and the “dynamics” – at exactly the same time. Whereas archaeology’s quest to explain human action employs theoretical knowledge and proceeds through deduction, ethnoarchaeology’s ability to observe behaviouralmaterial correlates thus allows it to be an inductive movement framed by only the most basic types of paradigmatic knowledge (also see Raab and Goodyear ). In middle-range research there is “li le problem of inference regarding the identity of the agent producing the pa ern or traces” (Binford : ). While it could be overstated, one could suggest that Binford ( ) reintroduces an almost uncritical empiricism for actualistic studies:

 Jerimy J. Cunningham Archaeology is perhaps in a fortunate position. Although there is much contemporary “culture” or paradigmatic bias regarding the nature of man and the causes of history, there is very li le folk knowledge regarding the formation of the archaeological record. This means that there is li le explicit prior development of cognitive devices or frames of reference for accommodating archaeological phenomena in the literal, static sense of the word. (p. ) What we are seeking through middle-range research ... [is] to build a paradigmatic frame of reference for giving meaning to the archaeological record. (p. )

Ethnoarchaeology thus emerges primarily as a program of middlerange “theory building” (Binford : ) rather than theory testing. Binford’s understanding seems to envision it as perpetually suspended in a Kuhnian state of pre-paradigmatic “fact-collecting” and/or moments of “extraordinary science” that accompany paradigm change (Kuhn : – , – ). Ethnoarchaeology gets this special epistemic position because of the positivist assumptions that inspired much of the New Archaeology’s early work. The particular brand of logical positivism championed by the New Archaeology drew heavily on the work of Carl Hempel (e.g., ) and emphasized that knowledge emerged from the observation of facts and the identification of causes (Wacquant ). Positivist thought, and especially logical positivism, is based in the notion that observation is the foundation of knowledge and that abstractions beyond the empirical level need to take the form of logical principles that ensure that the theory being developed is rigidly and explicitly tied back to the data it sought to explain. Human action would then be understood through reference to covering laws that, when combined with a defined set of initial conditions, should provide the basis from which to predict behaviour. The inability of archaeology to actually see behaviour was thus a fundamental problem for positivist archaeology because observation was expected to be the final arbiter of truth. For the New Archaeology’s testing schemes to move forward, archaeologists needed a reliable way of moving from the “statics” that archaeologists could observe to the “dynamics” that were predicted in their hypotheses. Ethnoarchaeology’s unique ability to observe behaviour and material culture at the same time thus le positivist archaeology in a fortunate position. Ethnoarchaeology was charged with identifying conjunctions

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

between two sets of what should be readily apparent facts: the first, observations of human behaviour, and the second, observations of material pa erning. Moreover, because positivists think that both behaviour and behavioural-material relations are governed by lawlike uniformities, relatively few observations should be necessary to identify correlations that should have wide (cross-context) validity. Ethnoarchaeological analyses would then be at such a low level of generality – so tightly tied to well-pa erned data sets – that the middle-range linkages it identifies would be almost atheoretical in nature. It is for this reason that ethnoarchaeology could get by using only the most rudimentary (paradigmatic) assumptions to frame its analysis. Ethnoarchaeology thus was designed to solve key problems the New Archaeology perceived in implementing an epistemology that, while officially positivist, actually blended elements of both positivist and post-positivist thought (Wylie ). Latent positivist assumptions framed ethnoarchaeology as a recorder of what were promised to be readily apparent unambiguous material correlates. In much more post-positivist and theoretically sophisticated way, archaeology would introduce these independent middle-range theories into their testing programs to create a methodological form of objectivity. Much of the ambivalence we see surrounding ethnoarchaeology originates in the tensions produced between the somewhat idealistic role the subfield was expected to play in archaeology and the realities that emerged during actual ethnographic research. Rather than unambiguous material correlates, the search for middle-range theories tended to result in cautionary tales. For many archaeologists, cautionary tales seem to be a product of ethnoarchaeology’s regre able eclecticism (Arnold , Stark ), caused perhaps by the subfield’s inability to focus due a ention on truly middle-range concerns (Arnold ). However, cautionary tales are also a sign that unambiguous material correlates were really few and far between, restricted to those rare cases where natural laws governed causal relations between behaviours and material culture (Trigger a: – ). Eclecticism, likewise, might be interpreted as the inevitable consequence of marching orders that promised ethnoarchaeologists that they needed only the most rudimentary paradigmatic compasses to investigate the complex flow of daily practice and identify behavioural-material correlations. In hindsight, it is somewhat ironic that at roughly the same time that ethnoarchaeology was championed as an inductive program of theory building, cultural anthropology was entering a crisis of representation

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

that showed that even the most basic ethnographic descriptions were determined by implicit theoretical assumptions (Abu-Lughod , Clifford , Fabian , Marcus and Cushman , Marcus and Fischer ). It is not hard to understand then why most ethnoarchaeologists rapidly abandoned the New Archaeology’s proposals and replaced the search for correlates with a more general focus on ethnographic analogy (Cunningham a). Nonetheless, the spectre of positivism continues to haunt the subfield (Cunningham a). In particular, the caricature of ethnoarchaeological research as “( ) nonparticipating, ( ) outside, and ( ) partitive” (Binford and Sabloff : ) has proven an all too easy strawdog for ethnoarchaeology’s critics (Gosden , Hodder , Meskell ). Independence and Tacking Despite these problems, I would suggest that ethnoarchaeology has a key role to play in the advancement of the discipline. Achieving this potential, however, means adjusting our understanding of what ethnoarchaeology’s independence means and how it should be achieved. Independence remains a key issue for theoretical moderates who aim to build a post-positivist archaeology out of the ashes of the processual–post-processual (positivist–anti-positivist) debates. Drawing on Binford, post-positivists note that archaeologists can avoid vicious interpretive tautologies by tacking between independent bodies of theory and independent lines of evidence in their interpretations (following Wylie , ). Archaeologists exploit horizontal independence when they triangulate multiple data sets while creating a single, coherent interpretation. They mobilize vertical independence when they test their interpretations against data generated by theories unrelated to the propositions that inspired their initial hypotheses. Vertical independence is normally created when archaeologists include findings from technical specialties such as radiocarbon dating, stratigraphic analysis, and lithic use-wear studies in their interpretations. The data that these specialties produce – for example, dates, levels, microwear patterns – are usually framed by background theories (from physics, sedimentology, geology) that are unrelated to the social theories archaeologists use to make their interpretations. For moderates aware of Binford’s solution to the contextualist critique, ethnoarchaeology would seem to have a parallel – if greatly expanded – role compared

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

with these technical specialties, providing it was able to generate independent theories that could be included into post-positivist testing programs. Unfortunately, the familiar justification for independence – the generally atheoretical and paradigmatic nature of all “middle-range research” – can no longer be supported. Even a casual knowledge of modern ethnography shows that all types of ethnographic analysis, including ethnoarchaeology, need to rely heavily on background theories to frame their analysis of social action, and these theories should be subject to reflexive critique. As a result, it seems fanciful to suggest that ethnoarchaeology could be a purely inductive research strategy. Moreover, archaeologists and ethnoarchaeologists also train in the same academic programs, read the same literature, and a end the same conferences. This shared institutional and intellectual history means that ethnoarchaeologists o en use the same background theory that archaeologists use to frame their research, which undermines any sweeping claim to the effect that vertical independence is achievable at a subdisciplinary level. Instead, I would suggest that the role ethnoarchaeology plays in a post-positivist archaeology requires us to re-emphasize ethnoarchaeology’s role within programs of analogical reasoning and then explicitly seek to produce independence on a case-by-case basis. Alison Wylie gives us a general way of thinking about how archaeological, ethnoarchaeological, and various forms of critical scholarships might be imagined as part of a robust analogical enterprise. Drawing on her analyses of the New Archaeology, Wylie ( ) proposes that archaeological interpretation proceeds as a series of dialectical tacks (following Geertz ) between multiple data sets and multiple bodies of independent theory that allow the field as a whole to achieve a mitigated form of objectivism. While it has grown conventional to describe archaeological research as a series of tacks (e.g., Gamble , Jones , Joyce , Pauketat and Alt ), what is o en overlooked from Wylie’s ( : , – ) discussion is her description of the supplementary or non-archaeological tacks that may be used on the source-side of the analogical equation to build interpretive security. These tacks include various empirical studies as well as meta-theoretical and reflexive analyses that consider archaeological practices and their political implications. Ethnoarchaeological research is one of these supplementary tacks. Its research explores people’s experiences in different places

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

within the economic, cultural, and political landscapes of modernity (Appadurai ) to assess the principles archaeology uses to reconstruct ancient societies. As an analogical tack, ethnoarchaeology moves back and forth between the source and subject contexts to assess the explanatory power of our theories in different se ings (Gould and Watson , Watson , Wylie ). This means that it is both deductive and inductive, working within a hermeneutic that flows from archaeological propositions (definitions, theories, values) at varying levels of abstraction to engage concrete experiences in a diverse range of cultural se ings where people’s understandings of their material culture can be solicited. Rather than focused simply on low-level correlations, the metaphor of tacking also suggests that ethnoarchaeology should be as ambitious in its research programs as archaeology, studying not just the proximate causes of material pa erns but also broader explanatory questions about the operation of sociocultural systems. Arguably, ethnoarchaeology’s unique power to assess archaeological theories comes from the independence of its ethnographic research contexts. The basis of this independence, however, has to be understood as more complicated than a simple distinction between paradigms and theories. Instead, ethnoarchaeology’s potential to build independence comes from the different theoretical pathways that ethnoarchaeologists must take when they transport archaeological propositions to some ethnographic se ing. To make sense of this point, it is important to note that horizontal and vertical independence are two sides of the same coin. One of the reasons that horizontal independence – the triangulation of independent data sets – is so powerful is because it exploits the vertical independences that occur within each branch of that triangulation. For example, if one interprets a geographical break in rock paintings as reflecting different cultural traditions, subsequent tests that consider pa erns in po ery, point forms, or beads are powerful because each tack requires adjustments to the interpretive pathways that lead to these pa erns. The unique physical properties, production processes, and broader social and cultural uses of different types of material culture ensure that archaeologists inevitably have different proximate understandings of the causes of the material pa ern that are found. Bead forms, for example, might be generally understood as a decorative form of variation, po ery might possess both functional and stylistic forms of variability, while projectile point types might be assumed to reflect “functional equivalents” (Sacke , also Wiessner ). When a series of tacks triangulate to a common, coherent interpretation despite

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

such differences in proximate explanations, it increases confidence that the interpretation is accurate because it would be almost miraculous for the evidence to converge otherwise. Ethnoarchaeology’s independence operates on a similar basis. When independence is present, it emerges not from the broadly inductive nature of ethnoarchaeological research, but because different theoretical pathways are required to assesses archaeological propositions in modern ethnographic se ings. While this certainly needs to be explored in more detail, at least initially it would seem that two components of ethnographic research make ethnoarchaeology a particularly poignant place to test archaeological propositions. First, ethnoarchaeology is an a empt to understand material pa erning by entering into conversations with the people who make and use those pa erns. Typically, ethnoarchaeology has sought out research locations among people that seem to follow lifeways similar to those found in the archaeological record. This search for “modern traditionalism” has been soundly criticized because it tends to deny the coevalness of anthropology’s subjects in ways that reintroduce unilinear evolutionary thought (Stahl , Thomas , Fergusson ). Recent approaches have, instead, focused a ention on how people throughout the era of capitalist expansion have created diverse types of modernity out of a combination of inherited cultural repertoires and diverse global flows (Kahn , Knau ). Even relatively powerful global flows, such as the structural imperatives of the capitalist world system, have tended to be modified and localized (Miller , Yang ). The implication is that what ethnoarchaeologists encounter in the field are not vestigial cultural adaptations or timeless cra traditions so much as the alternative ways that people have become part of a global modernity. These differences give ethnoarchaeologists an opportunity to consult with people who, because of their different historical backgrounds and different engagements with capitalism, do not necessarily share the same assumptions about society or material culture that archaeologists use to interpret the past. Second, ethnoarchaeology would seem poised to produce independence because it tends to engage with temporal rhythms that are different from those conventionally used to study the palimpsests of the archaeological record (Bailey ; also Binford : – ; Bintliff ; Braudel ; Knapp ). Rarely can archaeologists assume that the same people occupied a group of sites. As a result, sites within even quite localized regions tend to be interpreted as manifestations of some

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

sort of common structural entity, be it an adaptive system, an ethnic group, a lineage, or even a household. This allows a wider array of material pa erns to become available as evidence for that entity. Consequentially, archaeology tends to adopt a more structural perspective on human action. Even recent work on agency, which has worked diligently to bring individuals into greater focus in archaeology (e.g., Dobres and Robb ), seems most effective when broader structural entities are already known so that its analyses can focus on how individuals reproduce or transform them (e.g., Pauketat and Alt ). In contrast, ethnographic research has o en begun its analyses with individuals and their aspirations and then sought to work towards broader systematics. There are exceptions and these different tendencies towards temporalization should not be overstated. The structures archaeologists identify are aggregates of individual human acts, and archaeologists do frequently have the ability to zoom in and study, for example, the way a single pot was decorated or how a pressure flake was removed. Ethnographers, likewise, o en have advanced knowledge of the linguistic, kinship, political, and economic structures they will encounter in the field and, once they arrive, may have conversations with research subjects who relate in detail their own abstract understandings of the structures under which they live. Yet, despite such caveats, the cultural pa erns each finds most easy to study have tended to have different temporal depths. Archaeologists o en seem most comfortable with reconstructions of culture history, while ethnographers have tended, especially since the crisis of representation, to avoid theorizing about social systems (Moore ). It would be conventional to argue at this point that the existence of these different temporal visions means that ethnography always has the upper hand. Ethnographers can see, smell, touch, and listen to their research subjects, whereas archaeologists must infer a human presence through material remains. However, I would suggest that archaeology is no more dependent on ethnography for its interpretive principles than ethnography is on archaeology (also see Sullivan ). Instead, they each bring into focus those components of human action privileged by the pa erns that emerge from their respective analyses, and they have each also proven more than capable of securing interpretations within the confines of their respective cultural visions. The reason to undertake hybrid forms of practice such as ethnoarchaeology is not because archaeology needs ethnography to understand its object, but because ethnoarchaeology lets archaeologists work across scales of analysis in ways that tend to bring implicit assumptions into a tight focus. In some cases, these assumptions might be difficult, or

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

even impossible, to test through conventional archaeological analyses. However, they may emerge during the acts of translation that make archaeological propositions suitable for testing in the temporal rhythms encountered during ethnographic research. Once translated, they might also be contradicted by the themes people highlight when they talk about the motivations and strategies behind their material acts. Consequentially, ethnoarchaeology allows archaeology to explore the vast nexus of background knowledge that enables archaeological research but that sits beyond the practical scope of archaeology’s critical gaze. Ethnoarchaeology thus offers the same benefits to archaeology as other forms of multi-scalar research, such as tacks between analyses of regional culture histories and households. It gives archaeology an added ability to recognize its assumptions and offers a context were these hard-to-test assumptions might be assessed empirically. It is perhaps this ability of ethnographic research to provide an independent way to test archaeological assumptions, both by introducing non-conventional viewpoints and by requiring multi-scalar considerations, that continually leads archaeologists of different theoretical persuasions – including those overtly disenchanted with the positivist legacies of ethnoarchaeology – to use ethnographic research as an evaluative tool. One of the most important insights to emerge in archaeology in the twentieth century is that, rather than a passive reflection of society, material culture constitutes society through its “materiality” (Miller ). This insight emerged from a program of East African ethnoarchaeological research (Hodder ) and is still acknowledged as such (Hodder : ) despite Hodder’s other misgivings about the subfield. Post-processualists continue to use ethnographic research to assess their interpretive machinery under the rubric of material culture studies (Hodder ), while the phenomenological interests of a reconfigured social archaeology seem poised to be assessed through archaeological ethnographies (Meskell ). These all seem to share a common objective, which is to use the unique perspectives offered by ethnographic research to robustly assess the theories upon which archaeology so o en relies. Ceramic Distribution in the Inland Niger Delta My work in the Inland Niger Delta of Mali was conceptualized around the idea that ethnoarchaeology was a supplementary research tack within archaeology’s analogically based epistemology. The project began as an assessment of some of the problems I saw in archaeological

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

approaches that envisioned ceramic style as a reflection of either cultural identity or ethnicity (Cunningham , b). Yet, while my aim was to understand style in archaeology, the particular questions archaeologists o en ask had li le applicability to my ethnographic fieldwork. Instead, it was necessary for me to translate my interest in stylistic horizons into an analysis of the underlying, short-term processes that moved domestic vessels about the landscape. In the Delta, where specialist po ers sell to a local clientele, this meant considering both po ers’ marketing strategies and consumer tastes for domestic vessels. These two sets of processes combined to move po ery from production to exchange and then exchange to consumption localities. If stylistic horizons were a reflection of cultural similarity (i.e., if, as archaeologists assume, similar pots meant similar people), then I would expect consumers to prefer vessels made by po ers from their ethnic group, and I would expect po ers’ marketing strategies would emphasize sales in villages with members of their own ethnic group. Between and , I conducted over interviews with po ers and consumers and inventoried both po ery and industrial vessels in one hundred randomly selected households around Jenné in the upper portion of the Inland Niger Delta (Cunningham ). The Delta has long been a centre for ethnoarchaeological research by both Swiss and American scholars (Gallay et al. , ; Huysecom ; LaViole e ). It seems an ideal location for ethnoarchaeology, possessing near subsistence-level economics, ethnic diversity, polygynous, patrilineal, and virilocal family structures, and what are o en described as “casted” cra specialists (Conrad and Frank , McIntosh ). Women po ers live in a number of different ethnic groups, each of which tends to produce po ery using different production techniques. Somono po ers, for example, use a slow-wheel while Fulani po ers prefer a paddle-and-anvil technique, each of which produces distinctive types of po ery. These pots are o en sold in the same markets and are available to heterogeneous ethnic populations. However, beneath the veneer of traditionalism is a lively set of global commodity flows that make po ery but one purchasing option in the Jenné Monday Market, which tends to draw up to fi een hundred merchants, including vendors of plastic, aluminum, and enamelled domestic vessels. While women with surplus income purchase vessels from markets on a regular basis, the most important episodes of provisioning tend to occur prior to marriage. When women marry, they must bring a trousseau that contains all the tools they need to perform their domestic

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

duties. The centrepiece of these is the collection of household vessels that enable women to do “women’s work,” namely, hauling water and preparing meals. Minimally, women are expected to possess two aluminum cauldrons, a large basin for washing clothes, pails for hauling water, and an assortment of po ery, including water jars and wash pots. However, since the s, industrially produced enamel serving dishes made in China and Ghana have become the core of these trousseaus. Enamels are normally used in daily meal service, but their inclusion in the trousseau is typically directed at elaborate displays that decorate the front room of the bride’s house a er marriage. These are given to brides as gi s from women in their mother’s extended social network, or they are bought by the brides themselves during periods of migrant labour (Grosz-Ngaté , Lambert ). The resulting displays, which o en contain more vessels than the bride would actually use, remain in place during the first three to five years of her marriage. These displays seem instrumental to allowing women to negotiate the political economies they face upon their marriage (Cunningham b). Trousseau displays were frequently described to me as the most important public statement a woman could make about herself during her lifetime, marking her emergence into society as a complete person. The liminality of marriage coincides with a woman’s entry into the political economy of her husband’s family as its most junior and subaltern member. As such, she is expected to conform to the ideal of being hardworking and respectful. Yet, the materiality of the enamel displays that accompany them speaks to her personal power. Situated prominently within a household, enamel displays remind a bride’s mother-in-law and husband that she has publicly proven her commitment to her new status through her diligence in procuring her domestic tools. Similar to earlier traditions of calabash display (Cooper ), the size of her enamel collection also a ests to the size and extent of the social network that has contributed gi s to her trousseau. Any charge of sloth or rebelliousness must necessarily be read against extant material proof to the contrary. More significantly, enamels give young women a very public form of wealth that they alone control, similar to what Kopytoff ( ) describes as enclaved commodities. In cases of financial neglect or abandonment by her husband, enamels may be sold and the proceeds used to care for herself or her children. Should conditions become intolerable, enamel wealth could theoretically be used to pay back part of the bride price and allow for a divorce.

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

The importance of enamels lies in the way they revalue other types of vessels. Po ery, for example, is of such a low value that it is rarely sought out by consumers. In the census, enamels travelled an average of . km between the point of purchase and the household, while po ery travelled just . km, which is actually less than the average distance between consumers and their nearest market ( . km). Consumers would thus tend to purchase whatever vessels were available locally regardless of the ethnicity of the po er, which almost never figured into their narratives about their purchases. Terraco a water jars, which are o en included in a trousseau, are among the few exceptions. These are given to a bride by her mother for her marriage and are placed adjacent to her enamel collection in the front room of her house. Those jars travel three times the distance on average of other types of po ery ( km). The different value given to vessels as a result of their role within the political economies of households has a direct impact on po ers. Po ers engage in ceramic production because, like other women, they are expected to contribute to daily household subsistence, usually by buying condiments and fish, and to pay for the incidental expenses of themselves and their children, including clothing and household items. The low value of their wares means that po ers employ extensive marketing systems that use several strategies to bring po ery literally to the doorstep of a wide – if somewhat uninterested – clientele. They sell out of their home or firing location in their local village (average range of . km); through regional weekly markets ( . km); in neighbouring villages ( . km); through itinerant marketing, where po ers circulate during the annual flood by pirogue and sell their dry season production in villages experiencing a good harvest ( . km); using itinerant production, where po ers relocate to a village experiencing a good harvest and make and sell their po ery to villagers ( . km); and through po ery franchises or consignments, where po ers leave their po ery with a local acquaintance in a distant village who agrees to sell their production locally on their behalf in exchange for po ery ( . km). Notably, most po ers were less concerned with whether their sales locations had ethnically similar communities than with whether the village was experiencing a particularly good harvest and thus had cereals to exchange. In recent years, there was also a shi away from itinerant marketing and production and towards a more intensive use of franchise selling caused by changes in po ers’ domestic labour obligations. While traditionally po ers were married to dedicated iron workers, the

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology 

introduction of inexpensive scrap metal has ended the need for smelting and forced many iron workers to become farmers. Po ers have been enlisted to assist with the weeding and the harvest, which conflicts with the point in the agricultural cycle when they used itinerant selling. As a result, franchises now account for more than half of all marketing strategies that po ers use because they allow them to meet their domestic obligations and distribute their po ery to a wider clientele. Taken as a whole, the project showed me the impossibility of ever imagining ceramic production as some sort of pre-capitalist vestige cocooned and happily insulated from the ravaging effects of post-colonial modernity. Po ery production is impacted by a wider cultural and economic space defined by, among other things, migrant labour regimes, foreign remi ances, Chinese imports, Premier League football, and European television soap operas. Yet, on the other hand, it shows that ethnographic se ings offer a fertile testing ground for archaeological inferences that may be difficult to consider in an archaeological se ing. The project contains a cautionary tale to the effect that ethnicity may not be the primary determinant of stylistic horizons even within pluralistic societies where ethnicity is a primary category of social identity. Women’s narratives were quite explicit about how li le they considered ethnicity in their marketing and consumption. Their narratives were supported by household inventories that showed that women’s po ery tended to have diverse ethnic origins. These conversations alerted me to a possibility that I had not seriously considered prior to fieldwork: that identity may not be an important consideration in ceramic exchange. Instead, women spoke about their obligations within their households, which redirected my a ention onto the realm of domestic political economy and stimulated my analysis of its impact on vessel distribution. Nonetheless, there are general interpretive conventions used in archaeology that were supported by the study. The old adage (Renfrew , ) that the value of an object tends to correlate with the distance that it travels in exchange was generally confirmed. Enamels are the most highly valued objects, and they do travel the largest distance between the point of purchase and the household compared with other types of household vessels. Likewise, marriage jars travel further than more utilitarian forms. What the study adds to this proposition is an understanding of the different contributions that producers and consumers make to the distribution of domestic vessels when they are

 Jerimy J. Cunningham

valued differently. Based on this study, we might expect that consumers will play a significant role in the distribution of high value items such as enamels, while producers tend to be responsible for the distribution of low value objects such as po ery. Similarly, “value” is not ascribed to vessels depending on some abstract measure of utility, but is defined by the roles they play within the political economies that impact the women who are their primary consumers (anticipated by Appadurai ). In this case, enamels have an augmented value because of the way women mobilize their materiality in the face of patriarchy. Conclusion The key to ethnoarchaeology’s independence, thus, lies in the different but complementary lenses archaeology and ethnography provide on human societies. These lenses bring into focus cultural pa erning with different temporal depths, which in turn provide different resolutions on the operation of cultural process. It is always tempting at this point to suggest that ethnoarchaeology’s more focused resolution gives it a privileged understanding of human action – that marketing and consumption are what really happens, and regional styles are but a clumsy heuristic produced by archaeology’s fuzzy material lens. Such a position would nicely serve an ethnoarchaeological agenda by making the subfield once again essential to the development of archaeological theory by echoing long-standing desires among positivists for a reductive, unified science, one in which sociology would reduce to the principles of ecology, which in turn would reduce to cellular biology, chemistry, and eventually physics (see Oppenheim and Putnam ). However, this flies in the face of the advancement of archaeological knowledge over the past fi y years. Archaeology has shown itself more than capable of assessing its own interpretive principles without a dedicated ethnographic arm churning out middle-range theories. Indeed, it’s hard not to notice that ethnoarchaeology has generally failed to find the unambiguous material correlates that the New Archaeology found essential; yet, archaeological interpretation has not suffered because of it. As a result, we need to rethink the value of ethnoarchaeology to the discipline. My suggestion is that the different visions offered by each realm of study gives us opportunities to tack between both our analogous entities and our propositions about them; to translate, assess, and rethink in ways that build confidence in the models on which we rely.

The Independence of Ethnoarchaeology  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS My research in Mali has been supported by a Wenner-Gren Foundation Dissertation Research Grant (Gr. 6876), Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada Doctoral and Post-doctoral Fellowships, and a Sir James Lougheed Award of Distinction. I would like to thank Modibo Haidara and Aly Yéro Maiga at the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique et Technologique, Klena Sonogo at l’Institut des Sciences Humaines, Bobacar Diaby at the Mission Culturelle de Djenné, and Brahima Sow and Lasseiny and Kadjia Kayentao for facilitating my research in Mali. I would like to thank Brenda Bowser, Cathy Cameron, Aubrey Cannon, Joanna Casey, Nic David, Ruth Dickau, Kelsey Hanrahan, Dianne Lyons, Sco MacEachern, Deanne Robblee, Jim Skibo, Miriam Stark, and Kathryn Weedman Arthur and several anonymous reviewers for their comments. Errors are my responsibility. This chapter was originally part of a larger piece that was split in half along thematic lines, with the discussion of independence appearing here and the more explicit critique of positivist legacies in ethnoarchaeology appearing in an article for Ethnoarchaeology (Cunningham 2009a). An early dra of the combined argument can be seen in Chapter 2 of my dissertation (Cunningham 2005).

NOTES  1 Although he does not consider issues of independence, Jones’s (2002) discussion of how technical specialties come to act like black boxes in broader archaeological interpretation is a particularly insightful example of how this vertical independence is o en created. Kosso (2001) has also pointed out that vertical independence may occur within a single body of theory because the principles used to observe and define a body of data may not be tightly prescribed by the general principles under investigation.  2 In addition to miracles, the other reason why evidence might erroneously triangulate to a common interpretation would be because a particular theoretical perspective was rigidly framing understandings of all these diverse material pa erns. Style, for example, was a hotly contested concept during the processual–post-processual debate because both materialists and idealists were actively trying to define style in ways that accorded with their respective cultural ontologies (Cunningham 2003b). The

 Jerimy J. Cunningham perpetual problems archaeologists have had with style show, I think optimistically, that even focused and highly politicized a empts to discipline unruly mid-level concepts tend to fail because they run up against the complexities needed to adequately account for archaeological pa erns.

6 Experiments and Their Application to Lithic Archaeology: An Experimental Essay

Author’s Note As a graduate student at McGill University, my discussions with Bruce Trigger, regardless of subject ma er, always shared one thing in common. He always wanted to know why I was making a given argument. He wanted to know what drove me to reach my conclusions. While the details always ma ered, for Bruce it was the bigger picture that provided the greatest insight. So, when it came time to immerse myself in the history of lithic experiments, I wanted to do more than just work my way through a laundry list of studies. I wanted to appreciate the strengths and weaknesses of each both on their own terms and within the broader context of the evolving ideas behind lithic experimentation. I could not have asked for a be er model for doing this than Bruce’s monograph, A History of Archaeological Thought (Trigger ). While being meticulous about presenting all the facts, he also directed equal effort into weaving these facts into a narrative tapestry that provided for a deeper appreciation of each school of thought and how it changed our discipline. Whether we are talking about lithic experiments or archaeology in general, we need to know where we have been to know how we got here and, if we are lucky, get a sneak peek at where we might be going. Bruce Trigger was the best possible tour guide for such a journey. I just hope I have not fallen too far short of this ideal in this essay. Introduction Since its inception more than one hundred and fi y years ago, experimenting with the production and use of stone tools has been directly informed by the prevailing intellectual climate. I propose a typology of

 Harry Lerner

experimental programs based on their methodological a ributes (see Figure . ). Any experimental study can be placed against two different but related scales that reflect the conceptual and technological scope of the experiment. Each study can be differentiated according to whether it aims to identify general principles (e.g., natural vs. cultural agency, fracture mechanics and flake generation, microfracture and polish identification, post-depositional modification, quantification), or to improve our understanding of an individual tool type or technological tradition (e.g., reduction analysis, debitage analysis, individual style, use-wear associated with a single activity such as hide working, residue analysis). Individual experiments have also tended to focus on a single stage of reduction to the exclusion of all others. That is, they deal with an aspect of either production or use, but rarely both. Although we are beginning to see greater integration of theory and practice, there has generally been limited overlap between these different types of experiments. This kind of mutual methodological exclusiveness has usually yielded insights with relatively limited ranges of applicability. Prehistoric technologies are both social and technological phenomena. They must be assessed in their entirety as inseparable and integrated components of larger sociocultural systems. While the following historical overview owes a great deal to the work of Lucille Lewis Johnson ( ), it focuses on the rapid rate of innovation in experimental design that has characterized the past thirty years of research. Experimental Studies and Archaeology: Theory and Application Middle-range arguments have become a central tenet of archaeological inquiry (e.g., Binford c, , ; Watson et al. ; Goodyear et al. ; Trigger ). Ethnographic analogy and ethnoarchaeology have been very successful in generating plausible insights into the processes represented by the archaeological record (e.g., Ascher a, but see Cunningham in this volume). However, with rapid globalization, this approach is becoming increasingly untenable, at least in its traditional form (e.g., Binford ; Yellen ; Gould , ). As a result, more innovative approaches to middle-range theory have come to the forefront of archaeological research. As early as the mid-nineteenth century, researchers employed replicative techniques to assess the nature of tools recovered from archaeological sites. Several general reviews of experimentation have already been published; some emphasized theory and range of application (e.g.,

Experiments and Lithic Archaeology  Figure 6.1. Typological framework for lithic experiments. SCALE General Principles

Specific Tools/Technological Traditions

Production

Methods of Production

Culturally Specific Production

Use

Diagnostics of Use

Culturally Specific Use

Theory

Practice

REDUCTION STAGE

Ascher b; Coles , , ; Flenniken ; Amick et al. ), while others focused on a particular aspect of experimental research (e.g., Proudfoot , ; Hester and Heizer ; Johnson ). Regardless of perspective, these reviews all helped to clarify and even perpetuate the existing methodological biases that define the experimental types discussed here. In formalizing the foundational concepts of experimental archaeology, Robert Ascher ( b) argued that the potential of experiments lies in providing a means to a empt the recreation of certain past behaviours. Coles ( ) explored this idea further in his examination of individual experiments focused on different aspects of prehistoric lifeways, including food production, large-scale construction, and smaller-scale technologies. In the context of lithic research, J. Jeffrey Flenniken ( ) recognized that experimental intent directly influences the nature of results. He defined the production of “potentially effective flaked stone tools” as the goal of flintknappers, and the generation of anthropological data as the aim of the replicator (p. ). Continuing against the conceptual mainstream, Flenniken suggested that replication must be directed towards the entire lithic reduction process, not just the end products (pp. – ). Despite his methodological call to arms, the

 Harry Lerner

experimental separation of tool production and use described above generally persists to this day. A few years a er Flenniken published his article, Amick, Mauldin, and Binford ( ) revisited the subject of experimental method and theory as applied to lithic archaeology. They cautioned that along with the fundamentals of the experimental method as espoused by Ascher and others, experimentation with lithic technology must also confront the inherent issues of ambiguity and equifinality. Perhaps one of the earliest a empts to deal directly with these problems is H. Holmes Ellis’s ( ) study of Amerindian lithic manufacturing techniques. Ellis’s response to the problems raised by Amick et al. ( ) almost fi y years later involved replicating as many of these techniques as possible to foster a greater understanding of any and all differences between them. The increased scope of Ellis’s study, albeit limited to the production end of the reduction spectrum, provided a broader context within which to differentiate between techniques. Lucille Lewis Johnson ( ) provided the most recent and probably most comprehensive historical review of chipped lithic experimentation to date. She identified three basic analytical trends in this field: ( ) distinguishing between natural and human agency, ( ) studying prehistoric manufacturing, and ( ) exploring fracture pa erns of finegrained siliceous materials (p. ). These trends reflect how prevailing research concerns have reinforced the two scales of analytical scope that distinguish the experiment types described above. Flintknapping and Experimentation: PuĴing It into Practice In a kind of intellectual reduction sequence, this section is organized much like the lithic experiments it considers. In technological order, it explores the many practical applications of the experimental method, starting with flake generation, tool production, and reduction/debitage analysis, and style, followed by tool use, post-depositional modification, quantification, and residue analysis. Flake Production and Tool Manufacture Reduction of a stone nodule to produce blanks for tool production has been examined experimentally almost since research on prehistoric tools began. These studies have considered a wide array of physical properties and methodological variables to assess how they

Experiments and Lithic Archaeology 

influence the production of desired tool forms, either individually or in combination. The popularity of fracture mechanics at the turn of the last century was eventually absorbed by the contemporary eolith debate (Evans ; Cushing ; Sellers ; Holmes ; Warren , ; MacCurdy ; Lankester ; Moir ; Haward ; Engerrand ; Abbo ; Schwartz ; Pei ). As this debate ebbed in the s, so did research on flint fracture and flake generation as an analytical end in and of itself. Fracture mechanics re-emerged briefly a few years later with the work of Mary Ellen Goodman ( ). This approach, however, stagnated until the early s, when Speth ( , ), among others, began to build on the work started by Goodman almost thirty years earlier. This delayed response to Goodman’s study was, in part, due to the slow realization that other fields, such as materials science, could make a significant contribution to lithic research (e.g., Fonesca, Eshelby, and Atkinson .) Speth ( , ), inspired by Fonesca et al. ( ), developed what he called the spalling model of lithic fracture. Harold L. Dibble and John C. Whi aker ( ) followed Speth’s lead in carrying out their own experiments dealing with the relation between hard hammer percussion and resulting flake variability. Harold Dibble further pursued this line of inquiry by participating in another collaborative effort designed to evaluate the effects of several variables on flake production (Dibble and Pelcin ). More recently, Peter Kelterborn ( ) also championed the cause of fracture mechanics by introducing what he called measurable flintknapping (p. ) or strictly (i.e., mechanically) controlled forms of flake production. Several other analysts have also investigated the relationship between the nature of flint fracture and resulting flake properties. Hard hammer percussion studies include, for example, Pa erson’s ( ) study of striking platform geometry; Co erell, Kamminga, and Dickson’s ( ) examination of conchoidal fracture mechanics; and Co erell and Kamminga’s ( ) study of flake formation. So hammer percussion studies include Pa en’s ( ) study of the effects of so stone hammers on flake production and Hayden and Hutchings’s ( ) experiments with antler billet so hammers. Ohnuma and Bergman ( ) took a more technologically inclusive approach as part of their efforts to distinguish between several different knapping techniques. Beyond flake production, various reduction techniques have been examined through experimentation (Newcomer , Goodyear ,

 Harry Lerner

Henry et al. , Pa erson and Sollberger , Pa erson , Ahler and Christensen , Stahle and Dunn , Amick et al. , Kujit et al. , Dibble , Bisson ). In a relatively rare example of an experimental design that incorporated multiple stages of reduction, Flenniken ( ) studied the relations between three different reduction techniques and their respective by-products during both manufacture and use of ha ed projectile points. He found that although the points themselves changed in size and shape, the waste flakes consistently reflected the particular reduction technique employed during the entire reduction sequence (p. ). Steven A. Tomka ( ) used experiments to determine how diagnostic of different reduction techniques certain debitage a ributes are. Mauldin and Amick ( ), however, examining the debitage produced by experimentally reducing bifacial cores, found that the resulting debitage remained quite variable, underscoring the inherent complexity of lithic reduction processes (p. ). George H. Odell ( ) had an experienced flintknapper replicate a variety of lithic artefacts and found that there were consistent differences in the debitage produced by different reduction techniques, but distinguishing between different stages of bifacial reduction was more difficult, and recognizing temporal variability in debitage a ributes proved most elusive (p. ). More recently, Jennings et al. ( ) compared experimentally the respective efficiencies for flake production of bifacial and blade core reduction; they found that while both techniques were equally effective at generating usable flakes, the utility of bifacial reduction did tend to decrease as initial core weight decreased (p. ). Dibble et al. ( ) offered a new approach involving measuring cortex as a way of evaluating core reduction intensity. Marwick ( ) similarly used the amount and location of cortex to assess the intensity of assemblage reduction. Shi ing a ention away from debitage and towards the morphological effects of tool reduction, Chris Clarkson ( ) expanded on work done by S.L. Kuhn ( ) by developing an index of invasiveness, not only for unifacial, but bifacial tools as well. Clarkson found that this new index provided a reliable way of documenting changes in tool form as a result of periodic maintenance and recycling, particularly the further one gets from sources of knappable material (p. ). Like Flenniken ( ), Clarkson incorporates more than one episode of reduction in his experimental design, but his study focuses exclusively on userelated forms of reduction. Sophie Collins ( ) examined use-related reduction from the perspective of tool blank-edge angle and morphol-

Experiments and Lithic Archaeology 

ogy and their influence on tool performance, and the implications of this relationship for determining rates of rejuvenation. She found that both edge angle and morphology do indeed influence tool performance and need to be factored into any assessment of retouch intensity (p. ). Another set of experimental reduction studies have taken an interpretative step back to focus on larger issues of typology and analytical methodology. Although there are some notable exceptions, most of these investigations focus entirely on the production end of the reduction spectrum. Although earlier a empts were made to assess the technological nature of production-related waste flakes (Henry et al. , Pa erson and Sollberger , Burton , Fladmark ), Sullivan and Rozen ( ) were the first to directly address the lack of theoretical consistency in debitage analysis by devising a typology of flakes. William C. Prentiss and Eugene J. Romanski ( ) experimentally tested Sullivan and Rozen’s proposed typology and suggested that inconsistencies found between their respective results could be explained by Sullivan and Rozen’s failure to consider the inherent variability of any given reduction technique due to raw material quality, individual skill level, and various taphonomic factors (p. ). In an example of the sort of exception mentioned above, Baumler and Downum ( ) focused their experiments on the kind of small-scale lithic debris usually associated with the later stages of tool production and tool maintenance. Based on size characteristics, they were able to discern differences, both experimentally and archaeologically, between the debitage produced by core reduction versus final tool preparation and rejuvenation, citing varying levels of control and amounts of force applied as determining factors (p. ). More recent experimental investigations into debitage analysis include Prentiss’s ( ) revisiting of Sullivan and Rozen’s ( ) typology, Bradbury and Carr’s ( ) work on stage and continuum models of debitage analysis, Carr and Bradbury’s ( ) study of flaking debris as a function of reduction strategy, Pecora’s ( ) assessment of tool production strategies as represented by debitage pa erns, Baumler and Downum’s ( ) exploration of the relationship between size sorting and mass analysis of debitage, and Root’s ( ) evaluation of flake debris size as an indicator of reduction technique. These studies reflect an overwhelming emphasis on manufacture in the debitage literature. As a result, the debris produced during episodes of tool maintenance has seldom been dealt with and remains rather

 Harry Lerner

poorly understood. As with lithic research in general, consideration of the full reduction spectrum, rather than individual stages alone, is a necessary step in understanding the highly variable nature of chipping detritus and both its technological and cultural implications. A different dimension of lithic reduction, individual style, has also been explored experimentally. Joel Gunn ( ), in evaluating idiosyncratic variation in flintknapping, suggested that studying flake scar patterns can provide insight into the personal choices made by prehistoric knappers (p. ). John C. Whi aker ( ) also examined individual variation among projectile points at Grasshopper Pueblo, in Arizona, using discriminant analyses of flake scar pa erns to identify stylistic choices made by different knappers. Phillip H. Shelley ( ) broached the same subject from the perspective of knapper experience. He identified a possible correlation between the number and type of errors made and the ability to correct them, raising the question of how we might differentiate between conscious choice and subconscious idiosyncrasy in the archaeological record. Richard T. Will ( ), by comparison, approached the human element in prehistoric flintknapping at a more general level. He assessed variations between Late Archaic and Early Woodland period biface reduction strategies to discern any technological differences and their cultural underpinnings. Will’s results suggest that these two periods are characterized by somewhat different reduction strategies (p. ) that may have been at least partially culturally determined. Most recently, Jenny Stahl ( ) used a ribute analysis and personality tests to determine if the former is in any way a function of the la er among modern flintknappers. Perhaps one of the most challenging questions within the context of lithic reduction, the experimental identification of individual style, may yet provide significant insight into both the technological and cultural roots of the choices made by prehistoric flintknappers. Tool Use Despite the enduring preoccupation with the production end of the lithic reduction spectrum, the past forty years have seen greater experimental a ention given to tool use. And with the recent advent of more sophisticated analytical technology, assessing tool function has become a vitally important component of lithic research. Systematic and controlled experimentation geared towards reconstructing the functions

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of stone tools can thus be considered a relatively recent development as prior to the s inferred tool function was assessed primarily according to macroscopic aspects of tool morphology (e.g., Holmes a; Bourlon ; Coutier ; Pei ; Cheynier and Barnes ; Jury ; Bordes , ; Honea ; Painter ; Crabtree ; Sollberger ). Sergei Semenov ( ) argued that production techniques, manner of use, and post-depositional processes all contribute to the condition of excavated tools. He suggested that the most reliable method of determining tool function is through detailed inspection of tool edges and surfaces to identify physical evidence of modification and use. Although Semenov suggested that it should be possible to differentiate wear pa erns associated with manufacture versus use, the majority of use-wear research that followed has focused on the la er. This has served to perpetuate the kind of typological differentiation of experiments proposed here within the context of lithic reduction spectra. A number of studies, for example, have focused on larger-scale edge damage as a means of evaluating pa erns of tool use (Fischer et al. , Odell and Cowan , Titmus and Woods , Truncer , Dockall , Sho ). One of the more widely researched topics in this vein is the nature and functional significance of impact damage on projectile points. Typological ma ers in this context were addressed by Ahler ( ), Cox and Smith ( ), and Moss ( ); the relative efficiencies of different projectile technologies were assessed by Van Buren ( ), Frison ( ), Broglio, Chelidonio, and Longo ( ), Callahan ( ), and Couch, Stropes, and Schroth ( ); and the effects of different ha ing characteristics on projectile damage formation were examined by Chadelle, Geneste, and Plisson ( ) and Geneste and Plisson ( ). Crossing the typological barriers between production and use, the difference between damage on projectile points associated with different stages of reduction was tackled by Titmus and Woods ( ) and Towner and Warburton ( ). Flenniken ( ) and Flenniken and Raymond ( ), while concentrating primarily on the la er half of the reduction spectrum, did examine the morphological variability of points as a function of both use and maintenance. Smith, Brickley, and Leach ( ) took a very different approach to projectile point damage through experimental examination of bone trauma in terms of impact morphology. Most recently Hutchings ( ) explored the velocity of use-related fracturing in lithic armatures as a function of loading rate

 Harry Lerner

to serve as a basis for identifying different types of projectile technologies in the archaeological record. He found that high-speed projectiles (darts and arrows) exhibit more dynamic loading prior to fracture compared with low-speed projectiles (spears and javelins), which thus are prone to higher fracture velocities (p. ). Microscopic use-wear studies, in particular, have come to the analytical forefront in recent years. This has, however, engendered widely differing opinions regarding the most effective means of identifying and interpreting micro-scale evidence of use. While the practice of replicating stone tools for use in traditional task performance has become standard procedure in use-wear research, there has been considerable debate over methodological specifics (Tringham et al. , Odell , Odell and Odell-Vereecken , Keeley , Vaughan , Berg ). Keeley ( ) and Odell ( ) offered complementary critiques of usewear analysis as a means of deriving functional inferences from stone tools. Both agree that experimentation is a required element of any usewear study and that all possible wear production processes need to be considered to strengthen interpretations. However, they parted company over the reliability of examining wear traces at higher magnifications, with Keeley arguing for and Odell against its validity. Echoing this difference of opinion, use-wear studies have generally fallen into one of two methodological camps. The first of these favours the use of low-power microscopy, claiming microfracture variability is more reliable than other forms of forensic use evidence (Keller ; Tringham et al. ; Brink ; Odell and Odell-Vereecken ; Odell , ; Shen ). The second camp advocates the use of high-power microscopy and the examination of surface polishes and other related micro-traces as the more promising approach to use-wear analysis (Keeley ; Flenniken ; Newcomer et al. ; Plisson and Mauger ; Grace ; Fullagar ; Coffey ; McDevi ; Kimball et al. ; Kay ; Kay and Solecki ; Stemp and Stemp , ). Ruth Tringham et al. ( ), for example, focused on microfracture variability as a function of worked material, tool edge angle, tool motion, grip, and applied pressure (pp. – ). While some questions remain regarding the reliability of their approach, it did represent a significant step forward in our ability to assess tool function and has since inspired several edge damage studies that focus either on method and theory (Flenniken and Haggarty , Gifford-Gonzales et al. , Levi-Sala , Pryor , Shea and Klenck , McBrearty et al. ),

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or on more practical applications (Lawrence , Odell and OdellVereecken , Odell ). One of the most cited experimental use-wear studies is Lawrence H. Keeley’s ( ) Experimental Determination of Stone Tool Uses. Keeley, recognizing that high-power microscopy, like its low-power cousin, has both advantages and limitations, opted for a more methodologically integrated approach. Keeley argued that working different materials can produce identifiable polishes, but that their distinctiveness can be a function of both use intensity and post-depositional preservation. Despite these potential ambiguities, Keeley maintained that the real utility of these traces emerges when they are used in conjunction with other a ributes, such as microfractures, to collectively form a more reliable basis for inferring tool function. Patrick C. Vaughan ( ) also employed a combination of low- and high-power techniques in his experimental study of Magdalenian flints from the site of Cassegros in southwestern France. Commenting on the efficacy of Keeley’s approach, he pointed out that traditionally recognized tool categories were each probably used in the performance of a wide range of tasks, complicating the work of use-wear analysts. On a more positive note, Vaughan argued that unretouched flakes were as widely employed as formal tools, making them equally viable for trace wear analysis (p. ). More recent technological advancements have fostered a be er understanding of how use-wear forms, paving the way for more sophisticated approaches to use-wear analysis. Building on previous work dealing with the nature of polish formation (Del Bene , Diamond , Kamminga ), Richard Fullagar ( ) used a scanning electron microscope (SEM) to examine the role that foreign silica plays in this process and found that the amount of silica in a given plant specimen affects the amount of silica in direct contact with the tool surface, resulting in differing rates of polish formation (p. ). By the s, non-optical forms of microscopy, such as SEM, were becoming more commonplace (Dumont , Meeks et al. , MansurFranchomme , Unger-Hamilton , Knutsson , Fullagar ), but Kimball et al. ( : ) pointed out that despite the improvement in resolution, this technology was still being used in a largely qualitative manner. In an effort to address this lack of methodological rigour, they used an atomic force microscope to examine the roughness of tool surfaces to differentiate quantitatively polishes generated by working wood, antler, dry hide, and to a lesser extent processing meat.

 Harry Lerner

Stemp and Stemp ( ), alternatively, used UBM Laser Profilometry to quantify tool surface roughness. By scanning surfaces and recording light reflectivity along several series of points, they were able to mathematically model tool microtopographies at various scales (pp. – ). Despite complications due to certain surface irregularities, they were able to differentiate microtopographic characteristics produced as a result of sawing sand-tempered po ery, conch shell, and soaked deer antler (pp. – ). More recently, Evans and Donahue ( ) have argued that confocal laser scanning microscopy may offer a more reliable and efficient means of quantifying use-wear traces. By scanning tool surfaces at different focal planes, they were able to generate -D representations of these surfaces as a basis for measuring and differentiating between use-wear traces as a function of microtopographic variability (p. ). All three of these studies have proposed intriguing new approaches to use-wear analysis that aim to provide quantitative assessments of wear development and variability. To put these particular methodological advances in perspective, the state of the art in quantifying tool surface roughness less than twenty years earlier was Rolf Bauche’s ( ) use of a needle-tipped electronic perthometer to trace several lines across a tool surface, recording its microtopography in terms of the vertical distance traversed by the needle in response to changes in micro-elevation (p. ). One of the latest trends in quantitative usewear analysis is the application of digital image analysis (e.g., Barcelo , Lerner , Goodale et al. ). Although these newer methods hold considerable promise, they need to be tested more extensively on a wide variety of archaeological material. As analytical technology has become more sophisticated, it has opened new avenues of investigation that were previously limited or inaccessible. The analysis of organic residues on tools, for example, has only recently come into its own as a fully viable form of lithic research (Loy , Bahn , Hyland et al. , Kooyman et al. , Loy and Hardy , Hardy , Fullagar et al. ). In particular, recent advances in the field of genetics have made molecular analysis of organic residue an increasingly viable approach for reconstructing tool-using behaviour, resource exploitation strategies, and prehistoric diets. Tuross, Barnes, and Po s ( ) looked at the possibility of identifying proteins in blood residue on experimental butchering tools. They found that despite the minimal traces of blood le on stone tools a er use and post-depositional degradation, potential still exists for

Experiments and Lithic Archaeology 

recognizing different protein concentrations indicative of blood type and even species (p. ). They caution that protein analysis techniques need to be more sensitive and that they should be employed as judiciously as possible given the limited volume of archaeological residue usually le for study. A.H. Jahren et al. ( : ) examined both chemical and morphological aspects of residue they generated using chert flakes to split bamboo and modify bone. Employing “SEM equipped with energy dispersive spectroscopic abilities” (p. ), they were able to distinguish between different worked materials, even following the degrading effects of simulated taphonomic processes. Hardy and Garufi ( ), employing reflected light microscopy at magnifications as high as x, were also successful in distinguishing different residues, in this case those associated with working wood. Wadley, Lombard, and Williamson ( ) also made an important contribution to residue analysis by carrying out the first series of blind tests for residue identification. They found the tests to be successful for well-preserved residue, but under acidic and organic-rich conditions, animal-based residues were more vulnerable to degradation than plant-based ones (p. ). In a truly innovative, not to mention typologically defiant, approach to residue analysis, Byrne, Ollé, and Vergès ( : ) examined production-related residues and found that different hammers can generate residue that can be quite resistant to postdepositional degradation. Despite this rare exception, the vast majority of experimental residue analyses focus on tool use. All of these techniques, regardless of their specific focus, need to be tested further to determine if they can be employed to assess the full spectrum of prehistoric tool manufacture and use. Experimenting with Lithic Technology: The Future Experiments have always served as a testing ground for hypotheses regarding prehistoric technology. They have allowed us to evaluate our analytical methods and winnow down the interpretive possibilities to refine our perceptions about the past. The specific purpose and structure of an experiment, however, has always been governed by the theoretical paradigm of the day. This reality makes it possible to identify different types of experiments based on the motivations that underlie them. Although the past thirty years have been witness to a gradual increase in the number of experimental studies that recognize the considerable

 Harry Lerner

variability of lithic technologies (Goodyear , Flenniken , Bradbury and Carr , Carr and Bradbury , Clarkson ), the majority of experiments throughout the discipline’s history have been geared towards emphasizing the consistency of particular morphologies or a ributes in order to define specific technological types and provide a basis for their identification in the archaeological record (eolith debate: Warren , Coutier , Pei ; flake generation/reduction sequence/debitage analysis: Goodman , Knowles , Bordes , Speth , Dibble and Whi aker , Hayden and Hutchings , Prentiss , Cooper ; use-wear/damage: Tringham et al. , Keeley , Odell and Cowan , Kimball et al. , Evans and Donahue, ). Most of these studies acknowledged that several sources of variability existed in the past, but relatively few have a empted to deal directly with more than one or two of them. While it is necessary to first understand all the basic cause-and-effect relationships involved, it is also important to build on this foundation to create the kind of analytical infrastructure required to deal with the inherent complexities of prehistoric technologies and lifeways. Manufacturing experiments have focused on fracture mechanics, flake generation, reduction sequences, and debitage analysis. Experiments focusing on the nature of tool use have examined both macroscopic and microscopic traces of wear, and tried to quantify the traces being studied. Manufacturing experiments have restricted themselves to the core and flake blank stages of reduction with relatively li le attention paid to recycling or rejuvenation of damaged or exhausted tools. For their part, use experiments have largely restricted themselves to the study of forensic evidence, excluding the broader assemblagelevel morphological consequences of use and maintenance. Manufacturing experiments need to consider the effects of both production and use-related reduction as equally important parts of overall tool life histories. In the same spirit of inclusiveness, use experiments must also include more systematic evaluations of full assemblages, rather than just studying the traces one finds on individual tool surfaces and edges. This more holistic approach to lithic experimentation can further the various goals of traditional research, all the while promoting new and innovative avenues of inquiry. Despite the acknowledgment by some (e.g., Flenniken ) that we need to view lithic technologies in the context of their full reduction spectra, relatively few have fully heeded this call. While this more methodologically inclusive approach does require a greater investment

Experiments and Lithic Archaeology 

of time and resources for its proper implementation, it represents a necessary step in furthering our understanding of the prehistoric past. This kind of work need not be carried out within the context of a single study, but could perhaps be dealt with over the course of a series of related studies, each building on the results of its predecessors. This may seem a daunting task, and one certainly possessed of its fair share of complications, but it is the kind of research that must be undertaken if we are ever to understand the full significance of stone tools in cultural, as well as technological, terms. Summary and Conclusions Archaeological research in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries directed most of its energy towards determining the true antiquity of humanity. This preoccupation took the form of the eolith debate, which inspired the study of fracture mechanics (Holmes , a; Moir ; Warren ; Pei ). These analyses gradually led to experiments in the s and s that focused on particular technologies or technological traditions (Pond , Barbieri , Ellis , Knowles ). Generalized monographs on flint-knapping and the analysis of stone tools became increasingly common in the s and s (Watson ; Knowles ; Mewhinney ; Crabtree a, b), and in the s, s, and s there was renewed interest in the principles of flint fracture and its use in understanding prehistoric lithic technologies (Speth , ; Dibble and Whi aker ; Dibble and Pelcin ). At the same time, interest in the by-products of the knapping process grew, eventually developing into its own subdiscipline (Fladmark ; Prentiss and Romanski ; Bradbury and Carr , ; Pecora ). Thanks to the work of Sergei Semenov ( ), the s were also witness to the birth of use-wear analysis in the West. As analytical technology has become more sophisticated, so have the approaches to studying microscopic evidence of use on stone tools. The use of scanning microscopy has become more commonplace over the past thirty years, resulting in a significant increase in the number of experimental trials (Loy ; Bahn ; Smith and Wilson ; Kimball et al. ; Hardy and Garufi ; Stemp and ; Tuross, Barnes, and Po s Stemp , ; Evans and Donahue ). All of these trends mirror those that have directed archaeological research in general over the past one hundred and fi y years. The eolith

 Harry Lerner

debate was a direct result of the continuing controversy surrounding the theory of evolution during the la er half of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century. During the first few decades of the twentieth century, the gradual shi from experiments designed to test the authenticity of products of ancient human agency to those seeking a more detailed understanding of specific technological traditions parallelled the larger theoretical shi towards a more particularist perspective of the past. The mid-twentieth century saw a continuation of particularist studies, but also an increase in more general surveys of lithic technology and their environmental underpinnings in light of the paradigmatic shi towards ecological determinism during the s and s. With the advent of the New Archaeology in the s, experimental efforts were refocused towards developing a decidedly scientific understanding of raw material acquisition, tool production, and tool use. More recently, experiments with lithic technology have become increasingly sophisticated in order to elicit the maximum amount of cultural information from these implements. This reflects a growing trend towards more humanistic approaches in archaeological research today. From shaking a sack of flint nodules to simulate natural flaking pa erns to examining use-related polishes with an atomic force microscope, the results of lithic experimental research have been, and continue to be, a function of what questions we are interested in asking and how we choose to answer them. On this basis it is possible to construct a kind of typology of experimental programs. They can first be differentiated according to whether they aim to identify and clarify governing principles or focus on improving our understanding of individual tools or technological traditions. Experimental research has also tended to concentrate on individual components of larger reduction spectra, usually dealing exclusively with aspects of either production or use. To date, there has been only minimal overlap between these types of experiments and this has yielded, for the most part, insights applicable in only specific areas or specific circumstances. Some experiments, however, have begun to reintroduce a neo-evolutionary element in that they a empt to deal with entire reduction sequences (Goodyear ; Flenniken , ; Towner and Warburton ; Sho , ). This is certainly not a new concept, as examples of this approach can be seen as early as W.H. Holmes’s Natural History of Flaked Stone Implements ( b), but it still has yet to secure a permanent foothold within the discipline.

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Experiments need to be more inclusive methodologically. The lines between the experiment types described above need to be erased and categories merged as a procedural response to the interpretive challenges posed by such an inherently complex prehistoric technology. Not only do we need to more widely adopt a more holistic approach, but we must also be as rigorous and systematic as possible in its implementation. Experiments in lithic archaeology have unquestionably made a great deal of progress over the past century and a half, but they are just beginning to hit their stride, offering tantalizing hints of their potential for refining our interpretations of the archaeological record and the lifeways it represents.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to thank Stephen Chrisomalis and Andre Costopoulos for organizing this volume and the opportunity to submit this contribution. My thanks also go to both Andre Costopoulos and Michael Bisson for the many comments and insights they generously provided on several earlier dra s of this essay. I would also like to thank Lucille Lewis Johnson not only for her invaluable comments, but also for providing the inspiration for this essay in the form of her 1978 Current Anthropology article. Any errors in the present essay are the sole responsibility of the author.

7 The History of Archaeology as a Field: From Marginality to Recognition

For the majority of archaeologists, the history of archaeology is what one does in those brief sections of dissertations, reports, or monographs labeled, as Flannery put it, “Previous (Bad) Work in the Region.” – Meltzer ( : ) The history of archaeology has ceased to be regarded as marginal to archaeology and is assuming a more central position in the discipline … The history of archaeology is therefore coming to play a major role in both the understanding and the application of archaeological knowledge. – Trigger ( : )

These paragraphs from David Meltzer’s “A Question of Relevance” ( ) and Bruce G. Trigger’s paper “Historiography” ( ) illustrate a significant shi in the way archaeologists have perceived the history of their science. As David Meltzer put it, until the s the history of archaeology was o en regarded as a marginal activity unrelated to archaeological practice. Wri en by professional archaeologists and popularizers without training in history, the history of archaeology was o en considered to be a harmless amusement whose main function was to justify what archaeologists had done by showing the progress of their discipline. This situation has changed over the past few decades, when the study of the disciplinary past has generated increased recognition among archaeologists. In fact, today it is generally accepted that “there is an important place … for a critical historiography of the discipline” (Pinsky : ), that “the history of archaeology has become a richly complex field producing knowledge that serves a diverse range

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of interest” (Murray : ), and that “we [archaeologists] have fully appreciated the importance of the history of archaeology for archaeology” (Schlanger : ). Given the extent of this change, the main question I want to address in this essay is how the study of the history of archaeology has shi ed from being considered a marginal activity to being perceived as an important field to be er understand archaeological practice. To answer this question, I undertake an analysis of texts dealing with the history of prehistoric archaeology published in French and English from to the present day. As I seek to demonstrate in the second section of this essay, the main function assigned to the history of archaeology until the s was to legitimize archaeology by showing its progress. This situation was related to the history of research and, in particular, to the foundation of prehistoric archaeology at the end of the nineteenth century. At that time, prehistoric archaeology became a scientific discipline in the context of passionate debates about human origins. In this se ing, prehistoric archaeologists were eager to prove the scientific nature of their activity. Among the different strategies they used to legitimate the new science, the history of archaeology “played an edifying role in securing disciplinary identity and institutional cohesion” (Schlanger : ). Wri en by archaeologists and for archaeologists, disciplinary histories reproduced the positivistic philosophy of knowledge prevailing at that time. This philosophy supposed that science develops by the accumulation of individual discoveries and inventions. Positivism influenced the “whig” and “internalist” orientation of the first histories of the discipline. Furthermore, it marked the subsequent evolution of the history of archaeology. The prevalence of this kind of historiography during the greater part of the twentieth century is related to the fact that most of the paradigms that oriented archaeological research at that time (such as culture-historical archaeology, functionalism, and processual archaeology) shared a positivist view of knowledge. As I show in the third section of this essay, this a itude towards the history of archaeology changed in the s. First, the until-then dominant paradigm within archaeology (the functional-processual program) was replaced by more relativistic approaches (neo-Marxism, post-structuralism, critical theory, and feminism). These post-processual archaeologies shared dissatisfaction with positivism and a concern with the historical constitution of the discipline. Consequently, the history of archaeology started to play a major role in disciplinary debates.

 Oscar Moro Abadía

Second, in Europe and in the United States, the s witnessed the emergence of social history and the development of sociological approaches to human sciences. Both social history and the sociology of scientific knowledge shared a critical view of knowledge, primarily concerned with how sociohistorical conditions influence scientific interpretations. In the case of the history of archaeology, these relativistic theories encouraged a new “externalist” historiography mainly concerned with “the relationship between archaeological understanding and the sociocultural context in which archaeology is practiced” (Trigger : ). As a consequence of these developments, the history of archaeology “is [today] widely recognized as essential for archaeology to progress as a discipline” (Trigger : ). The sizeable increase of publications on topics such as the sociopolitics of the past, the influence of nationalism over archaeological agendas, and the colonial dimensions of the archaeological practice demonstrate the central role played by the history of archaeology in the discipline. In this context, I think it is no exaggeration to assert that we are witnessing a genuine historicization of archaeological science. The Whig Interpretation of the History of Archaeology As several authors have indicated, prehistoric archaeology became a science during the second half of the nineteenth century in the context of competition with consolidated disciplines such as geology, palaeontology, and historical archaeology (Coye : – ; Laming-Emperaire ; Van Riper : ). In this situation, it is interesting to note that the o en considered “official” recognition of the prehistoric antiquity of humankind at the annual meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science ( ) did not imply the immediate acceptance of prehistoric archaeology as a scientific discipline. For instance, in John Evans pointed out that “two other provinces that at the present seem almost excluded from the federation of the sciences – those of History and Archaeology” (Evans : ). Looking for recognition, archaeologists put into place a number of strategies aimed at reinforcing the scientific status of their discipline. Among these manoeuvres were the creation of museums and archaeological societies, the founding of specialized journals, the establishment of international congresses, and of course, the constitution of a disciplinary history. In fact, the first histories of archaeology were recognized as “a powerful tool for the foundation and (re)definition of the

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discipline” (Schlanger : ). This process explains the widespread interest among late nineteenth-century archaeologists and palaeontologists in knowing “the steps by which the now generally accepted belief in the remote antiquity of the human race has been led up to its present advanced condition” (Falconer : ). This historiographical interest took diverse forms. First, since the second half of the nineteenth century the most renowned archaeologists introduced their books on prehistory with a short chapter devoted to the history of the discipline (e.g., Hamy , Dupont , Mortillet , Cartailhac ). Second, prehistoric archaeologists o en introduced their publications and reports treating archaeological sites with a brief section summarizing the narratives of earlier excavations (e.g., Prestwich , ; Brown ). Third, the history of archaeology was the object of numerous addresses delivered in museums and archaeological societies (the lectures delivered by John Evans are an illustrative example: , , , , , ). Fourth, archaeologists devoted papers, essays, and books to chronicling the development of the discipline as a whole (e.g., Falconer , Haven , Mortillet , Reinach ). In short, by the end of the nineteenth century, the foundation of prehistoric archaeology as a science involved considerable interest in disciplinary history. These early histories of archaeology thus adopted a “presentist” and “internalist” point of view. The concept of presentism “is generally used to define the kind of history which judges the past to justify modern science. In this sense, the term has been assimilated to expressions such as ‘anachronistic history,’ ‘whig history’ or ‘whiggish history’” (Moro Abadía : ). This historiographical approach is typical of nascent scientific disciplines eager to depict their progress. From this viewpoint, the history of science is described as the slow development from fumbling beginnings to a glorious present. As this passage from Marcellin Boule’s Les hommes fossiles ( : ; translated as Fossil Men) illustrates, this approach oriented the first histories of prehistoric archaeology: “So, regarding the ‘supreme question’ of its origin, Mankind in its infancy had at first no source of information other than fairy tales, legends and stories of the miraculous. Then human intelligence developed; in certain bright spirits genius was made manifest, next calm observation, freed from all preconceptions, played its part; and finally, but only in later centuries when the reign of science began, there dawned some rays of Truth.” In other words, the history of archaeology was conceived as a chronicle of the slow journey from the “legends” (Cartailhac : ) and the

 Oscar Moro Abadía

“fantasies” (Lubbock : ) about human antiquity towards the “immense advances” (Evans : ) that had been made by archaeological science during the late nineteenth century. Archaeologists contrasted this “great advance in Science” (Boule : ) with the fog that had surrounded prehistoric remains for centuries: “Any one who will contrast our present amount of knowledge – limited though it be – of the history of man, with what was known … even so lately as twenty years ago, will see how much has been accomplished during that period, as compared with the hundredfold greater period which has elapsed since the days of the old Greek philosophers” (Evans : – ). In short, modern science was considered a “revolution” (Brown : ) in the knowledge of the past: “Within the last twenty years what a lengthened vista of the antiquity of our race has been opened out, and what a marvellous chapter of unwri en history have we not to some extent been able to read!” (Evans : ). The second trait that defined the first histories of archaeology was internalism. In the field of the history of science, this term refers to “the view that science is primarily an abstract intellectual enterprise insulated from social, political and economic circumstances” (Morrell b: ). Internalism is generally supported by those who consider that scientific development is a piecemeal process by which certain facts, theories, and methods are added to an always growing stockpile of knowledge. Consequently, the “history of science becomes the discipline that chronicles both these successive increments and the obstacles that have inhibited their accumulation” (Kuhn : ). The internalism of the first histories of archaeology was related to the positivism dominant at the end of the nineteenth century. At that time, archaeologists believed that the only “safe method ... by which all true advances in science have been effected” (Evans : ) was that of Bacon: “I mean the diligent observation and collection of facts, from which in due time, some general laws may be induced, so that these, in their turn, may serve to explain other facts, until gradually a system may be built up in which all phenomena find their proper place, and become mutually illustrative one of another.” In other words, archaeologists sought nothing but facts. Archaeology took “nothing for granted, owes li le to theory or hypothesis; but points to early vestiges, substantive records, visible and tangible evidences” (Hoskyns : ). This positivism provoked a clear distinction between the so-called facts (objective, undeniable) and theorizations (subjective, questionable): “We ask for facts, and evidence of

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facts, and we are content to leave to others the responsibility to their own conclusions. Most people of any ingenuity can discover in history whatever they wish to find there; and if you choose to make a bad use of the materials with which we supply you, do it at your own risk” (Houghton : ). In light of this positivism, it is not surprising that the history of archaeology took an “internalist” point of view that was pervasive during the first half of the twentieth century. The history of archaeology was then conceived as a catalogue of the main discoveries and precursors that had contributed to the development of the field. This way of writing the history of archaeology did not substantially change until the end of the s. Indeed, “whether early histories dealt with evolutionary, structuralist, or functional-processual archaeology, until the s they tended to share a positivist view of knowledge and sought to justify what archaeologists had done by showing that over time their work had resulted in a more objective understanding of the past by applying both inductive and deductive scientific methods of analysis to their data” (Trigger : ). Two motives explain the persistence of the Whig history of archaeology. To begin, as Trigger has rightly suggested, the different paradigms that oriented archaeological research between and shared an “internalist” philosophy of knowledge that presupposed that archaeological interpretations were not essentially influenced by their contemporary social milieu. This view encouraged the emergence of an “intellectual history of archaeology” (Trigger : ) that focused on the inner evolution of the science, highlighting conceptual frameworks, methodological procedures, and factual achievements. Glyn Daniel’s pioneering world histories ( , , , ) are an illustrative example of this kind of historiography. Daniel claims that changes in the science of the past had been mainly related to the discovery of new evidence and the development of innovative scientific techniques such as radiocarbon dating: “Nothing has been more important to archaeology in the period from to the present day than discovery of C or radiocarbon dating, announced by Libby in . The antiquarian and geological revolutions of the early nineteenth century brought archaeology into existence: the radiocarbon dating revolutions of the fi ies and sixties of the twentieth century brought archaeological dating into a new phase of certainty” (Daniel : ). In this context, the relationships between archaeological theories and their social contexts were rarely explored. The popularity of whiggish approaches until the s was also related to the marginality of the history of archaeology during the twentieth century. Indeed, evolutionary, historical, and

 Oscar Moro Abadía

processual archaeologists reduced the history of archaeology to heroic tales of the past glories of science generally used to introduce textbooks. The small number of works published between and is the clearest evidence of the marginality of the history of archaeology at that time. In the United States, for instance, the few articles and books (e.g., Wissler , Taylor , Strong , Willey , Fi ing ) preceded the appearance of the first professional history of American archaeology, published by Willey and Sabloff as late as . In England, Glyn Daniel ( ) and Stuart Piggo ’s ( , ) works were the most significant British contributions to the history of archaeology during this time. The same could be said of Anne e Laming-Emperaire’s Origines de l’archéologie préhistorique en France ( ), the only significant history of French prehistoric archaeology published before . The main consequence of the minor role played by the history of archaeology was that historians of archaeology (i.e., professional archaeologists without training in historiography) limited themselves to reproducing whiggish models without questioning their validity. The Recognition of the History of Archaeology This situation began to change in the s when the emergence of new archaeological paradigms and the impact of postmodernism provoked a revalorization of the history of archaeology. In fact, both developments were intrinsically linked. On the one hand, postmodernism fuelled the emergence of new relativistic approaches towards archaeological science. On the other hand, anthropology and archaeology played an important role in supporting the postmodernist claim that scientific research is determined by personal and social biases. As I seek to demonstrate in this section, both developments are essential to appreciate the increasing importance of the history of archaeology in the past few decades. In the field of archaeology, the s saw the emergence of “postprocessual archaeologies.” Among these new approaches, specialists usually identify contextual archaeology, feminist and gender archaeologies, critical archaeology, and neo-Marxism. If anything could be said to unite these positions, “it is that most share a common dissatisfaction with the standard positivist paradigm, a concern for recapturing the distinctive human qualities of the past, and a preoccupation for the uses of archaeological knowledge in the present” (Preucel : ). In other words, post-processual archaeologists reacted against the

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“positivistic vision of a unified archaeology” (Shanks and Tilley : ) proposed by the New Archaeology. In particular, they called into question the long-established belief in the autonomy of science and the until-then widespread faith in the neutrality of scientists. First, the axiom that archaeology was an intellectual activity independent of its social context was challenged. Post-processualist archaeologists argued that scientific practice is necessarily influenced by the economic, political, and social conditions in which research is practised. Second, the idea that “science … includes disinterestedness as a basic institutional element” (Merton : ) was questioned. Post-processualism suggested that “archaeology is to be situated in the present as a discourse in a political field, and as a practice located in relation to structures of power” (Shanks and Tilley : ). The new definition of archaeology as a socially embedded activity linked to present-day global structures of power and domination nourished new interest in the “socio-politics of the past,” a field that sought to explore the “articulation between archaeological undertakings and the social conditions in which they are achieved” (Gero : ). It was in this context that archaeologists became increasingly interested in the history of archaeology, a discipline that could provide them with significant examples concerning the relationships between science and society. The revalorization of the history of archaeology was also related to the influence of postmodernism over the social sciences. At its most basic level, this label refers to a number of heterogeneous movements, theories, and authors that during the s reacted against the predominance of positivism in Western sciences. Among the intellectual references of postmodernism are Jacques Derrida’s deconstruction, Michel Foucault’s genealogy, Paul Feyerabend’s epistemological anarchism, H.G. Gadamer’s philosophical hermeneutics, Richard Rorty’s linguistic turn, and most sociologists of knowledge (including David Bloor, Bruno Latour, and Harry Collins). The main idea shared by these authors was that there is not an “objective truth” that can be a ained with the proper use of the scientific method, but a relative truth that depends on time and on circumstances. It follows that the long-established “objectivistic” ideal (i.e., the belief in the possibility of a aining objective knowledge) should be discarded. As Trigger ( : ) has pointed out, “the principal influence of postmodernism on the history of archaeology has been to encourage more radical externalism that seeks to correlate specific changes in archaeological interpretation with particular social movements of varying durations and degrees of specificity.”

 Oscar Moro Abadía

With the advent of postmodernism and post-processual archaeologies, the history of archaeology was established more centrally by the end of the s. At that time, archaeologists such as Bruce Trigger, Leo Klejn, and Alain Schnapp began to consider historical studies as an ideal field for demonstrating that “social conditions may influence the interpretation of archaeological data” (Trigger c: ). In this context, it is not surprising that the “new history of archaeology” adopted an externalist perspective. “Externalist” approaches “claim that social, political and economic circumstances have affected the rate and the direction of some scientific work” (Morrell a: ). This view has decisively influenced the historiography of archaeology during the past three decades. First, in the s, historians of archaeology focused on those cases in which the contextual milieu had more clearly influenced the interpretation of archaeological data. In particular, they analysed the role that archaeology had played at the service of totalitarian regimes (Trigger b, Schnapp ), imperialism and colonialism (e.g., Murray and White ; Trigger , b; Bray and Glover ; Fagan ), and nationalism (KlindtJensen , Trigger b, Olsen , Silberman ). Later, during the s and s, these topics (colonialism, imperialism, nationalism) continued marking the agenda of the historians of archaeology. This fact is related to the influence of Trigger’s A History of Archaeological Thought ( ) over the field. In this book, the first world history of archaeology wri en from an “externalist” viewpoint, Trigger examines “the relations between archaeology and its social milieu from a historical perspective” (p. ). Seeking to understand the history of archaeology in a broad social context, Trigger’s primary argument was that “the development of archaeology has corresponded temporally with the rise to power of the middle classes in Western society” (p. ). Accordingly, he examined archaeology “as an expression of the ideology of the middle classes and [he tried] to discover to what extent changes in archaeological interpretation reflect the altering fortunes of that group” (pp. – ). Trigger’s focus on the role played by archaeology in nationalism and imperialist contexts (see also Trigger , b) has decisively marked the subsequent evolution of the history of archaeology as a field. As a result of these developments, the turn of the twenty-first century has witnessed an “explosion of publications on the socio-politics of the : ). These works have focused on how past” (Van Reybrouck archaeology has been used to legitimate Western dominance over the world (Hall , Shepherd , Schlanger ), how nationalism has marked archaeological research (Kohl and Fawce , Graves-Brown

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et al. , Härke , Díaz-Andreu ), how gender prejudices have oriented the history of research (Hager , Díaz-Andreu and Sorensen ), and how archaeology has served the interests of the upper middle social classes (Kehoe , Pa erson ). At the same time, the number of studies concerning national histories of archaeology has increased (Coye ; Kehoe , ; Hurel ; O’Connor ; Richard ), as have critical appraisals of methodology (Christenson , Moro Abadía , Schlanger and Nordbladh ), encyclopedias and biographical studies (Murray , ; Kaeser ; Coye ) and critical studies in the history of archaeology (Schnapp , RowleyConwy ). The formidable increase of publications dealing with the history of archaeology has had, I suggest, two main consequences. In the first place, we are witnessing a genuine historicization of archaeological knowledge. Today, most archaeologists recognize that their science, like any other intellectual activity, is historically constituted. In this context, even those who claim that archaeology has improved our understanding of the past in a number of “objective” ways, also admit that any a empt to understand the present state of the discipline needs to be grounded in historical analyses. This historicization heralds a number of disciplinary benefits, including a healthy dose of reflexivity essential to be er mitigate those prejudices that have influenced archaeological practice. Second, the study of the history of archaeology has been increasingly professionalized in the past twenty years. A new breed of historians, eager to overcome traditional whiggish narratives, has emerged. While few have been trained in historical analyses, these historians are expanding the annals of the discipline by using archives and other sources. Moreover, they sustain a number of specialist journals (such as the Bulletin of the History of Archaeology), worldwide congresses (such as that held in Göteborg on – June , see Schlanger and Nordbladh ) and international projects (such as the AREA network, see Schnapp et al. ). While some histories of archaeology still reproduce the positivist paradigm, this above-mentioned professionalization has provoked the emergence of a more critical historiography that seeks to understand past scientists in their own terms and contexts. Concluding Thoughts In the past thirty years, the history of archaeology has begun to play a major role in contemporary archaeological debates. This situation is

 Oscar Moro Abadía

in part the product of a specific research history and a product of the popularity of postmodernist approaches. As a consequence of these intellectual developments, the history of archaeology is today recognized by many as “a critical tool for exposing archaeology’s internal structure and organisation, for understanding the processes of its development, and for evaluating and reformulating contemporary theoretical and methodological dilemmas” (Pinsky : ). New challenges have emerged from the recent development of the history of archaeology as a field. The first challenge is related to the fact that most historiographical accounts are still wri en by archaeologists without the necessary training in historiography. This situation has meant that certain paradigms that have long been repudiated by historians and historians of science (such as presentism) are still orienting some disciplinary histories. As several authors have pointed out (Schlanger : ; Díaz-Andreu : ), the best way to counteract such limitations is by promoting contact with historians, historians of science, and sociologists. In the second place, the current interest in externalist approaches raises a number of problems concerning the definition of certain notions very popular among archaeologists. If “archaeological research is influenced by many different kinds of factors” (Trigger a: ), then historians should inquire about the meaning of the definitional boundary between “science” and “society.” In other words, the statement that “contextual” factors influence the pa ern of scientific development involves the problem of the definition of “science” and of the demarcation between scientific research and its surrounding context. The same could be said of the current tendency to analyse the history of archaeology through a set of concepts borrowed from political and contemporary history (such as “nationalism,” “colonialism,” “imperialism”) whose meaning has been the object of intense disputes among reputable specialists (such as Eric Hobsbawm and Ernest Gellner). Historians of archaeology sometimes use these terms vaguely, without referring to the aforementioned epistemological debates. In so doing, they run the risk of repeating those clichés they seek to avoid. In the third place, the recent replacement of an internalist historiography for an externalist one entails the danger of determinism. In fact, to reduce all scientific development to its sociohistorical conditions can jeopardize the very idea of science as a rational enterprise. Nevertheless, the statement of the social nature of archaeology does not necessarily entail a radical relativistic view of knowledge. As Pierre Bourdieu has rightly pointed out, the goal is “to submit science to a

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historical and sociological analysis that in no way seeks to relativize scientific knowledge by relating and reducing it to its historical conditions … but which, on the contrary, endeavours to enable those who do science to be er understand the social mechanisms which orient scientific practice” ( : viii). This can certainly be one of the future roles of this necessary critical history of archaeology: to provide archaeologists with a be er understanding of the factors that influence archaeological practice, helping them to try to, as much as possible, overcome their prejudices and preconceptions.

8 Cultural Continuity, Identity, and Archaeological Practice in the Indian Context

Author’s Note I worked with Bruce Trigger as a graduate student in anthropology at McGill University, where, with a fellow student, I took Professor Trigger’s graduate seminar in Advanced Archaeological Theory. It was during our discussions on the development of archaeology that I first heard that despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, we continue to hold on to our beliefs about the world and the nature of things. The gravity of the statement was deeply felt during meetings with Professor Trigger for my doctoral research on Indian archaeology. The unique research and teaching environment at the McGill department fostered this chapter, which was wri en more than a year a er his death. Introduction In her article entitled “Orientalism, Ideology, and Identity” ( ), Nicole Boivin, an archaeologist at Oxford University, makes explicit the presumption of cultural continuity in India that has been implicit in previous research (Fairservis ; Kenoyer ). In the article, she argues, “given that archaeological evidence is o en drawn upon to support politically-motivated arguments concerning the origins of various forms of identity in South Asia, including caste, it is hardly a topic that responsible archaeologists can afford to simply ignore” (p. ). This argument, however, is inconsistent with Boivin’s explanation that “the limited theoretical a ention that has been given to caste and other dimensions of social identity in South Asia can be linked to an overall lack of interest within South Asian archaeology in exploring the social and political dimensions of archaeological interpretation” (Boivin : ; emphasis added). Boivin’s call to be er understand the discipline’s

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role through archaeological investigations of caste is problematic. Influential works on identity in post–Cold War societies have examined the role of politics and archaeology (Meskell , Smith , DíazAndreu and Champion , Lahiri , for a colonial context). Others have raised caution on the study of a specific people (Trigger d), and examined limitations on the reconstruction of prehistoric ethnicity (Chrisomalis and Trigger ). Yet others have warned of the dangers of conflating culture-historical approaches and nationalism (Childe ). These issues raise important questions about the aims of archaeology as a discipline. This presents an opportunity to address key issues in Indian archaeology. What do we mean by South Asian archaeology? Fuller and Boivin ( : ) note the “formulation of regions and periods of archaeological study within South Asia has had as much to do with recent historical and political factors as with occurrences and relationships in the deep past … The boundaries that have been drawn are modern, and are interfering in the effective study of the South Asian past.” Their chronological and spatial characterization disengages archaeological study from the social context in which the discipline is practised. There is general acceptance that South Asian archaeology is characterized by field studies in India (Fairservis , Allchin b, Chakrabarti ), Pakistan (Possehl , Kenoyer ), Bangladesh (Smith ), Sri Lanka (Coningham and Young ), Nepal, Bhutan, and the Maldives (Petraglia and Allchin ), and Afghanistan (Wright ). Alternatively, Morrison ( b) has chosen for South Asia an ecological characterization that sees during the Holocene diverse resources and niches, parallel to those in Southeast Asia. Disproportionate research emphasis in postIndia – see reviews in Fuller and Boivin ( ) and Boivin and Fuller ( ) – over neighbouring countries belies these characterizations. Contemporary issues in Indian archaeology are examined in this conceptual framework. The first issue is a presumed cultural continuity between contemporary and prehistoric societies. The second is prevailing explanation of the archaeological record in India through a correlation between material culture with language and/or biological traits. The closely related issues are explored through an examination of studies on the evolution of biological and social complexity in the Indian context. For more than a century, the identity of Indo-Europeans has been a focal point for prehistoric research in much of Europe, and in Asia. At the heart of the reconstruction is the belief that the linguistic signal

 Neha Gupta

corresponds with an archaeological and a genetic one (Ammerman and Cavalli-Sforza , Cavalli-Sforza et al. , Renfrew , Diamond and Bellwood ). The Indo-European linguistic signal suggests a branching phylogeny that forms a pa ern of parent-and-offspring languages. The same branching pa ern is believed to correspond to the origins and spread of agriculture (Gray and Atkinson ). Reconstruction of Indo-European phylogeny is closely aligned with efforts to imagine prehistoric social ideology (Dumézil [ ], Renfrew , Mallory ). Indo-European ideological reconstructions rest on two key assumptions. The first is the characterization of Sanskrit as an unchanged ancestral language or a “living fossil” that had not changed “from the speech of the ancestral community” (Tuite : ). The second is the assumption that early Sanskrit texts are a static archive of traditions. The two beliefs are exemplified in Georges Dumézil’s functional tripartite division of an ideal society that features discrete, complimentary religious, military, and agricultural peoples (Dumézil [ a], [ b]). External processes alone explain social change in this reconstructed society. Indo-European society, thus, is like an isolated biological and social system that exists in an ecosystem but neither depends on, nor impacts the ecosystem (Mikkelson n.d.). In the same vein, recent research efforts on early societies have emphasized caste as an intrinsic institution (Kenoyer ; Boivin , ). These efforts in Indian archaeology presume cultural continuity between contemporary and prehistoric societies. Social structures include group identity or membership, forms of residence, territorial organization, and leadership pa erns (Morantz ). While post-positivist literary critiques (Whitehead , Cha erjee , Cohn , Trautmann , Dirks ) have examined the construction of knowledge and the configuration of social institutions in colonial India, contemporary Indian archaeology assumes a perfect correspondence between prehistoric culture, including material culture, and social structure. In The Stone-Tipped Arrow ( ), Bridget Allchin argues there exists a “general structure of Indian society,” outside of which, “a certain number of them [hunters, pastoralists, hereditary specialists in pot-making, basket-making, metal-working, carrying goods from place to place, moneylending or begging] are undoubtedly survivals from earlier periods – communities which have retained their identity and cohesion in spite of the changing society around them” (p. ). The statement implies that community is a bounded, exclusionary, and essentialist social entity. Change is brought through external migratory events and

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technology. Allchin notes that “considerable numbers of people appear to have le or been driven from more advanced areas and to have taken refuge in remote regions where they have been forced to adapt their ways of life, and have sometimes become incorporated into more primitive groups which they found there” (p. – ). How then are these communities identified? Allchin posits that “social, religious and material features that are in complete contrast to Hindu practice” are “undoubtedly direct survivals from more or less remote periods in the past” (p. ). The assessment of cultural continuity in contemporary Indian society effectively excludes all non-Hindus from “the general structure of society,” and from social dynamics. Allchin holds static Hindu practices to delineate traditions of “Others.” The statement presumes a homogeneous, widely spread tradition within a bounded entity. In his article entitled “Alternative Histories, Alternative Nations: Nationalism and Modern Historiography in Bengal” ( ), Partha Chatterjee has presented as a “modern” nationalist construct “Indian” or “Hindu” (p. ). He argues that the inclusion of anti-Brahmanical religious thought, such as Buddhism and Jainism, within Hinduism is based on their historical origins in a territorially bounded India. That, in turn, makes possible the origin of all indigenous culture in India an ancient Hindu civilization (p. ). The nationalist construct predated the identification of the Indus Valley civilization in early twentiethcentury colonial India. Indian archaeology o en holds caste as an organizing principle (Kenoyer , Possehl , Boivin ). Caste is defined as endogamous, hereditary, and hierarchically organized (Marrio , Majumder ). Differentiated by particular traits, discrete castes live in isolation to ensure ritual purity from other castes. In their ethnoarchaeological article entitled “Ceramics, Caste, and Kin: Spatial Relations in Rajasthan, India,” Carol Kramer and John E. Douglas ( ) examine the production and distribution of ceramics in the cities of Jodhpur and Udaipur. They argue that the pa ern of ceramic distribution reflects caste and kin relations and that these relationships have an archaeological signal. They assume a significant degree of cultural homogeneity within a given caste, and expect greater variation between castes. Homogeneity in this closed social system is both caused by, and results in an endogamous pa ern of partner choice. While endogamous relations remain a possibility, the absence of records detailing marriages in the Indian context presents difficulties in the reconstruction of partner choice in both historic and prehistoric scenarios.

 Neha Gupta

Jonathan Mark Kenoyer ( , ) has posited a Harappan legacy in contemporary South Asia. He argues that ritual purity has its archaeological signal in the “segregation of living areas, private water sources, drainage and waste disposal and distinct sets of ceramics, specifically those connected with cooking, food preparation and food serving” (Kenoyer : ). These, he contends evidence hierarchical stratification in Indus and later societies. For Kenoyer, cultural continuity in later societies shows the Indus Valley civilization did not end. The mechanism for this continuity suggests a reorganization of Indus studies. Kenoyer ( , ) argues that the development of the “Localization Era in the Indus Valley Tradition,” of which Harappa is a part, is parallel to developments in northern India, specifically in the Ganga-Yamuna region ( : Table ; : Table . ). Kenoyer posits that “through careful study of different aspects of material culture, it is possible to isolate specific continuities from the Indus Valley Tradition and input from non-Indus communities” ( : – ). Furthermore, he suggests that the “vast area of the Indus valley itself continued to be inhabited and that most of the sites from this period were established along the newly stabilised rivers and lie buried under cities that have been occupied continuously since that time, i.e., Sehwan Sharif, Multan, Kamlia, Harappa, Pak Patan, Depalpur, Lahore, etc.” (p. ). Within this context, Kenoyer calls for archaeological studies “at sites that are more directly linked to the Vedic period in order to build a transitional chronology from the Harappan period through the Late Harappan and on into the Early Historic period” ( : ). Similarly, Gregory L. Possehl ( ) sees in the street-drainage system at Mohenjo-daro the operation of ancient “public” or “civic” institutions. He argues that “maintaining the system so that it was not clogged and a public menace must have been a significant, and probably distasteful, job. Perhaps more important was the constant task of maintaining a proper drainage slope to the entire system as the ‘tell’ of the city grew and changed its contours across ‘neighborhood’ boundaries” (p. ). Social differentiation, he further argues, is apparent in the “pa erns of use” at Mohenjo-daro’s Great Bath and Warehouse. These structures were “not open to the bulk of the city’s population” (ibid.). Possehl’s contention that a civic institution likely maintained drains at Mohenjo-daro contradicts results from his ethnoarchaeological work in Gujarat. There, Possehl ( ) notes that the “elaborate drainage systems documented at Mohenjo-daro are facilities that could easily have been built by men with no real knowledge of formal engineering.

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Moreover, they would not have required any form of instrumentation to level them, even over relatively long runs of several hundred metres” (p. ). The conclusions are surprising and cast doubt on Possehl’s contention for centralized Indus social institutions. In their reconstruction of the Indo-Gangetic cultural tradition, Jim G. Shaffer and Diana A. Lichtenstein ( ) have argued that ca le were a form of cultural wealth in the Indus Valley civilization. The shi from the Indus Valley to the forested Ganges Valley presented less ecological potential for pastoralists, whereas the “integration of millet, sorghum and rice with wheat and barley” in addition to abundant water resources resulted in the “ascendancy” of agriculture over pastoralism (pp. – ). Shaffer and Lichtenstein assume kin-related or hereditary occupational specialization. They define a paleoethnic group as a “stylistically distinct archaeological assemblage sharing key traits and relationships with other past, contemporary, and future groups” (p. ). While they note that paleoethnic groups must not be equated with historic or contemporary ethnic groups, Shaffer and Lichtenstein do not discuss in their study the criteria for requisite “key traits” and relationships. They imply a closed system of inheritance, with li le or no internal dynamic. Inheritance in biological and social systems poses a challenge for scholarly reconstruction. Human biology is assumed to have direct correspondence with language and culture, and is interchangeable. Castes are identified by hereditary or traditional occupations. The epistemological union presents constraints on explanations for social change. Change in occupations, and thus, in gene frequencies are explained primarily as a result of external events such as migrations, invasions, new technologies, and environmental catastrophes. By implication, nonindigenous domination replaces indigenous social institutions, or the la er are assimilated into non-indigenous social institutions (CavalliSforza et al. , ; Renfrew ). Social institutions, and genes, are intrinsic in time and space. Michael Bamshad et al. ( ) have reconstructed, using genetic evidence, the origins of caste in India. They suggest that contemporary Indian elites are products of an admixture during prehistoric times between indigenous and non-indigenous populations. Noting that “evidence of diffusion of material culture from Western Eurasia into India has been limited,” they argue that immigrants are responsible for establishing social institutions (p. ). With an aim to complement the lack of archaeological material, Bamshad et al. have analysed their

 Neha Gupta

contemporaries’ mitochondrial DNA, or mtDNA and Y-chromosome; in their analysis, they identified differences in the frequency of nonindigenous haplotypes. While Bamshad et al. note that contemporary Indians exhibit “underlying genomic unity,” they correlate genetic distances with caste rank, such that upper castes are “significantly more similar to Europeans than are lower castes” (p. ). This pa ern is observed in Y-chromosome analysis. In contrast, mtDNA analysis suggests greater similarity between lower castes and Asians, and less similarity with Europeans. Bamshad et al. contend that the two pa erns evidence “asymmetric” diffusion, an event some time in prehistory, which introduced non-indigenous innovations and social institutions. They discern greater nonindigenous admixture among males than among females. They explain that the uneven distribution is a result of the dominance of non-indigenous males and the upward social mobility of indigenous females (cf. Endico et al. ). A rigid, externally imposed social hierarchy with unidirectional rank change is implicit in the Bamshad et al. study. This, in turn, implies a close correspondence between human biology and social structure. In , Edgar Thurston, superintendent for the Madras Government Museum, assisted by K. Rangachari, published a seven-volume series entitled, Castes and Tribes of Southern India. The publication served as a report on ethnographic and anthropometric investigations on contemporaries in the Madras presidency. The survey aimed to collect and document in detail “aborigines,” and their characteristics deemed under threat from “civilization.” Thurston notes (pp. xxxiii–xxxiv): “In this part of the world, as in others, antiquarian remains show the existence of peoples who used successively implements of unwrought stone, of wrought stone, and of metal fashioned in the most primitive manner. These tribes have also le cairns and stone circles indicating burial places. It has been usual to set these down as earlier than Dravidian. But the hill Coorumbar of the Palmanair plateau, who are only a detached portion of the oldest known Tamulian population, erect dolmens to this day. The sepulchral urns of Tinnevelly may be earlier than Dravidian, or they may be Dravidian.” Thurston’s work suggests the character of classification in the early twentieth century. Local non-elites are classified in a unilinear schema based on a correspondence between material culture and language. On the basis of anthropometric measurements on his contemporaries, Thurston further delineates social hierarchy as pre-Tamulian

Continuity, Identity, and Practice in the Indian Context 

and Tamulian. The pre-Tamulian Dravidian-speaking is “older or less civilized” than the Tamulian (p. xxxiv). Thurston suggests a perfect correspondence between individual cultural “traits” and skeletal morphology. The criterion implies a correlation between human biology and cultural achievements. A more fundamental implication is that local prehistory is characterized by stagnation, and the absence of cultural creativity (Trigger , ). In this creative chasm, social elites, o en products of external influence, are believed to bring dynamism. This is the conceptual space in which Indus Valley cities, Mohenjo-daro and Harappa, were identified in the s. The ancient se lements were celebrated as evidence of Indian engineering and innovation. Social elites enthusiastically claimed the ancient society as their (pre)history, to the exclusion of their “less civilized,” and static contemporaries (Cha erjee , Ramaswamy ). Elites envision their past as always having been dynamic and creative. The past, then, is believed to resemble a present in which local elites are culturally, and spatially, separate and discrete from non-elites. Radhakamal Mukerjee ( ) argues that in rural society “men live in close physical proximity with one another; social distance which exists in rural society is abridged by neighbourly spirit and sympathy and community service” (p. ). The rural dweller lives simply, and in harmony with people and the environment. In contrast, urban society is where “culture becomes no longer an organized, integrated pa ern of living adequate for the needs of individuals, but rather an agglomeration of individuals, associations, and institutions characterized by the constant conflict between individual achievements and moral values and social objectives” (p. ). The urban dweller then is characterized as one who “constantly strives to change his ecologic space, dri to jobs, occupations, and areas that represent higher levels of economic a ainment; he strives to change his social space, a ain higher social status and prestige; and he also aims at the realization of maximum goals of life although he actually secures few of them, and the few he achieves o en become incompatible with the well-being and progress of society” (pp. – ). Where the rural dweller lives in balance and harmony, the urban dweller is dynamic and changing, moving towards bigger and be er at society’s expense. The costly endeavour signifies creativity and success. Archaeologists and scholars in closely related disciplines such as anthropology and sociology have examined hierarchical ordering

 Neha Gupta

through investigations of forms of residence, village layout, and land tenure. In the Indian context, all castes are related, and hierarchically ordered under Brahmins, who are at the top (Marrio , Gough ). Caste spatial organization in villages is believed to reflect ancient Indian society. Sinha ( : ) has argued that villages are spatially organized to reflect hierarchical social order. She contends that village neighbourhoods are symbols of ritual purity, similar to those carried by residents, such that the village “is a replica of the cosmos” (p. ). Observing many dimensions in spatial order, Sinha concludes that territorial segregation is not always evident in villages (ibid.). Thus, her study suggests that hierarchical ordering indicates social inequality. Yet, there remains considerable scope for research on the dynamics of social change (Leach , A wood ). The past is reconstructed on the basis of particular social “traits” or traditions believed to be essentialist, and static. In Living Traditions, Bridget Allchin ( a) argues that contemporary traditions such as cra specialization, house forms, and regional relationships in the Indian context have survived from prehistoric times (pp. – ). In her article entitled “Subsistence and Associated Se lement Patterns in Central India: An Ethnoarchaeological Analysis,” Nandini Rao ( ) examines se lement pa erns among Gonds in the Kuntala Reserved Forest, Andhra Pradesh. Rao notes that the identification of archaeological sites prompted further investigations and that the investigations were confined due to “political instability” (p. ). Rao hypothesized that resources, in particular the availability of water, determined contemporary and prehistoric se lement pa erns, such that permanent camps would be located in close proximity to perennial water sources, and transient ones away from perennial water sources. Through her participant observations in villages, Rao notes that the Gonds practise their “traditional” occupations, hunting, fishing, and foraging. The majority of their time, however, is spent on agriculture (p. ). She a ributes this surprising phenomenon to recent “pressures exerted on forest-based groups to take up plough cultivation and to the expansion of non-forest–based communities into forested areas” (p. ). Rao explains that although Gonds live in permanent se lements, their traditional activities involve mobility and, thus, seasonal variations must impact their pa ern of se lement. Mark Kenoyer ( ) remarks in his ethnoarchaeological study entitled “Socio-ritual Artifacts of Upper Paleolithic Hunter-Gatherers in South Asia” that contemporary non-agriculturalists interact with

Continuity, Identity, and Practice in the Indian Context 

agriculturalists in what is “most definitely a disturbance factor” (p. ). The problem, however, “can be treated in much the same way as water movement of bioturbation is treated in strategraphic analysis” suggesting that se ler effects can be accounted for (ibid.). He contends that prehistoric adaptations are simple in comparison with the complexity seen among agriculturalists. Similarly, in his investigation of activity patterns around a stone platform in Madhya Pradesh, Kenoyer argues that the feature, dated to , years ago, functioned as a communal area. He posits that the hypothesis is testable through archaeological and ethnoarchaeological investigations of continuous use of similar materials. Within this context, Kenoyer notes that contemporary huntergatherers have “a high variability of shrines and structures” and that this pa erning differs from his archaeological identification (p. ). He concludes, nonetheless, that there is a “correlation between the raw material and medium used to express the symbol and also a similarity in the environmental context of late Upper Paleolithic and modern hunter-gatherers” (ibid.). For Kenoyer, the la er indicates a “significant thread of continuity in socio-ritual symbolism” (ibid.). In the same vein, Kathleen Morrison ( a) has argued that the time depth of gathering and hunting as a subsistence strategy warrants its study in contemporary South and Southeast Asian societies. She argues that the continuity of foraging indicates “important components of both subsistence and sociocultural identity” (Morrison b: ) and contends that subsistence strategies must be examined from deep prehistory to the present day. Her aim is to move away from essentialist definitions for foragers. To that end, Morrison ( c: ) has examined the exchange and intensification of the spice trade in what she calls “precolonial and early colonial” southern India between and AD. Indeed, Morrison ( c) argues that the “productive demands placed on peasant agriculturalists, gatherers of forest products, and export-oriented swidden cultivators were all structured through networks of local power and authority” (p. ). This is somewhat surprising, as Morrison explains that the ruler of Calicut did not control the “forested hinterland” and that accountability for transactions, including tribute and taxes rested with local leaders (p. ). Morrison further argues that for indigenous producers, the distinction between “luxury” goods such as pepper and cardamom and “utilitarian” goods such as rice and co on textiles was “largely academic.” Thus, she implies that indigenous producers were immune to the significant changes in demand and tax differentiation by the Portuguese for these goods (p. ).

 Neha Gupta

How did local leaders, or chiefs navigate differing colonial tax regulations on utilitarian goods and luxury goods? This is particularly interesting, as Morrison suggests that the “basic subsistence needs of specialized foragers and possibly swidden spice cultivators were met through the mobilization of this [wet rice agriculture] surplus” (ibid.). It seems unlikely, then, that foragers and spice cultivators strategically remained practising foragers and spice cultivators. In this scenario, establishing permanent fields seems a plausible strategy to harvesting forest products alone. A more fundamental implication of embedding biology in social structure is the naturalization of social inequality. This is a reductionist view of biological and social systems. The acceptance of social inequality as a continuity from the past, replicating itself in the present, and in the future, is precisely what limits an understanding of social change. The former presents a never-broken chain of causation in which one event has a “domino effect” on another to an inevitable result. This consequence is then construed as universal, or structural to human behaviour, and to societies (Lewontin et al. ). Within this context, a recent publication by Petraglia and Allchin ( ) asks – why South Asia? Eighteen contributions in The Evolution and History of Human Populations in South Asia examine key events from deep prehistory in Africa to agricultural origins in five centres in India. The volume presents an interdisciplinary approach in the chronological reconstruction of prehistory. Boivin ( ) examines anthropological, historical, and archaeological perspectives on the origins of caste in South Asia. She notes that the origins of caste are elusive for all three disciplines. The solution to this problem, she argues, is genetics. She explains, “if the disciplines of the social sciences have demonstrated that ideas about caste and its origins are o en shaped by contemporary social, political and economic agendas, then perhaps the answer to questions about caste origins in South Asia is best sought in the more objective data offered by the natural sciences” (p. ). This is a curious proposition. In her review of contemporary genetic studies in South Asia, Boivin observes no consensus, and no one objective answer to the origins of caste. She rightly notes that each study comes with its assumptions, such that there is a diversity of pa erns. Yet, common to each study is an assumed stable biological marker for caste or another socially constructed identity, whether Brahmin or tribal, from Andhra Pradesh, or Greece, Arab, or French. That, in turn, makes possible the identification of quintessential

Continuity, Identity, and Practice in the Indian Context 

Brahmin or French genes, which remain unchanged over long periods of time. Elsewhere, Boivin ( ) has argued that “ethnoarchaeologists have an important role to play in revealing the material dimensions of caste” (p. ). She further argues that long-term ethnoarchaeological studies must be undertaken to make caste “accessible” to archaeologists. The research strategy fundamentally premises that caste has a material correlate. In the Archaeo-Ethnology of Hunter-Gatherers or the Tyranny of the Ethnographic Record in Archaeology, Martin Wobst ( ) argues that a hypothesis will “only predict the human behaviour that ethnographers can and have observed, in the way that ethnographers have summarized it” (p. ). It is to the benefit of archaeologists in the Indian context to consider Wobst’s caveat. This essay has aimed to examine cultural continuity and archaeological practice in Indian archaeology. Contemporary practice in Indian archaeology is marked by presumed cultural continuity. A recent call for the archaeological study of caste has presented an opportunity to discuss keys issues in Indian archaeology. An issue is raised on the characterization of South Asian archaeology. The chronological and spatial characterization indicates the scale at which archaeological study is examined. There is disproportionate emphasis on research efforts in Independent India. It is suggested that archaeological study be examined within the social se ing in which it is practised. Contemporary practice in Indian archaeology assumes a correspondence between material culture and social structure. The issue of cultural continuity, and the prevailing correlation of material culture with language or with biological traits, is explored through studies on the evolution of biological and social complexity in the Indian context. Contrary to Boivin’s ( ) assessment, archaeological investigations presume material correlates of multiple dimensions of social identity, in particular, caste. The presumption of cultural continuity in contemporary Indian society effectively excludes all non-Hindus from social dynamics and social history. “Indian” identity is characterized as a modern, nationalist construct. The significance of an ancient Hindu civilization is suggested, and is explored through recent studies on the Indus Valley civilization. Prevailing archaeological reconstructions in Indian archaeology contend a deep and close relationship between material culture and human biology and that the two are interchangeable. Reconstructions

 Neha Gupta

reinforce a view of social elites as being dynamic and creative. This is in contrast with non-elites, who are believed to be simple, and in harmony with their environment. Yet, the statement is inconsistent with ethnoarchaeological studies that suggest variability and dynamism among both elites and non-elites. The conflation of language, caste, culture, and biology continues to be seen in works such as Walimbe ( ). In this simplistic society, internal dynamics are absent, and external processes necessarily explain change. The past, then, is believed to resemble a present in which local elites are culturally, biologically, and spatially separate and discrete from non-elites. This presents a fractured view of society. That, in turn, impedes our understanding of theoretical developments in archaeology.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The writing of this chapter during my doctoral research was made possible through support from Andre Costopoulos (Department of Anthropology, McGill University). Discussions with Stephen Chrisomalis (Department of Anthropology, Wayne State University) enriched my understanding of archaeology’s relationship to society; I thank him for comments on early dra s of this chapter. I am grateful for discussions with Jesse S. Sayles and Jessica M. Dolan on cultural continuity. I thank both editors for the invitation to contribute to this volume.

NOTES  1 Diachronically the Holocene is an interglacial period from 10,000 years ago to the present.  2 British colonial administration in India ended on 15 August 1947, with the formation of the Dominion of East and West Pakistan, and of independent India. Sri Lanka gained administrative independence on 4 February 1948. Bangladesh gained from West Pakistan administrative independence on 6 December 1971.  3 See also Coningham and Young (1999) for a study in Sri Lanka.  4 Harappa is an Indus Valley site. R.F. Starr (1941) first employed the term “Harappan” in his examination of the po ery recovered from excavations at the site. Starr believed, as many Indian archaeologists had, that culture remained unchanged for long periods of time. Scholars who study

Continuity, Identity, and Practice in the Indian Context 

 5

 6  7

 8

 9

urbanization and ancient Indian history believe that the Indus Valley was the first urbanization, and that the second was in the Ganges Valley (Chakrabarti 1973). The survey includes adult males in Visakhapatnam, Andhra Pradesh, India. A ributes included caste affiliations, surnames, and birthplace of parents. A er consent, researchers collected 8 ml of blood, or five scalp hairs (Bamshad et al. 2001: 1002). Identical combinations of mutations on any single location in gene alleles (Endico et al. 2007: 230). In his introduction, Thurston (1909: vol. 1, xiv) notes the timeliness of the survey, “as in the Pacific, and other regions, so in India, civilisation is bringing about a radical change in indigenous manners and customs, and mode of life.” The Palmanair or Palmaner plateau is located in Chi or district, Andhra Pradesh, India. Tinnevelly or Tirunelveli is a city and district in Tamil Nadu, India. A ributes included the length and breadth of the head, stature, nasal height, nasal breadth, skin colour, and caste. A broad nose, or nasal index greater than 90, short stature, and dark skin indicated the antiquity of a population (Thurston 1909: vol. 1, lv).

9 A Citation Analysis of the Works Included in Americanist Culture History: Fundamentals of Time, Space, and Form

Author’s Note: A Reflection on Bruce Trigger as a Teacher and Mentor It is something of a humbling experience to return to one’s undergraduate work. I submi ed this abridged undergraduate course paper for this volume because the editors wanted to publish a range of work from people inspired by Bruce Trigger. An undergraduate paper seemed, in the abstract, at least, eminently appropriate. I handed the exact same copy to the editors that I had handed to Trigger in my first year at McGill University. It became clear, a er both internal and external review, that it could not be published as an academic article as it was. In trying to rewrite it, I realized that I would never write this paper today. It wasn’t a ma er of fine-tuning or rephrasing, it was that I would never use the fundamental categories that I had worked with. I would no longer write like this. I would no longer use so few sources. I came to the conclusion that I could not rewrite it for publication. As I reflected on this, I found myself increasingly confused: Bruce Trigger, from the moment I went to his office hours to discuss the paper, and right through to my final graded comments, had been supportive, helpful, and enthusiastic about this paper. I could not believe that he had failed to see the flaws that were so clear to me seven years later. One in particular was glaring: I had called this a citation analysis, without any clue that it should involve statistics. I essentially did a qualitative study of trends over time. I had apparently missed the entire point of the paper without it bothering him. Bruce Trigger died a er I completed my M.A., while I was taking a year off to work in commercial archaeology. There has not been a

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History 

week since I returned to graduate school that I have not wished I could ask him a question, find out what he thought, or get some advice. In confronting the dilemma of this paper, however, along with my own experience, I think I can gain some insights into the way he taught undergraduates, what he valued in scholarship, and how he approached the history of archaeology. I believe part of my confusion in this situation results from the particular style of interaction that Trigger adopted with his undergraduate students. In both his courses and his undergraduate thesis supervision, I never had the impression that he thought I was doing anything other than scholarship. His advanced courses didn’t feel like classes as much as they felt like working groups chaired by him. In one seminar, the take-home mid-term question was on the relevance of Heidegger in constructionist studies in modern archaeology. It didn’t feel like a test or an evaluation. It felt like an exploration in which we were all participating. In short, I never thought that I was doing an exercise: Bruce Trigger always had a genuine interest in what his students would discover, no ma er how junior we were. To Trigger, I had not missed the whole point of my paper. The fact that I really had no idea what a citation analysis was supposed to be was not relevant. Trigger valued what was discovered, and since I had a stated methodology, data, and extensive qualitative analysis (for an undergraduate paper), this was an interesting paper to him. It was, in fact, a reflection of the way he taught the history of archaeology. Trigger was unusual in his approach to both archaeology and its history. As his career developed, he moved towards an interest in more universal questions in archaeological research. At the same time, his study of the history of archaeology became more particularistic. I think he saw archaeology as a discipline ready for some serious theoretical challenges, whereas he saw the history of archaeology as a new discipline. We were not just students, we were trainees. For Trigger, the importance of the history of archaeology went beyond an understanding of how we got to our current state of knowledge. As Bruce Trigger increasingly became involved in issues of social justice and the role of artefacts in specific, present-day situations, the history of archaeology became far more personal (Young : – ; Trigger a: ). It revealed not only how specific situations came about, but also analogous structures, assumptions, and practices that influence both popular understandings and what we think of as cu ing-edge theory in the present.

 Jennifer Bracewell

In , I was motivated to do this paper on Americanist Culture History by an in-class discussion about the persistence of “culture types” in general understandings of archaeology. Culture history may be two generations of archaeologists ago, but in the wider world it is the dominant understanding of prehistory (Trigger a: – ). This evolved into a discussion of tourism and nationalism, a topic Trigger later discussed in his second edition of A History of Archaeological Thought (p. ). This was suddenly not a stop on the road to “how we came to our present understanding,” but an active part of how archaeology shaped present-day identities. At the time I was somewhat enamoured by Thomas Kuhn ( ) and the concept of paradigm shi . I wanted to find out how this culturehistorical paradigm had been deposed, and since citation analysis was one of the options for a paper, I suggested this as a topic. Recently, I had a look at Trigger’s thoughts on Kuhn in the second edition of A History of Archaeological Thought, and I discovered that he was unconvinced about Kuhn’s application to archaeology (Trigger a: – ). He did not, however, mention this to me at the time. Perhaps he wanted me to discover this for myself. I also think that he was genuinely interested in what I would come up with: as he handed me the volume by Lyman, O’Brien, and Dunnell ( ) that he suggested I analyse, he said, “I will be interested in the result. I don’t think anyone has done this before.” I remember thinking that he had literally wri en the book on the history of archaeology, so it was unlikely I would find anything to surprise him, but I would later realize that this was characteristic of his approach to knowledge and learning. Trigger always thought he had more to learn. He never judged students’ work by what they did not know, but by what they had discovered and what they made of it. His highest compliment was “I hadn’t thought of that.” He encouraged in his students the challenging of received wisdom and their own assumptions, as he did in himself. He also valued meticulous detail, as anyone who has read Understanding Early Civilizations (Trigger a) will know. An undergraduate’s highly unusual form of citation analysis of shi ing ideas in the culturehistorical period was of interest to Trigger, not only as a class assignment, but as a contribution, however small, to his own understanding. This, more than publication, more than complex statistics, more than even bold theoretical positions, was how Bruce Trigger judged a paper’s academic worth.

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History 

Introduction This essay examines the focus and methods of culture-historical archaeology and how they developed chronologically through the articles, first published between and , that were included in Americanist Culture History: Fundamentals of Time, Space, and Form (O’Brien, Lyman, and Dunnell ). This citation analysis focuses on two main points in order to examine changes in culture-historical archaeology. First, it focuses on the authors being cited at different times during the culture-historical period under review. Second, it focuses on the types of articles being cited at different times during this period. Terminology For the purpose of clarity, the authors of the works providing citations will be referred to as “writers,” and the works as “articles” despite the fact that some are, in fact, selections from larger works. The authors being cited as secondary sources by the writers of the articles in Americanist Culture History will be referred to as “authors,” and their works as “works.” Methods Employed The articles have been divided into six subperiods according to their year of publication in order to trace the trends of culture-historical archaeology. These periods are ( ) – ,( ) – ,( ) – , ( ) – ,( ) – , and ( ) – . The unevenness of the subperiods is due to the volume of articles with citations included in each. Within each subperiod, citations are recorded for each article. To measure the impact of a cited author on the archaeological writers of a particular subperiod, citations have been recorded in the following manner: the reference of an article to a single work of an author is considered a single reference, no ma er how many times that one work is referenced in that one article. The reference of an article to two or more works by a single author is considered two or more citations. A single work of an author that is referenced by multiple articles within the same subperiod is considered multiple citations. The purpose of

 Jennifer Bracewell Table 9.1 Citation Analysis by Author and Period Subperiod 1

2

3

4

5

6

Author

07–30

31–40

41–50

51–5

56–60

61–9

Kidder (1915, 1919, 1927, 1932, 1936,* 1946,* 1948)

3

2

3

5

0

0

13

Nelson (1915, 1916)

3

2

0

0

0

0

5

Fewkes (1890, 1914)

2

0

0

0

0

0

2

Kroeber (1916, 1919, 0 1923, 1926, 1927, 1930, 1932,* 1939, 1940, 1944, 1952*)

5

0

9

3

0

17

Wissler (1914, 1922, 1923, 1926, 1942)

0

5

0

0

0

0

5

Ford, J.A. (1937, 1938, 1940, 1941,* 1949, 1949,* 1951,* 1952, 1954)

0

3

4

11

3

2

23

Holmes (1886, 1897, 1914)

0

3

0

0

0

0

3

Sapir (1916, 1924)

0

3

0

0

0

0

3

Boas (1911, 1926)

0

2

0

0

0

0

2

Cole (1937*)

0

2

0

0

0

0

2

Colton (1937, 1937,* 0 1939, 1942, 1943, 1946, 1953, 1954, 1955a, 1955b)

2

0

2

12

0

16

Davidson (1928)

0

2

0

0

0

0

2

Deuel (1927, 1937*)

0

2

2

0

0

0

4

Hargrave (1935,* 1936,* 0 1937*)

2

3

0

2

0

7

Herskovits (1924, 1926) 0

2

0

0

0

0

2

Spier (1917, 1928, 1931) 0

2

0

2

0

0

4

Gladwin, H.S. (1930a,* 1930b,* 1931,* 1933,* 1934,* 1937a, 1937b, 1942, 1957)

0

9

4

5

0

18

0

Total

(continued )

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History  Table 9.1 (continued) Subperiod 1

2

3

4

5

6

Author

07–30

31–40

41–50

51–5

56–60

61–9

Gladwin, W. (1930a,* 1930b,* 1931,* 1933,* 1934*)

0

0

6

2

4

0

12

Kluckhohn (1936, 1939a, 1939b, 1939,* 1952*)

0

0

3

4

0

0

7

Rouse (1939, 1941, 1952, 1953, 1953,* 1954, 1955, 1957, 1959*)

0

0

3

5

9

4

21

Griffin (1935, 1939, 1942, 1943, 1946)

0

0

2

6

0

2

10

Hawley (1936, 1938)

0

0

2

0

0

0

2

Renaud (1931a, 1931b)

0

0

2

0

0

0

2

Strong (1935, 1936, 1952)

0

0

2

0

0

0

2

Willey (1942,* 1945, 1948, 1949, 1951, 1953a, 1953b, 1953,* 1955,* 1958,* 1960,* 1965, 1967,* 1968)

0

0

0

9

11

4

24

Krieger (1944, 1946)

0

0

0

6

0

0

6

Phillips (1951,* 1953,* 1955, 1955,* 1958, 1958*)

0

0

0

5

7

3

15

Taylor (1948)

0

0

0

5

0

0

5

Spaulding (1953)

0

0

0

4

0

0

4

Brainerd (1945,* 1948, 1951)

0

0

0

3

0

0

3

Brew (1942, 1946)

0

0

0

3

2

0

5

Childe (1947, 1950)

0

0

0

3

0

0

3

Jennings (1941, 1946*)

0

0

0

3

0

0

3

Moore (1908, 1911)

0

0

0

2

0

0

2

Shook (1946*)

0

0

0

2

0

0

2

Total

(continued )

 Jennifer Bracewell Table 9.1 (continued) Subperiod 1

2

3

4

5

6

Author

07–30

31–40

41–50

51–5

56–60

61–9

Steward (1938,* 1942)

0

0

0

2

0

0

2

Gifford (1957, 1958,* 1960, 1960*)

0

0

0

0

5

5

10

Wasley (1952, 1956,* 1958,* 1959)

0

0

0

0

4

0

4

Haury (1936, 1940, 1947*)

0

0

0

0

3

0

3

Linton (1936, 1955)

0

0

0

0

3

0

3

Martin (1940,* 1943,* 1950*)

0

0

0

0

3

0

3

Rinaldo (1940,* 1943,* 1950,* 1956*)

0

0

0

0

4

0

4

Anderson (1936, 1954)

0

0

0

0

2

0

2

Lévi-Strauss (1951)

0

0

0

0

2

0

2

Sayles (1936, 1947*)

0

0

0

0

2

0

2

Wendorf (1950, 1953)

0

0

0

0

2

0

2

Voegelin (1955)

0

0

0

0

2

0

2

Smith, R.E. (1955, 1960,* 1969, 1971)

0

0

0

0

0

5

5

Adams (1964, 1967*)

0

0

0

0

0

2

2

Cornely (1950, 1956)

0

0

0

0

0

2

2

Culbert (1965, 1967)

0

0

0

0

0

2

2

MacNeish (1958, 1964)

0

0

0

0

0

2

2

Rands (1961, 1967)

0

0

0

0

0

2

2

Sanders (1960, 1965)

0

0

0

0

0

2

2

Smith, A.L. (1943,* 1955)

0

0

0

0

0

2

2

* Indicates that this was but one of the authors in the work cited.

Total

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History 

this method is to reveal, in a general way, how many works by a single author were considered relevant by how many writers during a particular subperiod. The works that are considered relevant should give an idea of what the focus of archaeological research was during the period. Works cited by multiple authors are included as separate citations for each author, in order to track the exposure of the ideas of each author. For the sake of clarity, only authors cited more than once in a particular subperiod are included in the final set of data. The rationale for this procedure is that the purpose of a citation analysis is to track trends through different periods in a particular discipline, and an author cited only once in a period cannot be considered a trend. The citation by multiple writers of a particular author is important in determining the influence of that author during that subperiod. Table . lists authors cited and the number of times they were cited in each subperiod. They are organized according to the subperiod in which they were first cited, because this allows shi s in the representation of groups of authors to be be er represented visually. Table . also contains sums of the total number of citations per author. The discussion of the results of the citation analysis will focus primarily on the five or six authors with the greatest number of citations in each subperiod. Results First Subperiod,

–

The dominant citations in the first subperiod, – , are works by Alfred Vincent Kidder, Nels C. Nelson, and Jesse Walter Fewkes. All of the citations deal with reports on archaeological findings at either individual sites or in areas. This indicates that the interests of archaeological writers during this subperiod were focused on the material culture of small geographical areas. This is one of the dominant characteristics of culture-historical archaeology and is significant because it differentiates the writers of this period from the speculative archaeology that had gone before (Willey and Sabloff : ). The two articles cited that had been authored by Nelson ( , ) during this subperiod are extremely significant to the development of culture-historical archaeology. Nelson was part of what Willey and Sabloff have dubbed the “stratigraphic revolution,” which occurred early

 Jennifer Bracewell

in this subperiod (p. ). This movement among Americanist archaeologists sought to stratigraphically prove the typologies for artefacts that had been worked out in the different areas being excavated. Not only was Nelson’s work some of the first to use stratigraphy to determine a sequence for archaeological materials, but he also developed the interpretation of “normal frequency curves.” These curves represented the way that the frequency of a po ery type would gradually develop, swell, and then diminish as the frequency of another type began to develop and swell (Lyman et al. : ). Kidder also worked on stratigraphic methods and their use in the interpretation of material culture. Kidder’s article referenced during this subperiod, “Po ery of the Parjarito Plateau and Some Adjacent Regions in New Mexico” ( ), confirmed the po ery sequence that Nelson had developed in his work in the Galisteo Basin ( ; as noted by Willey and Sabloff, : ). The third archaeologist referenced during this period was Fewkes, who had studied the Pueblo Indians of the United States in the years preceding the rise of culture-historical archaeology. He was not concerned with chronology, being one of those earlier archaeologists who believed that Native American cultures were too primitive to change over time and that artefacts could be explained through a regional ethnography (Trigger : ). The inclusion of Fewkes in the citations of this period indicates that although the culture-historical movement was a great shi in the focus of archaeological study, it did not occur overnight, and the writers of this school were still studying the works of authors associated with the previous period. A final point can be made about the first subperiod: for the number of articles included in Americanist Culture History: Fundamentals of Time, Space, and Form (O’Brien et al. ), there are very few references cited. In the eleven articles included, only four use any citations at all. Of the citations they do use, only three authors are cited more than once. This is because most of the articles included in this compilation for this subperiod are reports on new archaeological data. While Kidder and Nelson are cited in the later works, the influence of Boasian anthropology is evident in the a ention to particular areas and the a empts to work out sequences. What Kidder and Nelson provided was a way to express these sequences quantitatively. Second Subperiod,

–

In the second subperiod, there are two obvious shi s in the nature of citations: the increase in the total number of citations, and the number

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History 

of citations relative to the number of articles included in the compilation for this period. Alfred L. Kroeber and Clark Wissler have the most citations a ributed to them in this subperiod, followed by James A. Ford, William H. Holmes, and Edward Sapir. Kroeber modified the application of Nelson’s frequency curves so that they could be applied to material culture that was not structured by stratigraphic layers. He did this by arranging artefacts according to their similarities to one another, much like C.J. Thomsen ( ) did in Denmark. This came to be known as “similiary seriation.” During the s, Kroeber applied his similiary seriation, combined with frequency analysis, to various regional material cultures, including the Teotihuacan Valley in Mexico, F.M. Uhle’s collections of pottery from Moche, and the hemlines on contemporary women’s dresses ( ; see Lyman et al. : ; Willey and Sabloff : ). This variety could explain why Kroeber is so prevalent in the citations of the s. His method incorporated the Nelson and Kidder methods, and could be applied to all sites, regardless of whether they had clear stratigraphy. Wissler ( ) addressed a key issue affecting archaeologists at the time: that archaeological culture areas were not, as had been believed, static through time, but that they changed temporally as well as geographically (Lyman et al. : ). Wissler developed the concepts of “age-area” and “culture-area” to deal with the increasing variability within the archaeological record, which probably accounts for this subperiod’s interest in his works. The age-area concept assumes that cultural traits develop from one point of origin and spread at a constant rate in all directions. Therefore, the wider the distribution of a cultural trait, the older it is (Lyman et al. : ). In Analysis of Indian Village Site Collections from Louisiana and Mississippi, published in and cited twice in this subperiod, James A. Ford outlined the benefits that a more generalized chronology of the Southeast than Kidder’s would provide, and recommended possible ways to develop such a chronology, primarily through surface po ery collection. There is in this subperiod an element not expressed in the first subperiod: the citation of anthropological studies. These include Handbook of American Indian Languages ( ), by Franz Boas, and “The Ca le Complex in East Africa” ( ), by M.J. Herskovitz. Both works treat issues of cultural characteristics, and indicate an increasing awareness of the importance of living cultures of the past in the distributions of archaeological cultures.

 Jennifer Bracewell

The citations from the second subperiod indicate a focus on regions, as opposed to individual sites; in fact, no site reports are included. It appears that the archaeological writers of the time were focusing on methods to organize the large amounts of archaeological material that were becoming available to them. Ford pointed out that the archaeological sites of the Southeast tended to be thin, making it difficult to derive chronologies from stratigraphy, which accounts for the rapid shi to citations of works dealing with similiary seriation (Willey and Sabloff : ). Third Subperiod,

–

A glance at Table . reveals interesting characteristics of the citations of the third subperiod. It seems to be a period of transition: some of the authors cited, such as Ford, Kidder, and Hargrave, are cited in the earlier subperiods, and carry over into the later ones. Others, notably the Gladwins, move from non-existence in the citations of the earlier subperiods to having the dominant number of citations a ributed to them in this one. Of the twelve authors cited, only three are not cited in any other subperiod. In A History of American Archaeology, Willey and Sabloff ( ) confirm that the s did indeed mark the beginning of a period of “ferment and transition” in Americanist archaeology. If this is, in fact, a transitional period, then it is a very short one. Included in this compilation are only three articles with citations for this subperiod. This is probably a reflection of the impact of the Second World War on archaeological scholarship. Yet the articles included reference both older and newer authors extensively for such a small number of articles. The greatest number of citations from this subperiod are a ributed to Harold S. Gladwin and Winifred Gladwin. Neither is referenced in the two previous subperiods, although over half of their works date from the early s. Why did their work suddenly become so influential for the writers of this subperiod? The Gladwins’ work, in fact, represented a continuation of the efforts to organize the po ery of the southern United States, in their case in the Southwest. Their work in the s and s set up a new system of classification, which Lyman et al. ( : ) have dubbed the Gladwin-Colton scheme. This system classified po ery according to two characteristics: geographical location and colour or surface treatment, as in “Tulasora black-on-white.” This was later expanded by Colton and Hargrave ( ) into a system of po ery types, wares, and series

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History 

(Lyman et al. : – ). H.S. Gladwin was reluctant to classify po ery temporally, because a system for determining absolute chronology was not yet available; however, it was implicitly expressed in the dendritic model of the scheme, with newer cultures emerging from older ones (Willey and Sabloff : , ). It is clear from the titles cited that consideration of the Gladwin-Colton scheme was important to the writers of this decade. Other newly cited authors of this subperiod include Clyde Kluckhohn and Irving Rouse. In “The Place of Theory in Anthropological Studies” ( b), Kluckhohn commented that archaeological typologies were being developed without concern for how the concepts involved would be related to human behaviour (Lyman et al. : – ). In doing so, he raised an interesting question about the goals of culturehistorical archaeology. Rouse’s work Prehistory in Haiti: A Study in Method ( ) is probably cited because it represents an elaboration and refinement of similiary seriation (Willey and Sabloff : ). In this work, Rouse made an interesting distinction between theoretical and empirical units in typological classification (Lyman et al. : ). Previously cited authors include Ford and Hargrave. Evidently Ford’s “A Chronological Method Applicable to the Southeast” ( ) was still regarded as relevant to artefact classification by some writers of this subperiod. Hargrave’s study, Handbook of Northern Arizona Pottery Wares ( ), which he co-authored with Colton, is also cited. This book elaborated on Gladwin’s classification scheme (Lyman et al. : ). The citations of the third subperiod indicate the continuing concern of writers of the time with classification of archaeological materials. They also indicate increasing concerns with the historical relatedness of archaeological cultures. Finally, they are beginning to question assumptions concerning the relation of archaeological theory to human behaviour. Fourth Subperiod,

–

A Study of Archeology by Walter Taylor is cited in five of the articles with citations in this subperiod. Taylor’s book, published in , was highly critical of American archaeologists. He pointed out that although the purpose of archaeology was supposed to be the reconstruction of prehistoric human behaviour, archaeologists confined their studies to the

 Jennifer Bracewell

distributions of cultural materials, and a ributed their changes to migration and diffusion without much consideration (Trigger : – ). Evidently, Taylor’s concerns were being considered by the archaeological writers of this subperiod. James A. Ford is the most cited author of this half-decade. There are three general areas covered by his works that are cited. First, there are citations of his work from the s, which set up a generalized method for determining the chronology of the Southeast. Second, there are the works that dealt with debates over the nature of classification of archaeological cultures. “Comment on A.C. Spaulding’s ‘Statistical Techniques for the Discovery of Artifact Types’” ( ) was part of the Ford-Spaulding debate over the nature of the archaeological “type.” Spaulding’s article ( ) is cited four times during this subperiod. The debate began with the publication of Ford’s “Measurements of Some Prehistoric Design Developments” ( ), which claimed that change in the archaeological record was gradual, and that the classification of artefacts into types was a construct of the archaeologist. Spaulding countered with “Statistical Techniques for the Discovery of Artefact Types.” As the title suggests, Spaulding believed that artefacts did, in fact, occur in types that could be discovered. The third area in which Ford is cited concerns a study that he co-authored with James B. Griffin and Philip Phillips, Archaeological Survey in the Lower Mississippi Alluvial Valley ( ). This work considered types to be imposed by the archaeologist on slowly shi ing styles. Archaeological types were not thought to represent historical groups, but time periods in the evolution of po ery in specific regions (Lyman et al. : – ). While the three authors viewed cultural change as flowing, as opposed to sudden replacement, Ford believed this flow to be regular and continuous, while Gifford and Phillips saw it as moving in spurts, a view essentially developed from the empirical observation of stratigraphy (Lyman et al. : ). Their view is a cross between Spaulding and Ford: they believed that types are imposed by the archaeologist, but that there is some variation in the continuity of this flow of change in the artefacts. The last point is particularly relevant to Taylor’s comments concerning the inability of archaeologists to determine prehistoric behaviour. By debating the ways in which cultures changed, Ford and Phillips and Griffin were straying from the usual answers of migration and diffusion and looking more closely at the temporal aspect of change – in short, they were looking at how change had occurred in the living culture.

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History 

A real interest in living cultures during this period is expressed in the citation of the works of Gordon Willey. In his works on the Viru Valley in Peru ( a, b), Willey sought to study how se lements interrelated in the valley over different cultural time periods (Willey and Sabloff : ). This certainly indicates an interest not only in defining the archaeological record, but also in explaining it. Besides earlier work on chronologies in various regions of the southern United States and Peru, and his work on se lement pa erns, Willey’s cited work is concerned with archaeological theory. In “Method and Theory in American Archaeology” ( , ), Willey and Phillips a empted to develop a system that would make the classification of archaeological cultures more anthropological. They kept the idea that archaeological cultures were arbitrarily defined units on a continuum; however, they defined these units as “societies” and used them to make correlations with sociocultural phenomena. To do so, they argued that historical ethnographic information could be derived from studying the extensive distributions of geographical traits, called “horizons,” and temporal traits, called “traditions” (O’Brien et al. : – ). The dominant citations in the fourth subperiod show that the writers of the time followed theoretical debates and were aware of concerns over limitations of the typological systems that had been in use up until that point. These concerns centred on the inability of earlier systems of classification of archaeological cultures to provide information about historical living cultures, and the development of systems that would make this more feasible. Fi h Subperiod,

–

The most frequently cited authors of the fi h subperiod are Harold Sellers Colton, Gordon R. Willey, Irving Rouse, and Philip Phillips. The citations of Willey and Phillips ( , , ) centre on the development of their system of classification in order to be able to derive more information about the living cultures represented in the archaeological record. In , they published the monograph Method and Theory in American Archaeology, which set out a “historical development interpretation” for the New World (Willey and Sabloff : ). This implied that the long-dormant issue of cultural evolution was being considered as a tool to account for the people represented by the artefacts. While Willey and Phillips’s scheme sets out the different stages of historical development, Lyman et al. ( ) point out that they failed to

 Jennifer Bracewell

formulate a theory as to how these stages came about – they were only empirically observed and defined (p. ). In his article “On the Correlation of Phases of Culture” ( ), Rouse pointed out that the basis for the incorporation of artefacts into Willey and Phillips’s historically defined cultures, the similarity of form and the similarity of space-time position, did not necessarily prove historical relatedness (O’Brien et al. : ). Rouse proposed his own way of determining the developmental, or evolutionary, relations between archaeological cultures. He proposed that they be divided into phases that shared similar traits. The reason these traits were shared then had to be determined. The means to do this, according to Rouse, lay in the careful study of time-space distribution. If the phases included in a particular horizon were contemporary, it would be unlikely that the relationship between them was homologous, given that there would have been no time for the phase-style to have spread. The citations of the fi h subperiod indicate the growing concern of the culture-historical writers with the historical relatedness of the cultures they had defined. While the system developed by Gladwin and Colton for the classification of po ery types established a theory for the relationship of types in space and time through a dendritic system, it was criticized for implying that material cultures evolve in the same way that living organisms do, and fell out of favour (Lyman et al. : – ). Another system, the Midwestern Taxonomic System had developed at the same time (Willey and Sabloff : ). It used similar classification units to those developed by Gladwin and Colton, but did not require temporal or geographical proximity (O’Brien et al. : ). Although it was criticized for not dealing with the issues of time and space, as more became known about these through subsequent study, they came to be applied to the Midwestern Taxonomic System (Willey and Sabloff : ). The citations collected from this subperiod do not include the author who developed this system, W.C. McKern ( , ). Yet the debate of Willey and Phillips versus Rouse highlights the differences between the Gladwin-Colton system and the Midwestern Taxonomic Method, specifically relating to the presence or absence of theoretical explanation. This perhaps accounts for the revival of interest in Colton’s works – the Gladwins are also cited several times in this subperiod. The dominant citations of this fi h subperiod indicate that authors of the time were

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History 

aware of the need to develop methods for deriving information about the practices of people in the past, and the limitations of the contemporary system for doing this. Sixth Subperiod,

–

Three out of the four most frequently cited authors in the sixth subperiod deal with the type-variety system included in their cited works. According to O’Brien et al. ( ), this represented a “final effort to refine classification systems within the confines of the culture history paradigm” (p. ). “Ceramic Variety, Type Cluster and Ceramic System in Southwestern Po ery Analysis” ( ), by J.B. Wheat, J.C. Gifford, and W.W. Wasley was referenced in the fi h subperiod, but the type-variety system only became dominant in the citations in the sixth subperiod. The type-variety system that Wheat et al. ( ) proposed suggested that the established types be subdivided into “varieties” in order to view the type in more detail. The idea was that, by subdividing types into smaller varieties organized according to spatial and temporal differences, these two dimensions could be measured on a finer scale (O’Brien et al. : ). This finer scale would allow be er sequences of po ery to be developed. As Lyman et al. ( : ) point out, however, there was li le explanation given of how a finer sequence would help archaeologists come to a be er understanding of how po ery types evolved and were related. The other author frequently cited in this subperiod was Irving Rouse. His Prehistory in Haiti: A Study in Method ( ) is cited three times, indicating a continuing interest in similiary seriation. This work is probably also cited because in it Rouse acknowledged the difference between type as an a ribute, able to be observed empirically, and type as a unit of classification by archaeologists, which is imposed. This is relevant not only to the type-variety system, but to the system that Rouse himself a empted to develop. Rouse’s system was based on a ribute types, which he renamed “modes,” being the basic units from which the imposed types were constructed. By grouping modes into types according to their spatial and temporal significance, historical types could be developed and used as theoretical units (Lyman et al. : ). The dominant citations of the final subperiod indicate the interest of culture-historical writers in the works of authors a empting to further refine typological classifications to improve their capacity to track temporal and spatial change.

 Jennifer Bracewell

Authors So far this essay has examined the influence of authors and their works in specific subperiods. However, citation analysis can also measure the influence of authors across subperiods. In this citation analysis, only three authors are cited more than once in four or more of the six subperiods in the years between and : Kidder, Ford, and Rouse (see Table . ). Their works were cited across successive subperiods because they not only produced works that were extremely relevant to the initial subperiod in which they are cited, but they also built on those works and adapted their area of study to the concerns of the subperiods that followed. Kidder is cited in the first subperiod ( – ) because of his efforts to organize information into a chronological and sequential structure. This, coupled with Nelson’s work on frequencies, helped to give the archaeological collections quantitative meaning. The second subperiod ( – ) reflects Kidder’s focus on regional concerns, and this probably accounts for why he is cited. Not only had he wri en on this topic in the first subperiod, he had also continued to work on stratigraphic method and regional application in the articles cited in the second subperiod, particularly his publication on excavations at Pecos (Willey and Sabloff : ). The interest of writers in the classification of artefacts continued into the third subperiod ( – ). Concerns about the historical relatedness of archaeological cultures developed. Writers of the fourth subperiod ( – ) were increasingly becoming concerned with the way that the archaeological record reflected the living cultures of the past. The Artifacts of the Pecos (Kidder ) continued to be cited by writers, probably because Kidder had integrated his study into a regional chronology, carefully tested by stratigraphy (Willey and Sabloff : ). As this period was also characterized by the examination of the limitations of culture-historical classification systems, it is possible that Kidder was also considered in this light. This brief outline demonstrates how Kidder’s work was relevant to the interests of various subperiods. As Kidder responded in the first subperiod to a need for a method of organizing po ery, James A. Ford recognized a similar need in the Southeast, and also provided a method. Citations of Rouse beginning in the third subperiod also began with the presentation of a method, in his case a refinement of similiary seriation, as well as a concern with the nature of units of archaeological

Citation Analysis of Americanist Culture History 

classification. This would become a major concern of culture-historical writers in subsequent subperiods. Both Ford and Rouse became engaged in the key debates of the subsequent subperiods as a result of their engagement in the development of theory and method. Both subsequently a empted to develop new theories in response to the debates: in Ford’s case, this was developed in Archaeological Survey in the Lower Mississippi Alluvial Valley (Phillips, Ford, and Griffin ) cited during the fourth subperiod; in Rouse’s case, this was developed in his works cited in the fi h ( – ) and sixth ( – ) subperiods. Conclusion This citation analysis tracks the citations of the articles and works considered by O’Brien et al. ( ) to represent the major trends in the development of Americanist culture-historical archaeology between and . According to the citations, culture-historical archaeology began with the collection of specific kinds of artefacts, ceramics, and their subsequent organization into various systems of classification. As time went on, concerns arose regarding the way in which these classification systems reflected the living cultures that had produced the artefacts. These resulted in a series of theories and methods concerning the nature of the relationships of artefacts in time and space. These theories and methods were debated over six subperiods in an a empt to establish which of them best reflected the nature of the historical living cultures. Because the articles and works included in this compilation deal only with the culture-historical paradigm, the decline of culture history cannot be fully examined. However, citation analysis provides insight regarding the extent that culture-historical writers were themselves concerned with the limitations of their paradigm. This becomes particularly evident when certain authors are examined across multiple subperiods.

10 Bruce Trigger: “A Second International Marxist”? .

Author’s Note Over quick lunch in New Orleans in the late s, Bruce Trigger described himself as “a Canadian nationalist” and “a Second International Marxist.” He told me that, as a graduate student in Egyptian archaeology at Yale University, he always wrote at least one seminar paper a semester that dealt with some aspect of the anthropology of Canada. This made sense, since Canadian nationalism was already a familiar sentiment for me. I had heard about it o en from my parents and their families, all of whom were Canadian by birth and repeatedly expressed their profound uneasiness and suspicion about the influence and intentions of the behemoth south of the border. The sentiment was shared by family members who never le Canada, by the handful who eventually se led in the United States but visited Canada at least once a year, and by the much larger number who regularly moved back and forth between the two countries in search of work. I regret that Bruce and I didn’t have the opportunity to talk about the second comment at the time, and that I never followed up on it in subsequent conversations. It was already clear from his writings that he had read widely and thoughtfully in the works of Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, and subsequent writers engaging the tradition they established (Trigger, a, , b, [ ], a). Thus, my goals in this chapter are twofold: ( ) to consider briefly the Second International and the anthropology it spawned and ( ) to interrogate Trigger’s writings to see what he meant by the remark. The Second International and Its Anthropologies The Second International ( – ) was the successor to the International Working Men’s Association (subsequently referred to as the First

Bruce Trigger: “A Second International Marxist”? 

International) that Marx and Engels founded in . The la er was a federation of politically diverse, working-class organizations based in Western and Central Europe but also from Australia and the United States. In , in the wake of the Paris Commune, a split developed within the association between the Marxists, who argued that the proletariat should pursue political power, and the anarchists, notably Michael Bakunin, who believed that participation in bourgeois politics was corrupting and that the state should be overthrown since it impeded the free exercise of human affairs (Thomas : – ). The association was formally disbanded four years later. The following decade witnessed the growth of a number of national, more or less Marxist-inspired trade unions and political parties, whose representatives finally met in and founded the Second International. By , this loose federation had more than four million members who participated in the parliamentary elections in nearly two dozen countries ( Johnstone ). It dissolved in a er the outbreak of the First World War, when most of the Western European organizations fell victim to calls for “national unity and defence” rather than “workers of the world unite.” A er the split, Marx and Engels competed with various socialists and anarchists for political and intellectual hegemony of the movement. Marx, for example, unleashed a devastating analysis of a socialist proposal in his “Critique of the Gotha Programme” ( [ ]), prepared a revised French translation of the first volume of Capital, both of which appeared in , and – with an eye towards clarifying, revising, and expanding arguments in the subsequent volumes of Capital for publication (a task that Engels would complete in the s) – he began to read widely in the anthropological literature of the day (Marx [ – ], Anderson , Smith ). In , he and Engels prepared a new preface for a Russian edition of The Communist Manifesto (Marx and Engels [ ]). Engels probably had the more immediately visible impact and shaping effect on the formation and early years of the Second International, since he was still alive and had been Marx’s literary executor since the la er’s death in . Engels’s published writings from the mids until his death in followed a different trajectory. They include the following: “Dialectics of Nature” ( a[ – ]); “The Part Played by Labor in the Transition from Ape to Man” ( a [ ]); “Anti-Dühring: Herr Eugen Dühring’s Revolution in Science” ( b [ – ]); “Socialism: Utopian and Scientific” ( [ ]); The Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State in the Light of the Researches of Lewis H. Morgan ( b

 Thomas C. Pa erson

[ ]); “Ludwig Feuerbach and the End of Classical German Philosophy” ( b [ ]); and “The Peasant Question in France and Germany” ( c[ ]). There were four significant areas of overlap in the writings of Marx and Engels between the mids and the mids: ( ) the ongoing critiques of the socialists and anarchists; ( ) their critical turn towards ethnology and anthropology and rejection of the racism found in some of that early literature; ( ) their concerns about the structural positions of peasantries in different national societies and the possibilities for progressive political organization among their members; and ( ) their recognition from onward of the significance and implications of Charles Darwin’s materialist theory of evolution – that is, during the same time that Darwin’s influence and, in different ways, that of Herbert Spencer were beginning to be felt around the world (e.g., Clark ; Glick ; Hawkins ; Kelly ; Pi enger ; Todes ; Vucinich , ; Weikart ). There were also some differences, since Engels pursued emphases and themes during this period that distinguish his work from Marx’s but do not necessarily contradict arguments made or implied by the la er. These include historical studies of social institutions in early German society (e.g., b[ ], a[ ]); his defence of scientific socialism as open, critical inquiry in which “the eternal laws of nature become transformed more and more into historical ones” ( a[ – ]: , ; emphasis added); his explorations of the cultural politics of science, which incorporate critiques of dogmatism and methodological certainty ( b[ – ]: – ); the reductionist philosophical arguments of mechanical materialism ( b [ ]); and social Darwinism ( [ ]), among other things (Benton , O’Neill ). These were some of Marx and Engels’s legacies to the Second International, whose members were broadly concerned with gaining access to political power in order to shi the balance of force in capitalist societies, grasping the significance of nationalism (the national question), understanding the structure of rural communities in the various national states in order to determine how they could be organized or mobilized politically by the industrial proletariat (the agrarian question), and comprehending social structures of colonial states and the kinds of relations that could be conceived and forged between colonial peoples and industrial workers. Rapid industrialization; massive internal and international migration; the creation of overseas colonial empires; nationalism; racism; and the popularization of Darwinian, sociocultural

Bruce Trigger: “A Second International Marxist”? 

evolutionary, and Social Darwinian ideologies formed the backdrop and were incorporated into the discussions that characterized the Second International, which was far from a homogeneous movement. Analogies and metaphors – like “the laws of nature,” “survival of the fi est,” or “the struggle for existence” – had already entered the public domain and were being deployed by naturalists, political economists, social commentators, and socialists at a time when the popularity of reductive materialist and scientistic arguments was on the rise in some circles and increasingly challenged in others, especially in ones with strong religious convictions, like in the United States, where the term “the war between science and religion” had already gained currency (Harvey , Jones , Vogt ). Part of the diversity of standpoints represented by Second International intellectuals reflected the very real structural differences and constraints that existed among the various member organizations and the political strategies and tactics that were possible in their own national states. Simply put, Germany, France, Russia, or the United States, for instance, each presented substantially different conditions, problems, and impediments for workers struggling to gain political power (Kolakowski ). Part of the diversity also reflected the profound differences in the predilections of particular individuals – like Karl Kautsky ( [ ]), Eduard Bernstein ( [ ]), V.I. Lenin ( [ ]), or Rosa Luxemburg ( [ ]) – and the ways in which they cra ed arguments drawing not only on the empirical realities of capitalist societies but also on the views of Marx and Engels and o en those of Darwin, Spencer, and societal evolutionists as well. It is important to note that the emergence of anthropology as a discipline concerned with human variation, the evolution of human societies, and the cultural beliefs and practices of peoples on the margins of capitalism coincided in time – roughly the mids onward – with the formation of the Second International (Hammond , Pa erson , Stocking , Weindling : – ). Its early practitioners o en had the same understandings of human beings and made use of the same analogies, metaphors, and imagery as the socialists, anarchists, Darwinians, and sociocultural evolutionists. Anthropology, also like the Second International, was neither a politically nor an intellectually homogeneous discipline, and many of its early practitioners o en disagreed profoundly with one another on fundamental issues such as the politics of science, the inferiority of native peoples, the significance of cooperation versus competition in their daily lives, the role of the

 Thomas C. Pa erson

colonial state, or the evolution of human societies versus their historical development. Trigger’s Commitment to Second International Marxism Let us briefly consider how Trigger’s commitment to Marxist social theory and practice resonated with that of Second International writers. First, Trigger, critical of the reductive positivism of the New Archaeology and the hyper-relativism of post-processual archaeology, described himself as a moderate relativist who steered a course between the two polarized positions and one whose views had remained essentially unchanged since (Trigger c: ). As Alison Wylie ( ) has pointed out, his “moderate relativism” meant that Trigger adopted a realist ontology at two different levels: ( ) there is a reality that exists independently of our perceptions and efforts to understand it, and ( ) the biases that exist in our understanding of that reality are not inherent in the reality itself but rather in our interpretations of the evidence it presents to us. Hence, our knowledge claims about reality should be based on analyses of the available empirical evidence and should be accepted as the best approximation of the truth. That is, Trigger, like Marx and Engels and like Aristotle before them, employed a correspondence theory of truth, in which something is true because it is consistent with the facts. Wylie also suggests that Trigger’s ( a) comments about the evolutionary development of perception and the increasing ability to correct errors of judgment and of understandings of reality through time is less compelling than the standpoint theory advocated originally by Marx and Engels in The Communist Manifesto and subsequently elaborated by feminist theorists since the s. Standpoint theorists claim that the position of marginalized groups in hierarchically organized power structures, like the proletariat in contemporary capitalist societies, o en have greater understanding and insight, that is, situated knowledge, into the nature of those structures and the relations they produce than the members of more privileged groups. It is interesting to note that Trigger adopts standpoint theory in his political praxis as well as in his historical writings concerned with the Native peoples of Canada such as The Children of Aataentsic: A History of the Huron People to ( b) and Natives and Newcomers: Canada’s “Heroic Age” Reconsidered ( a), or in his development of theories of sociocultural evolution ( c). Second, Trigger (e.g., c: – ) was a materialist who deeply lamented the fragmentation of knowledge that exists today in universities

Bruce Trigger: “A Second International Marxist”? 

and many anthropology departments. Trigger strove throughout his career to bring information from diverse fields in the social sciences, humanities, and natural sciences together into a single coherent system of knowledge that would explain the human condition today and how it came to be that way. In , Marx ( [ ]: ) also commented on his struggles to bring together the arts and sciences, already divorced from one another at the University of Berlin. For Trigger, like for Marx and Engels, critically assembling knowledge and information from diverse fields and perspectives was the way to gain a greater appreciation of the whole. This was particularly evident in Trigger’s historical writings, where he integrated archaeological evidence with historical information derived from the Jesuit Relations to create a seamless picture of Huron society in the seventeenth century ( b). His critical procedure was not only a means for testing the utility of hypotheses forged on the basis of particular sets of information but also, especially when archaeology and history were combined, of understanding how reality came to be the way it is as well as the way we understand it. Trigger’s quest for knowledge, broadly defined and yet simultaneously focused, was also a characteristic of a number of Second International theorists, like Kautsky, who wrote about topics as diverse as the foundations of Christianity, the materialist conception of history, communism in Central Europe at the time of the Reformation, and the agrarian question in order to gain a clearer understanding of the contemporary reality of European society. A glance at Trigger’s curriculum vitae reveals the expansive scope and depth of his writings and knowledge which ranged from the history of Huron society, the history of archaeology, ancient Egypt, and the decipherment of Meroitic script, on the one hand, and on the other, to the problems confronting universities, whose boards of trustees seek to implement inappropriate political and business models that turn those institutions into knowledge factories. Third, like Heinrich Cunow ( [ ], [ ]) and other Second International intellectuals, Trigger was acutely aware that many of the world’s peoples have histories and internal social dynamics that have been largely independent of what was happening in Europe, and that they have had diverse ways of conveying their histories and those internal dynamics. In other words, the subalterns could and did speak! This was particularly evident in his historical investigations, like The Children of Aataentsic ( b) and Natives and Newcomers ( a). In the former, he analysed the internal dynamics of changes in Huron society that were set in motion by the arrival of the French and English and their complex interactions with relations with the Iroquois. It is

 Thomas C. Pa erson

an historical ethnography that treats the responses of different groups within Huron society that were responding as rational actors to circumstances that were being forged in significant ways outside of their communities, conditions that would circumscribe their history, transform the internal dynamics of daily life, increasingly impede their freedom of action, and slowly join in new ways their history with those of other peoples in eastern Canada. In the la er, Trigger brought together the diverse accounts of various groups into a single whole that privileges not the arrival of the Europeans, but focuses instead on the kinds of social relations that were being forged in a new milieu (Morantz ). He also recognized that the social and natural landscapes of the St. Lawrence River Valley and its environs were transformed in the process. In his historical writing and editing, Trigger was acutely aware, at least from the mids onward, if not earlier, that the sociohistorical whole was always greater than the sum of parts and was usually significantly more complex than the mere sum of those parts. Fourth, while evolutionary thought was a mainstay in the arguments of Eduard Bernstein and other Second International intellectuals, Trigger ( c) had a complicated relationship with it. On the one hand, he was critical of the unilinear, neo-evolutionary arguments articulated by sociocultural anthropologists in the s and adopted by the New Archaeologists a decade later. He was equally critical of the nineteenth-century romantic and racist reactions to Enlightenment evolutionary thought as well as to various postmodern, neo-historicist, and neo-Weberian arguments that appeared in the s and s. At some fundamental level, however, he believed in progress and sociocultural evolution and recognized that the long-term trends in human history were always complicated by historical contingency and human choice. As a result, sociocultural evolution occurred along a number of different paths. While Trigger agreed that capitalism was eroding cultural diversity and threatening the environment around the world, and that much is being lost in the process, he also recognized that societies are now being thrown together in new and larger political-economic units and suggested that the role of the national state is being limited in the process (Trigger c: – ). He also argued that knowledge has accumulated through history, that it is shared by an increasing number of specialists, and that technological change is occurring at an ever-increasing pace. This increasing rate of change has created an entirely new set of conditions and impacts on people and the environments in which they live,

Bruce Trigger: “A Second International Marxist”? 

particularly in the increasingly internationalized or globalized circumstances of the twenty-first century. For Trigger, the purpose of a sociocultural evolutionary perspective was not to justify a particular course of action for the present and future, but rather to serve as a guide for exploring the implications of various alternative courses of actions in light of the ethical and moral commitments they entail. In his view, planned commitments to a particular course of action should produce the greatest possible good for the greatest number of people without inflicting injustice. Moreover, while progress was not inherent in societal evolution, it could be planned and fought for (Trigger c: – ). Fi h, imbued with a resolutely, uncompromising internationalist perspective, there were a number of dimensions to Trigger’s political praxis including the following: ( ) a consciousness of self and other and of the social relations that exist between them, ( ) the determination of reality through an accurate, theoretical understanding of existing institutions and the contradictions inherent in them, ( ) a relentless criticism of existing conditions, and ( ) a profound desire to improve the human condition. It played itself out at different levels. Within the community of archaeologists around the world, Trigger was a critic of the forms of inequality and racism implicit or explicit in the theory and practice of archaeology, as witnessed, for example, in Archaeology and the Image of the American Indian ( ), Alternative Archaeologies: Nationalist, Colonialist, Imperialist ( b), his co-editorship with Ian Glover of two special issues of World Archaeology (Trigger and Glover – ) concerned with regional traditions of archaeological research, and his influential A History of Archaeological Thought ( ; nd ed. a). At the national level, The Children of Aataentsic ( b) and Natives and Newcomers ( a) had transformative effects on the historiography of Canada and the way Canadian history is taught in elementary and high schools. At the university level, and subsequently for the wider public, Bruce Trigger, as one of the two elected faculty members on the board of governors of McGill University, used his expertise to argue for the independence of university research from the constraints imposed by corporate funding and the adoption of business models that put profits ahead of open, critical thought (Bisson ). By his own account, Bruce Trigger was a Second International Marxist. His commitment to classical Marxism has been mentioned by others. You can judge which is the more descriptive of his work. He was certainly familiar with the writings of Marx and Engels, and his appreciation of their writings, including those that were available to Second

 Thomas C. Pa erson

International intellectuals, became more apparent over time in his own writings. Ideas that were inchoate in the s were expressed with increasing clarity, texture, and force in the decades that followed. Besides being a prolific writer, Trigger was also an activist who used his knowledge and skills in the service of his heart to make life be er for greater numbers of people. Like other Marxists, he thought that human nature was mutable, stressed the importance of planning and cooperation, held a positive view of freedom, subscribed to the importance of equality, and firmly believed that some courses of action will definitely have be er outcomes than others. Bruce Trigger is sorely missed.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I want to thank Stephen Chrisomalis and Andre Costopoulos for the invitation to write a chapter commemorating the significance of Bruce Trigger’s contributions to anthropology and the wider public. This essay has profited from the insights of Michael Bisson, Randy McGuire, Lynn Meskell, Toby Morantz, and Alison Wylie. I also want to thank Wendy Ashmore for her constructively critical comments on an earlier version.

11 Bruce Trigger and the Philosophical Matrix of Scientific Research

It may be argued that there are three groups of conditions of original scientific research: psychological, social, and philosophical. The main psychological conditions are talent, curiosity, motivation, industry, and integrity. The social conditions are research freedom, cooperation, and pecuniary support. All this is rather well known, if not by politicians and bureaucrats, at least by scientists. What is far less known is that scientific research, or at least great research, can also be either energized or obstructed by a philosophical outlook. This is the subject of the present essay. Bruce Trigger’s Philosophy The earliest archaeologists have been faulted for being antiquarians rather than historians, and treasure-hunters rather than scientists; for having extruded artefacts from their environment; for failing to reconstruct the daily lives of the makers and users of ancient artefacts; for having privileged the symbolic – in particular, art and ritual – at the expense of the utilitarian; for having been describers, classifiers, and cataloguers rather than social scientists driven by imaginative hypotheses concerning the way our remote ancestors may have lived, felt, and thought; and for not having respected the role that archaeological remains may have in preserving the historical records of contemporary peoples, such as the Amerindians. Bruce Trigger was none of that, because he was well aware of the philosophical matrix of scientific research. Indeed, in his methodological papers, he adopted explicitly materialism, systemism, and realism. He learned his materialism partly from the Marxist archaeologist Gordon

 Mario Bunge

Childe, whom he admired at a time when it was politically incorrect to even mention Marxist authors. He himself told us about his ambivalent reaction to Childe’s great work The Prehistory of European Society: “I was delighted by Childe’s argument that the theoretical focus of archaeology should not be on culture but on the comparative study of prehistoric social and political organization. I was dismayed, however, by his frank admission that he could not discover how such studies might be done” (Trigger b: ). Trigger’s later “undogmatic reading of Marx” included awareness of two of Marxism’s weakest spots: dialectical mumbo-jumbo and lack of a scientific methodology, with the concomitant disregard for empirical evidence. In this regard, Trigger’s philosophy was similar to that of Marvin Harris ( ), another giant of anthropological theory. Trigger argued that “a materialist ontology and a realist epistemology provide the basis for studying human beings as biological entities, who were produced by long-term natural selection and use their cognitive and rational abilities to relate to a world that exists independently of them” ( a: ). But, of course, Trigger adopted what the neuroscientist Jean-Pierre Changeux ( ) calls an “instructed” materialism, one that has learned from modern science rather than remaining stuck in the past, when the only science deserving this name was mechanics. Trigger also adopted the functionalist (or systemic approach) that he had learned partly from Grahame Clark’s path-breaking Archaeology and Society ( ). Functionalism consists of two mutually independent theses: ( ) all the traits of any given culture or society are interdependent and ( ) every bit of a culture, even the silliest custom or ritual, has an adaptive function. Thesis ( ) characterizes systemism, whereas thesis ( ) is teleological. Bronislaw Malinowski stressed ( ), whereas Emile Durkheim emphasized ( ). In either version, functionalism rejects the internalism that characterized traditional archaeology (as well as the historiographies of art and of ideas). Internalist archaeology focuses on artefacts – tools, utensils, artworks, earthworks, hearths, and the like – and disregards or minimizes their functions, that is, the ways they were used and the way of life of their users. Internalism is the approach of the art collector and the grave robber rather than that of the social scientist. By contrast, Grahame Clark had placed the artefact in its social context: his was a social archaeology – without being purely externalist, however. This is how Trigger characterized Clark’s approach: “He maintained that archaeologists should aim to determine how human beings had

Bruce Trigger and Scientific Research 

lived in prehistoric times by reconstructing as far as possible their economies, their social and political organizations, and their systems of beliefs and values and trying to understand how these different aspects of culture related to one another as parts of functioning systems” ( a: ). In the same book (p. ), he reproduced Clark’s striking “systems diagram,” showing the said interdependence as well as the ultimate source of survival, namely, food supply. What a far cry from the idealist emphasis on belief and ritual, revived in our days in Ian Hodder’s learned papers and in Clifford Geertz’s popular books! And how much more refined is the Clark-Trigger version of materialism than Marvin Harris’s cultural materialism, which was actually an a ractive synthesis of functionalism and biologism with Marx’s economic determinism! And yet, ironically, Harris was more interested in dealing with what Trigger called esoterica, such as food taboos, than with basic activities such as farming. These two eminent scientists and philosophers of anthropology wore their theoretical differences on their sleeves: Whereas Harris was ebullient, loud, and beer loving, Trigger was calm, so -spoken, and austere. To indulge in stereotyping: whereas Marvin was a typical Brooklyn boy, Bruce was a product of small-town Ontario. Systemist materialisms come naturally to the anthropologist, because good anthropology is the total social science, the only one that studies every single trait of a society. True, most anthropologists define their discipline as “the science of culture.” But what they mean by “culture” is what sociologists call “society.” And said definition is only a relic of the period when European anthropology was under the thumb of German idealism, in particular neo-Kantianism and its obsolete nature/society, natural/cultural, and explanation/Verstehen dichotomies. The very existence of anthropology, demography, geography, psychology, linguistics, and other biosocial sciences renders such dichotomies obsolete (see Bunge ). Let us finally turn to the epistemological component of Trigger’s philosophy. Trigger was an uncompromising epistemological realist, at a time when realism was being replaced with constructivism-relativism in the Anglo-Saxon academy. Trigger’s realism is anything but the naïve realism that characterized Aristotle, and which is hardly distinguishable from the empiricism (or positivism) of Bacon, Locke, Comte, or Engels. Indeed, Trigger knew well that conceptual knowledge is needed to “make sense” of the world, and that even unrealistic ideas, such as religious fantasies, may discharge social functions (Trigger b). For

 Mario Bunge

example, in his later years, Trigger was particularly impressed by the huge resources that the ancient Egyptians, unlike other comparable civilizations, devoted to the death cult. The editors of Trigger’s earlier Festschri (Williamson and Bisson ) call Trigger’s epistemology “theoretical empiricism.” I disagree with this characterization because empiricism is by definition antitheoretical. I prefer “scientific realism,” the amalgam of realism and scientism. I suggest that Trigger was a scientific realist, because he held that scientists a empt to model reality, and that they do so by adopting the scientific method. Unlike the dialectical materialists, Trigger ( b) distinguished materialism, an ontology or metaphysics, from realism, an epistemology or theory of knowledge. This distinction is important because the two doctrines are logically independent from one another. For instance, one may admit that making a living takes precedence over understanding the world, yet one may deny that it is possible to understand the world. That is, one may be an obscurantist materialist, or mysterian, in tune with postmodernism – which, of course, Trigger despised. Last, but not least, Trigger the anthropologist was a humanist. Not only did he adopt a secular approach to research: he also felt respect and sympathy for his subjects. Moreover, Trigger practised participant observation, to the point that he was accepted by his Aboriginal hosts, the Hurons, who adopted him and gave him the name The-Turtle-Who-Knows. The humanist approach should not be taken for granted in the social sciences, given the arrogance of the traditional anthropologist who descended upon the “savages” from the heights of Cambridge, Paris, Berlin, or Chicago, and se led on the verandah of his residence to interview the tribe’s informant – who sometimes took advantage of the scientist’s gullibility, as we know from the experience of Margaret Mead. Contrary to Hegel, who in his infinite ignorance called the natives of the colonies Naturvölker and decreed that they were “peoples without history,” Trigger knew that the Aboriginals had a past worth being disclosed, and he wrote the first history of the Hurons before colonization (Trigger b). Trigger had been wise to do his graduate work at Yale rather than in a European university, where he would have been sent to Borneo, Madagascar, Angola, or some other remote place overseas to do his fieldwork. He knew that there were Aboriginals just across the river from Montreal waiting to be studied. This choice may sound obvious to

Bruce Trigger and Scientific Research  Figure 11.1. The philosophical matrix of scientific progress. HUMANISM

SCIENTISM

SCIENCE SYSTEMISM

REALISM

MATERIALISM

anyone ignorant of the fact that, when Trigger was a student, the Canadian intellectual culture was still a colonial one. For example, when he started teaching at McGill University, all the openings were advertised exclusively in the Times Literary Supplement. To sum up, Trigger’s more or less explicit philosophy was a synthesis of materialist and systemist ontology, realist and scientistic epistemology, and humanistic ethics. In the balance of this essay, I will argue that this pentagon constitutes the philosophical matrix – or to change the metaphor – the nest of scientific research at its best (see Figure . ). The Role of Philosophy in the Birth of Modern Science Why was science not born in China, the most advanced society around , the date of the birth of modern science in Western Europe? Joseph Needham ( ), the pioneering student of Chinese science and technology, told us why: because Chinese intellectual culture was dominated by three ideologies that were indifferent or even hostile to the study of nature, namely, Confucianism, Buddhism, and Taoism. Confucius taught that what ma ers most is peaceful coexistence and obedience to the establishment; the Buddha, that all is appearance; and Lao-tzu, that inner contemplation and religious piety trump action. None of these sages encouraged people to explore the unknown, much less to improve the known: all three were uncurious and passive, whereas scientists and technologists are eminently curious and enterprising. How and why did modern science and technology emerge only in a handful of Western European countries around ? We do not know

 Mario Bunge

yet for sure. I suppose that our ignorance of this ma er stems from the fact that each historian of science has adopted a sectoral approach, looking at only one of the various progenitors of the Scientific Revolution: the Renaissance, the Reformation, the discovery and looting of the New World, the worldwide expansion of capitalism, the printing press and the accompanying spread of literacy, and the new worldly philosophy. In accordance with my systemic world-view (Bunge ), I assume that all of the above-mentioned factors were about equally important and that what was decisive was that they operated at the same time. However, my task in the present essay is to focus on only one of them, the new philosophy, because there is no consensus on either what it was or why it ma ered. The Scientific Revolution is usually understood to be a set of unusual discoveries and inventions that started a new and fruitful tradition. I submit that this construal amounts to beginning at the end, since nothing can be achieved without first adopting or inventing an approach, designing both a project and a strategy to carry it out, and a system of values to assess its results. I take it that the Scientific Revolution resulted from desacralizing the world (to use Max Weber’s phrase), and wanting to inventory, understand, and master it in purely naturalistic terms and with the sole help of reason and experience. In sum, the novelties generated by the Scientific Revolution constitute but a link in the following chain: Approach – Plan – Research – Results – Evaluation The official story is that the new science was a by-product of the rejection of Aristotelian scholasticism. I submit the truism that the authentic revolutions of all kinds are not restricted to removing the old: they also build new scaffoldings. In the case of scientific breakthroughs, such new scaffoldings consist in original ways of posing and tackling epistemic problems, that is, in new research strategies. For example, Copernicus fathered the modern planetary astronomy when he replaced Ptolemy’s study of individual planets with the investigation of the solar system. (But he kept, of course, two essential traits of Ptolemy’s: his concern for observational data and his use of mathematics – which reminds us that, Kuhn and Feyerabend notwithstanding, no revolution is total.) In the next century, Harvey and Vesalius inaugurated modern human anatomy and physiology when they

Bruce Trigger and Scientific Research 

replaced the study of separate organs with that of systems, such as the cardiovascular system. Newton was the first to view the universe as a system of bodies held together by gravitation. Quesnay and Leontieff, separated by two centuries, earned their fame by conceiving of the national economy as a system, not just a set of individuals. Faraday and Maxwell thought of electric charges and currents, together with magnets, as systems held together by electric and magnetic fields. Darwin conceived of biospecies not as separate collections but as branches of the tree of life – a system whose components are bound by the descent relation. Ramón y Cajal revolutionized neuroscience when he identified the units of nervous tissue and revealed the networks or systems into which they combine. Rutherford and Bohr fathered modern atomic physics when they conceived of the atom as a system of particles rather than a tiny marble. Bernardo Houssay was awarded the Nobel Prize for proving that the pancreas and the hypophysis or pituitary, although rather distant from one another, belong to the endocrine system. Donald Hebb, inspired by the work of Cajal and his school, renewed psychology upon postulating that what feels, perceives, thinks, or evaluates are neither whole brains nor individual neurons but something in between: cell assemblies or neuronal systems. And John Maynard Keynes created modern macroeconomics, as well as the socio-economic policy that bears his name, by conceiving of the economy of a region as a social system closely connected to the political system, rather than as an amorphous aggregate of free agents. In all of the above-mentioned cases, the innovation centred on a material system rather than on either an isolated individual or an impenetrable whole: Planets were no longer thought to be pushed by angels, neuronal systems were not deemed to be controlled by immaterial souls, economies were not under the guidance of invisible hands, and so on. In sum, the makers of modern science were tacitly practising what I call systemic materialism, an alternative to both physicalism and dialectical materialism. The central thesis of this ontology is that every real entity, whether atom or cell, animal or society, is a material system or a component of such. This kind of materialism does not eliminate the mind: it only regards mental processes as brain processes, and consequently as subject to normal scientific investigation. Nor does systemic materialism ignore or underrate the symbolic traits of cultures: it just conceives of them as products of humans living together, on a par with labour and conflict. However, let us get on with our story.

 Mario Bunge

I also suggest that the Scientific Revolution consisted to a large extent in developing three capital aspects of Aristotelianism: rationalism, realism, and the cautious materialism of Theophrastus, Alexander of Aphrodisias, Averroes, and the Latin Averroists. Indeed, the schoolmen respected logic, although, as Bacon and other critics rightly noted, they used it to dispute over the sacred scriptures rather than to explore the world. And, except for the nominalists – who were actually vulgar materialists – the schoolmen replaced naturalism with a moderate supernaturalism that did not interfere seriously with physics. For instance, Thomas Aquinas, in defiance of the establishment, promoted the study of Aristotle’s physics, which had no trace of supernaturalism. Moreover, the medieval theologians did not challenge the epistemological realism inherited from Greek antiquity. The challenge came only when Copernicus and his followers proposed the heliocentric model of the planetary system. Since this model contradicted the book of Genesis, Cardinal Bellarmino and other Roman Catholic theologians came up with an ingenious trick: conventionalism (or instrumentalism). According to this epistemology, scientific theories are neither true nor false, but only tools for making predictions. This held, in particular, for the heliocentric and geocentric models: both were (at that time) compatible with the extant astronomical data, so that a good empiricist had no reason to choose between them. In short, they were empirically equivalent models. Ironically, three centuries later, Philip Frank and other logical positivists resurrected this doctrine and thus tacitly approved of the pivotal accusation of the Inquisition against Galileo. This episode illustrates the difference between realism and empiricism: whereas realists a empt to account for reality, empiricists – from Ptolemy to Hume, Kant, Comte, Mach, and Carnap – stick to phenomena or appearances, and are thus anthropocentric, since there can be no appearances without subjects. This holds for the social world as well as for the physical one. That most empiricists have declared their love of science is beside the point: the point is that empiricism is inimical to science because it is subject-centred, whereas scientists a empt to be as objective as possible. In summary, the progenitors of the Scientific Revolution practised the critical rationalism, naturalism (or even materialism), and epistemological realism inherited from Greek antiquity, as well as the systemism that emerged along with modernity. Let us take a closer look at these philosophical ingredients of modern science.

Bruce Trigger and Scientific Research 

Materialism, Systemism, Dynamicism, and Realism The Venetians knew that religious and philosophical tolerance is good for business, particularly for foreign trade, the source of their great wealth. For this reason, they fully respected academic freedom at the University of Padua, which they funded and protected from the Inquisition. About , its most famous professor was Cesare Cremonini ( – ), a colleague, friend, and rival of Galileo’s. Cremonini was the most famous and best-paid philosopher of his time, as well as a correspondent and protégé of several European princes. He was also a notorious heretic, whom Torquemada would have liked to burn at the stake because he was an outspoken materialist, realist, and rationalist, as well as a faithful follower of Aristotle. Cremonini was popular among the Paduan students for denying the immortality of the soul and holding that reason trumps faith. What was Cremonini’s contribution to the Scientific Revolution headed by his colleague Galileo and his former student William Harvey? None, except for the unfortunate role that Galileo assigned him in his soon-to-be-condemned Dialogue. In fact, Cremonini served him as a model for Simplicio, one of the two schoolmen who refused to look at the Sun and the Moon through the telescope. Why bother looking at them, if the Philosopher had described them as perfect spheres, whereas Galileo claimed that the Sun was spo ed, while the Moon was blemished by craters? (Today’s analogue: the philosophers of mind who refuse to look at cognitive neuroscience.) A moral of this episode is that to engage in scientific research other than routine work, materialism, realism, and rationalism are insufficient. That is, it is not enough to deny the existence of disembodied spirits, or to affirm the reality and knowability of the external world, or to abide by reason rather than authority, revelation, or intuition. To do great science, it is also necessary to adopt the scientific method, that is, to check one’s conjectures against the relevant data as well as with the theories enjoying a good track record. To put it more briefly, scientism is a necessary condition for doing good science. Nor is scientism enough to do grand science; a systemic approach too is required. That is, one must try to place the object of inquiry in its context instead of isolating it from its environment. For example, Walter Cannon, Hans Selye, and their successors are remembered for having built the interscience that studies the supersystem constituted by the brain and the endocrine and immune systems, namely,

 Mario Bunge

psycho-neuro-endocrino-immunology. Other recent interdisciplines are cognitive neuroscience and evolutionary developmental biology, or evo-devo for short. Similar fusions have emerged in the social sciences in recent years, such as socio-economics and political sociology. Sociobiology and its successor, evolutionary psychology, do not count because they are unsuccessful a empts to reduce social science to biology. All of the above fusions, and then some, were effected one century a er the birth of physical chemistry (or chemical physics), biochemistry, biophysics, and social medicine (née social hygiene). In sum, it has become increasingly clear that the disciplinary divisions are largely artificial, because the universe is the system of all systems. The methodological consequence is that the specialization or disciplinary division process should be balanced by a parallel process of progressive fusions: from the trunk to the branches and vice versa (Bunge ; see Figure . ). Systemism somehow entails dynamicism (or process ontology), because every interaction causes changes, both internal and external. Dynamicism is contrary to the Platonic world-view, according to which the basic constituents of the world are immutable, disembodied, and eternal ideas. Ironically, Plato, an objective idealist, gave the correct definition of “material” as “changeable” (or “corruptible,” in his hierarchic world-view). Any materialist who admits this identity of materiality with changeability will be a dynamicist. In particular, biologists will think in developmental and evolutionary terms, and anthropologists in terms of biosocial evolution. Incidentally, Trigger emphasized that, in the case of humans, evolution is biosocial rather than purely biological. This was one of his tacit discrepancies with the self-styled evolutionary psychologists. A dynamicist ontology will favour the search for the laws of change as well as for the mechanisms of complex things, that is, their characteristic processes, such as reproduction, work, and trade in the case of human groups. It is no accident that Machiavelli, the founder of modern political science, explicitly criticized Plato’s thesis that whatever changes is imperfect. Machiavelli saw society in constant change. Nor is it accidental that Galileo sought the laws of movement both experimentally and mathematically instead of repeating the beliefs of his predecessors. Since then, the kernel of any advanced scientific theory is a set of equations of change. Since then, too, nearly all scientists expect that today’s best theories will eventually be perfected or replaced: only

Bruce Trigger and Scientific Research  Figure 11.2. Increasing specialization (analysis) is balanced by ever-broader integrations (syntheses).

unreconstructed Marxists, orthodox economists, and arrogant physicists believe that their own theories, or at worst the next ones, are or will be final. Scientism involves both moderate scepticism about current knowledge and meliorism, or trust that future research is bound to produce new and more accurate or deeper knowledge. Scientism and Humanism To innovate in the young sciences, it is necessary to adopt scientism. This is the methodological thesis that the best way of exploring reality is to adopt the scientific method, which may be boiled down to the rule “check your guesses.” Scientism has been explicitly opposed by dogmatists and obscurantists of all stripes, such as the neo-liberal ideologist Friedrich von Hayek and the “critical theorist” Jürgen Habermas, a ponderous writer who managed to amalgamate Hegel, Marx, and Freud, and who decreed that “science is the ideology of late capitalism.” By contrast, Lalande’s sober Vocabulaire technique et critique de la philosophie ( : vol. ) gave the following definition of “scientism”: “it is the idea that the spirit and the methods of science ought to be extended to all the domains of intellectual and moral [social] life without exception” (p. ). Thus, contrary to its detractors, scientism is not the same as social naturalism, or the a empt to ape the natural sciences in the social domain: it is only the a empt to use the scientific method in dealing with all the problems concerning facts. This is, for example, the approach of the scientist who, upon finding an unusual artefact in an archaeological site, imagines conjectures about its possible uses, and subjects them to tests: he engages in experimental archaeology. Scientism is opposed to irrationalism, in particular, intuitionism and mysterism – the claim that there are mysteries, such as the nature of the mind, that science will never solve. But scientism is also rejected by those who try to pass off their improvised speculations for scientific

 Mario Bunge

findings. This is the case with the selfish gene idea, memetics, psychological nativism, and speculative evolutionary psychology. The la er is the a empt to explain everything social in exclusively biological terms, thus overlooking the fact that there are social inventions, and that some of these – such as warfare, human sacrifice, some dietary rules, and some kinship rules in pristine societies – are detrimental to life. Obviously, scientism is necessary but insufficient for scientific progress. Indeed, the scientific method may be used to handle uninteresting or even ridiculous problems, that is, problems with trivial solutions or problems that ignore well-known pieces of knowledge. This is the case with the publications in scientific journals that have earned the Ig Nobel Prize, awarded every year to ten papers published in reputable science journals. The following are among the findings that deserved the prizes: dog fleas jump higher than cat fleas; armadillos may disorder the content of archaeological sites; the more expensive placebos are the most effective; hair tends to get tangled; and plants have dignity. As Molière said, a learned fool is even more foolish than an ignorant one. Last, but not least, scientific progress requires observing the moral norms that control the search for truth and its dissemination. This is because scientific research is a social endeavour, since it involves cooperating in some respects while competing in others. In fact, even the most reclusive of investigators utilizes findings of others, and in turn, feeds his or her readers intellectually. And, to avoid purely destructive conflicts, all social transactions must follow norms of coexistence, which are moral norms. For example, plagiarism is more strongly condemned in the sciences than in the humanities, because teamwork is more frequent in the former than in the la er. In his article, “Science and the Social Order,” Robert Merton, the founder of the scientific sociology of science showed that basic research is ruled by the following moral norms: intellectual honesty, integrity, organized scepticism, disinterest, and impersonality (Merton : ). I would add a few more: cooperating with peers and students rather than exploiting them; combining research with teaching; promoting free and fair competition for grants, students, and jobs; not skirting problems whose research may annoy the powers that be; telling the truth even if, indeed particularly if, it contradicts the ruling worldview; popularizing science and scientism; denouncing pseudoscience and obscurantism; and abstaining from using science to harm people.

Bruce Trigger and Scientific Research 

The Philosophical Pentagons: Regular and Irregular The upshot of the preceding is that the search for new and important truths about reality involves a more or less explicit commitment to the philosophical pentagon made up of scientism, realism, materialism, systemism, and humanism (see Figure . ). I submit that Galileo and his disciples, as well as Kepler, Harvey, Huygens, Boyle, and other founders of modern science adopted tacitly the philosophical pentagon. Descartes only missed scientism, since he never bothered to look for empirical evidence for his fantasies about the ubiquitous whirls. Much closer to us, we find at least five great scientists who adopted the pentagon and changed the dominant worldview: Darwin, Cajal, Rutherford, Einstein, and Keynes – four natural scientists and one social scientist. However, it may be argued that Marx came close, and would have qualified, had it not been for his residual Hegelianism and his fondness for prophecy. Why that asymmetry between social and natural scientists? It cannot be a ma er of age, because the social sciences, starting with history and politology, are just as old as the natural ones. Could it be because telling truths about social issues takes more objectivity, independence, and civil courage than telling them about nature? Or may it also be that many students of society have been strongly influenced by philosophers who, like Kant, Hegel, Dilthey, Bergson, Husserl, Habermas, and Putnam have denied the possibility of understanding society through the scientific method? However, this is a subject for another investigation (see, e.g., Albert , Bunge ). In most cases, the sides of our philosophical pentagon are not equal: sometimes materialism is short, at others realism is insufficient, and in still others humanism is weak. For example, until a century ago many biologists were vitalists; many students of society succumbed to Kantian subjectivism; and most nineteenth-century physicists opposed atomism, whereas chemists cultivated it. Even today, one may find psychologists and social students who reject the scientific method and maintain, against all evidence, that we are born knowing the basic rules of grammar, that criminality is inborn, that languages do not evolve, or that all markets are in equilibrium. Paradoxically, nearly all of the founders of microphysics, in particular Bohr, Heisenberg, and Born, preached positivism while investigating entities that the fathers of positivism, Comte and Mach, had declared to be non-existent. In fact, those giants of physics denied the

 Mario Bunge

independent (objective) existence of the very objects that they studied so successfully, namely, atoms and their components: they extolled subjectivism and phenomenalism. But, of course, they did not practise the philosophy that they extolled: they did not include the observer in their equations, and they admi ed the reality checks performed in the physics labs. In this case, a bad philosophy did not frustrate the ancient atomic project of explaining the visible by the invisible. Likewise, Newton praised inductivism in the same book, his monumental Principia, where he expounded the earliest fruit of the hypothetico-deductive method in natural science. It is involuntary duplicities like these that impelled Einstein to warn that, to find out what scientists think, one must look at what they do, not at what they say they do. Something similar happened in the social sciences. Marx conducted original and important scientific research while praising Hegel’s antiscientific philosophy. And, as Trigger ( a) showed, a number of Marxists made original contributions to archaeology thanks to their materialist, systemic, and scientistic approach. Much the same has been said of some French and British Marxist historians (Barraclough ). The lesson is that sometimes the worst logical sin, namely, inconsistency, pays. The Sceptical Eye It is not enough to carry out and promote rigorous research: it is also necessary to protect it from the pseudosciences, which sometimes stalk the scientific community from philosophy, ideology, politics, and even academia. Two examples must suffice here: psychological nativism and economic orthodoxy. Nativism is the thesis that we are born with all our mental abilities. The ideological and political consequences are obvious: neither education nor social reform can correct social inequalities. Steven Pinker ( ), the famous Harvard professor, states that “the new sciences of human nature,” from genetics to evolutionary psychology, vindicate what he calls the Tragic Vision. This is none other than the ferocious individualism of orthodox economics and neo-conservative political philosophy. Pinker cites (p. ), in particular, the following “discoveries” of those “new sciences”: “the primacy of family ties” – despite the fact that in most cases the members of business firms, political cliques, laboratories, regiments, and sports teams – are not genetically related; “the universality of dominance and violence across human societies” –

Bruce Trigger and Scientific Research  Figure 11.3. The philosophical incubator of pseudoscience. Note that there are two varieties of anti-systemism: individualism and holism (or globalism). The former sees the trees but misses the forest, whereas the second has the dual defect. COMMERCIALISM

IRRATIONALISM

PSEUDOSCIENCE ANTI-SYSTEMISM

SUBJECTIVISM

SPIRITUALISM

even though the murder rate has been declining in all civilized societies over the past century, and not even the most divided societies are basically tyrannical and violent; “the universality of ethnocentrism and other forms of group-against-group hostility across societies” – as if such undeniable strife were not balanced by tolerance, law abidance, and cooperation; and “the limited scope of communal sharing in human groups” – although social archaeologists found long ago that social stratification emerged only about five millennia ago, along with civilization (e.g., Trigger b: ). Pinker’s list of accomplishments of the “new science of human nature” reads like the preamble to a New Right Manifesto rather than a summary of scientific findings. Much the same applies to the so-called Evolutionary Psychology (e. g., Barkow ), which espouses nativism even with regard to social stratification and warfare, and enjoys Pinker’s enthusiastic support. Our second example is the ruling economic orthodoxy, the theory taught by most professors of economics – none of whom foresaw the economic crisis that started in . This is not the place to examine the specific assumptions of this theory (for which see Bunge ). Let us just recall the principles ( ) that the only goal of economic activity is the pursuit of private profit and ( ) that the free (unregulated) market is self-regulating – always in equilibrium or near it, and that any state intervention is bound to hurt it.

 Mario Bunge

Clearly, these hypotheses rest on three unexamined philosophical doctrines: an individualist ontology, a dogmatic epistemology, and an individualistic ethics. Hence, the theory in question does not fit our philosophical pentagon. No wonder that such a flawed theory has inspired economic policies with disastrous socio-economic consequences. In sum, bad philosophy will breed bad science (see Figure . ). Concluding Remarks In conclusion, the philosophical “procreant cradle” of scientific research – as Shakespeare might call it – may be either a nest to lay and nurse promising ideas or a cage to prevent the flight of imagination. In other words, a philosophy may be progressive or reactionary, according as it facilitates or obstructs the advancement of knowledge. I have suggested that whoever does productive scientific work practises a materialist and scientistic philosophy. Natural scientists have been doing this tacitly for half a millennium, so that they have nothing to fear from the postmodernist fashion, which is nothing but a rehash of the Counter-Enlightenment born about . By contrast, the students of society and humanities are not immunized against that plague. What can we expect from a student who takes seriously the spiritualist, subjectivist, and anti-systemic philosophy that Max Weber and Pitirim Sorokin preached but hardly practised, whereas the phenomenological sociologist Alfred Schütz and the Diltheyan anthropologist Clifford Geertz both preached and practised? For one thing, such a student would not bother to find out how people make a living and, a fortiori, that student would not care for social statistics. This is because, being a spiritualist, that student would be interested exclusively in beliefs, games, and ceremonies. For the same reason, he or she would be unable to understand social conflicts and wars, since nearly all of them are motivated by conflicting material interests. Nor would he or she understand the current economic crisis, since one of its causes is the fight of big corporations and their political and academic lackeys against all the regulations aiming at restricting their power over individuals. And, being anti-humanist, the student in question would refuse to acknowledge that the most highly developed and economically successful nations are those where the welfare state prevails. Lacking in true social theories and a humanist morality, our victim of pseudoscience would favour mean socio-economic policies that, in the end, would worsen the crisis of the old-fashioned

Bruce Trigger and Scientific Research 

capitalism, which is undergoing a global crisis and threatening the open society, as George Soros ( ) wrote a decade ago. In summary, all scientific research is conducted inside a social framework and a philosophical matrix. If the social framework is broad and flexible – if it encourages innovation – it will protect the people who are more motivated by curiosity and peer recognition than by profit and social prestige. And if the underlying philosophy is scientistic, materialist, systemic, realist, and humanistic, then disinterested research may bear fruit – otherwise, it is likely to produce pseudoscientific garbage. Consequently, those in charge of designing cultural policies would do well to protect the philosophical pentagon.

12 What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity?

In Understanding Early Civilizations, Trigger ( a) mused about the origins of cognitive cross-cultural similarities: “Varied cross-cultural similarities, especially those of a cognitive variety, that cannot be explained simply by functional arguments suggest that certain ways of thinking and behaving may in some manner be ‘hard-wired’ into the human psyche even if they are not realized in the same way in societies at different levels of complexity” (p. , emphasis added). Trigger came to this tentative conclusion with some reluctance, and he pointed out that the mechanisms for these hypothetical hard-wired behaviours are unclear. Here, I wish to address this issue through a consideration of domain specificity. The notion of domain specificity is important in several disciplines, including psychology, sociocultural anthropology (Boyer ; Sperber , ), ethnoscience (Atran ), and archaeology (Mithen , ). The notion of domain (or “module”) is a useful tool, alongside with “schema” and “model,” for instance (cf. D’Andrade ), and it is unsurprising that it has been accepted enthusiastically, because it makes it easier to understand how human action is compartmentalized. Part of the a raction arises from the common assumption that these domains are innate, thus integrating our understanding of human cognition with the broader narrative of evolution. However, the supposed innateness of domains is assumed rather than demonstrated. A Physiological Basis for Domains? A number of domains have been identified, such as music and the recognition of living kinds, but it may be useful to start with language, because Chomsky played a pioneering role in promoting the idea that

What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity? 

some intellectual capabilities may be inherited (Hirschfeld and Gelman : ). Chomsky considers that the human capacity for language is innate, that is, we are born with a universal grammar that allows us to learn specific languages. He starts from the fact that sentences are built according to a structure and that one can derive such a structure by analysing well-constructed sentences. So far, so good. Then, Chomsky makes a big leap. In effect, his argument is as follows: I don’t understand how children can learn deep structure. Hence, there is an innate universal grammar. This has the same structure as creationist arguments: The world is a wondrous thing, and it seems too complex to have come about by accident. Hence, there must be a creator God, and the world is built according to the Creator’s plan. Neither of these views is intrinsically absurd, but it doesn’t make them right. In the second case, we know that there was a lot of time for the world to evolve the way it did, and reference to a divine architect no longer seems necessary. Chomsky’s hypothesis has an even closer parallel. Some people consider that major composers like Beethoven would not have been able to produce their music without divine help or genetic factors – choose your demiurge! We can turn Chomsky’s statement around and state the opposite: the fact that children learn to speak demonstrates that they can learn to do it. Both statements are just statements, not demonstrations of anything. Chomsky’s view might make sense if language learning was a purely cognitive activity, but this leaves out the fundamental importance of emotions and intentionality in human (and other animal) actions (cf. Whitehouse : – ). Chomsky’s error is to think of grammar as a serial symbolic processing device (which is how grammarians present it), while it should be seen as a connectionist device. Children do not learn rules which they then apply, for example, the notion of plural. They encounter and practise numerous instances of words in the singular and the plural. The theory of grammar follows the practice of it, and then only in languages in which formal rules of grammar are taught. Learning involves making associations and generalizations on the basis

 Jérôme Rousseau

of distinct episodes that can beneficially be compared. It is useful, indeed essential, for linguists to extrapolate structures on the basis of actual u erances, but it is a mistake to think that these structures exist independently from, and prior to, the u erances from which they have been extrapolated. Furthermore, Chomsky’s hypothesis is unclear. Universal grammar, that is, the general rules that can be abstracted from a comparison of specific grammars, is a limited set. Why would it need to be transmi ed genetically in the first place? We do not feel the need to posit a genetic inheritance of other basic cognitive paradigms, for example, space (up, down, near, far, and so forth). Why would language be different? Some research purports to support Chomsky’s views by showing a relationship between specific grammatical problems and brain dysfunctions. This research is interesting and useful because it gives us new insights about language production, but it does not support Chomsky’s hypothesis. It is not inconsistent with it, but one can equally well accept that brain dysfunctions can affect speech production without hypothesizing an innate universal grammar. If one believes in Chomsky, then these phenomena seem to support the hypothesis, in the same way that, if one believes in a Divine Architect, the arrangement of the world seems to be a confirmation of its existence. There Is No Need to Assume the Innateness of Domains Although Chomsky has made li le effort to substantiate his hypothesis (Newmeyer : ), it remains a ractive as a commonsensical explanation for the emergence of language. However, I would argue that language is a socially inherited characteristic, and it is unnecessary to hypothesize some occult DNA-encoded language mechanism. Given the vast gap in the ways in which DNA and language respectively operate, the onus is on those who believe in an innate universal grammar to show how it could be encoded in DNA. It is easy to accept that some aspects of behaviour are inherited: for instance, when a gene is a factor in an inadequate production of serotonin, the subject is more likely to suffer from depression. In the same way, it is easy to accept that “the computations that convert a two-dimensional array of retinal stimulations into a stable image of a three-dimensional visual world are supposed to be largely autonomous with respect to the rest of one’s cognition” (Fodor ). However, leaping from the production of proteins – which is what DNA does – to the digital, logical, configuration of language is something else.

What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity? 

In understanding human language, the first step is to identify the circumstances of its emergence. The fundamental aspect is the need to communicate among social primates (Dunbar ); language as we know it arose as part of the general process of hominization, which included adaptations for long-distance walking in order to improve access to meat. This brought about greater encephalization and transformations in breathing. These physiological changes in turn were co-opted for communication (Rousseau : ). In this sense, language has a biological substratum, insofar as we would not be able to speak as we do without the appropriate apparatus. That’s it. There is no need to assume more. It may be tempting to say, as Levitin ( ) does, that “when a behaviour or trait is widely distributed across members of a species, we take it to be encoded in the genome” (p. ). This is a gratuitous assumption. To take an example at random, all humans, except possibly infants and idiots, have notions of kinship: we recognize relatives and categorize them. However, we do not feel the need to explain this by reference to our genome. Indeed, the fact that some behaviour or trait is not universal does not mean that it is not encoded in the genome! The fact that something is general in a species does not mean that it is genetically transmi ed. If you will permit me the analogy, we acquire language in the same way as we do our intestinal flora: E. coli are not part of human genetic make-up, but we all have them because we absorbed them from our environment. The same is true with language. Chomsky has a problem understanding language acquisition because he thinks it is an individual phenomenon. His argument seems to ignore that we speak because we are constantly supported by a large network of people. It took a lot of cooperative work for languages to develop as we know them, and languages have an existence beyond the brains that engram them. Indeed, language is not only, or even primarily, “in our brain.” Language is interaction. Many of our skills are brought through interaction. For instance, while I can speak French with a variety of accents, I cannot easily summon them at will; they come out as I react to the accents of my interlocutors. Genetic Code Every theory that assumes the biological inheritance of domains begs the same question, namely: How are these domains encoded in the genetic code? Saying that a domain is innate implies that it is genetically encoded. A first step might be to ask whether the genetic code could encode the necessary information.

 Jérôme Rousseau

To answer this question we need to consider how the genetic code operates: – Genes specify the formation of proteins. – Each cell has a complete template of the genetic code. – Some genes control the expression of other genes, so that only a small subset of an organism’s genome will be expressed in a given area (so that embryological liver cells produce liver cells rather than, say, muscle). These characteristics of the genetic code create problems for the idea that domains would be inherited. For instance, Chomsky’s notion of a genetically transmi ed universal grammar is highly improbable. DNA is great at encoding protein production, but it is hard to understand how it could encode a universal grammar. Although one might argue that the genetic code is digital (because it is formed by discrete units), this does not provide a basis for coding a universal grammar or any other domain. With , to , genes, the human genome is not large enough to encode digital operations, especially because it is already carrying out analogical operations by controlling the expression of genes. Even if the genetic code had a digital capacity, it probably couldn’t control anything more complex than a wristwatch. Given the massive number of instructions required, there is not enough DNA to encode a universal grammar and the other supposed inherited domains. Emergent Domains What is the alternative, then? I posit that domains are emergent structures constructed from two sources: ( ) “self-booting” cognitive mechanisms and ( ) interaction between an organism and the world. These related processes generate further cognitive mechanisms that can become domains (as well as schemas, models, theories, paradigms, taxonomies, and so on). To understand an infant’s action, we have to assume the presence of only a limited number of mechanisms: suckling, grasping, tracking with the eyes, listening, tasting, and touching, all of which are distinct modalities of the same principle, carpe diem. In other words, these behaviours are superficially distinct, but they are only instances of intentionality and desire. Infants are oriented to the world and absorb it. We need not assume anything else than intentionality. The rest takes

What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity? 

care of itself. It should not be surprising that children learn to speak. They are surrounded by speech events, and they want to communicate; more precisely, expression evolves into communication, for example, a baby cries because it is uncomfortable, but then discovers that crying produces an a entive parent, hence it learns to cry in order to a ract parental a ention. If we recognize that children spend inordinate amounts of time learning skills that allow them to grasp their environment, for example, learning to walk, it becomes easier to understand how they can also learn to speak, and there is no longer any need to hypothesize some occult mechanism, the universal grammar, that would be the key to language. There is no need to assume the presence of a specific biological walking program. Walking is an emerging feature of the desire to interact with one’s environment. So is language. Enfants sauvages The fact that babies spend a large amount of energy learning to speak is demonstrated by the counter-examples of enfants sauvages. To explain why they do not learn to speak, we need not hypothesize that the mythical universal grammar has a best-before date. Enfants sauvages do not learn to speak because they have already learned to meet their needs and interact with their environment in other ways than socialized children do, and they are not motivated enough to change. At an abstract level, this is no different from refusing to switch to the more efficient Dvorak keyboard a er learning to touch-type with a QWERTY keyboard. Any touch-typist could do it; very few do. Learning to speak requires a lot more work, and we should not be surprised that enfants sauvages did not summon the motivation to do so. Maybe they could have learned to speak if they had benefited from sufficient resources, in the same way that Helen Keller learned to speak despite being deaf and blind. Do Behaviours Have to Have an Evolutionary Advantage in Order to Persist? The hypothesis that there are inherited modules is closely related to the assumption that these modules provide an evolutionary advantage and have therefore been selected for. There is no doubt that natural selection is a major mechanism of evolution, but it does not follow that all

 Jérôme Rousseau

existing traits are functional. Individual genetic traits are selected only through the mechanism of favouring or impeding reproduction, that is, we can expect that a large number of genetic traits go along for the ride. Genetic traits come bundled like TV station packages from a satellite company: we accept channel X because it is part of the package that gives us channel Y. In and of themselves, particular genetic traits may be neutral from a selection viewpoint, or even mildly disadvantageous, but they may persist for a long time. The problem with many arguments about biological traits being advantageous or not is that they are just-so stories. This makes me uncomfortable with approaches that assume a priori that if some trait exists, we are automatically justified to assume it provides a selective advantage. Levitin ( ), for instance, does this in relation to music: “the key question for the evolutionary basis is what advantage might be conferred on individuals who exhibit musical behaviors, versus those who do not” (p. ). He goes on to suggest various possibilities, for instance, that music played a role in sexual selection or in social bonding (p. ), or as a tool to refine motor skills (p. ). Music might play these roles, whether or not it is an innate module. However, we err when we try to explain every aspect of human life on the basis of basic needs (survival and reproduction), because this approach ignores the single most important characteristic of humans, our cognitive complexity. Cognitive complexity means that our motivations or satisfactions go beyond survival and reproduction. For example, my cat, which is happily asleep in his basket beside my desk, is content to sleep twenty hours a day. Most humans want more stimulation, and we want many kinds of stimulation. For instance, we are no longer satisfied with nursery rhymes as we grow up (p. ). The same goes for tastes: we learn to love bi er and spicy foods, because they are different from the pap we started with. Domains and Brain Architecture If domains are emergent rather than innate, this explains why the literature on domains o en finds it difficult to delineate them. O en, sociocultural categories are assumed to correspond to domains, for example, language, music, mathematics, living kinds. It may indeed be correct to refer to language, music, etc., as domains, in the sense that they are distinct activities with their own logic, but there is no need to assume

What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity? 

that they are innate. Each domain acquires a partial autonomy out of practice. We know that there is a correlation between some domains and activity in specific parts of the brain. This important finding comforts and supports those who believe in the innateness of domains, but it does not demonstrate it. Before assuming the innateness of a domain, we should find out whether there is a simpler, more parsimonious explanation. One possible explanation is the theory of neuronal group selection. Brain plasticity makes it possible to establish long-term connections between neurons. These connections are strengthened and extended through activity, while others are eliminated through inactivity. “Engagement with the environment is not a process of instruction (as in conventional computerlike processes) but of natural selection” (Whitehouse : – ; original emphasis) at the neural level. The “distribution of nerves in a given brain is the unique outcome of competition, governed by the principle of natural selection. Thus, in genetically identical animals (including human monozygotic twins) neuroanatomical circuitry is never identical” (p. ). According to Whitehouse (p. ): Human brains do not come pre-equipped with modules for classifying the world, for acquiring grammars, or for any other mental function. Rather, they are equipped with a mass of ever-changing circuitry capable of endlessly creating new maps, and new configurations of maps, through neuronal group selection. Thus, for example, no aspects of neural activity appropriate to the construction of a sentence are specified in advance; they come about by a process of gradual reinforcement through experience. In this respect, neural activity is rather like the massive hive of activity in a jungle … There is no design or programme that directs the evolution of plants or animals. Adaptations to the ever-changing environment are not planned in advance, but they occur through the random discovery of fortuitous matches.

If domains are emergent, how is it that, say, language areas are roughly the same for different people? The exceptions help us understand why. For people who are blind from birth, visual areas, or rather the parts of the brain that manage vision in most of us, are co-opted for other tasks. If illnesses significantly affect the growth of a baby’s brain tissue, for example, because of meningitis, the architecture of the brain will be markedly different.

 Jérôme Rousseau

The relationship between domains and brain anatomy is real. For instance, we know from functional magnetic resonance images that specific areas of the brain are more developed among people who have specific skills. This does not mean that the person is skilled because of brain development, but the reverse. Therefore, acquisition of skills develops the brain in particular ways, in the same way that exercise affects muscle tone and bone density. Economy of energy, or the principle of least effort, would seem to explain, in part, the relationship between domains and brain architecture. We can expect that parts of the brain will specialize in order to minimize energy expenditure and maximize useful connections. What goes for the body as a whole is also true of the brain. For instance, we do not need to teach people to scratch an itch with their hands. The activity follows from the fact that we have hands. The same applies to the brain. The brain is physiologically differentiated; it is also functionally differentiated in that various parts of it secrete various hormones. Beyond that, there is li le reason to assume an innate cognitive specialization. It seems reasonable to expect that specialization in various parts of the brain also occurs on the basis of least effort. If this is so, we would expect small functional variations from individual to individual, and this is the case. Understanding Behaviour Arguments about innate universal grammar and domains are embedded in the broader discourse of sociobiology and evolutionary biology. Any a empt to understand an organism’s behaviour that does not take into account the viewpoint of the organism is bound to fail. For instance, “during sexual courtship, animals o en advertise the quality of their genes, bodies, and minds, in order to a ract the best possible mate” (Levitin : ). The problem here is the idea that organisms ( ) perceive genes and ( ) want to transmit them. Evolutionary biologists are not naïve enough to think that animals have a theory of genes, but the way they write as if animals did know about genes hides the actual processes at work. This is a pseudo-explanation that verges on magical thinking. We need to look at mating from the viewpoint of agents. At least among animals that copulate, there is a pleasurable, or at least compelling, component to mating. This is sufficient to explain the motivation behind sexual activity. Similarly, it has been said that lions kill cubs in

What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity? 

order to eliminate genetic competition and guarantee that their genes are transmi ed. Not only does this beg the question – How do they know and why do they care? – but this is not the case: male lions are likely to kill any cub, including their own (Dagg ). The rejoinder to the objection that people do not recognize genes is that they are subliminally a racted to phenotypes that derive from genotype. A closer analysis does not support this. In Rubens’s time, people were apparently a racted to plump women, while thinness is currently valued now in some sectors of some countries. We could argue for the selective advantage of plumpness and thinness, but both would be justso stories. People are a racted to what is fashionable. The sociobiological view of human mating is further vitiated by a model of intense competition, which is inconsistent with sociobiological views that current human behaviour is inherited from huntinggathering days. The inconsistency comes from the following facts: ( ) compared with other primates, reduced competition (including for mates) is a fundamental characteristic of human behaviour (Rousseau ) and ( ) there is limited availability of mates in small-scale societies. When groups are small, one of the most a ractive features in a potential mate is availability. Anyway, in many societies (including our own until modern times), a ractiveness is not the primary criterion in mate selection. A common example of sexual selection emphasizes that genes are not the issue: if people are a racted to a rich mate, they are not paying a ention to that potential mate’s genes, but to his or her money or fame – and surely, there isn’t a famous gene? Unwarranted Biological Explanations of Behaviour Using primarily the example of language, I have argued that the assumption of innate domains is unclear, unlikely, and complicated. This raises another question. If it is more economical to explain language as a result of interaction, why is Chomsky’s notion of an innate universal grammar so popular? The question is important because several authors have questioned the hypothesis that domains are innate, but it does not seem to have an effect on those who support the hypothesis. It o en appears as if these objections have not even been considered. I mentioned economy of energy in the context of brain function. Of course, economy of energy is also a default for all kinds of endeavours, including scholarship. It is more economical to adopt a familiar framework that corresponds to our intuitions. A major myth of

 Jérôme Rousseau

our society is that behaviour should be explained biologically if at all possible. This is exemplified not only by racism and sexism, but also such developments as phrenology in the nineteenth century. Explaining behaviour by reference to biology has become part of common sense. It is such a strong rule of thumb that many people insist on it even in the face of disconfirmation. For instance, during the many years I taught Anthropology of Religion, I was struck with the refusal of many students to accept Mary Douglas’s ( ) explanation of the prohibitions in Leviticus. She explains that entities that are not good typological exemplars are to be avoided; her explanation accounts for all the prohibitions in Leviticus. Nonetheless, most students stuck with the idea that the prohibition on eating pork was adaptive because it avoided the danger of trichinosis; they ignored the fact that this hypothesis fails to explain virtually all other prohibitions of Leviticus (e.g., making cloth with a wool-co on blend). I would argue that much of sociobiology is the elaboration of this misguided biological explanation into scientific language. We will be able to make more progress in the study of domains if we abandon the a priori idea that domains are innate. Freed from this pseudo-explanation, we will be able to ask appropriate questions about the emergence of domains and human behaviour in general.

NOTES  1 “This is an idea that I would have been unwilling to entertain twenty years previously” (2006: 252).  2 “A given set of principles, the rules of their application, and the entities to which they apply together constitute a domain” (Gelman and Brenneman 1994: 371).  3 Hirschfeld and Gelman (1994) is a good source of essays on innate domain specificity.  4 To take an example at random, sickle-cell anaemia is genetically encoded, but is found only among some individuals of some populations.  5 It seems that Chomsky himself has come to that realization, at least in part, in a rather hermetic manuscript (Chomsky 2005).  6 The actions of DNA are analogical insofar as they are chemical reactions; by contrast, digital encoding implies a conventional relationship between signifier and signified.

What Are the Bases of Domain Specificity?   7 On the other hand, it has been reported that profoundly neglected babies in Romanian orphanages did not cry; they had not received the reinforcement that would have made crying worthwhile.  8 Furthermore, even if it seems likely that a trait gives a selective advantage, it does not follow that the selection is biological. It seems obvious that language is advantageous in a social species, but there is no reason to believe that gene selection is the only possible mechanism.  9 This progression also exists for more subtle developmental trajectories, e.g., most people start with accessible wines (e.g. Sauvignon blanc, Cabernet-Sauvignon mixes), and then move on to other wines with greater complexity). 10 For instance Newmeyer (1998) and Whitehouse (1996). 11 Actually, they were not even convinced by my further argument that, if eating pork was supposedly that bad, why is it the favourite meat of Southeast Asia and China? In other words, the pseudo-biological explanation was a belief system that was impervious to evidence.

13 Age, Equality, and Inequality: A New Model for Social Evolution

Author’s Note The following contribution relates to the nature of egalitarian society and the transition to complex, non-egalitarian societies. This subject had held a deep fascination for Bruce Trigger throughout his career, from his Iroquoian ethnohistory (Trigger b, ) to his later work on social evolution (Trigger c, b). In an era of increasing disciplinary separation, Bruce encouraged cross-fertilization between the subfields of anthropology, and through his commitment to unbiased discovery and understanding he fostered what I believe to be the true spirit of anthropological inquiry at McGill University’s Department of Anthropology. During my graduate work at McGill in the s, Bruce enthusiastically supported my developing ideas on the apparent ideological contradiction between egalitarian and non-egalitarian social systems. He not only encouraged me, a student in sociocultural anthropology, to a end his graduate seminar in archaeological theory and served on my dissertation commi ee, but he also became my personal mentor. This chapter is a central aspect of my research interest as well as a testament to the indelible influence Bruce had on me, as on so many others, to inquire further and deeper in seeking answers to our most persistent and enigmatic questions in anthropology. Equality and Inequality One of anthropology’s oldest and most exciting questions is why inequality emerges in previously egalitarian societies (Hayden ). Over the years, a number of competing and o en incompatible theories have

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been developed to explain this transformation (McGuire ; Béteille , ; Curtis ; Bern ; Lee ; Hastorf ; Paynter and McGuire ; Feinman ; Blanton ; Hayden ; Arnold ; Salzman ; Wiessner ; Rousseau ). Yet, as Kelly notes, despite a long-standing interest in the subject, “relatively li le progress … has been made in explaining inequality” ( : , in Feinman : ). Several factors have hindered our understanding of social inequality. First, since the process of social differentiation is exceedingly difficult to study empirically (Béteille : ), anthropologists have either shi ed to the study of the reproduction of inequality, or reverted to less satisfying comparative approaches (Rousseau : ). Second, the overwhelming focus on exogenous and infrastructural explanations at the expense of intra-social processes has thwarted thinking about social complexity (Feinman : , – ; Hayden ; Rousseau : ). Third, there has been a failure to differentiate primate and human dominance structures, and many have treated human inequality as a continuation of primate hierarchies (Boehm : , ; Erdal and Whiten ; Knau : , : ; Wiessner : ). Finally, assumptions about ideological egalitarianism have hindered our understanding of emerging inequalities in small-scale societies. According to dominant current models of egalitarianism, in the few small-scale egalitarian societies, members vigorously resist aggrandizement within their groups (Lee , Woodburn , Bern , Erdal and Whiten , Knau , Boehm ). Since several of our most plausible current theories of social inequality are based on political competition and self-aggrandizement, ideological egalitarianism presents an obstacle, rendering theories of equality and inequality incompatible. This is all the more consequential because, although they disagree about the details, most anthropologists now accept a general historical sequence from simple egalitarian to complex hierarchical societies. An increasing number of anthropologists have dealt with these contradictions by suggesting that there are no truly egalitarian societies, only different degrees of inequality (Yanagisako and Collier , Wiessner , Rousseau ). This position, however, is untenable, because it disregards the structural difference between egalitarian and non-egalitarian politics. In this chapter, I propose a new empirically based structural model of emerging inequality, which, focusing on internal processes and dynamics, successfully integrates data from egalitarian societies with actor-centred theories of inequality.

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Categorical Age: Equality or Inequality? Although age has figured prominently in studies of small-scale societies, usually as a primary framework for social differentiation, it has also been taken for granted, and thus paradoxically ignored in anthropological theories (Keith and Kertzer : – ). Despite this theoretical neglect, since age is so prevalent in small-scale societies, an impressive array of useful information is available about age relations in these communities. Notable among these data are reports of variation between men and women’s age-status structures (p. ). It seems that women’s prestige curves constantly increase while men’s tend to decline with age (ibid. ). This implies that men are most powerful not when they are old, but when they are middle-aged. This difference is consequential for the conception of age-based political leadership among men: as Keith and Kertzer suggest, the term “elder” usually designates middleaged as opposed to older men. The second important difference between men’s and women’s age statuses is that, contrary to the fluid age relations of women, men’s age-roles tend to be categorical even in the absence of formal generation sets (Kertzer ). Categorical age, fundamentally a political relationship between elders and younger men, is signified by the complementary a ributes assigned to younger men and elders in several small-scale societies. Younger men are commonly believed to be wild and emotional, and elders sensible and rational (La Fontaine : ; Harris ; Dallos ). The age statuses of elder and younger men also imply welldefined roles. O en, a man is not considered an elder unless he is both married and has grown-up married (or at least marriageable) children. Irrespective of age, single men without families of their own are rarely considered elders, and therefore rarely considered leaders in smallscale societies (Dallos ). Considering the o en overbearing power of elders in many otherwise egalitarian groups, it is not surprising that age has been routinely and nearly automatically interpreted as an aspect of “natural” inequality. Yet, upon examination, it is evident that there is nothing natural about categorical age-roles of men in human societies. The authority of elders is fragile, requiring constant maintenance. Categorical age can be defined as the ideological work expended by elders to maintain their status against physically superior younger men. Without this sustained effort, elders in small-scale societies would not be equal to younger men. Therefore, balancing the natural inequalities of age and

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physical strength, categorical age is responsible for equality in smallscale societies. To illustrate this point, I would like to examine the two most-o en cited behaviours, sharing and non-violence, among those groups considered the most egalitarian – hunter-gatherers with an immediatereturn system of production (Woodburn ). Let us first consider egalitarian sharing, a subject of continuous debate in hunter-gatherer studies. Although sharing among mobile hunter-gatherers has been interpreted in various ways, two basic approaches are the most representative among these. Certain theories, such as optimal foraging models, have focused on the behavioural implications of food sharing, especially in terms of calorie intake and risk reduction (Blurton Jones , ; Smith ; Kameda et al. ; Gurven ). Different but similarly popular theories have interpreted hunter-gatherer sharing not only as practice, but also as moral imperative, as part of a system of values responsible for egalitarianism in these groups (Woodburn , Gibson , Bird-David , Kent ). These interpretations are a ractive in many respects, yet they both err in separating sharing from the context of political relationships. In small-scale societies, this context is primarily defined by categorical age-roles among men. Instead of evoking the abstract notion of egalitarian ethic, the most parsimonious explanation of sharing is to conceive it as an age-ideology that offers the greatest likelihood that elders are provided beyond their means in situations where their power is limited by the autonomy of their younger male relatives. The special benefit of sharing to elders is easily overlooked. As many have noted, among hunter-gatherers with an immediate-return system of production, dyadic indebtedness is absent and, instead, individuals appear to interact with the “group” (Gibson : ; Woodburn ). In fact, it is believed that, in these groups, sharing promotes equality by undermining interpersonal dependencies. This is, however, only one possible way to interpret the relationship between sharing and individual autonomy. Another way is to look at generalized sharing as the consequence, rather than the cause, of individual autonomy. It is equally likely that personal dependencies are weakened among mobile hunter-gatherers not by egalitarian values and practices, but by opportunities, such as trade, contract, and wage work, which imply extensive contact with outsiders, and thus reduce the real or perceived dependence of younger males on elders. In conditions when elders are unable to rely on particular young men, applying general sharing rules is

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the best way to ensure that they still benefit from the labour of younger men to some extent (Dallos ). Thus, general sharing can be seen as a minimal case provisioning that elders can normally take for granted in societies with a delayed-return system of production. Although in these societies, production is still largely about providing for elders, the frameworks and relationships in which this takes place are far more inconsistent than in small-scale societies with a delayed-return system of production. Sharing is misunderstood because it has o en been considered independently from other rules and prohibitions governing life among mobile hunter-gatherers. General sharing rules are frequently accompanied by restrictive counterparts ensuring that, even in these contexts, elders receive the bulk of meat. These complementary regulations routinely prevent certain members, usually younger men and women, from fully partaking in sharing. Until they reach a certain age, younger men are o en required to surrender most of the game they hunt, and taboos prevent young, pre-menopausal women from consuming much meat (Dallos ). As a result, among egalitarian hunter-gatherers, elders (including older, post-menopausal, women), tend to benefit most from the hunting efforts of younger men. The second component of mobile hunter-gatherer conduct that ensures the protection and promotion of elders’ status vis-à-vis younger men is the prohibition of displays of spontaneous aggression. Not quite as widely debated as sharing, non-violence has also had its own favoured interpretations. Most commonly, it is considered a response to external threats (e.g., Dentan , ). Some hunter-gatherer traders in Peninsular Malaysia, for example, extend non-violence to interethnic contact, thereby facilitating intergroup relations. Nonetheless, I propose that, as with sharing, intragroup non-violence is primarily an ideology that supports the status of elders with limited power. Rules discouraging spontaneous displays of intragroup violence are not restricted to hunter-gatherers with an immediate-return system of production, but are also prevalent in small-scale societies with a delayed-return system of production, where elders have more control over younger men and are able to channel their aggression towards extra-group targets. Even in the la er groups, where elders use forms of organized violence such as warfare and raiding to enhance their status, strict rules prevent displays of spontaneous intragroup aggression. Such displays are threatening to elders, because they could easily

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end the leadership of older individuals, as they do among non-human primates. Primate and human politics differ most on the basis of dominance and in the age of dominant individuals. Unlike leadership in smallscale human societies, primate dominance is achieved and maintained primarily through physical displays. Although researchers have emphasized Machiavellian intelligence, alliances, deception, and clever manipulation in primate politics, dominance among primates is still decided fundamentally by shows of physical strength (Byrne and ) notes that among chimWhiten , Boehm : ). Knau ( panzees, “genuine challenges at the top of the hierarchy frequently result in severe wounds and permanent injuries” (p. ). Since younger individuals tend to be physically fi er, as chimpanzee males age, their status declines. According to Goodall ( ), chimpanzee “males tend to reach their zenith in the hierarchy between age twenty and twentysix years … Once a male reaches about thirty years of age his status drops, gradually or suddenly. Old males … were very low ranking during the last few years of life” (p. ). Although, as noted earlier, the prestige of old human males decreases at the end of their life, the loss of physical strength does not prevent middle-aged individuals from occupying leadership positions. In fact, human males acquire status at the life-stage when the status of chimpanzee males declines, because humans rule primarily by cognitive/cultural displays rather than physical strength. Age ideologies, including the ideology of internal nonviolence, effect and sustain this shi . Explicit rules of non-violence are common in small-scale societies, especially among mobile hunter-gatherers (Gibson ; Endico : ; Knau ; Kent : ). According to Lee, “!Kung men are excellent shots when hunting game, but are poor shots when aiming at each other” (in Knau : ). As mentioned above, equally common in these societies are ideologies emphasizing the level-headedness of elders against the hot-temperedness of younger men. An emphasis on rational behaviour supports non-violence. Coveting the status of elders, younger men aspire to become wise and reasonable and learn to exercise self-control against potentially threatening expressions of spontaneous violence. Like sharing, non-violence is best approached as part of a class of related norms. Among these norms are restrictions and taboos related to blood that might be interpreted as supporting non-violence. Rules regulating blood-le ing are common not only in global religions

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like Judaism and Islam, but among hunter-gatherers as well. In Malaysia, Semang perform blood-le ing rituals to appease the anger of thunder god, Karei or Gobar (Schebesta , Endico ). In certain groups, hunters are forbidden to carry bleeding animals into the village or camp (Dallos ). Restrictive taboos concerning menstruating women may also belong to this class of norms. The prohibition against menstruating women to use or even touch hunting weapons is common among hunter-gatherers (Estioko-Griffin ; Marshall ; Tabet : ; Quraishy : ). As Pandaya notes, “Andamanese women, emically defined as the gender that bleeds, avoid hunting that causes animals to bleed” ( , in Endico : ). Since blood signifies violence, taboos against menstruating women may also serve as symbolic emphases of non-violence. According to the model outlined in this section, equality in smallscale societies is not due to an abstract egalitarian ethic, but to the unrelenting ideological work of elders, who use the authority of categorical age to ensure sustained provisioning beyond their means and to control potentially menacing dominance displays by younger men. This shi in interpretation has far-reaching consequences for theories of inequality. The removal of ideological inequality as an obstacle allows social inequality to develop with li le opposition in previously egalitarian societies. Social Change: Elders as Meaning Makers We cannot understand inequality unless we understand who self-aggrandizers are. Recent “actor-centred” models of developing inequality (e.g., Clark and Blake ; Bujra ; Trigger ; Brumfiel , ), while successfully stipulating conditions of institutionalized social differentiation, fail to identify (potential) self-aggrandizers in terms of their structural a ributes and their position in egalitarian politics. They fail to emphasize that self-aggrandizers are not random individuals; they are elders, whose self-promotion is accepted because it is consistent with their authority and role as meaning makers in egalitarian politics. The case of Lanoh, formerly egalitarian hunter-gatherers and forest collectors living in Peninsular Malaysia, illustrates this point. Living in small, sca ered groups in the Perak river valley until the second part of the twentieth century, the Lanoh were regrouped and permanently rese led, primarily in one village, Air Bah, in the early s. In the

A New Model for Social Evolution 

past, Lanoh lived as mobile forest collectors and occasional farmers in small villages and camps composed of one male elder, his spouse, and perhaps a few of his grown-up children and their spouses. In these settings, relative age regulated interpersonal relationships. Leadership, although based on age, was temporary, and elders had very limited power over younger men, whose autonomy was reinforced by their participation in forest collecting for trade and contract work. Lanoh camps and villages frequently changed membership, with groups spli ing up and couples moving closer to work opportunities, joining friends and relatives in other villages and camps, or staying in the forest in nuclear family units for weeks at a time. The composition of the rese lement village, Air Bah, is different from Lanoh villages of the past. The village now contains four family units, each with its own respective head. Elders of similar age and social position permanently residing in the same se lement set the stage for the conflict that developed in a er the death of the village leader, a well-liked and charismatic individual. The competition was between two prominent family heads that had been best friends in their youth. Competition only broke out between them when they reached middle age, the age of eldership. Being of the same age, the mechanism of relative age did not apply to regulate their relationship and resolve their conflict. Consequently, when I started my field research in Air Bah in , the village was already divided into competing factions with family groups supporting their respective leaders. Among the self-aggrandizing tactics of competing leaders, hoarding property – consumer goods, tools, and land – was most conspicuous. As a result of this, certain individuals and families in the village grew increasingly marginalized. Not only did these marginalized individuals and groups lose control, and in some cases ownership, of their land, they were also o en excluded from distribution of government supplies, as well as from participating in communal events and work opportunities. Researchers have commonly reported resistance to inequality among newly sedentary egalitarian hunter-gatherers (Lee , Woodburn , Bird-David ). “Everywhere,” Woodburn emphasizes, “we find that there are sanctions against accumulation” (p. ). Headland ( ) suggests that “one reason Agta fail at agriculture is because other Agta hinder any of their fellows who behave in a way they interpret as ‘trying to get ahead’” (p. ). According to Woodburn ( ), this is because, among such egalitarian hunter-gatherers, “fluidity of local

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grouping and spatial mobility … combined with and reinforced by a set of distinctive egalitarian practices which disengage people from property, inhibit not only political change but any form of intensification of the economy” (p. ). Contrary to these reports of resistance, the self-aggrandizing actions of competing leaders in Air Bah failed to meet the disapproval of their fellow villagers. People ridiculed self-aggrandizement, such as boasting, when the self-aggrandizer was younger, congruent with the argument laid out in the previous section. Such self-aggrandizement, especially through physical displays, is threatening to elders, who, as the following quote by Richard Lee ( : ; emphases added) indicates, must continuously suppress such violent displays of dominance: “Yes, when a young man kills much meat he comes to think of himself as a chief or a big man, and he thinks of the rest of us as his servants or inferiors. We can’t accept this, we refuse one who boasts, for someday his pride will make him kill somebody. So we always speak of his meat as worthless. This way we cool his heart and make him gentle.” Although Lee interpreted this passage as an expression of egalitarian ethic, this quote contains clear reference to the age of potential selfaggrandizer (a younger man) and the manner of self-aggrandizement (violent displays). Although Lanoh similarly discourage displays of dominance by younger men (Dallos ), they accept self-aggrandizement by competing elder leaders, even when it contradicts one of their most cherished norms of sharing. Like hunter-gatherers elsewhere, Lanoh adhere to general sharing norms. Even in the midst of developing inequalities, sharing continues to be emphasized in Air Bah, and people consistently express its importance in verbal statements, such as, “I could sell game meat … for RM per kg … but I never do. Instead, I cut up the meat and give a portion to my neighbors. This is the Lanoh adat [Malay, “custom”]. Whenever you have more of something, you share.” They continue to teach their children to share, and praise young people who display generosity (Dallos ). Yet, in spite of this emphasis on sharing, people do not perceive elders’ actions as a breach of ethics, even when they contravene the unconditional giving implied in egalitarian sharing (BirdDavid ). These actions are o en accompanied by verbal statements of merit-based restricted sharing, as in the following excerpt: You do not have to share all meals. You have to share once a day. Reciprocity is ensured by the custom that you give once, twice, three times, and if

A New Model for Social Evolution  you do not get back anything, you stop giving ... [Stingy] people hoard things, do not give things to other people because “they are afraid they would run out of things.” The amount of food given away has no significance. Everybody gives whatever he can afford to give. It is proportionate to how much one has. Sick people, unable to work and make money are given to without any expectation of return. We either collect money for them, or give them food; for instance, rice and sugar. If, however, a person does not work because he is lazy ... so that he only eats, sleeps and plays, people stop giving things to him.

This interpretation puts the blame on marginalized individuals and families. Persuaded by leaders’ arguments, people in Air Bah have come to see these marginalized people, instead of the elders, as violating Lanoh norms and bringing retributions upon themselves. To reconcile the contradiction between this field data and theories of equality, we need to change our perception of egalitarian societies, accepting that, in small-scale societies, regardless of the degree of equality, elders are meaning makers with considerable authority to shape, define, and redefine social values. This meaning-making role is implied in enculturation. In societies where cultural transmission is based on oral traditions, norms are as elders interpret and present them. In these contexts, elders may reinforce or shi rules according to their momentary interests. Among mobile hunter-gatherers, where it is in the interest of elders to encourage younger men to bring back meat and give it up to the “community,” the resultant rule is “egalitarian sharing.” In the sedentary village of Air Bah, a growing reliance on money has enhanced the ability of elders to support themselves and their immediate families. Consequently, unlike in forest camps and villages, they now o en have superior access to means of subsistence. As a result, general sharing not only makes far less sense to them than it did before, but, with the development of leadership competition, it has come to be seen as an obstacle to self-aggrandizement. It is now in the leaders’ best interest to modify sharing rules in a way that allows property accumulation. The resultant new norm is “restricted sharing,” which, unlike general sharing, provides room for elders to enhance their position in leadership competition. Discussion: Structural Change and Social Complexity Social change in Air Bah illustrates the importance of age in accomplishing and maintaining equality as well as in the development of

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social inequality. Elders are able to enter into leadership competition and self-aggrandize because of their age-roles, and both their supporters and their victims accept this reinterpretation of values because it is compatible with the authority structure of categorical age. This easy shi from equality to inequality, and the fact that this shi is based on age-roles, could reinforce the arguments of those rejecting the notion of egalitarian small-scale society. As mentioned earlier, this la er position has become increasingly popular, with authors pointing out how the seeds of social differentiation, such as differences of age, gender, skills, and ambitions, permeate every social group, including mobile hunter-gatherers (Flanagan ; Paynter and McGuire ; Clark and Blake : ; Feinman : , – ; Hayden : ; Wiessner : ). This perspective has been voiced by anthropologists at least since the s, when Sahlins ( ) noted that “theoretically, an egalitarian society would be one in which every individual is of equal status, a society in which no one outranks anyone. But even the most primitive societies could not be described as egalitarian in this sense because of ‘age, sex, and personal [differences]’” (p. , in Flanagan : ). More recently, Yanagisako and Collier ( ) have suggested that these differences indicate that “all societies are systems of inequality” (p. ), and, therefore, it is “impossible to make a valid contrast between egalitarian and inegalitarian societies” (Rousseau : ). This conclusion may seem indisputable, but I have reservations about it on several grounds. Earlier in this chapter, I asserted that, referring to age as “difference” conceals how age-roles are constructed in smallscale societies. Far from expressing natural differences between people, age-roles entail institutional relationships with an aim to manipulate and suppress natural differences. It is only by counteracting the implications of natural age differences that elders in small-scale societies are able to sustain their status, and maintain their equality with younger men. This would indicate that these political systems are egalitarian not in spite, but because of, categorical age. In this section, I will address a second aspect of this increasingly popular perspective, the assumption that inequality in hierarchical societies is an extension of differences in egalitarian societies. First, it follows from the argument in the previous paragraph that inequality does not build on differences in small-scale egalitarian societies, but on the institution of categorical age. Although individual differences in personality and charisma ma er, these are secondary to the structural a ributes of self-aggrandizers – their place in the age structure. Second, the

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relatively smooth transition from egalitarian to non-egalitarian social relations in Air Bah masks the structural change taking place simultaneously. This change, during which the simple structure of egalitarian politics transforms into a complex structure, indicates above all that the contrast between egalitarian and non-egalitarian politics is valid. In the history of anthropology, social structure has been defined in many ways, depending on the theoretical perspective of the anthropologist. Although Radcliffe-Brown ( ) differentiates social structure (relations between people) from structural form (constants enabling people to fulfil certain roles), most commonly anthropologists have interpreted social structure as the statuses of actors performing different roles (Barnard ). Here, I use structure as it relates to men’s agestatuses and roles in small-scale societies. Instead of conceiving age as “incorporated into social structure” (Fortes ), I see categorical age as the foundation of social and political structure in small-scale societies. Although age represents a universal structural framework, it manifests in a variety of ways, depending on social organization, which determines the influence of elders in a given se ing. As noted earlier, in Peninsular Malaysia, where mobile hunter-gatherers historically participated in interethnic trade, younger men have had considerably more individual autonomy than their counterparts in more isolated hill groups relying on swidden-farming and hunting. Regardless of these organizational differences, though, the authority structure in both cases is similarly based on categorical age. Categorical age structures are inherently egalitarian because they neutralize primate dominance hierarchies based on physical strength, physical advantage, and physical dominance displays. The first sign of shi away from egalitarian politics is change in leadership structure. In egalitarian structures, regardless of organization, politics is primarily about regulating the relationship between younger men and elders. In non-egalitarian structures, this goal alters, and the definition of the political elite changes. In the new, emerging political system of Air Bah, the goal of competing leaders is no longer first and foremost to negotiate power with younger men, but to defeat other elders in similar positions. Accordingly, these competing elders are no longer satisfied with “eldership,” the ultimate reward of egalitarian politics. Instead, they strive to be first among elders. Thus, whereas leadership positions in egalitarian societies are transitory and impermanent (sooner or later most younger men become elders), with leadership competition, the potential for a permanent power elite emerges.

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In Stratagems and Spoils, Bailey ( ) defines political elite as those within a community “entitled to compete for honors and power ... who are qualified by the rules of the political structure to take an active part in political competition” (pp. – ). In egalitarian politics, this includes almost every man. With leadership competition, political elite becomes narrower, restricted to competing elders, who happen to be heads of kinship groups at the time of the conflict. In Air Bah, neither men older or younger than the competing leaders were entitled to compete for the “honors and power” implied in the new role of village leadership. This has resulted in the emergence of a new political arena from which most men, whose political goal remained eldership, were excluded. The second sign of structural change in Air Bah is the emergence of social complexity. Anthropologists have been working with this concept since the nineteenth century, yet its definition has remained imprecise. More o en than not, social complexity has been employed descriptively to indicate large populations, considerable degree of social differentiation, and specialization. It has mainly been used to designate chiefdoms or state societies. Based on this descriptive definition, it may seem far-fetched to apply “complexity” to the political order emerging in Air Bah, a rese lement village of two hundred in Peninsular Malaysia. Yet, if instead of population density and specialization, complexity is meant to indicate complex structure, then leadership competition and self-aggrandizement in Air Bah, did, in fact, give rise to social complexity. Examining this structural change within the framework of complexity theory will provide further support for this claim. Complexity theory, along with chaos theory, has been developed in the natural sciences to analyse processes in systems far from equilibrium, that is, in systems that cannot be described using linear equations. Its potential to reconcile structure and agency, scientific and humanistic approaches, as well as order and randomness, has been increasingly recognized in social sciences, including anthropology (Mosko ). These qualities make complexity theory eminently applicable in studies of social evolution, allowing scholars to move away from older linear, reductionist explanations, while continuing to aspire to construct general models of social change. Complexity theory principles apply to social change in Air Bah in more than one way. First, changes in Air Bah conform to the expectation of extreme sensitivity to initial conditions; small differences in the early phases of change result in large differences later in the process (Byrne ). In

A New Model for Social Evolution  Figure 13.1. Structure of egalitarian society. B

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B2

Figure 13.2. Structure of emerging inequality.

A1

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A2

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B1

B2

Air Bah, small differences in age and life history, idiosyncratic personalities, and minute historical accidents all resulted in irreversible structural change. The second principle of complexity theory that is helpful in understanding structural change in Air Bah is self-similarity, an a ribute of fractals. In fractal structures, sub-systems are proportionally equivalent to the whole. As Mandelbrot ( ) explains, “a fractal object looks the same when examined from far away or nearby – it is self-similar.” The emerging political system in Air Bah has such a fractal composition, complete with embedded simple structures. Figures . to . show this relationship between simple egalitarian structures and structural complexity. When depicted graphically, the emerging structure

 Csilla Dallos Figure 13.3. Embedded, self-similar structure of complex society. C

A1

A2

B1

B2

B3

Figure 13.4. Fractal of increasingly complex embedded structures. N1

C1 A1

C2 A2

B1 B2 B3 B4

N2

Cn An Bn

resembles a Sierpinski gasket, a simple fractal produced by breaking up a triangle. In Figure . , point A indicates an elder, while points B and B younger men. The arrows pointing from younger men to elders represent the younger men’s support of the elders, while those pointing from elders to younger men represent the elders’ efforts to keep younger men at bay. Egalitarian structures are based on this reciprocal relationship between younger men and elders. Figure . depicts the structure of developing inequality, showing that the a ention of competing elders (A and A ) is now focused primarily on each other, instead of on younger men. The horizontal

A New Model for Social Evolution 

arrow illustrates their competition and the vertical arrows their selfaggrandizement. The figure also shows that the ambitions of younger men (B , B , B , and B ) have not changed. Above all, they still aspire to be elders. Figure . shows embedded structures and self-similarity in the emerging complex society. Point C represents the reward of political competition, the new position of village leader. This pa ern of self-similarity can lead to increasing levels of social complexity. Figure . also indicates that, at greater levels of complexity, societies contain embedded complex structures. Regardless of scale, however, the structure of non-egalitarian societies is fundamentally similar at all levels of complexity, emerging through the same mechanism (competition at the top of the base-structure). Although emerging from simple structures, the structure of complex, hierarchical societies is, nonetheless, fundamentally different from the structure of simple egalitarian societies. Conclusion: A Need for New Models of Human Evolution In this chapter, I have developed a common framework for equality and social inequality, simple and complex societies, by identifying one key component, categorical age, as fundamental to explaining both. The model outlined here indicates that the distinction between egalitarian and non-egalitarian societies is, indeed, meaningful. There are egalitarian small-scale societies, albeit without ideological equality, and they are structurally distinct both from non-egalitarian complex societies and from primate hierarchies. In human evolution, the development of categorical age signalled a shi from physical to cognitive-cultural displays of dominance. This shi may explain the behavioural and cultural a ributes commonly associated with anatomically modern humans, such as the ability for abstract reasoning, complex tool use, and the development of human institutions. Further research into the evolution of this key structural feature of human societies is vital, because by be er understanding the emergence of age structure, we can get closer to understanding the origins of human culture as well. In particular, an inquiry into the co-evolution of political structure and the human conceptual apparatus would allow us to discover how political processes, or the shi from physical to cognitive/cultural dominance displays, and cognitive processes, or the development of

 Csilla Dallos

conceptual language and categorical thought, may have mutually reinforced each other in human evolution. Further examination of the relationship between complementary age-roles and binary categories could also breathe new life into the Lévi-Straussian project, responding at the same time to the common postmodern criticism that Lévi-Straussian structuralist analysis is sterile and unconcerned with dominance and power relations. The argument in this chapter is a reminder that we need to pay more a ention to politics, not only in theories of human evolution, but also in those of human culture. Geertz’s “web of significance” is a political concept, and as such it can only be properly understood in relation to political structure and its development. A ention to this relationship will likely produce more plausible models of cultural evolution. One of the most important questions in evolutionary culture theory concerns cultural transmission and/or modification. The model outlined in this chapter could be fruitfully integrated with ideas developed in this field, for instance, by Durham, who, in Coevolution: Genes, Culture, and Human Diversity, inquires into the role of power structure/relations in processes of cultural transmission ( , also see Durham ). In considering the role of decision-making, including the imposed (or negotiated) decisions of “powerful individuals or groups,” he begins to address the effects of social structure and asymmetrical power on the evolutionary dynamics of culture change (Durham : ). Ideas presented in this chapter are suited to further similar inquiries. Questions of equality and inequality have occupied philosophers, and later anthropologists, for centuries. In outlining the model in this chapter, I have wanted to stress that it is premature to abandon such questions in the name of relativism. Instead, learning from critics, we ought to continue to work on age-old puzzles provided so generously by human existence.

NOTES  1 As Glasock and Feinman observe, o en elders, middle-aged men, are considered “intact,” while old men are “decrepit” (1980, in Keith and Kertzer 1984: 24).  2 For a fuller discussion of the implication of this argument for human production, see Dallos (2011).

A New Model for Social Evolution   3 For instance, among Lanoh, young men are required to give up the animals they hunt. They believe that the young hunter has to “let go of [the first] seventy-four of every kind of animal [he’ll] ever have.” This is because otherwise the animal can smell him and he will never be able to get the same animal again. “When you bring [the animal] home, you can let your family eat it and you just watch. You cannot eat it. That’s taboo too. If you eat the animal you just killed and you have not let pass seventy-four, the meat is bad and hard.” Significantly, this rule only applies to younger men. “A er a long time, when a man has become more experienced,” he is allowed to eat the animal he hunted. Restrictions on women’s meat consumption are similarly common among hunter-gatherers (Speth 1990, in Kelly 1995: 166; Lee 1979: 247; Woodburn, 1979: 254; Gibson 1988: 177). Gibson compiled comparable rules among hunter-gatherers with an immediate-return system of production (1988). According to Richard Lee, “the !Kung believe that the women must never eat the men’s part of the animals or hunting success will drop to zero” (1979: 247, in Gibson 1988: 177). Likewise, among the Hadza, “if a woman or child approaches close to the men when they are eating the sacred meat, then the men may decide to take action against the offender: mass rape is said to be a possibility” (Woodburn 1979: 254, in Gibson 1988: 177).  4 A strong ethic of internal non-violence is not restricted to hunter-gatherers. In Peninsular Malaysia, it is similarly common among horticulturist peoples such as the Temiar and Semai (Dentan 1975, 1992).  5 Non-violent norms primarily target spontaneous displays of aggression. Sanctioned violence o en responds to such displays of violence. For instance, Balicki (1970) notes that among the Netsilik, “execution of approved homicide was [an] … important technique used to control socially undesirable aggression” (p. 189).  6 For an elaboration of this point, see Henrich and Gil-White (2001).  7 Washburn and DeVore (1961) also report that “dominance in baboons is ultimately based on the ability to fight” (p. 100).  8 For a fuller discussion of non-violence among egalitarian hunter-gatherers, see Dallos (2011).  9 Beliefs and practices concerning blood are common among indigenous peoples of Southeast Asia. For instance, although there is no apparent connection between the Semang of Peninsular Malaysia and the Penan of Borneo, Needham (1964) recorded a number of shared beliefs and rituals concerning thunder, the mockery of animals, injuring or destroying leeches, and blood sacrifice. In both cases, the blood sacrifice is performed to expiate or appease gods for wrongdoing (p. 258, also see Schebesta 1929:

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10

11

12

13 14

258). Needham further notes that, like Lanoh, “the Penan, indeed, are very much concerned about any shedding of human blood, particularly of an untoward kind, and they make a great fuss when someone is cut and there is any considerable effusion of blood” (p. 140). While K.L. Endico (1999) suggests that “Batek women are free to use blowpipes to hunt, as do men, but most Batek women concentrate on game they can dispatch with digging sticks” (p. 413), Estioko-Griffin (1986) observed that Agta women had gender-specific weapons, and Marshall (1976) notes that !Kung women were not allowed to carry weapons at all. Tabet also suggests, “It is not the hunt that is forbidden to women but rather the weapons (ce n’est pas la chasse qui est interdite aux femmes, c’est les armes)” (1979: 28, in Quraishy 2001: 195). In summing up this evidence, Quraishy (2001) comments that the sexual division of labour is a result of gendered technologies. The majority of ethnographic examples in this chapter originate in my doctoral research conducted between December 1997 and January 1999 among Lanoh hunter-gatherers and forest collectors in Peninsular Malaysia. Financial support for this fieldwork was generously provided by the IDRC’s Young Canadian Researchers’ Award. A similar case with a different outcome shows the potential for relative age to defuse such situations. A few years earlier, in Tawai, another village with a sizeable Lanoh population, a similar leadership conflict had been speedily resolved, because, in this case, the competitors were of dissimilar age; a younger man in his early thirties, an elder in his forties, and an older man in his late fi ies. In this case, the middle-aged contender became headman, while both the younger and older competitors withdrew their claims and moved away from the village. For a detailed discussion of these strategies, see Dallos (2011). Although change in leadership style in Air Bah reflects outside intervention, that is, the effects of regroupment and forced rese lement, the model presented in this chapter is similarly applicable in contexts where these factors are not present. As Victor Turner (1980) remarks, it is o en during crisis that the “less plastic, more durable, but nevertheless gradually changing basic social structure, made up of relations which are relatively constant and consistent,” reveals itself (p. 151). Thus, the crisis in Air Bah reveals the importance of the structure of categorical age which could equally be expected to play a role in leadership conflict, self-aggrandizement, and the development of inequalities whenever change entails the congregation of several kinship groups in permanent se lements, even if

A New Model for Social Evolution 

15

16

17

18

19

20

this change occurs more gradually, as a result of economic, demographic, and/or ecological factors, without direct outside intervention. The first pa ern of organization would results in Woodburn’s (1982) “immediate-return” system of production, the second in his “delayed-return” system of production. Woodburn (1982) argued that small-scale societies with a “delayed-return” system of production are also egalitarian, albeit to a lesser extent than those with an “immediate-return” system of production. Although, in small-scale societies, leadership positions tend to be occupied by men, there is also evidence that, among “natural leaders,” individuals to whom people look for guidance, there might be more women than previously recognized (e.g., Endico and Endico 2008: 6, 64). This statement is not meant to predict the outcome of leadership competition in Air Bah in terms of transforming the political system. To determine the long-term effects of developments taking place in this village would require longitudinal study. As Byrne (1972) notes, “the idea that systems are nonlinear means exactly that changes happen in them which are discontinuous and represent transformations of kind” (p. 2). Although elders’ control of younger men is not indicated in figures depicting emerging complexity (Figures 13.2, 13.3, and 13.4), this basic reciprocal relationship between younger men and elders is implied and continues to act as foundation in non-egalitarian societies. This continuity is clearly indicated by the fact that, irrespective of scale and complexity, internal spontaneous displays of aggression are discouraged and punished in human societies.

14 Figurative Activity in an Evolutionary Perspective .

Author’s Note I was connected with Bruce Trigger through a long friendship, although at a distance. He met my “Panorama of Theoretical Archaeology” (Klejn ) in Current Anthropology with a warm response, “No Longer from Another Planet” (Trigger b) in Antiquity, then persuaded me to write a survey of Soviet archaeology for his worldwide survey in World Archaeology. This was the birth of my book The Phenomenon of Soviet Archaeology (whose German version Bruce read with satisfaction). He denounced my arrest by the KGB as a heavy blow to international cooperation. We had opinions in common on many subjects of scholarly life and were in close correspondence until his last days. As for this essay, it is devoted to problems of evolution and totalitarian regimes that interested both Bruce and me. Evolution as a Law Contemporary thought tends to present any long run of events in any field as an evolution. In contrast, the biblical, creationist world-view provides clear images of the creation of the universe outside of any long-term historical context. While the creationist view continues to exist in the modern world, it has largely receded into symbolic and philosophical areas of thought. Among today’s intellectuals, very few picture our origins in terms of Gustav Doré’s nineteenth-century woodcuts of an old bearded and robed man, conjuring up the earth and man into being. The majority think of the planet’s origins in terms of evolutionary laws, gradual progressive change towards greater complexity,

Figurative Activity in an Evolutionary Perspective 

order, and perfection. This also applies to perceptions of the development of figurative arts. Individuals are no longer seen as divinely infused with fully formed and mature artistic abilities. Instead, there is a steady mastering of the secrets of conventionality (the reproduction of three-dimensional objects on a two-dimensional plane), colour rendition, and perspective. Haeckel’s Biogenetic Law, or the Theory of Recapitulation, reinforces this perception. O en summarized as “ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny,” the theory posits that a child in its individual development (ontogeny) repeats the biological development of the whole species (phylogeny) stage by stage. Although Haeckel’s Biogenetic Law is no longer applied to biological evolution, it has proved useful in some ways (Wall and Shani ), and it is still a feature in evolutionary developmental psychology (Medicus ). Applying Haeckel’s law to figurative art, a child learns first to perceive depictions and interpret them, then to draw. Between the ages of one and three years, children limit themselves to scrawls and start to master speech. Between three and roughly seven years, they experiment with pencil contours and depict objects schematically. They do not draw what they see at a given moment, but instead reflect their overall knowledge of an object (even when drawn from the side, for example, a man must have two eyes). O en, details are disconnected, depicted separately, and the composition is in frieze, abreast. At seven, a child connects the parts together and sees the whole before the parts. At nine to eleven years old, children learn how to make plausible depictions of objects as they are reflected on the retina, but the drawing still saves some peculiarities of the child’s perception – contour outline, disproportion, “transparency” (the body is seen through the dress, both legs of a rider are seen in the horse’s side view). Adults who are not trained to draw sometimes retain these peculiarities throughout their lives (Denisova , Sher : – ). Those same features of the early stages of children’s drawings can be seen in the early stages of human figurative activity as well: contour drawings through the Aurignacian, frieze compositions in caves, the sketchiness and laconism of many Palaeolithic depictions, the “Roentgen style” of the Eneolithic (in which the insides of anthropomorphic steles are shown), and so on (Sher : – ). Knowing this, the evolution of figurative activity would seem to fit a law. But for all its usefulness, the identification of a law is not a very

 Leo S. Klejn

interesting thing for a researcher. One should search not for laws but for their exceptions. Where there is an anomaly, there is a problem. Where there is a problem, there are potential discoveries. From the point of view of behavioural recapitulation theory, there are three main anomalies in the evolution of figurative art: the very existence of Palaeolithic paintings, the transition to modernism in the art world, and the stark aesthetic realism of twentieth-century totalitarian states. The First Anomaly: Palaeolithic Paintings Palaeolithic painting defies the main assumptions of recapitulation theory. According to the theory, the more ancient a painting, the more distant it should be from a skilled reproduction of nature and reality. Yet, depictions of bison, wild horses, and mammoths painted , to , years ago, approximately fi een to twenty-five millennia before the Egyptian pyramids, are so precise that few contemporary individuals are capable enough to imitate them convincingly. These paintings are highly realistic and intensely skilful, and such depictions are known in multiple examples in various countries (Spain, France, and Russia). To these frescoes, the “Palaeolithic Venuses” must be added – bone female figurines carved somewhat conventionally, but with exact reproduction of proportions, scope, and forms. Such figurines are also numerous. It is only in the Mesolithic, , to , years BC, that the kinds of primitive depictions that Haeckel’s Theory of Recapitulation would predict for the earliest stages of development appear, giving way over time to a gradual mastering of the mysteries of realistic reproduction. The cause of such a sudden emergence of figurative abilities in humans, seemingly out of nowhere, has always been a riddle. Several recent publications address this problem anew (Sher, Vishnyatskiy, and Blednova ; Vishnyatsky , ; Filippov ; Sher et al. ; Sher , ). The first researcher to address this problem was the French archaeologist Edouard Pie , who in the s proposed that humans first made crude sculptures, then moved to bas relief, and from there to carving and drawing. More than a hundred years later, the archaeologist A.D. Stolyar ( ) a empted to solidify and substantiate Pie ’s model, drawing a ention to finds of cave bear skulls in caves with Neanderthal skeletal remains. In particular, Stolyar highlighted Gro e Montespan in Southern France, a cave site featuring a clay bear figurine with an actual bear skull for a head. The problem, however, is

Figurative Activity in an Evolutionary Perspective 

that the Gro e Montespan occupation was not Acheulian or Mousterian (Middle Palaeolithic), in reality only dating to around , years ago. The cave also features high relief drawings (pictures with significant compositional depth). Stolyar, noting that a child’s artistic development does not run from sculpture to drawing, assumed that these reliefs were made earlier than the bear, and from them he tentatively drew an evolutionary sequence to later Upper Palaeolithic frescoes. But this sequence is only assumed, and there is li le evidence for the chronology of the various pieces. The outstanding twentieth-century French archaeologists, Abbé Henri Breuil and André Leroi-Gourhan, suggested an alternative strategy, tracing the evolution of art within the Upper Palaeolithic (between , and , BC) separately. Breuil regarded Palaeolithic paintings as magico-mythological, drawing analogies from ethnography, while Leroi-Gourhan rejected ethnographic analogies and preferred to draw inferences from structural features and interrelations within the materials themselves. Both, however, constructed their own periodizations based on stylistic peculiarities and stratigraphic observations. Breuil ( ) divided the sequence into the Aurignacian, Périgordian, Solutrean, and Magdalenian, while Leroi-Gourhan ( [ ]) used the Chatelperronian, Aurignacian, Grave ian, Solutrean, and Magdalenian. According to both sequences, pre-figural pa erns appear earliest: stripes, winding lines, signs that do not create any figurative representations. By , BC, schematic figures emerge, displaying coarse distinctive contours and slightly more detail. Realistic portrayals are the last representations to develop. Recent improvements in radiocarbon methods have allowed the direct dating of pigments used in Palaeolithic frescoes, refuting both periodizations (Lorblanchet and Bahn ). Very high quality bison and horse depictions from Chauvet have been dated to ca. , BC (Clo es ), too early for Breuil or Leroi-Gourhan to account for. According to their models, this very early part of the Upper Palaeolithic should only yield simple non-representational pa erns. Recently, the British psychologist Nicholas Humphrey ( ) proposed that the striking “photographic” naturalism of early Palaeolithic painters could be explained by their intellectual and linguistic limits. He drew a ention to the drawings of an English girl named Nadia. Nadia was mentally handicapped, severely autistic, and unable to speak or communicate. Although she had received no training in art, she produced highly realistic drawings when she was between the ages

 Leo S. Klejn

of three and six years. Stylistically, they are very similar to the art of Chauvet Cave in southern France. Humphrey has suggested that, as opposed to most children, Nadia perceived animals not by means of symbols (words), or abstract ideas, but more immediately – as essentially visual impressions. He further proposed that this might have been the case for Palaeolithic artists, thereby explaining the similarities between their art and Nadia’s. To Humphrey, the representational art of the Upper Palaeolithic is not evidence of a rich culture or extensive communication networks, but evidence of their absence. He portrays Upper Palaeolithic art as the culmination of the pre-modern, pre-linguistic mind, rather than an early manifestation of the modern. Few archaeologists have supported Humphrey. Other features of Upper Palaeolithic cultures, such as dwelling structures, complex, finely made tools, and ritual behaviour, are difficult to envision without some kind of linguistic ability. Allan Snyder and John Mitchell (Snyder and Mitchell , Snyder , Snyder et al. ), as well as Kutsenkov ( , ), extended Humphrey’s treatment of idiots savants suffering from autism. They came to the conclusion that everyone possesses a “photographic eye,” an ability to observe and recall fine details, but in normal people the results of such perception are immediately depressed by higher parts of the brain that discard this unnecessary information for the sake of generalization. In infants and adults with some mental disabilities, however, this perceived information is not discarded. The same could be realized on the preceding stages of overall human artistic development. G.D. Lewis-Williams ( ) from South Africa and Y.A. Sher ( ) from Kemerovo have recently and independently proposed an alternative interpretation. They emphasize the role of structures related to language in the early evolution of Upper Palaeolithic art, focusing on the connections between the neuropsychological machinery of language and figurative activity. Both rely on the same nervous processes in which right and le hemispheres interact. The right hemisphere is responsible for the perception of integral images, and the le for breaking these pictures apart and reassembling the pieces. Emotions and images rely on the right hemisphere, but the le is essential for the analysis of these representations, the same hemisphere that governs speech and language. Sher’s ( ) survey of prehistoric frescoes and petroglyphs suggests that Palaeolithic artists were neither predominantly right- nor le handed, using both hands without preference. This is seen from the orientation of figures (the direction in which they point) and from hand

Figurative Activity in an Evolutionary Perspective 

imprints le behind by the artists. Sher has argued that this demonstrates that the division of functions between hemispheres was established gradually during the Stone, Bronze, and Iron ages. The appearance of handedness at this time corresponds with the development of a child. A child of one year makes its first scrawls, and draws the simplest contours. Later, children make crude, schematic pictures of objects, details of which are sometimes drawn separately. The functions of the hemispheres are still not divided clearly, and so a coherent image cannot yet be formed. At seven years, when the child begins seeing the whole before the parts, human profiles start to appear, and they face le – suggesting that the le hemisphere starts dominating, and hemispheric roles have been defined. Thus, both in ontogenesis and in phylogenesis, a gradual development is implied (Ignat’ev ; Vygotsky ; Sher et al. : – ; Sher : – ). Sher ( ) proposes two explanations for the sudden emergence of the brilliant masterpieces of the Palaeolithic. First, according to his estimations, these frescoes were extremely rare. They were most likely the creation of individual geniuses that are unique and solitary in all time periods. Even in the Upper Palaeolithic, they were far ahead of their contemporaries. Second, some individuals in a population can pass through evolutionary stages without archaeologically visible traces. To prove or substantiate either of these assertions, however, is difficult. Indeed, we have few tools at our disposal to do so: archaeological materials, analogies with ethnographic observations, and a empts to comprehend the minds of prehistoric artists by relying on the assumed similarity of their mental mechanisms with those of contemporary people (for such an a empt, see Klejn ). These are only a few of the existing hypotheses regarding the origins of figurative activity. Other kinds of hypotheses deal with the timing, geographical se ing, and context of early art (for surveys, see Filippov : – ; Vishnyatsky : – ). These include the magical, mythological, demographic (population density demand consolidation and reliance on symbols), information explosion (symbolism develops to retain growing amounts of vital information), and play hypotheses, among others. It is also important to note that these conditions did not arise everywhere or at the same time. For instance, in France and Spain there are more Palaeolithic depictions than anywhere else, while in Africa they appeared only , to , years ago. These discrepancies suggest that an evolutionary solution to the problem of the origin of art, looking at the context in which art did or did not develop, is possible.

 Leo S. Klejn

In children, the period of interesting pictures ends quite suddenly. Children, for the most part, become cleverer, more boring, and rarely remain artistically talented into adulthood. In this light, the sudden emergence of Upper Palaeolithic painting is not the biggest puzzle. The biggest problem, rather, is its sudden disappearance in the Mesolithic. The coming of the Mesolithic signified abrupt ecological and climatic changes, particularly the disappearance of big game – objects of hunting upon which the life of a tribe depended. People had to respecialize, adopt new se lement pa erns, hunt small game, intensify gathering, invent the bow and arrow, and domesticate the dog. Humanity adapted and survived. Tools became more complex, humans became more ingenious, abstract concepts entered their minds; in art, there was a corresponding shi to simple schematic drawings, typical of the childish period of mastering abstractions (Clark : ; Oshibkina ; Sher et al. : – ). Naturalistic depictions of live figures became, at least for a while, a thing of the past. The Second Anomaly: Transition to Modernism in the Art World The second anomaly appears in the major artistic movements of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, which pushed the world of visual art away from the lo y goals and aspirations of realism and accuracy that had previously driven it towards coarse forms, conditionality, and abstraction. Instead of striving for realistic (or, if you wish, naturalistic) reproduction of forms, as was previously the case, impressionists approached their subjects differently. With various tricks (negligent dabs of the brush, accumulations of dots as in pointillism) they produced impressions similar to the effect of observing reality under a range of conditions, some of them rarely explored before (weather, lighting, even the mood of the observer). For them, the milieu around the object meant more than the object itself. It is this that they tried to reproduce first of all. Expressionists, in their desire for vibrancy, exaggerated the details and contours of their subjects. This was clearly traceable in German art of the s and in early Soviet figurative art. Early Soviet avant-gardists, even those who didn’t call themselves futurists, adhered to the main principles of expressionism. For instance, A.A. Deyneka, who adored French impressionists and post-impressionists (Nenarokomova : ), once stated that “an artist consciously, with the aim of reaching

Figurative Activity in an Evolutionary Perspective 

a certain vivid effect, is open to some distortion of forms, elongating figures and disturbing proportions; however, this is not a rule for a painter, but an exception” (Deyneka : ). In fact, Deyneka distorted his figures far more o en than the occasional exception. In his painting The Football Player, for example, the calf of the subject’s le leg is nearly equal to the width of the thigh, and the thigh is nearly equal to the waist! Surrealists, as well as conceptualists and modernists of all kinds, went further still. They intentionally distorted objects not only in colour but in form as well. Beyond even them were the abstract painters, whose pieces had nothing in common with reality whatsoever. Impressionism started in with the unveiling of Monet’s Impression at the Paris exhibition. Expressionism in painting appeared approximately around , although the term itself was first used sometime around or . Abstract, or objectless, non-figurative painting developed a er with the works of V. Kandinsky. Surrealism arose in the s and s, and conceptualism was established during the second half of the twentieth century. In summary, the emergence of styles based on the reinforcement of conditionality and abstraction is condensed in the last quarter of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth. While one can find various stimuli for the emergence of these movements, they share one common root: the invention of photography. The coincidence is remarkable. Although Aristotle first outlined the principles of the camera obscura in the fourth century BC, and it was in use as early as the seventeenth century, it was only in that humans began searching for a way to fix the images produced within the camera onto a surface. In , J.N. Niepce developed heliography, reproducing images made within the camera on a sheet of pewter. By , W.H.F. Talbot, using his calotype process, was creating positive images, but was unable to replicate them. In , the physicist F.J.D. Arago reported to the French Academy on L.J.M. Daguerre’s discovery of negative fixing, where from each negative one could obtain many positive depictions. This was called daguerrotypie and the term was in use for two decades, although in the same year that Arago pronounced it, another wellknown physicist, John Herschel, suggested another term – photography. By the early s, photography studios were springing up like mushrooms, offering customers portraits the size of a snu ox. By the s, photography was ubiquitous, replacing engravings as the medium of realistic imagery. In , Kodak released the first compact photo-camera. Two years later, instantaneous slit-shu er photography

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was developed, followed by the mass production of celluloid film in roll form. The twentieth century began with the production of colour film and photography. In just the last half of the nineteenth century and the first decades of the twentieth, photography forced its way into everyday life, first in portraiture, then in reporting and the media, and finally into the hands of the public. Let us trace how the necessary exposure changed. Niepce demanded six hours of immobility, Daguerre only half an hour, and Talbot merely three minutes. By the middle of the nineteenth century, wet-plate processes had limited exposure to ten seconds; in , the gelatinebromide method ensured exposure in / th of a second, and by , the further perfection of materials led to exposures in / , th of a second. Instantaneous shooting began, and photography started to capture passing moments. Of course, the impact of photography on painting is proved not with the simple chronological coincidence of its technological revolution with the emergence of radical new styles of painting. The proof is in the logic of interacting cultural components, in the comparison of the cultural roles and functions of painting and photography and how these changed. As N.A. Khrenov, writing just before perestroika, noted ( : ): The history of art develops from relations between the artistic and nonartistic layers of culture. This concerns photography directly. From its invention, photography was included in the non-artistic layer of culture. This is why in the th and th centuries outstanding specialists in aesthetics nearly avoided or ignored this sphere of the arts. They identified with it the worst, most naturalistic trends within art … This situation remained such until there appeared a need to change what scholars call “the paradigm.” Why, from time to time, does artistic “paradigm” shi occur, when the hierarchy of kinds of arts is changing and non-artistic phenomena obtain the status of artistic?

Apparently, the cause can be found in the appearance and development of rapidly changing technical possibilities. When the camera started exactly and mechanistically reproducing reality, first light and shade, then colour, and began to do this more and more precisely, the functions and values of the figurative arts completely changed. Before, the first evidence of artists’ skill was the realistic, reproductive quality of their work. Only therea er were purely

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artistic tasks – the use of colours, grace of lines, and beauty of proportions – valued. “So life-like!” “So realistic!” These were the highest grades of esteem. The famous Italian artist, Giorgio Vasari, used to tell a story about Leonardo da Vinci to demonstrate his incredible talent. Having been commissioned to paint a shield, the young artist collected various reptiles in his studio, using them as basic models from which to extrapolate monsters and dragons. When he was finished, Leonardo invited his father in to see the work. Seeing the fearsome, yawning mouths on the shield, his father shrank back in horror. In this way, the skill of the artist was determined. Now that the exactness of realistic reproduction is reached simply and rapidly, on a mass scale, for less and less money, competing with the supremacy of photography has become impossible. Therefore, in figurative arts, purely artistic tasks have moved to the foreground, and instead of a focus on exact reproductions, intentional distortions have been introduced to obtain meaning. The more visual art demanded its audiences be receptive to conditionality, the more they were forced to penetrate into the sense of the art, to a empt to decipher the creator’s idea – and the more important the viewer’s own creative activity became. It was difficult to stop this process. As early as the s, photographic enthusiasts predicted the impact their field would have on painting. The first serious study of the problem was contained in the writings of the German para-Marxist philosopher Walter Benjamin in “The Short History of Photography,” (Benjamin [ ]) and in more general form in his work “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction” (Benjamin [ ]). In contemporary Russian art studies, one can see more particular manifestations of the same trend. I. Danilova, in her books The Fate of Picture in European Painting ( ) and The Problem of Genres in European Painting ( ), proposes that the facial distortions that characterize famous modern portraits prove that portraiture as a genre in painting has died, and the fate of painting in general is under question. Specifying where Danilova does not, it is the future of the realistic painting that is in doubt. We should not, however, ignore the influence of painting on photography. The pictorial style in photography took shape in the twentieth century as photographers worked to liken their pictures to the canvas, to raise photography to the level of painting, imitating drawing, oil painting, and many other, older techniques. Nevertheless, many

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photographers elaborated methods and techniques that were specific and exclusive to their art form – instantaneous shots in rapid movement, time-lapse techniques (plant growth, the movement of clouds across a landscape), and so on. Most successfully and radically, photography ousted painting from portrait art. Only the representative function of a painted portrait remains – the fact that paintings are expensive, imposing, and unique. In comparison, photographs are cheap and can be reproduced en masse. Just as the field of painting has conceded some of its functions and areas of application to photography, it has also adopted and dealt with distinctly photographic imagery. Deyneka’s artwork, for example, o en shows soccer players as if frozen mid-jump. Especially notable is his piece Goalkeeper showing a goalkeeper in flight a er a ball: the figure of the goalkeeper is spread out horizontally in a long and narrow canvas, creating an almost cinematic effect, more a dynamic and instantaneous shot than a traditional picture. Canvas artists began using photography to create action shots and other images that they had been previously unable to draw. One can look as far back as the camera obscura to see a similar artistic function for photographic technology: in , the German astronomer J. Kepler designed a compact camera obscura that, with the help of a mirror, transferred a depiction from below to a glassy table from which it could be precisely recreated. While high cost kept Kepler’s invention from finding a widespread practical application, mass production and distribution of cameras in the past century has changed everything. Instead of making a series of preparative sketches, painters can now instantly shoot their subjects in perfect detail. Painters started to introduce photographic elements and dynamics into their stylistic repertoires, documenting action or movement in new ways. The appearance of photography has completely changed the dominant system of figurative activity, undercu ing the desire for realistic reproduction within the art community and strengthening the role of imagination, fantasy, and conditionality. It is this that spurred the modern development of painting and figurative arts in general – from impressionism to abstraction and the avant-garde. One stipulation should be added. As several scholars have observed, the tendency towards conventionality can be traced from the earliest stages of artistic development. Some of these scholars even go so far as to formulate a law of general development of prehistoric and traditional art: from naturalism to conventional forms (Mirimanov ,

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; Kutsenkov : – ). This is hardly so, for a er conventional forms again came naturalistic figures, more and more perfect over time. So one must see in conventional forms the anomalies that define them, and search for their underlying causes – the development of symbolism, religious interests, difficulties with aesthetic adaptation, and so forth. The Third Anomaly: The Stark Aesthetic Realism of Twentieth-Century Totalitarian States In the twentieth century, totalitarian regimes, armed with socialist and national-socialist rhetoric, both Soviet and Nazi, declared war on the abstract aesthetic. They rejected non-figurative or expressionist art as decadent, degenerative, anti-national, and anti-popular. They labelled the desire for conditionality as formalism, the artistic distortion of reality as a disavowal of truth. In reality, totalitarian art had its own conditionality, of a subtler kind – it idealized force, youth, and health, extolled a collective (class, party, or state) spirit over that of the individual, created leader cults, and glorified the successes of their policies and the sacrifices necessary for their achievement. Much has been wri en on the striking formal similarity of Soviet and Nazi art (Golomshtok , Khmelnitsky ). If one were to take sculptures by Hitler’s favourite, Arno Brecker, and the Soviet sculptors Vuchetich, Mukhina, or Mikenas, and change the most obvious symbolic accessories, it would be nearly impossible to tell whose were whose. Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will and Sergey Eisenstein’s Ba leship Potemkin are made in the same monumental-romantic style. The “Lubyanka School” of Soviet architecture is practically indistinguishable from the style of Hitler’s architect Speer. Dmitri Khmelnitsky ( ), in his book The Architect Stalin, stresses the importance of Stalin’s personal taste in the establishment of “Soviet Empire Style.” But the individual tastes of despotic leaders kept well within the ideological constraints of totalitarianism. It is only in this clue that one can understand the continuation of Stalin’s aesthetics that Khmelnitsky himself observes, in the buildings of post-Soviet Moscow. At first, both the Soviet and Nazi regimes sought to utilize avantgardism for revolutionary propaganda. In the USSR, Commissar of Enlightenment A.V. Lunacharsky originally advocated this approach, while in Germany Goebbels did the same. In both states, however, these a empts were sharply rejected. Why? What made these regimes,

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so hostile to each other, appeal to the same conservative, even reactionary foundations in the arts? The first possible explanation is that of mere populism – that both the Nazis and the Soviets were aesthetically oriented towards the lowest strata of society. The artistic movements of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries that adopted abstraction and formal ambiguity were embraced far more by the educated elites of Europe than by the lower and middle classes, as many of them demanded formal training in art criticism to understand. For the Bolsheviks, the move towards “pre-photographic” art reflected a change in leadership composition within the movement over time from upper-class intelligentsia to the village poor and city proletariat. As for the Nazis, the leaders remained of elite origin, but the main ranks of stormtroopers and partymen were enrolled from small shopkeepers and the proletariat, three-quarters of a million of whom were recent migrants from rural communities. The party’s aesthetic tendencies were an a empt to curry these groups’ favour. In this light, the past experiences or environments of the leaders themselves are important. In his youth, Hitler dreamed of becoming an artist, studied at an art school, and produced watercolours and oil paintings of sentimental landscapes, yet he was rejected by an artistic academy for a lack of talent (Price ). Carrying resentment over this rejection with him his whole life, Hitler developed a special hatred for the high-brained intellectuals se ing the artistic fashion at the time, to those who reached success in salons and galleries, the impressionists, expressionists, and symbolists. Hitler’s individual tastes reflected the mood of a whole community of “nativist” artists in Germany who protested the destructive sway of the creative principles of foreign post-impressionists like Cézanne, Van Gogh, and Gauguin (Hü ). The aspiring artist Adolf Hitler simply copied the reality of his subjects, and did so skilfully, but failed to understand why the distorted and coarse forms of others were be er than his smooth drawings, why those sketches made in a slipshod way elicited admiration in connoisseurs, while his exact and proper pictures were rejected. He held it as a clear indication of decadence, decay, and demoralization among the professors of the academy. Building on his existing antisemitic convictions, Hitler interpreted this all as a manifestation of race pollution in the artistic elite. Tellingly, Hitler had li le admiration for the barbarian culture of ancient Germans, a surprising a itude for the Führer of the loudly Germanic Thousand-Year Reich. Instead, he adored the classical art, architecture, and sculptures of ancient Greece (Hаßmаnn : – ).

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Likely a result of the lengthy impact of philhellenism on German education, Hellenes strived, in particular, for an exact reproduction of reality, and this sentiment played no small role in Nazi aesthetics. Turning to Russia, Lenin’s family upbringing and revolutionary democratic milieu immersed him fully in the critical realism of “men of the sixties” (Russian revolutionary democrats) and “peredvizhniks” (Russian realist painters). The peredvizhniks believed that the “truth of life,” rather than beauty, was the ultimate purpose of art. Here we arrive at a second explanation for a return to realism: Marxist theoreticians considered art not as a means of delight, a method of communication, or a component of culture (the concept of culture in general was absent in early Marxism), but foremost as a way of understanding the world – on a level with science. As M.S. Kagan ( : ) describes: “In [Marxist-Leninist] art one began to see a form of reflection and cognition of reality, concurrent with the rise of “realism” to the foreground of aesthetic theory ... Unfortunately, during that time, a focus on the epistemological aspect of artistic creation o en led to absolutization of the cognitive principle in art, to the notion of realism as a beyond-historical, eternal property.” Cognition is, put simply, the search for the truth. All a empts to strengthen the conditionality of art, to elaborate the formal varieties of transformation available to the artist, to depict the creative deformation of reality for the sake of beauty or expressiveness, were seen as deviations from the main function of art – to correctly depict and explicate the world in a true light. In Soviet practice, the definition “aesthete” was an abusive label, and “aestheticizing critic” a shameful epithet. Cognition of the world as a function of art – this was the tradition that Marxism took from German classical philosophy. Unsurprisingly, the same philosophy, with its cult of the state and grand nationalist ideas, played a key role in National Socialism as well. The Nazi ideology of the s, however, never elucidated this world-view as clearly as Marxism did, and makes two fundamental distinctions. First, art was viewed as a rival of religion rather than of science. Second, Nazism argued that the most important task of art was to discern the soul of a nation, its racially conditioned abilities, and its historical mission, rather than a larger, eternal truth. Regardless, like the Soviets, Nazis felt that aesthetic realism could best serve its philosophical and social goals. Stalin adopted Lenin’s approach to art and lowered it from the level of gentry and non-noble intelligentsia to the level of the mob, the provincial urban masses. His personal tastes are now well known. He liked

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late night drinking-bouts, folk dances, and pornographic films (the nearer to reality, the be er), o en sending his adjutant abroad on secret missions to buy them. Stalin, however, appreciated another function of art: not the explication of the world in a real way, but the advancement of propaganda. The third possible explanation of totalitarian realism can be found in the fact that both regimes saw in art this potential – the furthering of their aims through propaganda and the shaping of a “one-dimensional man” obedient to the dictates of the state. The simplest way to achieve this was to present a depiction of idealized, illusory life under the regime as reality, as truth, as the only truth. For Stalinist propagandists, this was socialism standing up to and opposing bourgeois decay. For Hitlerist propaganda, this was the racial health of the German nation and its victorious properties, which all other nations of various grades of fallaciousness cannot withstand. Any fantasy was banned. The man with an imagination, from the early years of Soviet power to its last days, was one of the main inner enemies of the Socialist state. An artist must either become a copyist of reality or vanish. Just as in Plato’s ideal state, where there is no place for poets, the one-party dictatorships of the twentieth century had no place for free-thinking creators. In a textbook published towards the end of perestroika, T.V. Il’ina ( : ) relates the situation of the s to more widespread abuses of the “personality cult”: A er stricter and stricter enforcement of a single style and a single way of life, one that was denied any manifestation of freedom of choice, a single artistic form was also forcefully decreed. Art was assigned the role of pictorial “explicator,” and so naturally it grew more illustrative and straightforward (“understandable”), losing all the plentitude and manysidedness of artistic means. Despite a demagogical glorification of the simple toiler, “the builder of a bright future,” the right of the ordinary man to spiritual freedom was denied. So, too, were his own visions of the world, and his doubts.

Of course, the trends and tenets of obligatory realism and totalitarian conservatism are more complicated and ambiguous than these criticisms allow. On the one hand, there is a reason for praising the skill of exact reproduction: otherwise, how does one distinguish high artistic mastery from imperfect cra smanship? When does a visual distortion originate from an idea, and when from simple inability? To copy

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Rembrandt by hand is very difficult, but every paperhanger can copy Kasimir Malevich’s Black Square. On the other hand, the inability to fulfil some things realistically can create a powerful aesthetic effect, like Mikhail Vrubel’s colour-blindness or the long necks of Amedeo Modigliani. It is known that drawings by the insane o en have their own artistic strength and originality. It was these complications that led some great masters searching for the support of anti-artistic totalitarian ideology. Once, upon visiting an avant-garde exhibit at the Moscow Manège, Khrushchev condemned the works there as crude, and their makers as “pidorasses” (a folk Russian distortion of the word “pederasts”). This, of course, grated on the creative intelligentsia, yet in the depth of their souls some apprehended that there was a “homespun truth” to this criticism. Khrushchev was simply expressing the bewilderment of the masses. A similar reaction developed towards “degenerative” art in s Germany by the common people, something the Nazis were quick to exploit. How do we summarize the anomalies discussed above as part of the evolution of figurative art? The answer lies in the correlation of realistic reproduction and imagination, conditionality and nature, image and ideal, unique to each situation. More importantly, it lies in the interaction and interplay of these artistic principles, of their value in relation to each other and to the societies in which they develop. The two first anomalies led the development of figurative activity aside from the course of natural evolution as outlined in Haeckel’s Theory of Recapitulation. Yet, they make this development complicated, interesting, and substantial. They contribute to the transformation of figurative activity into art. The third anomaly strived to turn this development back, and in doing so totalitarian powers relied on the people’s protest against too big a break of the arts from figurative activity, against violating the sense of proportion, against what makes art art.

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 References Wylie, A. 1989. “Archaeological Cables and Tacking: The Implications of Practice for Bernstein’s ‘Options beyond Objectivism and Relativism.’” Philosophy of the Social Sciences 19 (1): 1–18. h p://dx.doi.org/10.1177/004839318901900101. Wylie, A. 2000. “Questions of Evidence, Legitimacy and the (Dis)Unity of Science.” American Antiquity 65 (2): 227–37. h p://dx.doi.org/10.2307/2694057. Wylie, A. 2002. Thinking from Things: Essays in the Philosophy of Archaeology. Berkeley, CA: University of California Press. Wylie, A. 2006. “Moderate Relativism/Political Objectivism.” In The Archaeology of Bruce Trigger: Theoretical Empiricism, ed. R.F. Williamson and M.S. Bisson, 25 –35. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Yanagisako, S.J., and J.F. Collier. 1987. “Toward a Unified Analysis of Gender and Kinship.” In Gender and Kinship: Essays towards a Unified Analysis, ed. J.F. Collier and S.J. Yanagisako, 14–50. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Yang, M. 2000. “Pu ing Global Capitalism in Its Place: Economic Hybridity, Bataille, and Ritual Expenditure.” Current Anthropology 41 (4): 477–509. h p:// dx.doi.org/10.1086/317380. Yellen, J.E. 1977. Archaeological Approaches to the Present. New York: Academic. Young, B. 2000. The Making and Unmaking of a Museum: The McCord 1921–1996. Montreal and Kingston: McGill-Queen’s University Press. Zarins, J. 1989. “Ancient Egypt and the Red Sea Trade: The Case for Obsidian in the Predynastic and Archaic Periods.” In Essays in Ancient Civilization Presented to Helene J. Kantor, ed. A. Leonard, Jr., and B.B. Williams, 339– 68. Chicago, IL: Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago.

Index

Note: BT refers to Bruce Trigger. Pages with tables are designated by t, figures by f. Abadía, Oscar Moro, ix abolitionists, , , , – Aboriginals. See indigenous North Americans; indigenous peoples abstract art, , , , Achilles, Adams, William Y., aesthetic realism: vs. modernist transition, – ; in Paleolithic representational art, – ; as skilled reproduction, – ; of twentiethcentury totalitarian states, – African Americans, – . See also Blacks Afrocentrists, , age relations in small-scale societies: differentiation by gender, ; egalitarian aspect of, , ; as enabling social inequality, , – , ; in political leadership among men, , , , ; as , shi from physical strength, , ; as social and political foundation, ,

age-area concept, agency: and ancient products of human, ; as focus on individuals, , – ; of humans to bring about change, xiv; natural vs. cultural, , ; vs. structure, aggrandizement. See self-aggrandizement aggression, , nť, n . See also self-aggrandizement Ahler, S.A., Air Bah. See Lanoh, case of “Akhenaten and Durkheim” (Trigger), xiv Alexander of Aphrodisias, “All People Are [Not] Good” (Trigger), xvi Allchin, Bridget, – , , Alliance and Conflict (Burch), Alternative Archaeologies: Nationalist, Colonialist, Imperialist (Trigger), “Alternative Histories, Alternative Nations: Nationalism and Modern

 Index Historiography in Bengal” (Chatterjee), AltertumswissenschaĞ. See Classics Amenemhat III (king), Amenemhat IV (king), Americanist archaeology, , – , , Americanist Culture History: Fundamentals of Time, Space, and Form (O’Brien, Lyman, and Dunnell), , , Amick, D.S., , Analysis of Indian Village Site Collections from Louisiana and Mississippi (Ford), anarchists, , ancient Egypt. See Egypt, ancient Ancient Model: Egyptians as Black source of Western civilization, – , , , – ; Egyptians as White originators of Western civilization, , – ; fall and destruction of, – ; vs. Aryan Model emergence, – anthropological archaeology, xv anthropology: Boasian, ; BT as humanist giant of, – , ; coevalness of modern traditional subjects of, ; complexity theory in, – ; cross-fertilization between subfields of, xx, , ; equality and inequality in, – , , ; and hierarchical ordering, – ; Marxist influence on, – ; McGill department of, , ; and postmodernist critique, ; social structure in, ; as the total social science, . See also age relations in small-scale societies; biosocial evolution; Canadian

history; caste; citation analysis; cognitive anthropology; ethnoarchaeology; experimental archaeology; sociocultural anthropology “Anti-Dühring: Herr Eugen Dühring’s Revolution in Science” (Engels), – anti-Semitism, , Appeal: To the Coloured Citizens of the World… (Walker), Arago, F.J.D., Archaeo-Ethnology of Hunter-Gatherers or the Tyranny of the Ethnographic Record in Archaeology (Wobst), archaeological record: choice vs. idiosyncrasy in, ; dialectic between politics and, ; explaining vs. defining, ; gradual change in, ; variability within, . See also ethnoarchaeology; experimental archaeology; experimental studies; historical living cultures; Indian (South Asian) archaeology; middle-range theories Archaeological Survey in the Lower Mississippi Alluvial Valley (Phillips, Ford, and Griffin), , archaeological theory: and assumptions of human behaviour, , – , – , – , , – ; BT on, xvii, – , , – ; contemporary projections on, ; contextual analysis of, – , , , ; difficulties in, xvi, – , , – , – ; and equations of change, – ; giants of, – ; vs. theoreticians, xiv. See also ethnoarchaeology; experimental archaeology; history of archaeology;

Index  interpretation; middle-range theories; theories; Trigger, Bruce, works of archaeology: analogically based epistemology of, , – , – , – ; and anthropology association, ; assumptions of, , ; BT as critic of inequality and racism in, ; as middle-class ideology, , , , ; objectives of, , – , – ; and postmodernist critique, ; as a science, – , – ; sociopolitical and historical contexts of, xiii–xiv, , , – , . See also interdisciplinarity; prehistory; individual schools and subfields of archaeology Archaeology and Society (Clark), Archaeology and the Image of the American Indian (Trigger), xvi, Archaeology of Bruce Trigger, The: Theoretical Empiricism (Williamson and Bisson), xiv, xv Architect Stalin, The (Khmelnitsky), Aristotelianism, , Aristotle, , , , , , art, history of: aesthetic realism in, – ; modern development of, – ; naturalism in, – , , artefacts, , – , , , – Artifacts of the Pecos, The (Kidder), artistic creativity, , , , See also cultural creativity artistic development, – Aryan Model, , Asch, Michael, – Ascher, Robert, ,

.

assumptions, theoretical: of Ancient Egyptians as White, ; capitalistic, ; challenging of, , ; in ethnographic descriptions, – , ; in ideological reconstructions, , – ; in positivism, , ; recognition of, , , – , – . See also explanatory frameworks Auguis, M.P.R., avant-garde art, , , Averroës (Ibn Rushd), Bacon, Francis, , , Bailey, F.G., Bakunin, Michael, Balanda, S., Bamshad, Michael, Barnes, I., BaĴleship Potemkin (Eisenstein), Bauche, Rolf, Baumler, M.F., behaviour, human: and archaeological typologies, ; biological explanations of, , – ; biological inheritance of, , ; emotions and intentionality in, ; from functional to symbolic, , – , f, – ; and material culture, , – ; sexual activity, , – ; unobservability of ancient, – . See also archaeological theory; explanatory frameworks; figurative arts; nonviolence norms; sharing norms Bellarmine, Saint Robert, Belyea, Barbara, Bender, Barbara, , , Benjamin, Walter, Bergman, C.,

 Index Bergson, Henri-Louis, Bernstein, Eduard, , Beyond History: The Methods of Prehistory (Trigger), xiii Bia-Punt, Binford, Lewis, xiii, – , – , , Biogenetic Law. See recapitulation theory biological essentialism. See essentialism biosocial evolution, . See also evolution Bisson, Michael, xv Black Athena: The Afroasiatic Roots of Classical Civilization (Bernal), vii, xvi, , , , n Black Square (Malevich), Blacks: as African Americans, – ; and Egyptian association, – , – , – , ; enslavement and rejection of, – ; as Negroes, – , , , , ; as people of African descent, xvi, , , , ; sympathy for, . See also Ancient Model; racism Blok, Josine, – Blood, Narcisse, blood taboos, – , n Blumenbach, Johann Friedrich, , n Boas, Franz, , Boas, G., Boasian anthropology, Bohr, Niels, , Boivin, Nicole, , , – Bolsheviks, Born, Max, Boule, Marcellin, Bourdieu, Pierre, –

Boyd, M., Boyle, Robert, Bradbury, A.P., brain functionality, – “Brecht and Ethnohistory” (Trigger), xiv Brecker, Arno, Breuil, Henry (Abbé), Brickley, M.B., British Association for the Advancement of Science, Broglio, A., Bronze Age, Brooks, James, Bruce, James, – , , , , Buddhism, Buffon, Georges-Louis Leclerc, Bulletin of the History of Archaeology, Burch, Ernest, Byrne, L.,

,

Cajal, Santiago Ramón y, , Callahan, E., camera obscura, , . See also photography Canadian history, , , , , – , – . See also Hurons; indigenous North Americans Cannon, Walter, Capital: A Critique of Political Economy (Marx and Engels), capitalism: global crisis of, – ; global dangers of, – ; historical effects of, – ; modification of by localization, ; as progenitor of Scientific Revolution, ; as socioeconomic context of ethnoarchaeology, . See also Habermas,

Index  Jürgen; Second International; standpoint theory Carlyle, Thomas, Carnap, Rudolf, Carr, P.J., caste, – , , , – , , – . See also racism Castes and Tribes of Southern India (Thurston and Rangachari), categorical age, – , , – , , , –n “Ca le Complex in East Africa, The” (Herskovitz), “Ceramic Variety, Type Cluster and Ceramic System in Southwestern Po ery Analysis” (Wheat, Gifford, and Wasley), “Ceramics, Caste, and Kin: Spatial Relations in Rajasthan, India” (Kramer and Douglas), Cézanne, Paul, Chadelle, J.-P., Chamberlain, T.C., Champollion, Jean-François, , change, cultural/social: external processes as explaining, , , , n , – ; as flowing vs. moving in spurts, ; human agency in bringing about, xiv; increasing rate of, ; vs. static past, , – n , , ; in urban vs. rural societies, – . See also dynamicism; evolution Changeux, Jean-Pierre, Cha erjee, Partha, Chauvet Cave, – Chelidonio, G., Childe, Gordon, , , –

Children of Aataentsic, The: A History of the Huron People to šŦŦŠ (Trigger), xvi, – , , Chomsky, Noam, xix, – , “Chronological Method Applicable to the Southeast, A” (Ford), chronological organization: as derived from stratigraphy, , ; early unconcern with, ; as indication of scale, ; method for determining, , ; of palaeolithic paintings, – ; of prehistory, ; social context of, ; via surface po ery collection, citation analysis, – ; table by author and period, t– t; – , – ; – , – ; – , – ; – , – ; – , – ; – , ; authors, – Clark, Grahame, – Clarkson, Chris, classics, , , – classification systems: debates , – ; Gladwin-Colton over, scheme, – , ; for historical living cultures, – , ; limitations of, ; Midwestern Taxonomic System, ; type-variety system, ; as unilinear schema, Coevolution: Genes, Culture, and Human Diversity (Durham), cognitive anthropology, xiv, xix cognitive domains. See domains cognitive neuroscience, , , cognitive processes: complexity of, , , ; cross-cultural

,

 Index similarities in, ; as human ability, xix, , , – , ; as Marxist function of art, ; as relative to belief, . See also domains; language; middle-range theories Coles, J., Collier, J.F., Collins, Sophie, colonialism, , , , Colton, Harold Sellers, , , , “Comment on A.C. Spaulding’s ‘Statistical Techniques for the Discovery of Artifact Types’’’ (Ford), Communist Manifesto, The (Marx and Engels), , comparative method, xiv, xv, xvi, , complexity theory, – Comte, Auguste, , conceptualism, conditionality (of art), – , , , , , Confucianism, “Constraint and Freedom” (Trigger), xix constructivism-relativism, contextual archaeology, contextualization: as BT’s systemist materialism, xiii–xiv, – , – ; as critique of positivism, , – ; and determinism danger, –, ; as externalist historiography of archaeology, , , , – ; of landscape phenomenology, xvi– xvii, – , . See also categorical age; domains; ethnoarchaeology; figurative arts; Indian (South Asian) archaeology

conventionality, , , – “Coon’s Theory on The Origin of Races” (Trigger), xviii Copernicus, Nicolaus, , correspondence theory of truth, Co erell, B., Couch, J.S., Country and the City, The (Williams), countryside, English. See landscape Cox, K.A., creationism, , creativity. See artistic creativity; cultural creativity Cremonini, Cesare, critical archaeology, , , , critical realism. See aesthetic realism critical theory, “Critique of the Gotha Programme” (Marx), cultural anthropology, , , – , . See also sociocultural anthropology cultural continuity, xviii, – , , cultural creativity, – , , – . See also artistic creativity cultural determinism, , cultural evolution. See sociocultural evolution cultural identity, , , , – , , – . See also sociocultural anthropology culture: absent in early Marxism, ; artistic vs. non-artistic layers of, , ; ecological model of, ; essential autochthony of each, ; as intellectual climate,

Index  xiii, , , , – , , ; materialistic focus on, , ; Old World vs. New World vision of, ; political focus on, – ; practical reason as transcending, ; as societies, , . See also Ancient Model; change, cultural/social; classification systems; culturehistorical archaeology; functionalism; historical living cultures; Indian (South Asian) archaeology; material culture; sociocultural evolution culture-area, culture-historical archaeology: Binford’s rejection of, ; and conflating with nationalism, ; focus and methods of, , – , , , , – ; and historical relatedness of cultures, , – ; horizontal independence in, , , ; as positivist paradigm, ; trends in Americanist, , – , , . See also Bernal, Martin; citation analysis Cunow, Heinrich, “Current Trends in American Archaeology” (Trigger), Cushites, Daguerre, L.J.M., , daguerrotypie, Daniel, Glyn, , Danilova, I., Darwin, Charles, , , , . See also evolution De la LiĴérature des Nègres (Grégoire), , debitage analysis, , , ,

deductive approach, , – , , , , Denig, Edwin, Depuis le Dèluge jusqu’a la mort de Jacob (Goguet), Derrida, Jacques, Descartes, René, determinism, xvi–xvii, , , , , Deyneka, A.A., – , “Dialectics of Nature” (Engels), – Dialogue (Galileo), Dibble, Harold L., , Dickson, F.D., diffusionism, – Dilthey, Wilhelm, distortion, visual. See vision dogmatism, , , , , domains, xix, xx, , – n . See also language domestic vessels, – . See also po ery dominance: cognitive-cultural displays of, ; and Lévi-Straussian structuralist analysis, ; of nonindigenous males, ; physical strength as basis for, ; in primates vs. humans, , , n ; universality of, – ; of Western culture, – ; by younger men, , Donahue, R.E., Douglas, John E., Douglas, Mary, Downum, C.E., Drake, St. Clair, , n Dumézil, Georges, Dunnell, R.C., ,

 Index Dupuis, Charles François, , Durham, William H., Durkheim, Emile, dynamicism,

– ,

,

Early Native North American Responses to European Contact (Trigger), xvi, ecological determinism, , economic determinism, economy of energy, , egalitarian societies. See societies, egalitarian Egypt, ancient: African American image of, – ; BT on death cult of, – ; as darkness, death, slavery, – ; and Kerma/Kush, – , , ; Negro qualities associated with, , ; racial prejudice against, , – ; as White source of European culture, , , – . See also Ancient Model; Ethiopia; Punt, land of Egyptology, xv, xvi–xvii, , Einstein, Albert, , Eisenstein, Sergey, elders: authority of, – , – , – , n , n ; competition between, – , – ; control by, – , n , n , n ; defined, , n ; as meaning makers, – ; as middle-aged men, , , n, n ; sharing benefit for, – , – Ellis, H. Holmes, empirical evidence: as basis of truth, ; in ethnoarchaeology, , , – ; scientific concern for, ; for stages of historical development,

– ; in stratigraphy, . See also scientific realism enamels, – energy, economy of. See economy of energy Engels, Friedrich, , , , . See also Marxism Enlightenment thought, , , , eolith debate, , , – epistemological realism. See scientific realism epistemology, – , , – , , – . See also positivism; relativism, epistemological; scientism equality in small-scale societies, – , – , , essentialism: as cultural autochthony, ; in definitions for foragers, ; vs. epistemological subjectivism, ; questioning of in Indian (South Asian) archaeology, xviii; and racism, , , . See also caste Ethiopia: African American image of, , ; ancient Egypt relation with, , – , , , , , n ; astronomy invented in, ; Punt location in, , ethnicity, , , ethnoarchaeology, – ; ambivalence towards, , , – ; empirical context of, – , – ; vs. New Archaeology, xvii; reliance of on background theories, ; sociocultural research by, ; value of to archaeology, xvii, – , – , – , . See also caste; Indian (South Asian) archaeology; middle-range theories

Index  ethnographic research: ambivalence towards, , , ; as analogues for ancient societies, – , – , , , , ; and archaeology, xvii, , , – , ; unilinear classification in, – . See also prehistory ethnohistory, xv, xvi, , – , ethnology, , European culture. See Western (European) civilization Evans, A.A., Evans, John, , Evans-Pritchard, E.E., evolution: as biosocial in humans, ; and human cognition, ; as materialism, ; and natural selection, , – , ; new models of human, – ; as progression towards complexity, , – ; as unilinear, ; unwarranted biological explanations of, , – , n , n . See also change, cultural/social; figurative arts; sociocultural evolution Evolution and History of Human Populations in South Asia, The (Petraglia and Allchin), evolutionary archaeology, – evolutionary psychology, , , , , Ewers, John, – , , experimental archaeology, xvii, – , – , experimental design, , , , experimental studies: differentiation of, – ; methodological biases of, , – ; quantification, – , ; reduction stages, , f, , – , , ; typology of, – , f, ,

, , . See also agency; debitage analysis; flake generation; fracture mechanics; lithic experiments; microfracture; polish identification; post-depositional modification; residue analysis; style; tool production; tool use; use-wear analysis explanatory frameworks: vs. belief systems, – , n ; BT on need for, xiii–xiv, xvii, xviii; and ethnoarchaeology’s power to assess, – ; human behaviour focus of, ; as theory vs. descriptive paradigms, , . See also assumptions, theoretical; interpretation; middle-range theories expressionism, , , , externalism, , – , , fantasy, , Faraday, Michael, Fate of Picture in European Painting, The (Danilova), feminist archaeology, , feminist theorists, Fewkes, Jesse Walter, , , Feyerabend, Paul, , figurative arts, – ; child development of, – , ; Palaeolithic paintings, – ; modernism, – ; aesthetic realism in, – First Nations, American, , , . See also indigenous North Americans First World War, flake generation, , , – , Flenniken, J. Jeffrey, , , flintknapping, , , ,

 Index Fonesca, J.G., Football Player, The (Deyneka), Ford, James A., , – , , , – Forster, Georg, , Foucault, Michel, , fracture mechanics, , , , Frank, Philip, Freemasons, , frequency analysis, , , Freud, Sigmund, Frison, G., Fullagar, Richard, Fuller, D.Q., functionalism, , , – , , – functional-processual archaeology, , Gadamer, H.G., Galileo Galilei, , , , Galloway, Patricia, Garufi, G.T., Gash Delta/Kassala (Sudan), – Gauguin, Paul, Geertz, Clifford, , , , gender archaeology, , , n Geneste, J.-M., genetic evidence, – , – , – , – , – , – Gifford, J.C., , Gladwin, Harold S., , , , Gladwin, Winifred, , , Gladwin-Colton classification scheme, – , Goalkeeper (Deyneka), Goebbels, Joseph, Goguet, A.Y., , Goodall, Jane, Goodman, Mary Ellen,

Gö ingen, University of, grammar, universal, ,

, ,

,

n ,

,

Great Plains. See Northern Plains Greece, ancient: classical art of, – ; Egyptian origins of, , , , – , , – ; idealization in, ; separation of from Egypt, – . See also Philhellenism Grégoire, Henri Baptiste (Abbé), – , , Griffin, James B., , Gro e Montespan (France), – Gunn, Joel, Habermas, Jürgen, , Haeckel, Ernst, , , Haiti, , , , Ham, sons of, , Handbook of American Indian Languages (Boas), Handbook of North American Indians (Smithsonian), Handbook of Northern Arizona PoĴery Wares (Hargrave and Colton), Hardy, B.L., Hargrave, L.L., , , Harris, Marvin, , Harvey, S.P., Harvey, William, , , Hatshepsut (queen), , Hatshepsut reliefs, , , , Hayden, B., Headland, T.N., Hebb, Donald, Heeren, A.H.L., – , Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich, , , Heidegger, Martin, , ,

,

Index  Heine, Heinrich, Heisenberg, Werner, heliography, Hellenic culture. See Greece, ancient; Philhellenism Hempel, Carl, Henday, Anthony, , Herodotus, , Herschel, John, Herskovitz, M.J., , Hesiod, Heyne, Christoph Go lob, Hindu civilization, , – historical living cultures, , – , , historicization, , historiography: Ancient Model in, – , – ; BT’s influence on, xvii, , , – , ; as critical and externalist tool, , , , , , ; Eurocentrism in, ; as historicization of archaeological science, xv, xvi, , , ; as Whig history and internalist, , , , , . See also history of archaeology “Historiography” (Trigger), History (Herodotus), History of American Archaeology, A (Willey and Sabloff ), History of Archaeological Thought, A (Trigger), xvii, , , , history of archaeology, – ; BT’s pioneering role in, xvii, , – ; as critical tool, , ; as history of prehistory, , ; internalist vs. externalist, , , , – , – , – ; Whig interpretation of, , – , . See also citation analysis; historiography

History of Jamaica (Long), history of science. See science, history of Hitler, Adolph, – , . See also Nazi art Hodder, Ian, holistic approach, xvii, – , – , , , Holmes, W.H., , , horizontal independence, – , , . See also vertical independence Horn of Africa, , , Houssay, Bernardo, Hudson’s Bay Company, , , humanism: as BT’s ethics, , ; in contemporary archaeological research, ; as moral norms governing scientific research, , , , – ; as recapturing the distinctive human qualities of the past, . See also complexity theory humanity, xv, , humans: as biological entities, ; biosocial evolution of, ; brain architecture in, – , – ; BT’s view of mutable nature of, , – ; co-evolution of with the environment, xvi–xvii, , , – ; cognitive complexity of, , , , ; modern a ributes, , , ; as not always humane, xvi; prehistoric antiquity of, , , – ; pre-modern, xvi–xvii, , – ; vs. primates, , – , . See also artistic development; behaviour, human; recapitulation theory; social inequality Hume, David, Humphrey, Nicholas, –

 Index hunter-gatherers: egalitarian sharing among, – ; as evolutionary past of modern humans, – , ; and interethnic trade participation, ; non-violence ethic in, – , n ; restrictions on women’s meat consumption among, n ; and slave-holding, ; social differentiation in, ; socioritual symbolism in, – . See also Lanoh, case of Hurons (Canadian Aboriginals), , – , . See also indigenous North Americans Husserl, Edmund, Hutchings, W.K., , Huygens, Christiaan, hyper-relativism. See relativism, epistemological (radical) idealism, , Ideen über die Politik, den Verkehr und den Handel der vornehmsten Völker der alten Welt (Heeren), identity. See cultural identity; sociocultural anthropology ideology: as archaeological projections onto past, , ; categorical age as, , , , ; of Chinese intellectual culture, ; of egalitarianism, , ; evolutionary, ; intragroup non-violence as, ; of Nativism, ; science as late capitalist, ; of totalitarianism, , , idiots savants, – If Childe Were Alive Today (Trigger), xvii Il’ina, T.V., imagination, , , , ,

imperialism, , , Impression (Monet), impressionism, , , , independence, conceptual, – ; of ethnoarchaeology, , , ; forms of, – , , n ; and hyper-relativism, ; support for, . See also middle-range theories Indian (South Asian) archaeology, – ; assumptions of, – , , , ; distinction in between elite and non-elite, , – ; and material culture diffusion, . See also caste Indianology (American First Nations), indigenous North Americans: BT’s studies of, xv, xvi, , – , ; changeability of, ; and material culture custodianship, xviii; slavery among, – , , – , n. See also First Nations, American; Hurons indigenous peoples: and Australian Dreamtime model, ; blood taboos among, n ; vs. civilization, – , n ; vs. elites, – , – ; and Europeans, , , , – , ; judgments about, , ; pressures on, ; social inequality in, xvi, – , – . See also Blacks; Noble Savage individualism, , , – . See also agency; Palaeolithic paintings; self-aggrandizement; sharing norms; specialization; style; systemism; totalitarian art Indo-Europeans, identity of, – Indus Valley civilization, , , , , , – n

Index  inequality. See social inequality Inland Niger Delta (Mali), – Intefoqer (Intf-Ikr), , interdisciplinarity: cross-fertilization between subfields of anthropology, ; as diverse historical science of humanity, xv; in fusions in the natural and social sciences, , , – ; as integrated knowledge vs. specialization, xiv, f. See also Evolution and History of Human Populations in South Asia, The; Trigger, Bruce internalism, , – , , interpretation: accuracy of, , – , – n , ; circularity of, , ; as inductively based, , ; selfassessment of, ; social theories as baseline for, , ; via ethnographic research, , . See also reconstruction challenges intuitionism, Iron Age, irrationalism, Jahren, A.H., Jefferson, Thomas, , Jennings, T.A., , Johnson, Lucille Lewis, Johnson, Samuel, , Junker, L.L.,

,

Kagan, M.S., Kamminga, J., Kandansky, V., Kant, Immanuel, , Kassala/Gash Delta (Sudan), – Kautsky, Karl, , Keeley, Lawrence H., ,

Keith, J., Kelly, R.I., – Kelterborn, Peter, Kenoyer, Jonathan Mark, , Kepler, J., , Kerma (African kingdom), , , Kertzer, D.I., Keynes, John Maynard, , Khmelnitsky, Dmitri, Khrenov, N.A., Khrushchev, Nikita, Kidder, Alfred Vincent, , – , , , Kimball, L.R., Kitchen, K.A., , , Klejn, Leo S., Kluckhohn, Clyde, , Knau , B.M., Knight, James, Kramer, Carol, Kroeber, Alfred L., , Kuhn, S.L., Kuhn, Thomas, – , , , , . See also paradigms Kutsenkov, P.A., Lalande, A., Laming-Emperaire, Anne e, landscape: contextualizing the phenomenology of, xvi–xvii, – ; holistic vision of, – . See also Punt, land of; working the land landscape archaeology, xvii, language, – ; biological substratum of, ; as a cognitive process, – , – ; essentialist model of, xviii, – , , , – , ; innate vs. socially inherited, – , – , n ; as interactive process with the world, – , ;

 Index and prehistoric figurative activity, – . See also domains Lanoh, case of, – , , – , n , n Leach, S.L., leadership: change in style of, n ; between elders, – , – ; between elders and younger men, , n ; female, n , n ; in primate vs. human politics, – Lee, Richard, , Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, , Leonardo da Vinci, Leontieff, Wassily Wassilyovich, Leroi-Gourhan, André, Les hommes fossiles (Boule), Levitin, D.J., , Lewis, Oscar, Lewis and Clark expedition, Lewis-Williams, G.D., Lichtenstein, Diana A., Linebaugh, Peter, lithic experiments: ambiguity and equifinality in, ; evolving ideas behind, ; in full reduction spectrum, , – , ; historical review of, ; holistic approach to, – ; and motivations governing results, , , ; as recognizing complexities, – ; refining interpretations of, . See also experimental studies; materials science living cultures of the past. See historical living cultures Living Traditions (Allchin), Lobo, J., – logical positivism, . See also positivism; scientific realism

Lombard, M., Long, Edward, – Longo, L., lost paradise, . See also Noble Savage Lovejoy, A.O., Lubyanka School, “Ludwig Feuerbach and the End of Classical German Philosophy” (Engels), Lunacharsky, A.V., Luxemburg, Rosa, Lyman, R.L., , , , – , Mach, Ernst, , Machiavelli, Niccolò di Bernardo dei, Mackenzie, Alexander, MacLeod, William Christie, Madras Government Museum, Ma’layba culture, Malevich, Kasimir, Malinowski, Bronislaw, Mandelbrot, B.B., – Many Headed Hydra, The (Rediker and Linebaugh), Mapping the Mississippian ShaĴer Zone (Ethridge and Shuck-Hall), Marchand, Suzanne, Marwick, B., Marx, Karl, , , , , Marxism: aesthetic theory of, ; vs. anarchists, socialists, , ; contributions of to archaeology and anthropology, xviii, , ; scientific methodology in, , ; ; and synthesizing approach of, unreconstructed Marxists, – ;

Index  varieties of, xviii, . See also neoMarxism; standpoint theory material culture: aboriginal custodianship of, xviii; active use of, ; and biological traits, , – , – ; capitalist assumptions about, ; and cultural continuity, ; evolution of, ; frequency analysis of, , ; and human behaviours, , , , ; and language, , , ; modernity impact on, ; pa erns in, , , , , – ; and social structure, , ; as unambiguous, , , . See also culture-historical archaeology; Indian (South Asian) archaeology materialism: of BT, – ; as conception of history, ; and evolution of art, xx; vs. idealism, – n ; Marxist, , , ; and modern , f, – , ; and science, rationalism, , ; reductionism of, , ; as scientific realism, xix, , , ; as systemic, , , , – ; of theory of evolution, . See also dynamicism materials science, Mauldin, R.P., , Maxwell, James Clerk, McClintock, W., McGhee, Robert, McGill University: Anthropology Department, , ; Archives, xv; and BT, – , ; BT’s colleagues/ students, xvii–xix, , , , McKern, W.C., Mead, Margaret, “Measurements of Some Prehistoric Design Developments” (Ford),

meliorism, Meltzer, David, men’s age-roles. See categorical age Mersa/Wadi Gawasis (Egypt), – , Merton, Robert, Mesolithic culture, , , Method and Theory in American Archaeology (Willey and Phillips), methodology concerns: biases of, , – ; BT on, xvii, ; of citation analysis, , ; and conceptual independence, , – , ; contextual analysis, – , – ; cultural politics of, – , . See also objectivism microfracture, , , middle classes, , middle-range theories, – , , , – n , migration, – , , – , Mikenas, Iuozas Iokubo, Mill, John Stuart, Mitchell, John, modernism (in art), , – modernity, t, , – , , . See also humans; landscape; postmodernism; presentism Morrison, K.D., , Moss, E.H., Mukerjee, Radhakamal, Mukhina, Vera Ignatyevna, Müller, Karl O fried, – , mysterism, Nadia (English girl), – Napoleon, , , National Socialism, nationalism: BT on limited role of vs. capitalism, – ; Canadian,

 Index ; and conflation with culturehistorical approaches, , ; disputed meaning of, ; and “Indian” identity as modern construct, , ; influence of over archaeological agendas, , – ; significance of for Second International members, – Native peoples. See indigenous North Americans; indigenous peoples Natives and Newcomers: Canada’s “Heroic Age” Reconsidered (Trigger), , , nativism, , – , Natural History of Flaked Stone Implements (Holmes), natural sciences: assumptions and politics of, , , , ; and asymmetry with social sciences, ; complexity theory in, – ; as mastery over the world, – , ; modern science vs. mechanics, , ; and philosophical inconsistencies, – . See also interdisciplinarity; systemic materialism; specific headings under science natural selection, , – , naturalism: as laws of nature, , , , – ; and naturalists, , – n , ; in prehistoric and traditional art, – , , – . See also social naturalism Nazi art, – Needham, Joseph, “Negro Question, The” (Mill), Negroes. See Blacks Nelson, Nels C., , – , , neo-Kantianism,

neo-Marxism, , . See also Marxism neuroscience. See cognitive neuroscience New Archaeology. See processual archaeology Newton, Isaac, , Niepce, J.N., , Nightingale, Florence, – “No Longer from Another Planet” (Trigger), Noble Savage, – . See also vision non-egalitarian societies. See societies, non-egalitarian non-figurative painting. See abstract art non-violence norms, , , , , n , n Northern Plains, xvi, , – , , , Nubia under the Pharaohs (Trigger), xvi, objectivism: factual evidence as, – ; methodological, , ; mitigated form of, ; in Platonic idealism, ; vs. subjectivism and phenomenalism, – ; via scientific method, , , . See also historicization; positivism O’Brien, M.J., , , “Occasional Discourse on the Negro Question” (Carlyle), Odell, George H., , Ohnuma, K., Ollé, A., “On the Correlation of Phases of Culture” (Rouse), ontology: BT’s materialist and systemist, , , , ; BT’s

Index  realist, ; dynamicism as process, ; as ultimate questions answerable by scientific inquiry, xix. See also dynamicism; materialism; systemic materialism; systemism “ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny.” See recapitulation theory “Orientalism, Ideology, and Identity” (Boivin), Origin of the Family, Private Property and the State in the Light of the Researches of Lewis H. Morgan, The (Engels), Origines de l’archéologie préhistorique en France (Laming-Emperaire), orthodoxy: academic, xiii, xvi, xix, , ; archaeological, ; vs. challenge to dominant paradigms, xx; economic, , Paine, Thomas, painting. See art, history of palaeoethnic groups. See prehistoric ethnicity Palaeolithic paintings, – “Palaeolithic Venuses,” palaeontology, Palter, Robert, n Pandaya, V., “Panorama of Theoretical Archaeology” (Klejn), paradigms: challenging of, xviii, xx, – ; as cognitive processes, , , ; as culture-historical, , , ; as governing experiments, ; as internalist, ; positivist domination of, , , , ; shi of, , , , , ; of

space/landscape, – ; vs. theories, , . See also Kuhn, Thomas; middle-range theories “Part Played by Labor in the Transition from Ape to Man” (Engels), particularist perspective, , past vs. modern world, , t. See also archaeological theory; history of archaeology; interpretation; methodology concerns; reconstruction challenges Pa en, R., Pa erson, L.W., “Peasant Question in France and Germany, The” (Engels), peasantries. See proletariat; working the land Pecora, A.M., Pelasgians, , . See also Greece, ancient Peninsular Malaysia. See Lanoh, case of “peredvizhniks,” personality cult, Petraglia, M.D., Phenomenon of Soviet Archaeology, The (Klejn), Philhellenism, , , . See also Greece, ancient Phillips, Philip, , , , philosophy of science. See science, philosophy of photography, – phylogenesis. See recapitulation theory Pie , Edouard, Piggo , Stuart, Pinker, Steven, ,

 Index “Place of Theory in Anthropological Studies, The” (Kluckhohn), Plato, , Plisson, H., polish identification, , , politics: in age-based relationships, , , , ; in Air Bah (Peninsular Malaysia), , ; a ending to, ; as competition among elites, , ; egalitarian vs. nonegalitarian, , , , , ; primate vs. human, ; as reinforcing cognitive processes, – . See also power, structures of Politics (Aristotle), Pond, Peter, , positivism: as behaviouralism vs. relativistic cultural determinism, ; contextualist critiques of, ; defined, ; desire of for reductive, unified science, , ; empiricism of, ; and ethnoarchaeology’s observational ability, – ; as internalism of first histories of archaeology, , – , ; and predominance of in Western sciences, , , – . See also logical positivism; post-processual archaeology; processual archaeology Possehl, Gregory L., post-depositional modification, , , postmodernism: and BT on, , ; as critique of Lévi-Straussian structuralist analysis, ; impact of on history of archaeology, , – , – ; as obscurantist, ; vs. positivistic science, , , ; space as a social construct for,

post-positivism, , , – , post-processual archaeology: defined, , – ; dualities of, xvi– xvii; ecological constraints and material remains allowed by, , ; ethnoarchaeology in, – , , , , ; hyper-relativism of, , ; vs. processual archaeology, – , , , – n post-structuralism, po ery: and classification of types, , , – , – ; as evidence of Egyptian contacts, – ; impacts of modernity on, , ; variability of, , . See also domestic vessels; Inland Niger Delta (Mali) “Po ery of the Parjarito Plateau and Some Adjacent Regions in New Mexico” (Kidder), Po s, R., power, structures of, , , , , – , . See also Marxism; politics; totalitarianism prehistoric archaeology, , , prehistoric ethnicity, , , prehistoric technologies, , , , prehistoric tools. See stone tools prehistory, , , , , , Prehistory in Haiti: A Study in Method (Rouse), , Prehistory of European Society, The (Childe), Prentiss, William C., presentism, , primates, , , , , , Primitivism, – . See also vision Primitivism and Related Ideas in Antiquity (Lovejoy and Boas), Principia (Newton),

Index  Problem of Genres in European Painting, The (Danilova), processual archaeology: BT on scientism of, ; and creative processes, – ; and ethnoarchaeological research, – , – , ; neo-evolutionary arguments of, ; positivism of, , , , , – , ; vs. post-processual archaeology, – , , , – n ; scientific understanding of, ; Whig history of, , – , . See also ethnoarchaeology proletariat, , , , , , . See also Second International propaganda, , pseudoscience, , , f, , Ptolemy, Claudius, , Pueblo Indians (U.S.), Punt, land of, – . See also Egypt, ancient Putnam, Hilary Whitehall, Quellen Kritik (”Source Criticism”), – Quesnay, François, Question of Relevance, A (Meltzer), racism: in Aryan Model, , , – ; and biological explanations for behaviour, – ; BT’s critique of, xviii, , ; defined, n ; in early ethnology and anthropology, – ; in early nineteenth century, ; in Eurocentrism, – , – ; and J.F. Blumenbach’s reversal of, n ; in Talmudic tradition, , n ; of White abolitionists, . See also Ancient Model; Blacks

Radcliffe-Brown, A.R., radiocarbon dating, – Rangachari, K., Rao, Nandini, Rasselas (Johnson), rationality, , , –, , . See also categorical age; Hurons; paradigms Raymond, A.W., realism, aesthetic. See aesthetic realism realism, epistemological. See scientific realism recapitulation theory, – , , . See also Palaeolithic paintings reconstruction challenges, , – , – , , – , – Rediker, Marcus, reflexivity, , Reisebilder (Heine), relativism, epistemological: in equality and inequality, ; moderate, xvii, ; radical, xvi, xix, , , –, . See also externalism; history of archaeology; post-processual archaeology relativism-constructivism, religion: Egyptian, , , ; evolutionary pa erns in, xx; vs. Nazi view of art, ; and prehistoric traditions, , ; vs. scientism, ; social function of, . See also Grégoire, Henri Baptiste (Abbé); Müller, Karl O fried reproduction, realistic: as artistic aim, , , , ; vs. artistic originality, ; photography as, , , ; as skilled depiction of nature, . See also aesthetic

 Index realism; conventionality; imagination; naturalism residue analysis, , , Riefenstahl, Leni, Rights of Man (Paine), Rise and Fall of Culture History, The (Lyman, O’Brien, and Dunnell), Romanski, Eugene J., Romanticism: and ancient Egyptians as Black, , – ; vs. Enlightenment evolutionary thought, ; and idealism alliance, ; as monumental aesthetic style, ; as pastoral sensibility, , – ; Philhellenism of, , , ; and Primitivism, Rorty, Richard, Rouse, Irving, , , , , , Rozen, K.C., Ruines des Empires (Volney), , , , , – n Rupert’s Land, , , , , , Russell, D.R., Rutherford, Ernest, , Sabloff, J.A., , – , Sahlins, M., Saint Simonians, Sakakawea (Shoshone slave), , Sapir, Edward, , Saww. See Mersa/Wadi Gawasis (Egypt) Saww Harbour. See Mersa/Wadi Gawasis (Egypt) Sayed, Abdel Monem, , scepticism, scientific, xix, – , , , – Schnapp, Alain,

Schoelcher, Victor, scholasticism. See Aristotelianism Schroth, A.B., Schütz, Alfred, science, history of, xv, – , – science, philosophy of, xv, xix, , – , – . See also positivism; scientism “Science and the Social Order” (Merton), scientific method, , , , , , . See also empirical evidence; objectivism; positivism; scepticism, scientific scientific realism, xvii, xix, , , – , scientific research, – ; challenges to neutrality of, – , , ; energizing of by philosophical matrix, – , – ; externalist approach to, , – ; internalist approach to, – , – ; as progressive development, xix, – , – ; vs. pseudosciences, – ; as rational knowledge, , , , ; as social endeavour, , . See also humanism; materialism; pseudoscience; systemism Scientific Revolution, – , scientism: BT on, ; defined, , ; as furthering scientific progress, f, , ; as moderate scepticism and meliorism, ; popularizing of, ; vs. religion, . See also aesthetic realism; scientific realism; systemism Seacole, Mary, Second International, , – , ,

Index  Second World War, self-aggrandizement, , , – , , – , n . See also aggression Selye, Hans, Semenov, Sergei, , sexual activity, , – Shaffer, Jim G., sharing norms, , – , , , Shelley, Phillip H., Sher, Y.A., , “Short History of Photography, The” (Benjamin), Siculus, Diodorus, , “similiary seriation,” , , , , Sinha, A., slavery: of African Americans, ; of Blacks, – ; of Israelites, , ; North American indigenous, xvi, , – ; in Roman world and in Europe, n small-scale societies. See societies, small-scale Smith, Adam, , n Smith, H.A., Smith, M.J., Snyder, Allan, social archaeology, – social complexity, , , , – social Darwinism, , social differentiation, , , , , , social history, social inequality: age importance in, – ; complex structural change, – ; development of, – ; as given with human nature, ; hierarchical ordering as, – ; models of, ; naturalization of

via sociobiology, ; resistance to from hunter-gatherers, – . See also equality in small-scale societies social naturalism, . See also naturalism social science: alternate history of, xiv; anthropology as total, ; complexity theory in, – ; Egyptology as, xvi; humanist approach to, – ; reduction of to biology, ; scientific method applied to, ; as sociohistorically relative, , – . See also interdisciplinarity; sociocultural evolution; specific headings under science social stratification, social structure, , , , , , socialism, , , “Socialism: Utopian and Scientific” (Engels), societies, complex, , , f, societies, egalitarian: egalitarian ethic in, , , ; power of elders in, – , , , , ; questioning of, – , ; structure of, – f; systems of production in, , , n , n , n . See also equality in smallscale societies; hunter-gatherers; social inequality societies, farming, – , f, – , societies, non-egalitarian, , – , , n societies, rural: complexity of interactions in, – ; Marxist understanding of, ; in Middle Ages, , ; Nazi aesthetic as favouring,

 Index ; reconstructed past of, , – ; as tourist destinations, , . See also landscape societies, small-scale, , , n . See also age relations in small-scale societies; non-violence norms; racism; self-aggrandizement Society for American Archaeology, xv, sociobiology, , – sociocultural anthropology: contextual concerns of, ; domain specificity in, , – ; sociocultural correlations, ; and sociocultural identity, ; as studies of systems, , . See also cultural anthropology; cultural identity sociocultural evolution, xix, , – , –, , – sociology, , , – sociopolitics, , “Socio-ritual Artifacts of Upper Paleolithic Hunter-Gatherers in South Asia” (Kenoyer), – Sorokin, Pitirim, Soros, George, ”Source Criticism” (Quellen Kritik), – South Arabia, – South Asian archaeology. See Indian (South Asian) archaeology Soviet art, – , – space, human relationship to. See landscape Spaulding, A.C., , specialization, , speculative archaeology, Speer, Albert, Spencer, Herbert, ,

Speth, J., Stahl, Ann, Stahl, Jenny, Stalin, Joseph, , – standpoint theory, – “Statistical Techniques for the Discovery of Artifact Types” (Spaulding), Stemp, M., Stemp, W.J., Stolyar, A.D., , Stone Age, stone tools, , – , . See also lithic experiments; prehistoric technologies; tool production; tool use Stone-Tipped Arrow, The (Allchin), – stratigraphic analysis, , – , Stropes, T.A., structuralist archaeology, Study of Archeology, A (Taylor), – style: as archaeological concept, , – n ; as basis of periodizations, , ; ceramic, , ; of individual tool type or technological tradition, , , ; of leadership, – n ; regional, ; as slowly shi ing, . See also art, history of Subarctic (Smithsonian), – “Subsistence and Associated Se lement Pa erns in Central India: An Ethnoarchaeological Analysis” (Rao), subsistence strategies, , , , , , Sullivan, A.P., Sure e, C., Surrealism,

Index  systemic materialism, systemism, – , , . See also dynamicism; scientism tacking, , , , , , Talbot, W.H.F., , Taoism, Taylor, Walter, , – technological determinism, teleological perspective, Thanadelthur, Thebes, , , Theophrastus, theories: critical function of, , , , , ; implications and consequences of, xix; importance of for BT, xiii, xiv, – ; and integration with practice, , f, – ; vs. paradigms, , ; premature closure of, ; rationalizing function of, n , , ; and relation to data, , , , – , n , . See also archaeological theory; assumptions, theoretical; citation analysis; ethnoarchaeology; experimental studies; explanatory frameworks; history of archaeology; methodology concerns; middle-range theories; scientism theory of knowledge. See epistemology Theory of Recapitulation. See recapitulation theory Thirlwall, Connop, – Thomas Aquinus, Thompson, David, Thompson, Raymond, Thomsen, C.J., Thurston, Edgar,

Tilley, Chris, – , , Titmus, G.L., Tomka, Steven A., tool production, – ,

–

,

,

,

tool use, – , – , – , , , totalitarian art, – totalitarianism, tourism, – , Towner, R.H., Travels (Bruce), Trigger, Bruce, xiii–xx; on archaeology vs. ethnology, xvii; big picture focus of, xiii–xiv, xx, ; as citizen activist, xviii–xx, , – , ; cognitive anthropology of, xiv, xix; on cultural presuppositions, , , , ; externalism of, , – ; humanistic ethics of, – , , ; Marxism of, , – , , ; personal qualities of, , , , ; philosophy of, xvii, – , , – ; redemptive work of, xvi, xviii, , , , ; scholarly influences of, xiii–xvii, xix–xx, – , , – , ; synthesizing reach of, xv, xx, – , , , ; as teacher and mentor, xiii, xviii, xx, – , ; unorthodoxy of, xiii, xiv, xx, – . See also historiography; history of archaeology; interdisciplinarity; scientific realism; sociocultural evolution Trigger, Bruce, works of: “Akhenaten and Durkheim” ( ), xiv; “All People Are [Not] Good” ( ), xvi; Archaeology and the Image of the American Indian

 Index ( ), xvi; Beyond History: The Methods of Prehistory ( ), xiii; “Brecht and Ethnohistory” ( ), xiv; Children of Aataentsic ( ), xvi; “Constraint and Freedom” ( ), xix; “Coon’s Theory on The Origin of Races” ( ), xviii; “Current Trends in American Archaeology,” ; Early Native North American Responses to European Contact ( ), xvi, ; A History of Archaeological Thought ( ; ), xvii, ; If Childe Were Alive Today ( ), xvii; Nubia under the Pharaohs ( ), xvi, ; Understanding Early Civilizations ( ), xix, xx Tringham, Ruth, Triumph of the Will (Riefenstahl), Turnor, Philip, Tuross, N., Ueber den angeblich ägyptischen Ursprung der Griechischen Kunst (Müller), Uhle, F.M., Understanding Early Civilizations (Trigger), xix, xx, , United States: Ancient Model vs. racism in, ; distinct social contexts between Europe and, ; and emergence of history of American archaeology, ; rise of social history and sociology of human sciences in, ; on sanction of slavery by “friends of liberty,” – , . See also Americanist archaeology; citation analysis; indigenous North Americans; Second International; vision

universal grammar. See grammar, universal unorthodoxy. See orthodoxy Upper Palaeolithic art. See Palaeolithic paintings use-wear analysis, – , , value: for BT, xix, – , – ; of domestic vessels, – ; as the evaluative function of the new science, ; of labour as slavery stimulus, ; as reinterpreted by elders in small-scale societies, – ; shi of from realistic reproduction to artistic criteria, – , . See also ethnoarchaeology Van Buren, G.E., Van Gogh, Vincent, Vasari, Giorgio, Vastey, Valentin de, Vaughan, Patrick C., Vergès, J.M., vertical independence, , , , , n . See also horizontal independence Vesalius, Andreas, vessels. See domestic vessels vision: of archaeology, , , – ; of ceramic style, ; of countryside, – ; of culture, , ; denial of, ; distinctively American, ; distortion of as art, xx, , , , , – ; of extraordinary science, ; of humanity, xvii; of lost paradise, ; of the Noble Savage, – ; of the past, , ; as tragic, – ; via re-experiencing of past sensibilities, –

Index  Vocabulaire technique et critique de la philosophie (Lalande), Volney, Constantine Francis Chassebeuf de, – , , , , , – n Von Hayek, Friedrich A., Voyage en Syrie et en Égypte pendant les Années šŧŨţ, šŧŨŤ et šŧŨť, nd ed. (Volney), , Vuchetich, Yevgeny, Wadi Gawasis. See Mersa/Wadi Gawasis (Egypt) Wadley, L., Walker, David, , Warburton, M., Wasley, W.W., , Weber, Max, Western (European) civilization, , – , – . See also Ancient Model; Indian (South Asian) archaeology; indigenous peoples; scientism Wheat, J.B., Wheatley, Phillis, Whig history of archaeology, , – , Whitehouse, H.,

Whi aker, John C., , Will, Richard T., Willey, G.R., , , – ,

,

,

Williamson, B., Williamson, Ron, xv Wilson, Daniel, Winckelmann, Johann Joachim, , , Wissler, Clark, , Wobst, Martin, women’s age relations. See categorical age Woodburn, J., – Woods, J.C., “Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, The” (Benjamin), working the land, – , , f, – Works and Days (Hesiod), World Archaeology (Trigger and Glover, eds.), , Wylie, Alison, , , , Yanagisako, S.J., Zubrow, Ezra, xix