Prehistory in Practice: A Multi-Stranded Analysis of British Archaeology, 1975-2010 9781407310862, 9781407322568

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Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Table of Contents
Figure list
Table list
Foreword
Abstract
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1. Introduction
Chapter 2. Critical studies of archaeological practice, 1980-2010
Chapter 3. Developing a multi-stranded approach
Chapter 4. A broad disciplinary history
Chapter 5. Prehistoric research, 1980-2005
Chapter 6. Oral testaments: methodological considerations
Chapter 7. Lives in archaeology (and British prehistory) 1975-
Chapter 8. An era of change: professionalisation (and the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation)
Chapter 9. A persistent theme: disciplinary fragmentation
Chapter 10. Conclusion
Appendix 1: Common abbreviations
Appendix 2: Broad chronology
Appendix 3: Definitions used in analysis of prehistoric fieldwork
Appendix 4: Life-history interview methodology
Appendix 5: Interviewee life-history synopses
References

Citation preview

BAR 577 2013

Prehistory in Practice: A Multi-Stranded Analysis of British Archaeology, 1975–2010

COOPER

Anwen Cooper

PREHISTORY IN PRACTICE

B A R

BAR British Series 577 2013

Prehistory in Practice: A Multi-Stranded Analysis of British Archaeology, 1975–2010 Anwen Cooper

BAR British Series 577 2013

Published in 2016 by BAR Publishing, Oxford BAR British Series 577 Prehistory in Practice: A Multi-Stranded Analysis of British Archaeology, 1975-2010 © A Cooper and the Publisher 2013 The author's moral rights under the 1988 UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act are hereby expressly asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be copied, reproduced, stored, sold, distributed, scanned, saved in any form of digital format or transmitted in any form digitally, without the written permission of the Publisher.

ISBN 9781407310862 paperback ISBN 9781407322568 e-format DOI https://doi.org/10.30861/9781407310862 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library BAR Publishing is the trading name of British Archaeological Reports (Oxford) Ltd. British Archaeological Reports was first incorporated in 1974 to publish the BAR Series, International and British. In 1992 Hadrian Books Ltd became part of the BAR group. This volume was originally published by Archaeopress in conjunction with British Archaeological Reports (Oxford) Ltd / Hadrian Books Ltd, the Series principal publisher, in 2013. This present volume is published by BAR Publishing, 2016.

BAR PUBLISHING BAR titles are available from:

E MAIL P HONE F AX

BAR Publishing 122 Banbury Rd, Oxford, OX2 7BP, UK [email protected] +44 (0)1865 310431 +44 (0)1865 316916 www.barpublishing.com

Contents Page i iii iv v v vi

Contents Figure list Table list Forward Abstract Acknowledgements Chapter 1 1.1 1.2

Introduction Study frame Study structure

1 2

2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5

Critical studies of archaeological practice, 1980-2010 Introduction The emergence of critical approaches to archaeological practice Critiques of archaeological practice Ethnographic studies of archaeological practice Discussion

3 3 6 10 14

3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4

Developing a multi-stranded approach Introduction Existing histories of archaeology over the last 30 years A broad outline of my approach Summary

17 17 20 21

4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7 4.8 4.9

A broad disciplinary history An introduction to the IFA and TFA 1984 (Vol. 1): building a profession 1985 (Vol. 4): defining roles and relationships 1990 (Vol. 13): new affiliations, blossoming agendas 1995 (Vol. 24): embracing technology 2000 (Vol. 39): reviewing, restructuring, renaming 2005 (Vol. 56): British prehistory Other important themes Discussion

22 22 24 26 28 30 33 36 38

5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4

Prehistoric research, 1980-2005 Introduction Prehistoric fieldwork Prehistoric research more broadly Summary

41 45 57 66

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

i

Chapter 6 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5

Oral testaments: methodological considerations Introduction Positioning myself (amongst genres) Auto-anthropology Life-histories Summary

68 68 69 72 77

7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5

Lives in archaeology (and British prehistory) 1975Introduction The life-history interviews Reflecting on the investigative process Characterising a narrative genre Discussion

79 79 84 88 95

Chapter 7

Chapter 8 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 Chapter 9 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4 9.5 Chapter 10 10.1 10.2 10.3 Appendix 1 Appendix 2 Appendix 3 Appendix 4 Appendix 5

An era of change: professionalisation (and the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation) Introduction Existing accounts of professionalisation Re-examining the notion of professionalisation Appreciating the complexities of professionalisation: balancing professionalism with informality and independence Implications for research practice Summary

98 98 99 108 112 115

A persistent theme: disciplinary fragmentation Introduction Exploring the contours of disciplinary fragmentation ‘All kinds of networks cross-cut by friendships’: re-examining the character of disciplinary relationships Considering the role of disciplinary fragmentation Discussion

127 131

Conclusion Recent transformations in British prehistoric research practice Some methodological implications Imagined futures

133 136 137

Common abbreviations Broad chronology Definitions used in analysis of prehistoric fieldwork Life-history interview methodology Interviewee life-history synopses

138 139 141 142 144

117 117 122

149

References

ii

Figure list Page Figure 4.1

TFA Volume 1 front cover

23

Figure 4.2

TFA Volume 4 front cover

25

Figure 4.3

TFA Volume 13 front cover

26

Figure 4.4

TFA Volume 24 front cover

28

Figure 4.5

TFA Volume 24 contents page

28

Figure 4.6

‘What Archaeologists Want’

29

Figure 4.7

TA Volume 39 front cover

30

Figure 4.8

TA Volume 39 contents page

31

Figure 4.9

TFA Volume 56 front cover

33

Figure 4.10

TFA Volume 56, contents page

34

Figure 4.11

Front cover of EH’s Research Agenda 2005-10

37

Figure 5.1

Density (per 100x100km square) of prehistoric fieldwork investigations undertaken in Scotland, Wales and English administrative regions, 1980 & 1985

45

Figure 5.2

Periods of prehistoric archaeology investigated, 1980 & 1985

46

Figure 5.3

Types of prehistoric archaeology investigated, 1980 & 1985

46

Figure 5.4

Methodologies employed in relation to prehistoric evidence, 1980 & 1985

47

Figure 5.5

Shifts in fieldwork methodologies, 1980-5

47

Figure 5.6

Organisations undertaking prehistoric fieldwork, 1980 & 1985

48

Figure 5.7

Criteria given for undertaking fieldwork, 1980 & 1985

49

Figure 5.8

Rationales given by different types of organisation for undertaking prehistoric fieldwork, 1980 & 1985

49

Figure 5.9

English regions analysed for changes in prehistoric fieldwork, 1980-2005

50

Figure 5.10

Overall number of excavations in England, 1960-2002

50

Figure 5.11

Shifts in the density (per 100x100km square) of prehistoric investigations in Eastern/North West England, 1980-2005

51

Figure 5.12

Changes in the geographic distribution of (prehistoric) fieldwork, 1980-2005, according to government administrative regions

52

Figure 5.13

Broader changes in the geographic distribution of (prehistoric) fieldwork, 19802005

52

Figure 5.14

Changes overall in the periods of prehistoric evidence investigated, 1980-2005

53

Figure 5.15

Changes in the types of prehistoric evidence investigated, 1980-2005

53

iii

Figure 5.16

Changes in the character of domestic evidence encountered in excavations, 1980-2005

54

Figure 5.17

Changes in the methodologies employed in relation to prehistoric evidence, 1980-2005

55

Figure 5.18

Changes in the make-up of prehistoric fieldworkers in England, 1980-2005

56

Figure 5.19

Mean number of drawings and photos in PPS articles, 1980-2005

63

Figure 5.20

Mean number of finds illustrations in fieldwork-related articles, 1980-2005

63

Figure 5.21

Changes of the balance of research published in PPS, 1980-2005

64

Figure 5.22

Shifts in the backgrounds of authors contributing to PPS, 1980-2005

65

Figure 7.1

Photos of eleven of the interviewees

80

Figure 7.2

Photos of interview locations

81

Figure 7.3

Summary of interviewees’ lives in archaeology

82

Figure 7.4

Geographical coverage of interviewees’ lives in archaeology based on locations (within England, Scotland and Wales only) mentioned during life-history interviews

83

Figure 7.5

Shifting contexts: the archaeological lives of interviewees

90

Figure 8.1

‘The age of innocence 2. Balksbury Camp. 1973’ (Wainwright 2000, 912)

103

Figure 8.2

'Professional site staff celebrating the end of another excavation'

104

Figure 9.1

‘Another act that needs getting together’

118

Figure 9.2

Interconnections between interviewees over the course of their lives in archaeology

123

Table list Page Table 7.1

List of interviewees

83

iv

Foreword This book is a slightly altered version of my thesis ‘Transformations in British Prehistoric Research: A Multi-stranded approach, 1980-2010’ submitted to the University of Reading in February 2010. An extended and updated version of the analysis presented in Chapter 5 ‘Pursuing “The pressure of the past”: British prehistoric research, 1980–2010’ will be published in Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society 78 (2012).

Abstract This study examines developments in British archaeology over the last 30 years or so (between 1975-2010), focusing in particular on transformations in prehistoric research. Ultimately it seeks to foreground the extent to which recent historical developments (at all levels of the discipline and in various working contexts) are implicated in contemporary research practices. Advocating the need for taking a multi-stranded and interdisciplinary approach, I have consulted a range of sources – digital archives, documentary and oral material – and have drawn on ideas from archaeology, sociology, anthropology and oral history. Through a detailed analysis of a leading disciplinary newsletter, I highlight key concerns which have shaped archaeological practice over this period, and how particular roles and relationships have been defined and developed. By examining records and primary research outcomes of British prehistoric fieldwork, I develop a thorough understanding of how both data production and accounts of British prehistory have transformed. Based on evidence from ‘life-history’ interviews undertaken with prehistorians across the discipline, I identify and explore themes which connected the diverse experiences of these practitioners: the notions that archaeology has undergone a process of ‘professionalisation’ over this period, and that it is chronically (and indeed increasingly) ‘fragmented’ socially. I consider not only the varied ways in which British prehistorians have understood these issues, but also how such beliefs actually operate to shape research practices.

v

Acknowledgements This research has ultimately been a collective endeavour in many ways (as I amongst others have argued is the case with archaeology much more broadly) and so there are many people to thank here: I would like to thank the University of Reading for my research studentship; Roberta Gilchrist (University of Reading) for her vital role in procuring paid maternity leave; staff at the IfA for allowing me to share their very small office whilst consulting archive copies of The Field Archaeologist; Ehren Milner (Archaeological Investigations Project) for helping me to navigate this resource; Mark Barratt (English Heritage) and Stuart Jeffrey (Archaeological Data Services) for their attempts to extract the relevant data from the RCHMEI; Martin Carver (University of York) and John Schofield (English Heritage) for providing me with pre-publication drafts of chapters from Schofield’s now-published (2010) Great Excavations volume; Paul Everill (University of Winchester), Julia Roberts (University of Central Lancashire), and Pamela Jane Smith (University of Cambridge) for sharing their at the time unpublished doctoral research with me and for providing broad inspiration for my own work; Duncan Garrow, Harold Mytum, Rachel Pope (all University of Liverpool), Pamela Jane Smith, Dan Stansbie (Oxford Archaeology) and Thomas Yarrow (University of Durham) for sharing books and journal articles with me after I moved away from Oxford and had difficulties accessing relevant published material; Thomas Yarrow for sparking my initial interest in studying archaeologists alongside archaeology; Mark Edmonds (University of York) and Charly French (University of Cambridge) for their support and encouragement at the inception of this project; Kenny Aitcheson (IfA), Gill Hey (Oxford Archaeology) and Jonathan Last (English Heritage) for meeting up with me very early on in my research and importantly helping me to orientate it; Chris Gosden (University of Oxford) for some very useful lunchtime chats at St Cross College during the first half of the project and for facilitating my participation in University of Oxford Department of Anthropology fieldwork lectures and seminars; Chantal Conneller (University of Manchester) for her photo of Julian Thomas; Chris Green (University of Oxford) for his assistance with finalising the images for publication; participants in the Prehistoric Archaeology Research Group (University of Reading), Materiality Discussion Group (University of Oxford), the Historical Archaeology Research Network, Rob Law, Mark Knight, Lesley McFadyen, David Robinson, Fraser Sturt and Leo Webley for creating a lively, diverse and rewarding, if widely dispersed, research context; and Rob Hosfield and Bob Chapman (University of Reading) for their cheery and genuinely helpful advice and support (as members of my advisory panel team) over the duration of this study. Most importantly, I would like to thank the fourteen ‘British prehistorians’ – Gill Andrews, Nigel Brown, Jon Cotton, Barry Cunliffe, Chris Evans, Hugo Lamdin-Whymark, Jacky Nowakowski, Mike Parker Pearson, Adrian Olivier, Julian Thomas, Geoff Wainwright, John Williams, Ann Woodward and Jamie Wright (plus Mansel Spratling and Gill Hey who I interviewed as part of related but ultimately separate projects) – who took time and invested considerable thought and trust in sharing with me their rich, wide-ranging and illuminating visions of life in archaeology over the last 30 or so years. It goes without saying that I could not have done this without them. I would also especially like to thank Bob Chapman, Duncan Garrow and Thomas Yarrow for their help in commenting on, editing and improving this piece of work; my examiners, Rob Hosfield and Stephanie Moser, for making my viva a constructive and even enjoyable experience, for their extremely helpful ideas about how to finalise the original thesis, and for encouraging me to publish it in its entirety; and finally my supervisor Richard Bradley for his enduring support, insightful and critical comments, and infectious positivity.

vi

Chapter 1.

Introduction

‘The world has changed so much – unbelievable! I think when I started you could more or less know the names of most people who were in archaeology – the amateurs as well … And if you read the county journals and so on, you knew everything that was going on, and certainly all the personalities because they’d all turn up to meetings and things. Now, you know – go into a meeting and there are hardly any familiar faces there at all. But that’s all through the discipline – it’s become more varied, more energetic, more demanding …’ (Professor Barry Cunliffe in interview, Oxford, November 2006)

key research outputs (both texts and images). As a result, the practices of the vast majority of archaeologists who are engaged in archaeological research (in Britain at least) have been overlooked. Although critical studies have emphasised repeatedly that archaeology is a collaborative practice, none have actually tackled the collective archaeological endeavour at a wide scale. Secondly, these studies have tended to examine aspects of archaeological practice in isolation rather than seeking to highlight interconnections between different research spheres.

Over the last 30 to 40 years, archaeology as a discipline has undergone a number of significant changes. These include shifts in the ways we interpret, approach, and generate our data, as well as important social and political upheavals. A widespread understanding has been reached that both the methods and the interpretations which archaeologists employ are socially constructed. As well as acting as a wellspring for the creation of a raft of new interpretative approaches, one of the many consequences of this realisation is that archaeologists have begun to study their own working practices, alongside studying past remains. Elsewhere, radical changes have occurred in the organisation of research practices, and even the scope of archaeological research itself. In combination, the RESCUE movement of the 1970s and the introduction of PPG16 in 1990 (Department of the Environment 1990) which made archaeology a factor in the planning process, have increased significantly the rate at which archaeological data are produced. Meanwhile over the course of this period new scientific techniques have been developed and applied to archaeological materials and digital technologies have become increasingly drawn into archaeological work. While aspects of this history have been told in isolation, no concerted effort has been made to investigate how (or indeed if) these various developments are interconnected.

This study therefore aims to widen significantly the scope of existing critical studies of archaeological practice by exploring the activities involved in knowledge production in British prehistory at a broad level: it sets the practices of archaeologists working in government-bodies, consultancies and so on, alongside those of archaeologists in fieldwork organisations and university departments. 1.1.

Study frame

My reasons for choosing to focus on British prehistory are both personal and pragmatic. Having primarily studied and worked in British prehistory for ten years prior to commencing this research, it was an area with which I was already familiar and in which I have a particular (and ongoing) interest. There are also good academic reasons for focusing on this particular research arena. A recent synthetic study of The Prehistory of Britain and Ireland (Bradley 2007) sought to unite published and unpublished data produced by archaeologists in different disciplinary arenas. In doing so, Bradley highlighted many of the difficulties involved in conducting such research in contemporary British archaeology, and pinpointed a number of historical reasons for these. Additionally, British prehistorians are widely perceived to have led the way in developing new interpretative approaches. Consequently many existing studies of archaeological practice have been produced by British prehistorians, and are arguably of particular relevance to prehistoric researchers. Given the considerable scope of my study, it was also essential that I framed it in some way.

This study aims to scrutinise this important period in British archaeology’s recent history, and to produce an integrated account of recent transformations in archaeological practice in my own particular area of interest: British prehistoric research. This includes investigating what changes have actually taken place, how prehistorians in different working contexts have engaged with these developments, and perhaps most importantly, how such changes are implicated in recent and contemporary research practices.

My reasons for defining an overall timescale of 19752010 relate primarily to the fact that this period embraces broadly a number of significant shifts in archaeological practice, many of which I outlined above. Clearly the fact that this era runs up to and also includes the period during which I have conducted this research is vital to my intention to examine how such changes are implicated in current research practices.1 It is also worth noting that, for

As I will outline in further detail in Chapter 2, critical studies of archaeological practice such as that which I seek to produce, have been an important component of disciplinary research since the late 1980s. While such studies have raised a number of extremely important issues, they are also limited in several respects. Firstly they have focused almost entirely on excavation practices (particularly those undertaken by university-based academics), or on practices involved in the production of

1

Throughout this book it is worth bearing in mind that since the research was undertaken between 2006 and 2010, where ‘recent’ or ‘current’ phenomena are mentioned in the text, these phenomena were actually ‘recent’ or ‘current’ in 2010. Similarly references to ‘the last 30 years or so’ in archaeology refer to the 30 years or so prior to 2010.

1

PREHISTORY IN PRACTICE interviewees commonly characterised change in archaeology over the study period – as amounting to the professionalisation of the discipline, and to the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation. Meanwhile, in Chapter 9, I interrogate the pervasive perception that archaeology is (increasingly) fragmented socially, one factor which may have contributed to feelings of disciplinary stasis. In conclusion I raise some of the key methodological implications of my study. More importantly, I reflect upon the varied ways in which recent disciplinary transformations have actually been implicated in British prehistoric research over the last 30 to 40 years.

very good reasons, the full timescale of 1975-2010 is not covered in every aspect of the research. The analysis presented in Chapters 4 and 5 does not include data for 2010 since, at the time of writing data for this year were not available from all of the key sources. Meanwhile based on close consultation with those involved (see below), the analysis offered in Chapters 7-10 extends back slightly in time to the mid-1970s and also runs up to 2010. It goes without saying that, as is the case with defining any study period, the limits which I have set are to some extent artificial. 1.2.

Study structure

This investigation is divided into 10 chapters, over the course of which, a number of central themes will recur. I will return repeatedly to the somewhat contradictory way in which British archaeology has often been presented (in disciplinary commentaries and critical studies) as being both in a process of rapid change, and in a state of relative inertia. I will seek constantly to make connections between the practices of archaeologists working in different professional and organisational arenas. Additionally I will elicit wherever possible, ways in which historical events have become caught up in practices involved in the production of knowledge about British prehistory. In Chapter 2 I provide a background for my research, outlining key theoretical ideas which sparked the emergence of critical studies of archaeological practice, examining some of the diverse outputs of this body of work, and explaining how I will build on these analyses. Chapter 3 outlines the multi-stranded approach which I have taken, asserting the need to use a combination of both archival and oral sources. In Chapters 4 and 5 I employ various forms of written evidence produced between 1980-2010, to create histories of recent shifts in British archaeology at a broad level, and in British prehistory in particular. By consulting different forms of archival material (records and research outputs), in Chapter 5 I am able to consider not only what changes have taken place but also how British prehistorians have drawn on these developments variously in their research. The remainder of this study focuses on evidence produced through a series of life-history interviews with British prehistorians across the discipline. In Chapter 6, I consider some methodological issues, which I argue it is essential to be aware of in using this interdisciplinary approach; in particular the need to heed the insights of researchers in oral history and the social sciences more broadly who have employed such methods extensively in their work. In Chapter 7, I introduce the life-histories of the British prehistorians I talked to, highlighting major themes which arose, observing common structuring principles, and considering the extent to which these personal accounts can be used to reflect on broader disciplinary developments. Chapters 8 and 9 explore in detail key themes which arose from these life-history narratives. In Chapter 8 I examine two ways in which

2

Chapter 2. 2.1.

Critical studies of archaeological practice, 1980-2010 which took place over this period within the social sciences, although these have certainly been highly influential in the emergence of critical studies of archaeological practices (see for example Edgeworth 2003, Jones 2002). Aspects of the latter are discussed in further detail in Chapter 6, and for this reason are not repeated here. Fourthly, I will not discuss every facet of archaeological practice which has been subject to analysis over the past 30 years. Indeed given the abundance and disparity of such accounts it would be very difficult to do so. Notably, I have not included critical studies of museum practices, of practices concerning the presentation of archaeological evidence to the ‘wider public’, or of relationships between ‘traditional’ and ‘other’ accounts of archaeological sites, all of which fall outside my main area of concern: the primary generation of knowledge about British prehistory.2

Introduction

As a background to my research, I will present an account of the emergence and outcomes of critical studies of contemporary archaeological practice over the last 30 years. I will summarise the theoretical developments in the discipline which made it relevant (and arguably necessary) to adopt a reflexive approach to archaeological knowledge production. I will outline how aspects of the research process (in particular excavation, postexcavation and writing) have subsequently been examined. In doing so I will suggest that two broad approaches have been taken in relation to this topic.1 Many of these critiques were written directly in response to the emergence of reflexive approaches to archaeology, and rely upon personal experience, literature reviews or archival research into the various practices involved. More recently there has been a growing body of studies which employ ethnographic and sociological methods in order to explore aspects of what archaeologists do, how they do it, and some of the wider implications of their work.

Ultimately, I have sought to provide an historical context which is germane – both in terms of its timeframe and its breadth – to the scope of this specific project. Additionally, the account which I present situates my research firmly in the discipline in which I, myself, practice (a point which I will return to in Chapter 6).

In addition to providing an historical context for this project my aim is to present, for the first time, an integrated narrative of recent analyses of archaeological practice. Lucas has provided already a very useful synthesis of postprocessual critiques, particularly (although not exclusively) those relating to fieldwork practices (2001a). However, such analyses have not as yet been considered alongside the closely related (but mostly more recent) ethnographic studies of archaeology. In examining these critical approaches together, I will highlight what I feel are the relative merits and limitations of this somewhat disparate body of work thus far. Finally I will consider how I can connect with and build upon these existing studies in seeking to produce my own account of recent transformations in British prehistoric research.

The emergence of critical approaches to 2.2. archaeological practice My reasons for choosing a timescale of 30 years for this historiography (starting around 1980) were defined largely by the period over which a notoriously broad theoretical movement, postprocessualism (or ‘interpretative archaeologies’ as it is alternatively called (Johnson 1999, 101)) developed in British archaeology. Since detailed histories of the emergence of postprocessual approaches have been recounted on a number of previous occasions (e.g. Johnson 1999, 2010, Trigger 2006, Whitley 1998), I will not present another version here. Rather my intention is to highlight the particular aspects of this movement which led archaeologists to appreciate that the contemporary contexts in which they undertake their research are integral to the ways in which they create knowledge about the past. By outlining these developments I am also, in effect, providing another quite different disciplinary history to sit alongside those presented later on in this study (in Chapters 4 and 5).

As with any account, the historiography I present is necessarily partial. Firstly, I will focus primarily on the emergence of critical approaches to archaeological practice in Britain, rather than also on related debates in the US (as are represented, for example, by Leone 1981, Leone et al. 1987, Pinsky and Wylie 1989, Wylie 1985). Secondly, in outlining the theoretical ideas which led to the emergence of archaeological critiques I will focus mainly on developments which have taken place over the last 30 years, whilst being aware that these are, of course, part of much longer-term theoretical movements. Thirdly, I will not consider in detail broader conceptual debates

In beginning my account at this point in time it is also worth reiterating that the emergence of this set of ideas was only possible because of the invaluable work carried 2

1

This includes all aspects of the research process carried out by archaeologists themselves from the initial inception of projects through to the publication of the results, acknowledging that this process cannot be divorced neatly from the broader spectrum of knowledge-generating practices listed above.

Acknowledging, as Wilmore has done (in Bender, et al 2007), that overall a huge range of approaches has actually been employed in the endeavour to explore social aspects of archaeological practice – both contemporary and historical. Moreover these approaches defy any form of neat categorisation.

3

PREHISTORY IN PRACTICE

negotiating between these alternative readings of the past, archaeology had a role to play in contributing to social change in the present (ibid., 31).

out by theoretical archaeologists and social theorists more broadly, particularly during the previous two decades. Archaeologists associated with the New Archaeology (subsequently processual) traditions of the 1960s and 1970s emphasised the importance of self-critical awareness in archaeology (e.g. Clarke 1968), even if many of them consequently focused their critical attention upon developing scientific methodologies which would filter out interpretative biases and allow archaeologists to generate more objective accounts of past realities. During the 1970s social theorists influenced by Marxist ideas highlighted importantly the close relationship which exists between academic discourse and contemporary political discourse (e.g. Giddens 1971). In doing so they set the scene for an archaeological questioning of the notion that understandings of the past can necessarily be divorced from the contemporary practices through which these understandings are developed. Additionally, the work of philosophers of science during the 1970s in revealing the socially constructed nature of (even) scientific data (e.g. Feyerabend 1975), was instrumental in spurring an archaeological critique of positivist epistemologies.

In making these claims, Hodder arguably turned previous understandings of self-critical awareness in archaeology on their head. Critical appraisal could no longer be invested in attempts to secure an objective knowledge of the past as many processual archaeologists had sought to. Rather, the critical eye had to be turned upon how archaeologists constructed their knowledge in the present. Interestingly, although the significance of his assertions was recognised and subsequently debated, particularly in the US (e.g. Patrik 1985, Wylie 1985), there was certainly no immediate endeavour within Britain to investigate how and why archaeologists study the past, or to develop new methodologies through which to investigate this differently conceived archaeological record. These ideas required further development before they were accepted more widely, and indeed acted upon within the discipline. In the meantime, Hodder took the opportunity to refine and expand upon his arguments, in particular using ideas from critical theory to explain how his own approach differed from those of extreme relativists. Even so doubts remained that the adjudication between different accounts of the past was undertaken ultimately by a professional (Western, upper middle-class, Anglo-Saxon male) elite that were somehow beyond criticism themselves.

Problematising the object of archaeology In fact it was in relation to difficulties arising during attempts to apply scientific methodologies to archaeological data such as those described above, that processual conceptions of the archaeological record and of the archaeological endeavour more broadly came to be challenged (e.g. Hodder and Orton 1976). Hodder (1984) was perhaps the first archaeologist to articulate this problem in Britain, asking ‘how can a scientific archaeology devoted to the testing of theories against data cope with verifying statements about ideas in prehistoric people’s heads?’ (ibid., 25).

Hodder’s concern with how present social hierarchies were embedded in understandings of the past also led him to examine some emerging alternative approaches to the past: those of indigenous groups, feminist archaeologists, and what he described as ‘working-class and other perspectives within the contemporary West’ (Hodder 1986, 157). He noted (following Trigger 1980) how processual archaeologists treated Native Americans as laboratories for the testing of general archaeological statements and how in parts of Africa, Western archaeological interpretations have been rejected entirely. He outlined how feminist archaeologists had exposed some of the gender-related assumptions embodied in many previous accounts of the past. With reference to other Western perspectives he stated, somewhat vaguely, that ‘varied alternative pasts excite and involve many individuals and groups, in relation to the changing interpretations of establishment archaeologies’ (ibid., 163).

In considering this question, he concluded that rather than being distinct from subjective interpretative practices, archaeological evidence could only ever be observed within the realms of contemporary interpretation and theory: ‘speculation and the subjective are … part of the “scientific” process’ (Hodder 1984, 28). Archaeological interpretations were therefore inseparable from the expectations and attitudes of researchers at the time they were undertaking their research. As a result, he argued, archaeologists needed to be held accountable for their representations of the past, and to consider that their accounts were neither socially neutral nor absolute. In addition Hodder suggested that the collection of archaeological data could no longer be treated as an objective practice, distinct from the subjective, theoretically informed interpretation of that material. Rather, he asserted, all archaeological practice is interpretative practice: ‘if data are seen as dependent on theory, then excavation must be valued as an interpretative experience rather than a technique. We are all theoreticians’ (ibid., 30). He suggested that not only could different, equally valid, interpretations be made of the same body of archaeological evidence, but that in

Despite the significance of Hodder’s attempts to raise awareness of these issues, he also arguably stopped short of confronting the potentially radical implications of these ideas for the discipline. The impression he gave was that it was necessary to consider and embrace alternative interpretative perspectives, and to use them to challenge the biases of Western archaeological accounts, but not to view them as a vital stimulus for drastically rethinking contemporary archaeological practice.

4

CHAPTER 2. CRITICAL STUDIES OF ARCHAEOLOGICAL PRACTICE, 1980-2010

importantly recognising that archaeological remains themselves had a role to play in the interpretative process: ‘the archaeological record itself may challenge what we say as being inadequate in one manner or another’ (ibid., 104). They emphasised the rhetorical qualities of archaeological texts in the sense that they represent a transformation of the material remains of the past into words. They pointed out the historically contingent, contextually specific and thus partial character of any archaeological narrative: ‘we suggest that archaeology should be conceived as the process of the production of textual heterogeneity which denies finality and closure; it is a suggestion that archaeologists live in a new discursive and practical relation with the past … one of ceaseless experiment, dislocation, and subversion of the notion that the past can ever be “fixed” or “tied down” by archaeologists in the present’ (ibid., 20). In addition they highlighted the exciting potential of the notion of ‘presencing’ (Heidegger 1977) the past through archaeological practice, thus confronting the possibilities of different ways of living that this encounter might engender.

Archaeology as social practice Hodder’s former students, Shanks and Tilley, were however far more robust in furthering these ideas, asserting that ‘any adequate conceptual and theoretical framework developed in studying the past must incorporate reflection upon archaeology as a professional discipline in the present. The process of gaining knowledge of the past depends on exploring the meaning, form and context of that process in the present’ (Shanks and Tilley 1987a, 2). Shanks and Tilley’s first major contribution was to undertake a radical critique of processual approaches to archaeological research, including the associated methodologies of Cultural Resource Management (or heritage management, as it is often called in Britain). In doing so, Shanks and Tilley not only pinpointed many of the limitations of these ideas and practices, but also raised some major social implications of continuing to adhere to them: ‘the task is to dismantle the great metaphysical and rhetorical structure, the architecture of discourse erected in the name of a conserved past, not in order to smash and discard the contents but in order to rescue them, reinscribe their meaning’ (ibid., 7).

Most significantly perhaps, using the works of Heidegger (1962) and Gadamer (1975), Shanks and Tilley introduced the conceptual frameworks of hermeneutics and dialectics, through which to articulate the relationship between theories, facts and archaeologists in the interpretative process. In doing so they attempted to avoid further futile discussion of the relationship between subjects and objects, and leant philosophical substance to ideas which had been developing in archaeology since the early 1980s.

More specifically, they insisted that by clinging to concepts such as phenomenalism, naturalism, scientism and empiricism and the attendant idea that theories about the past could be tested independently against an objectively defined reality, archaeologists had failed to confront many of the social, political and moral issues that had brought about an internal critique within other academic disciplines. Moreover in distinguishing between objective ‘facts’ and subjective ‘values’, they argued, processual archaeologists denied the creative acts through which the archaeological record was brought into being, and the active role of archaeologists in their encounter with this material. Turning their attentions to a critique of wider archaeological practice, they argued that while heritage management was intended to engender a sense of social value for the past, in trying to conserve archaeological remains these practices also commodified and attached value to them. They noted how a professional minority governed the protection and destruction of past remains, while the active role of other modes of archaeological encounter (e.g. metal detecting) were often shunned, and non-professionals were rendered as passive consumers: ‘[heritage management] is a practice in which a series of individuals assert a hegemonic claim to the past and organise the temporal passage of this cultural capital from its historical context to the present of spectacular preservation, display, study and interpretation’ (Shanks and Tilley 1987a, 24).

In the concept of a hermeneutic circle (or spiral as Hodder has since described it (1999)) Shanks and Tilley found an understanding of the interpretative process which situated the interpreter/archaeologist inextricably in relation to both the body of material being researched, and the specific (social and historical) context in which this research took place. This implied that researchers brought their own experiences and values to a body of evidence and reworked these pre-conceptions through their engagement with that material. Using this concept, Shanks and Tilley were also able to emphasise the partial and momentary character of any understanding of a body of evidence. Any interpretation is historically specific and once constructed may be subject to reanalysis. As a result, interpretations of the past are potentially multiple and shifting and the challenge for archaeologists is to choose between them. Shanks and Tilley also used the concept of hermeneutics to emphasise the complexity of the interpretative endeavour in archaeology, arguing that this required archaeologists to develop similarly sophisticated theoretical structures through which to understand the past. While scientists, sociologists and anthropologists worked with single, double and triple hermeneutics respectively, they suggested that the hermeneutic in archaeology was fourfold. As interpreters, archaeologists practice in relation to their contemporary discipline, as active participants in broader society, in trying to understand cultures with entirely different

In addition to their radical critique of earlier and ongoing archaeological approaches, Shanks and Tilley developed a positive and more nuanced understanding of the social and constructive character of archaeological practice in Britain, drawing on ideas from continental philosophy. They stressed the role of the author/archaeologist in the present in their endeavour to recreate the past, while 5

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archaeological writing. Many of these early accounts also addressed a perceived rift between archaeological theory/academia and archaeological practice/fieldwork (Hodder 1989). Each of these studies adhered to Shank and Tilley’s basic idea that textual production is a transformative practice, linking archaeologists to artefacts, the contexts from which they are derived and an audience (1987a). However these analyses have otherwise been diverse, both in tone and in the particular aspects of archaeological writing they have chosen to examine.

frames of meaning, and as mediators between past and present. According to their forceful vision of archaeology as a social, constructive and interpretative practice, Shanks and Tilley set forth a manifesto for the future of archaeology, insisting that it must become reflexive and consider its own working practices in the present as much as it does the past: ‘a critical archaeology is both reflexive (critical of itself) and critical of the past. It aims to explain meanings and ideologies by disclosing the social conditions, social relations, interests and structures from which they arise’ (1987a, 114). In exposing what they saw as the fallacy of striving to achieve an objective knowledge of the past, and revealing the inherently social and political dimensions of current archaeological knowledge production, Shanks and Tilley arguably succeeded where Hodder had faltered. They made the critical analysis of contemporary archaeological practice not only an interesting topic for consideration but also an imperative of any archaeological project.

Shanks and Tilley themselves (1987b) presented a damning analysis of a spectrum of (what had previously been seen as exemplary) archaeological texts including an excavation report (Wainwright 1979), a specialist report (Gibson 1982), a work of synthesis (Champion et al. 1984) and an introductory account (Greene 1983). These texts were criticised respectively for their ‘extraordinary redundancy of detail’ (Shanks and Tilley 1987b, 16), their uncritical employment of various categories and concepts, and their presentation of the history of archaeology as if little had changed in terms of its basic objectives and attitudes since the eighteenth century.

Shanks and Tilley’s work certainly played a prominent role in sparking a widespread critical review of archaeological practice. In addition to publishing two major volumes (1987a, 1987b), their ideas were hotly debated in a Theoretical Archaeology Group (TAG) conference session in Sheffield 1988 where it was argued that ‘if archaeology is to survive … the suspicion that archaeology cannot achieve a total and impartial account of past events needs to be kept from government ears’ (Baker and Thomas 1990, 5). However, it is important to recognise that their work formed only part of a much wider movement to embrace post-structuralist thought in archaeology at that time. The latter was the topic of a major and controversial seminar held in Cambridge 1988, the posters for which were vandalised at a number of universities, presumably in anger about the fact that these ideas were even being considered (ibid.). 2.3.

Hodder offered a less destructive, historical approach in his critique of site reports (1989). Pitching the account at a general level (rather than commenting on particular works) he criticised site reports for their presentation of data as self-evident, their failure to recognise the collective nature of their production, and their quelling of the debate, uncertainty or dialogue which are imperative to the research process. He argued that this was not simply a product of their authors’ desire to appear scientific and objective; 19th century site reports (often written as letters) had similar aims, and yet were personalised, fixed in time and place, and often included debate, dialogue and controversy within their narratives. Rather, Hodder suggested, the format of site reports was in part the product of disciplinary changes over the duration of the 20th century.3 In response, he called for the return of first person narratives, detailed accounts of the process of discovery, and reference to the relationships through which the site was interpreted: ‘the disagreements should spill over into the text so that the reader can insert herself into a process of argument rather than having to consume pre-packaged, supposedly neutral fare’ (Hodder 1989, 273).

Critiques of archaeological practices

Before outlining some of the critiques of archaeological practices which grew out of the broad postprocessual movement, it is worth commenting briefly about how I have organised my account. Since these critical studies tend to focus upon specific aspects of the research process – writing, excavation, or post-excavation – I have grouped my analysis accordingly. It is important to stress that in presenting my account in this way I do not wish to suggest that these categories are necessarily self-evident or entirely distinct, as will hopefully become clear (see for example Jones 2002, Lucas 2001a).

Other critiques of archaeological writing adopted a more positive if also abstract approach, outlining ways in which textual production could be made more exciting, rather than focusing directly on the failures and assumptions which persisted. Thomas (1990) used Ricoeur’s (1984) three tropes of historical writing – Same, Other, Analogue – to demonstrate some limitations of current archaeological texts, and raise alternatives for

Writing Given that many of the ideas leading to the emergence of critical approaches to archaeology were derived from literary criticism, it is perhaps unsurprising that some of the earliest postprocessual critiques were directed at

3

In relation to this point, Bradley (2006b) has suggested that Wheeler’s ‘literary models’ (e.g. 1924, 1943) can be viewed as occupying a transitional position in this shift in the mode of site reportage.

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critiques. Meanwhile other fieldwork methodologies (for example survey) have received little consideration (Bradley 2003). Critiques of excavation are united in their assertion that the collection of data can no longer be separated from the wider interpretative enterprise in archaeology. Some have also tried to address the related issue that the vast majority of fieldwork in Britain is still undertaken using strategies and methodologies which were developed originally according to the understanding that it was actually possible to achieve an objective record of past realities.6 Interestingly a broader range of archaeologists has been involved in the analysis of this aspect of archaeological practice, not least because its implications are more wide-ranging: it has invited contributions from academics, fieldworkers, and even (though to a lesser extent) heritage managers.

how the past could be written. Ultimately, he suggested, it is most productive to write the past as Analogue: ‘a history written as Analogue is a story written in the present which weaves together the traces of the past in a web of rationalisation’ (Thomas 1990, 20). As well as extending these arguments, recent appraisals of archaeological writing have commented commonly upon archaeologists’ failure to respond to the initial critiques of this aspect of the research process. Pleuciennik asserted that most archaeologists had continued to ignore the problems of authorship and failed to explore alternative forms of representing the past (1999). Bradley commented on the highly repetitive character of the structure of archaeological site reports over a very considerable time period, arguing that ‘like a folk tale or three act play, the excavation report has become a literary genre, a conventional kind of writing to which most authors conform’ (Bradley 2006b, 664). Lucas noted that the scope of such critiques should extend beyond published accounts; the production of narratives begins from the moment that archaeological remains are inscribed on site in notebooks and context sheets (2001a). Along with Hodder (1999) he observed that computer technology was transforming both narrative production and the study of the past more widely. Lucas also raised the key point (following papers in Molyneaux 1997) that it is impossible to divorce the production of texts from that of images (both photographed and drawn) in archaeology; both are vital to the transformative processes through which archaeologists materialise their data.4

Once again, Tilley (1989) levelled the earliest (and most extreme) examination of excavation and heritage management more widely. He called for the demolition of the ongoing divisions between ‘research’ and ‘rescue’ archaeology and a rethinking of why archaeologists excavate at all (ibid., 25). He argued that too much effort was invested in the mechanics of recovering archaeological remains, while there was little consideration of what all this information meant. As a result, he suggested, ‘rescue’ excavations had produced a huge amount of archaeological data but a relative paucity of published material. He blamed this on the continuing assumption that data could be recovered, and then set aside for future academic research. As Lucas has subsequently pointed out, Tilley’s overriding message was that archaeologists needed to stop and consider more fully the role of excavation in archaeology, so that it could be reconceived as an instrumental part of the interpretative process (2001a).

The overarching message of these critiques is that archaeological writing (and image production) continues to be conservative, impersonal and (to put it bluntly) boring.5 Archaeologists need to accept that their writing is neither neutral nor definitive, give greater recognition to its multiple authorship, explore other ways of telling, and be more critical of the categories they employ, more selective in the description they include, and more revealing of the difference of the past.

In the interim, the problems Tilley described were exacerbated by the implementation of new government legislation (PPG16). This placed the organisation of most archaeological fieldwork in Britain in the hands of the state (and of heritage managers in particular), while transferring the responsibility for funding this work to developers, whose desires to construct were ultimately its raison d’etre. Some of the key details and impacts of PPG16 are discussed in more detail in Chapters 4 and 5. However, it is sufficient here to point out that this legislation initiated a massive increase in the number of sites being investigated (and thus the amount of evidence produced), and effectively made developers (rather than academics, or even the state) the primary ‘consumers’ of archaeology (e.g. Lawson 2006).

Fieldwork The emphasis of critical studies of fieldwork has mainly been on developing new reflexive methodologies, rather than on problematising current practices. Excavation practices have formed the primary focus for such 4

See Smiles and Moser (2005) for an overview of recent critical considerations of the uses of imagery in archaeology. 5 It is worth noting that since many of these studies were published, the directors of key projects which have adopted reflexive fieldwork methodologies (see below) have taken a more experimental approach to publishing information about these sites (e.g. Bender et al 2007, Dural 2007, Framework Archaeology 2006, Hodder 2005). However these examples are notable exceptions, as is the work of Edmonds who has attempted concertedly over the last ten years to experiment with different ways of representing the past in words, images and sound (e.g. 1999).

It was in this context that a number of attempts were made, through both developer-funded and research projects, to build on earlier critiques of fieldwork, and to develop new reflexive fieldwork methodologies (e.g. 6

It is worth stating that very few contemporary practitioners (archaeological curators, fieldworkers, etc.) would agree with such conceptions of the archaeological record.

7

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management strategies, etc.) through which archaeological data are transformed, for example they called for the inclusion of subjective experiences of excavation on record sheets (rather than in site diaries as Hodder 2000 suggested). Andrews et al. emphasised instead the importance of making ‘historical’ (as well as ‘observational’) interpretations at the point of recording, rather than deferring this aspect of the interpretative process until later on, as they suggest Hodder’s approach at Çatalhöyük allows (2000, 526). They also employed an innovative digital recording system in order to facilitate this process.

Adams and Brooke 1995, Andrews et al. 2000, Bender et al. 1997, 2007, Chadwick 1998, 2003, Framework Archaeology 2006, Hodder 1997, 1999, Tilley et al. 2000, Woodward and Hughes 1998). These approaches differ in the contexts in which they were (and continue to be) developed and in the emphasis they place on developing different aspects of excavation. However, they share the aims to bridge the ongoing divide between data collection and interpretation, to emphasise the collaborative nature of archaeological fieldwork, to incorporate the contextually specific experiences of fieldwork into site-based narratives (thus empowering the archaeologists whom enact this labour), and to move on from the somewhat rigid, linear conceptions of fieldwork frequently endorsed in site manuals and management documents (DoE 1975, EH 1991b).7

Alongside the emergence of reflexive excavation methodologies, others focused their efforts on challenging some of the fundamental principles embedded in contemporary fieldwork practices, and on developing concepts through which to integrate excavation more fully within the interpretative process. Shanks and McGuire introduced the idea of archaeological practice as craft (1996): ‘craft involves a rediscovery of subjugated knowledge, the recovery of practices made marginal in the rational organization of productive routines’ (ibid., 78). By conceiving their work in this way, they argued, archaeologists across the discipline could be united in their endeavour to serve a wider community of clients (government, academy, local historians, indigenous peoples etc.).

Hodder has developed the most holistic of such methodologies in the context of an ongoing international research project at Çatalhöyük, Turkey (e.g. Hodder 1997, 1999, 2000, 2005). Perhaps most famously, by coining the phrase ‘interpretation at the trowel’s edge’ (1997, 693) he has sought to emphasise that analysis penetrates the entire research process. He has attempted to reconfigure traditional categories of analysis (e.g. pottery) by introducing new ‘objects’ of study (e.g. rubbish); to avoid the fragmentation of excavated data into various potential specialisms by commissioning an integrated site database; and to dissolve archaeologists’ hegemony over their evidence by publishing the entire database on a website. By attempting to process finds on site, and encouraging closer communication between specialists and excavators, Hodder has – in theory at least – developed a system of information feedback (rather than a linear process of excavation, finds analysis, then synthesis) in order to speed up the hermeneutic spiral. In addition he has introduced various means of documenting the interpretative process as a way of facilitating further review. Excavators are asked to include information such as the degree of certainty attributed to interpretative decisions or the specific circumstances of excavation in site diaries, anthropologists are employed to observe the practices and relationships of archaeologists on site, and videos are made of discussions between excavators and specialists.

In an examination of the categories and conceptual frameworks through which archaeological knowledge is created, Lucas revealed how many elements of contemporary fieldwork practice (the separation of data collection from interpretation, the existence of distinct specialisms etc.) were crystallised over the history of the profession rather than being outcome of any one period or approach to the past (2001a). He also addressed some of the political dimensions of archaeological knowledge production, clarifying issues that were implicit in attempts to develop reflexive fieldwork methodologies. For instance, he highlighted how divisions between ‘fieldworkers’ and an ‘intellectual elite’ had been part of archaeology since its onset when academics relied on collectors to retrieve the materials they studied. He suggested that while a workforce of skilled professionals had replaced one of unskilled labourers over the duration of the twentieth century, the role of fieldworkers in creating archaeological narratives was still scarcely acknowledged: ‘archaeology is a practice we do with others, perhaps in fieldwork particularly, and there is a violence which accompanies this when people are silenced in the name of representation, the production of knowledge’ (Lucas 2001a, 13). Interestingly, while some postprocessual methodologists saw site records as a locus in which to fix the situated thoughts of individual excavators, Lucas raised the idea that these conventions were also instruments through which the interpretative output of fieldworkers was disciplined and homogenised.

Under the very different conditions of developer-funded excavation in Britain, several other reflexive fieldwork methodologies emerged over broadly the same period. While these developed initially independently of Hodder’s work (e.g. Adams and Brooke 1995), several of the more recent examples have been developed explicitly in relation to it (see Chadwick 2003 for a recent review). Adams and Brooke (1995) and Chadwick (1998) created and endorsed (respectively) what they perceived to be ‘bottom up’ methodologies focusing primarily on rethinking the structures (context sheets, matrices,

In a related study, Lucas examined how the concept of excavation as a destructive practice was entrenched in both historical accounts of archaeological practice and the

7

A full list of the abbreviations used throughout this study is presented in Appendix 1

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chronic ‘publication crisis’ in British archaeology (Jones et al. 1999), this aspect of the research process has eluded critical attention until fairly recently. In the only substantial attempt to address this oversight, Jones (2002) was primarily interested in why interpretative archaeologists rejected positivist science as an explanatory framework, yet continued to rely on data produced through scientific studies of archaeological materials (C14 dates, thin-section analyses of pottery, etc.) as if it was unproblematic. However he saw postexcavation as the appropriate context in which to explore this question – it being the realm in which most archaeological scientists operate – and also an area of archaeology that had not previously been subject to critical scrutiny: ‘post-excavation practices remain untheorised and incoherent; [they are] simply a stage between the tasks of excavation and publication’ (ibid., 46).

contemporary legislation/strategies through which fieldwork is enacted (2001b).8 He pointed out some negative implications of continuing to adhere to this notion: the mere existence of archaeological remains is given priority over what they mean, and the act of recording these remains is theorised over and above that of physically encountering them. In addition, he argued, unhelpful oppositions are created between archaeological remains as a resource (finite, sustainable, non-renewable) for archaeologists but a contaminant for developers, and between passive/objective archaeological remains and destructive/subjective archaeologists. In its place, Lucas presented a more constructive concept through which to understand the excavation and archiving of archaeological remains, and to bridge existing divisions between archaeologists/developers and fieldworkers/academics: that of excavation as a materialising practice – ‘in excavating a site or a feature, we do not annihilate matter, it does not vaporise or disappear – it is merely displaced’ (2001b, 40). While he accepted that excavation is often unique and irrevocable, he argued that through this intervention, past remains were discovered, created, transformed and displaced into different material forms (finds, drawings, photos, record sheets) rather than being destroyed. He also highlighted the primacy of excavation in the interpretative process, emphasising that the way in which a site is materialised (sections cut, finds selected, plans drawn) has implications for all subsequent analyses and interpretations, creates an iterative basis for further investigation, and is the only form in which the vast majority of people (archaeologists or otherwise) actually encounter a site.

Rather than seeing the interpretative process as a linear one, Jones suggested that it was better viewed as an explosion, characterised by fragmentation and hierarchy. While excavation transforms sites from their pristine states to dispersed and decontextualised assemblages of drawings, record sheets, artefacts and samples, in postexcavation selected items are further dispersed to specialists and scientists, before the findings are drawn together and overall interpretations made. In this manner, he suggested, layers of analyses are built up into an ultimate representation of the site which is highly abstracted and incoherent because each piece of knowledge is produced under a different regime of expectations and judgements. He highlighted further problems in the way that this system operates. The people who collate interpreted information may have had little primary engagement with the site itself. Contextual information from the site is rarely provided for archaeological specialists and scientists, so there is little potential for interpretative dialogue. Moreover specialist reports are often split into different sections of published reports, limiting the potential for discovering connections between different materials, and ultimately foreclosing avenues for further research.

Overall, postprocessual critiques of fieldwork have raised awareness of the important role that excavation and excavators play in the interpretative process. They have highlighted limitations in the organisational structures through which excavation takes place and problems with the way that excavation is perceived which affect fundamentally our understanding of the past. They have also introduced new concepts and methods through which to address these problems. It is therefore interesting that many recent critiques suggest that the separation of data collection and interpretation persists in practice, that new methodologies have had little impact, and that fieldwork requires further theoretical consideration (Chadwick 2003, Hodder 1999, Lucas 2001a).

He suggested that the failure to challenge this system could be explained in part by a continuing desire among archaeologists to create objective representations of archaeological sites/materials. Consequently, he urged archaeologists in different arenas to consider the different scales at which their interpretations operate, so that those generated at a human-scale could be integrated with the more abstract findings of micro-scale scientific analysis. Jones proposed that this might be achieved by searching for ‘boundary objects’ (Star and Greisemer 1989), entities that remain consistent while the data and alliances around them change: ‘such boundary objects … allow distinct groups of people, in our case materials, scientists and interpretative archaeologists, to find some form of bridging device that provides some consistency of purpose and interpretation in what are otherwise distinct and contradictory projects’ (2002, 75).

Post-excavation Despite the facts that post-excavation takes place over a much longer time period than excavation, and that failures in this area have been seen to contribute to a 8

Interestingly subsequent revisions of this legislation – Planning Policy Statement 5: Planning for the Historic Environment (2010) and the National Planning Policy Framework (2012) – retain this philosophy (although the latter to a lesser extent).

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2.4. Ethnographic practice

studies

of

of earlier postprocessual critiques. The main focus of such analyses has been on excavation practices, although two studies have ventured into the realm of postexcavation (Holtorf 2002, Yarrow 2006b), and one examined the operation of a broad archaeological sector – commercial archaeology – albeit one in which the primary activity is excavation (Everill 2009). With only three exceptions (Edgeworth 2003, Everill 2009, Yarrow 2003), all ethnographic and sociological studies of archaeological practices have been undertaken on research projects, most of which took place abroad. Consequently, the activities of practitioners in many other realms of archaeological practice in Britain – in county councils, university offices, government bodies etc. – have not been subject to ethnographic enquiry. A range of methodologies have been employed; most involve a combination of participant observation, interviews and questionnaires.

archaeological

In addressing recent ethnographic studies of archaeological practice it is important to outline how I have defined the parameters of this body of work. As a number of recent accounts have highlighted (e.g. Edgeworth 2006, Hamilakis and Anagnostopoulos 2009a, Hollowell and Mortensen 2009) ‘archaeological ethnography’ has emerged from a number of different sources, and has become increasingly popular in recent years. Some have even suggested that this amounts to the enactment of an ‘ethnographic turn’ within archaeology (Castañeda 2009). Broadly speaking, such studies have developed in relation to postprocessual understandings of archaeology as a social practice (see above) and/or to the insights of anthropological or sociological studies of scientific practice (e.g. Latour and Woolgar 1979). They have been undertaken by archaeologists and anthropologists, both independently and through the initiative of project directors. Unsurprisingly since its growth as an arena of enquiry, the parameters of ‘archaeological ethnography’ have also been expanded and reshaped. Many of the earlier studies relating to this movement focused on archaeological practices themselves. However more recently the focus of ‘archaeological ethnographies’ has shifted increasingly towards exploring relationships between traditional and other accounts of archaeological sites and materials, or as Hamilakis and Anagnostopoulos put it, between ‘modernist official archaeology’ and ‘alternative archaeologies’ (2009a, 71).

Before examining some of these accounts, I will outline briefly some of the reasons that have been given for undertaking ethnographic and sociological studies of archaeological practice. I do so because I feel that it is important that the employment of such methodologies is not seen as self-evident. Influenced by Bourdieu’s ‘theory of practice’ (1977), Edgeworth hoped that by standing outside the everyday practice of archaeology (as ‘an anthropologist’) it would be possible to make the routines of excavation seem surprising, extraordinary, even unfamiliar (2003). He raised the idea that ethnographies of archaeology had the potential to put archaeologists on the same footing as other human cultures, as ‘objects’ of study. Ultimately, however, he hoped that such approaches would deepen understandings of the human past. Others have imagined ethnography as a way of investigating what archaeologists do rather than what they say they do (Holtorf 2002), of raising the profile of archaeological practice as a topic of empirical study (Gero 1996) or of comparing/juxtaposing different versions of particular practices (Wilmore 2006). Yarrow (2006b) added that such approaches allow complex human phenomena to be revealed through a process of selecting and simplifying ethnographic data, just as archaeologists render past humanities by selecting and manipulating certain aspects of their material remains. Meanwhile Hamilakis and Anagnostopoulos (2009a) contended that the use of ethnographic methods in archaeological projects allows researchers to explore (amongst other things) the politics of archaeological practice.

My intention here is not to summarise all such analyses: a recent flurry of edited volumes has tackled this feat very well (Castañeda and Matthews 2009, Edgeworth 2006, Hamilakis and Anagnostopoulos 2009b, Mortensen and Hollowell 2009). Rather, I will focus primarily on studies which have striven specifically to illuminate aspects of archaeological practice as it is undertaken by archaeologists. It is also important to note that this includes both ‘ethnographic’ and ‘sociological’ investigations of archaeological practice, since in many ways the distinction between the two is ill-defined. This is particularly the case given that those who have undertaken ‘sociological’ studies have without exception employed ethnographic methods in their research, and have not explained how they distinguish their approaches from those described as being ‘ethnographic’. At a broad level, however, while ‘ethnographic’ studies of archaeological practice have focused primarily on social aspects of knowledge production, studies which are described as being ‘sociological’ have generally set out to examine the ‘social context’ of archaeological practices, attempting to keep in view but also moving the focus away from the activities directly involved in knowledge production.

The anthropological viewpoint has also been seen as a valuable tool of reflexive research. Accordingly, ethnographies have been employed more pragmatically as a means of assessing the effectiveness of reflexive excavation methodologies, and informing their future development (e.g. Bartu 2000, Hamilton 2000). In this context, the role of the ethnographer has typically been ‘to try to expose some of the assumptions we [archaeologists] were making, some of the contradictions

Overall a number of similarities can be drawn between these studies. The vast majority of them have investigated physical and social qualities of archaeological practice, thus shifting emphasis away from the textual orientation 10

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undertake ethnographic studies of their excavation practices. Meanwhile on the rare occasions on which anthropologists have elected independently to study archaeological practices, it is important to ask why they do so, and how they perceive that archaeological practice can inform their anthropological understandings (Garrow and Yarrow 2010). Again, these are issues which I will return to in Chapter 6 where I discuss aspects of my own (anthropologically-informed) methodology in more detail.

we were not facing and some of the potential for further interpretation’ (Hodder 1999, 97). Interestingly, however, there has been very little scrutiny of the use of ethnographic methodologies per se for the study of archaeological practice (although Lucas 2001a, 15, does comment briefly on the limitations of their findings thus far). It is possible that such work is still not widely known about in archaeology, or that the employment of ethnographic methodologies in itself is seen as relatively unproblematic. It is also feasible that in attempting to define a new research arena archaeological ethnography’s main proponents have overlooked some of the potential complexities involved in adopting this methodology. Additionally, it is worth pointing out that if archaeologists have rather straightforwardly assumed that adopting an anthropological technique will help them to understand better their own practices, very few anthropologists have even attempted to consider how archaeological methods might help them to reconfigure their own practices (see Garrow and Yarrow 2010 for a further discussion of this issue). Indeed I will discuss these topics in further detail in Chapter 6.

Archaeologists as ethnographers As the first in-depth ethnography of archaeology, Edgeworth’s work, which is ultimately based on his doctoral research carried out in 1989-91, was innovative and deserves special attention (Edgeworth 1990, 2003, 2006). It was in many respects ahead of its time, and raised issues that have been revisited in subsequent critiques and ethnographies of archaeology. The fact that it was undertaken on a development-related excavation (rather than on a research project) is also unusual amongst existing ethnographic studies of fieldwork practices. Edgeworth explicitly distanced himself from postprocessual notions of archaeological practice (in particular the conception of the archaeological record as text). Instead he preferred to align his work with ideas derived from philosophy and the anthropology of science.

Ethnographic studies of excavation I have chosen to organise this account of ethnographies of excavation according to the broad disciplinary background from which the ethnographer concerned comes; i.e. if they are an archaeologist, or an anthropologist. In doing so I accept that these groups are neither neatly defined nor self-evident. I am also aware of Hamilakis and Anagnostopoulos’ argument (2009a, 82) that the specific background of the ethnographer is less important than their ‘competence’ (achieved through scholarly and life experiences, sensibilities, ethical and political stances and convictions). In adopting this structure, however, I hope to highlight importantly how the ethnographers’ disciplinary context is clearly implicated in the approaches they have adopted, and in the insights they have gained from their studies.

Edgeworth focused specifically on archaeologists’ practical encounter with material remains in what he described as the ‘act of discovery’ (2003, 25). Rather than using a textual metaphor for these remains he perceived of them as a ‘raw material’ (ibid., 7) which archaeologists transformed into various media for future interpretation. He set out to examine not only how archaeologists shaped these remains but also how both (archaeologists and remains) were altered through this engagement: ‘the raw material – at once PLIABLE and RESISTANT – constrains the form of the knowledge which is fashioned from it’ (ibid., 7, original emphasis). During this encounter, he argued, understandings of the past were formed through ‘analogies-in-action’, grounded in bodily movement and perception. For example, interpretations relating to a possible cremation burial were built through an understanding of how a body was cremated, and what the effects might be. He also introduced the notion of excavation as a craft, comprising both ‘material transactions’, in which materials are made archaeologically significant, and ‘acts of inscription’, through which these materials are fixed as texts and images (ibid., 29). In doing so he arguably foretold both Shanks and McGuires’ conception of archaeology as craft (1996), and Lucas’s vision of excavation as a materialising practice (2001b).

Most archaeologists who have acted as ethnographers on excavations have ultimately intended to inform future archaeological understandings. On such occasions the archaeologist-ethnographer is often very familiar with the practices they observe. Consequently, in line with traditional understandings of the anthropologists position vis a vis those whom they research (e.g. Gupta and Ferguson 1997, 17), they commonly cite the requirement which they feel to ‘step back’ from or ‘unlearn’ their previous experiences of this work in order to acquire a distanced, analytical stance. It has been noted on several occasions (e.g. Edgeworth 2006) that this scenario is somewhat awkward: as an ethnographer, the archaeologist may ask questions that seem entirely obvious or self-evident to their colleagues, thus to a certain extent they undermine their archaeological status. By contrast, it is this very position of (relative) detachment and unfamiliarity that has been sought by archaeologists who have employed anthropologists to

In examining how archaeologists transformed material remains into textual objects, Edgeworth described how finds were numbered, bagged and labelled, and interfaces between layers of soil became lines on permatrace. He viewed such ‘acts of inscription’ as points of closure: ‘a 11

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process when viewed over this extended period. For example, how interpretations shifted, were sometimes revised or even undone, how conflicts of interpretation arose, how inexperience and lack of confidence led excavators to defer decision-making and thus place this responsibility in the hands of specialists or senior team members, and how, although archaeologists were often perceived to work carefully and with precision, much of the analytical process actually involved ‘split-second decisions based on established routines and old habits, partly carried out by non-specialists’ (ibid., 56).

kind of threshold, through which material remains must pass if they are to achieve the transition into (textual) data and thereby gain entry into the theoretical and analytical domain’ (ibid., 94). In this way, he suggested, archaeological conventions (context sheets, plans etc.) came to form a ‘textual grid’ that structured and assembled interpretations made on site, as well as providing points of connection with a wider research community. Again this could be said to presage arguments made in subsequent postprocessual critiques that archaeologists create or materialise an iterative body of evidence or ‘scientific laboratory’ in the form of an archive (Jones 2002, Lucas 2001b). In foregrounding the ‘act of discovery’, Edgeworth also clearly sought to assert the primacy of excavation in the interpretative process. During subsequent analysis, he argued, ‘increased theoretical understanding is gained at the cost of placing a distance between ourselves and the object of analysis’ (2003, 112).

Most recently, Everill has somewhat reconfigured the parameters of this body of work through his doctoral research into British commercial archaeology (2009). Drawing on what he termed sociological methods (although he also used the ethnographic method of participant observation), Everill attempted to examine the practices of a broad archaeological sector rather than of those enacted on one specific site. Thus his work operates at a very different level to the vast majority of ethnographic studies of archaeological practice. As well as providing a history of the emergence of commercial archaeology in Britain and describing its broad social make-up, Everill outlined how commercial archaeologists perceived this arena – principally as being ‘in crisis’, ‘poorly organised’ and ‘under-valued’ (particularly relative to the academic arena). He examined the career paths of commercial archaeologists, describing how they were characterised by dedication and self-sacrifice (2009, 144). On the basis of ethnographic observations made on one particular site he commented on the operation of site hierarchies, on the various hardships involved in the work, and on the importance of the personal relationships or ‘camaraderie’ which was built between excavation team members (ibid., 169). In conclusion he made a number of recommendations in order ‘to ensure the future of the discipline’, calling primarily for improvements to be made in the training, pay, and conditions of commercial archaeologists (ibid., 205-7).

A number of archaeologists have since undertaken ethnographic studies in the context of research excavations (e.g. Bateman 2006, Gero 1996, Holtorf 2002, 2006, Roveland 2006, Van Reybrouck and Jacobs 2006), augmenting several of the issues raised by Edgeworth. Gero (1996) sought to examine further the preunderstandings which archaeologists bring to their work, in particular relating to gender issues: ‘I want to insist that the embedded implicit, shared background assumptions, language use, technical know-how, and practical skills that underpin the social, interactive activity of archaeology are themselves a distorting or at least a contextualising context’ (ibid., 258). She argued that the male excavators she observed were more flamboyant and assured in making their evidence visible (sculpting pedestals for finds, defining ambiguous stains in the soil etc.) than their female co-workers, and thus more likely to be noticed/empowered by senior team members. This led her, somewhat uncritically (see below for further comments) to the conclusion that, ‘accepted practice conforms to a masculinist style of research and produces masculinist data which invites thinking about how to proceed with less gender-exclusive, more embracing cognitive values’ (ibid., 252).

Anthropologists as ethnographers Where ethnography has been employed as part of reflexive excavation methodologies, project directors have generally encouraged anthropologists to undertake this work. In addition to revealing some of the complexities involved in adopting reflexive methodologies, these studies have raised insights of relevance to the wider interpretative process.

Holtorf (2002, 2006) conducted his fieldwork over several seasons on a research excavation at Monte Polizzo, Sicily. His earlier study, in which he followed the life-history of a pottery sherd from the moment of its discovery through to storage, is of particular relevance here. He attempted to demonstrate how ‘the material identities ascribed to things are not their essential properties but the results of specific relationships of people and things: their very materiality is potentially multiple and has a history’ (2002, 49). As well as repeating several points made previously by Edgeworth with regards to excavation, he took his analysis further, describing how during post-excavation the sherd was characterised, described and incorporated in a database. In doing so, he noted the malleability of the interpretative

On the international research project at Çatalhöyük, Turkey, Hamilton (2000) focused on the ‘faultlines’ (or tensions) arising between different groups within the research team at Çatalhöyük. She noted how excavators from different backgrounds (academics and professional fieldworkers) approached their work in different ways, and suggested that this had consequences for their how they engaged with new methodologies and built relationships with other team members (e.g. specialists). She also identified several other agents that influenced 12

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76). Meanwhile Latour, amongst others, has argued that qualities such as ‘subjectivity’ and ‘objectivity’ should not be seen as ontologically distinct, but can only be acquired through interactions between human and nonhuman ‘actants’ (1999). As a result, rather than assuming that such qualities exist in advance, inquiry should focus on exactly how they are rendered in practice, and on trying to untangle the relationships between them. Yarrow uses such understandings as a conduit for helping him to think about familiar practices (such as archaeology) in unfamiliar ways.9 His work also usefully threads together a number of ideas derived from earlier critical and ethnographic studies of archaeological practice.

the interpretative process, for example how funding bodies both encouraged and at times constrained the employment of reflexive methodologies, and how databases both facilitated but also fixed and structured interpretative possibilities. In the rather different context of the reflexive fieldwork project at Leskernick, Cornwall (see Chapters 10-11 of Bender et al. 2007, together with Wilmore 2006) Wilmore (an anthropologist by training although he described his study as sociological) explored the interrelationships between the personal biographies of team members and how they went about their archaeological work (Bender et al. 2007, 240). In an initial paper (2006), he attributed team members’ differential willingness to engage with reflexive methodologies to the fact that they found it difficult to disengage from the disciplinary hierarchies and practices they expected and were used to. He suggested that this difficulty reflected a tension between the creative potential of fieldwork and peoples’ desire to act professionally (2006, 23). In the later site monograph Wilmore explored further the qualities of the social relationships which were built over the duration of the project. He highlighted for instance how certain social imbalances (between ‘academics’ and ‘students’) were in some ways collapsed in this context, while others (between ‘diggers’ and ‘surveyors’) became evident, despite the fact that there was actually considerable continuity between the practices these groups were engaged in (Bender et al. 2007, 257). He also explored what he described as the liminal qualities of the fieldwork project, observing participants’ feelings of separation from the ‘normal’ world (ibid., 262), and describing how they were transformed (in terms of their identity and academic status) through their engagement in the project (ibid., 272).

In two separate papers (2003, 2006c), Yarrow explored ways in which archaeologists, and others associated with excavation projects shape and are shaped by their engagement with the materials they study. He thus attempted to blur the distinctions postprocessual critiques had made between subjects and objects/people and things. Focusing on the excavation team itself, he observed how archaeologists objectify their evidence, using systems that create equivalence between their actions. In this light, archaeological conventions (context sheets, plans etc.) can be viewed not only as mechanisms of closure (Edgeworth 2003), as controlling and homogenising excavators’ actions (Lucas 2001b), or as raising distinctions between people (Gero 1996), but also (and more importantly) as devices which enhance archaeologists’ capacities to make artefacts, features and sites archaeologically visible, and to manipulate this evidence in different ways. Conversely, he examined how excavators’ actions were modified by the material forms they encountered, suggesting that during moments when a site’s material properties resist interpretation (for example in negotiating the edge of a feature) ‘it appears unclear where the subjectivity of the excavator ends and the objectivity of the site begins’ (Yarrow 2003, 69).

Perhaps unsurprisingly, only on very few occasions have anthropologists sought independently to study archaeological practices (Goodwin 1994, 2003, 2006, Yarrow 2003, 2006b, 2006c). Far from being encouraged by the project director, Yarrow describes the cynicism his ideas were met with on arrival at the Mesolithic site of Star Carr, North Yorkshire (Thomas Yarrow pers. comm.). Nevertheless, his accounts of the excavations both there, and to a more limited extent on a developerfunded project at Kilverstone, Norfolk, are perhaps the most adept of all those presented here in eliciting both the strangeness and the complexity of the practices through which archaeologists create, situate themselves in relation to, and are created by the materials they study.

Taking a slightly different direction, Yarrow questioned the relationship between scale and perspective in archaeology by examining the recording methodologies employed during an excavation. Rather than repeating the observations made previously on broadly the same topic by Edgeworth (2003) and Holtorf (2002) he presented these practices as a sequence of simplifications and substitutions, whereby at each stage new relationships and complexities were engendered, while others were obscured. In this light, the removal, labelling, bagging, and replacement of a worked flint with a tag, detached the flint from its original soil context, while allowing other artefacts to be uncovered and viewed in relation to it.

Yarrow’s work builds on relational models of sociality developed by anthropologists working in Melanesia (e.g. Strathern 1988, 1991), and on understandings of the relations between people and things developed by actor network theorists (in particular Latour 1987a, 1999). Relational models of sociality have raised the idea that in Melanesia at least, no clear distinction is made between ‘individuals’ and ‘society’ or between peoples’ ‘bodies’ and the ‘relationships’ they engage in (Strathern 1991,

9

Note here that, despite operating as an ‘anthropologist’ rather than an ‘archaeologist’ Yarrow still saw archaeology as a ‘familiar’ practice, viewing it as he did relative to the ‘unfamiliarity’ of non-Western practices. This is interesting in that elsewhere, as noted above, anthropologists have been employed to conduct ethnographic studies of archaeological practices at least in part because of their ‘unfamiliarity’ with the practices concerned.

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realm of excavation at least. More recently, however, the authors of such critiques have also expressed a frustration that despite their best efforts, the issues they have raised have not yet been remedied: ‘proposed reflexive methodologies still perpetuate many traditional hierarchies of power, and fail to consider the creative nature of excavation and post-excavation’ (Chadwick 2003, 97).

Moreover the mapping of the tag using a Total Station disregarded the material qualities of the flint, while revealing its spatial relationship to other archaeological materials. He also pointed out that a shared system of conventions was necessary in order that archaeologists could reposition themselves in relation to the phenomena they studied, and thus examine them at different scales. In making these observations, Yarrow enhanced Lucas’s (2001b) concept of excavation as a materialising practice, by eliciting the various ways in which archaeologists transform, manipulate, and position themselves in relation to material remains (as well as insisting that they are transformed and repositioned themselves in the process). By stressing how at every interpretative stage new complexities, relationships and understandings emerged while others were concealed, he also challenged Jones’ assumption that the various abstractions which take place over the duration of the interpretative process (and in particular during post-excavation) necessarily lead to interpretative incoherence. Additionally, he presented a way of understanding the research process at a broad level that was much more helpful, dynamic and potentially liberating than any fixed scheme (be it linear, hierarchical or cyclical). 2.5.

It is also important, however, to highlight some of the limitations of postprocessual critiques. While they have certainly covered a lot of ground in archaeology, a large number of interpretative practices remain unexplored. For example, although certain concepts employed in heritage management (e.g. preservation in situ) have been criticised at a general level (e.g. Lucas 2001b), other potential topics such as the interpretative contribution of curatorial archaeology have not been considered in detail. Similarly, fieldwork practices other than excavation have received little critical attention, and most analyses of excavation itself have paid more attention to developing new reflexive methodologies than to understanding current practices. This gives the impression that enough is known about the limitations of the latter; rather the priority is to move on using recent theoretical insights. More importantly, postprocessual critiques are hindered by the fact that they tend to rely on generalised notions of archaeological practice, rather than on first-hand observation. While some such accounts are better informed than others (Lucas’s work, for example, is enhanced by his considerable fieldwork experience) there is often a sense that many of the practices being described and critiqued have been parodied for the sake of argument. In my experience, neither the hierarchical character of excavation or lack of communication between specialists and site directors that Jones (2002) describes in post-excavation are entirely typical. Moreover while several authors have described the structure and the level of descriptive text incorporated in site reports as being tedious (Bradley 2006b, Hodder 1989, Tilley 1989), this ignores the fact that many other archaeologists value the inclusion of a considerable level of description in such contexts, since it provides them with access to the detailed information which they require to make their interpretations. In this sense it sometimes seems that archaeology has been misrepresented in postprocessual critiques. Archaeologists using this approach have somehow been unable to render the complexity and diversity of the archaeological practices enacted at any one time, or indeed (with the notable exception of Lucas 2001a) to elicit if and how these practices have actually changed through time.

Discussion

To draw this chapter to a close, I will highlight briefly what I feel are the main achievements and shortcomings of critical studies of archaeology thus far, and consider the relative capacities of postprocessual critiques and ethnographic studies to shed light on particular aspects of archaeological practice. I will finish by outlining how my own project will stem from and be positioned in relation to these approaches. Postprocessual critiques Postprocessual critiques have been very good at exploring questions relating to how archaeologists excavate, analyse and write about past material remains, as well as how they organise these activities. While outlining some significant flaws in existing practices, they have also emphasised how archaeologists have a collaborative responsibility in this interpretative process, and have suggested this should be seen in a positive light. Archaeologists should therefore feel encouraged to think carefully about the categories, conventions, social hierarchies and organisational strategies with which they work; to acknowledge their relationships to a wider audience (government, local historians, indigenous communities etc.); to consider alternative approaches to the past; to accept the contingent character of their interpretations; to abandon the idea that they can ever produce objective knowledge about the past; and to be adventurous in exploring different ways of representing the past. Reflexive methodologies which have developed in relation to postprocessual critiques are an important step towards implementing some of these ideas, in the

In addition, while postprocessual critiques have passed judgement on a broad range of archaeological practices, they have been pitched almost exclusively at a universitybased audience. With the notable exception of attempts to employ reflexive excavation methodologies on British developer-funded projects (e.g. Adams and Brooke 1995, Andrews et al. 2000, Woodward and Hughes 1998), there have been very few efforts to communicate these ideas 14

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sometimes been adopted is disappointing. For example, there is a certain tautology in Gero’s work (1996). Arguably, she sought to identify variation in the way differently gendered archaeologists went about their work and were subsequently treated by other members of the excavation team; thus in finding variability in the practices she observed, this was immediately attributed to gender differences rather than any other potential characteristics such as age, experience etc..10 Similarly having been told by project participants that a ‘tension’ existed between ‘professional diggers’ and ‘specialist researchers’ at Çatalhöyük, Hamilton (2000) accepted rather straightforwardly that this constituted a clearlydefined and major ‘faultline’ in the interpretative process. In doing so she arguably failed to elicit the various other (harmonious and disharmonious) relationships which undoubtedly cross-cut these categories (for instance between the research teams from different countries and institutions which operate on the site, including both excavators and finds analysts) and which might be viewed as constituting equally substantial ‘faultlines’ in the interpretative process.11 Moreover in examining aspects of the tension which existed between ‘professional diggers’ and ‘specialist researchers’ she overlooked entirely the hierarchical aspect of this particular relationship and the extent to which this might have contributed to the resulting interpretative ‘faultline’.12

directly to the people undertaking the practices under discussion. This situation is unavoidable to a certain extent: it is clearly vital that such analyses are raised formally in academic books and journals. However it also creates a somewhat peculiar dynamic whereby the vast majority of heritage managers, excavation teams or even archaeological scientists might be entirely unaware of the criticisms which have been levelled at them or might otherwise see them as being irrelevant fripperies (for a rare exception, see the highly articulate response by one former heritage manager, Smith 1994). In this light, as others have pointed out (e.g. Barrett 1995), the contention that archaeological practitioners across the discipline have failed to respond to the insights raised in postprocessual critiques is perhaps unsurprising. Ethnographic approaches Ethnographic studies of archaeological practice have also acted as a form of critical tool, although most have also been concerned to raise points of analytical interest rather than directly outlining problems and putting forward solutions. They have been even more limited in scope than postprocessual critiques, concentrating almost entirely on research excavations (with the exception of recent analyses of heritage sites, on a global scale). In retaining this focus, however, and reifying archaeological practice as an object of analysis, they have both illuminated issues highlighted in previous critiques of excavation, and introduced new ideas for consideration.

Although Edgeworth (2003) recognised and made explicit the way in which his experience as an archaeologist fundamentally shaped his ethnographic account, other archaeologist-ethnographers have been much less self-critically aware. For example, in observing that ‘the lives of artefacts in the present are not half as exciting as those they had in the past’ (2002, 63), Holtorf does not even consider that his failure to be inspired by what he saw might relate to his position as an archaeologist studying familiar working practices which might therefore seem self-evident, even mundane. In making this argument he also assumes rather straightforwardly that an unambiguous distinction exists between ‘past’ and ‘present’.

Ethnographic approaches have been particularly successful in eliciting the creative, transformative, collaborative and materialising qualities of excavation and have certainly enhanced attempts to assert the primacy of this practice in the interpretative process. Their emphasis on the social and practical aspects of interpretation has (alongside the development of reflexive excavation methodologies) shifted attention away from narrow views of archaeological remains as ‘text’ and of archaeological practice as ‘reading’. They have also identified some of the specific assumptions which archaeologists bring to their work and observed the messiness and sometimes unconsidered character of interpretation, developing the idea (following Hodder 1999) that what archaeologists do is often different to what they say they do. By focusing intimately on the interplay of people, things and technologies in excavation, ethnographic approaches have been more effective than postprocessual critiques in illustrating how archaeologists not only shape their material evidence, but are also transformed themselves in the encounter. They have also informed the development of reflexive methodologies, raised the performative character of excavation, and considered the influence of factors such as funding bodies and notions of professionalism on archaeological knowledge production (a theme which I will return to in Chapter 8).

Everill rendered a very colourful impression of archaeologists working in the realm of developmentrelated archaeology in Britain. However, despite setting out with an intention to do so (2009, viii), he arguably 10

Indeed Politis, the director of the excavation team which Gero observed, made similar comments in his own response to her work (2001). 11 It is worth noting that I worked on a seasonal basis at Çatalhöyük over a four-year period between 1996-2000 and thus have first-hand experience of the relationships under discussion in this study. 12 Specialists conducted regular tours of the site and introduced elaborate sampling procedures in order to glean contextual information (Hamilton 2000, 124). However diggers rarely entered the specialist’s laboratories and certainly did not dictate directly how they should go about their work, even if the project director did sometimes make decisions which reflected their opinions and which required the specialists to make compromises in their working practices (ibid., 125).

Despite the potential of ethnographic approaches, however, the uncritical manner in which they have 15

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in all geographical locations and disciplinary arenas, my focus on research in British prehistory will provide an important frame for this study.

failed to show exactly how the relationships and perceptions he observed were actually implicated in the practices involved in knowledge production. This makes it very difficult to establish connections between the findings of his study and those of other researchers who have sought more directly to illuminate aspects of the research process. Additionally Everill arguably tended to document rather than to analyse critically contemporary commercial archaeologists’ perceptions about their work. For instance he accepted rather straightforwardly his interviewees’ contentions that fieldwork standards had fallen since 1990, and that the sense of ‘camaraderie’ they commonly experienced related to the hardships of their working lives, rather than considering why they might have reached these viewpoints, how their opinions compared with evidence from elsewhere, or what exactly the qualities of the ‘camaraderie’ they described were. As a result there is a certain familiarity about the tenor of his conclusions and it is questionable whether his study meets what is debatably one of the key aims of ethnographic work – to elicit the strangeness of seemingly familiar practices (see Chapter 6 for a detailed discussion of this topic).

Secondly, by adopting an approach which is anthropologically-informed (see Chapters 3 and 6) this study will connect, particularly in terms of its methodology, with existing ethnographic (and sociological) studies of archaeological practice. Certainly I share with many of these analyses the desire to draw out the particularity, diversity and strangeness of archaeological practice and to incorporate the voices of practitioners who are not always represented in straightforward critiques. Additionally, in common with the authors of many of these studies, I hope to produce an account which holds in view both the practices and the people involved in producing archaeological knowledge. Thirdly, by approaching this study from an historical perspective (rather than focusing solely on contemporary practices), I will follow the lead of several recent critiques of archaeological practice (e.g. Bradley 2006b, Everill 2009, Hodder 1989, Lucas 2001a). As these studies have shown very effectively, many existing practices are rooted in much earlier developments. Thus it can be illuminating to trace these origins as a means of understanding contemporary practice. Moreover I would argue that it is essential to take an historical approach if I am to address the contention raised in several recent critiques of archaeological practice, that many aspects of contemporary research practices have actually remained virtually unchanged over a significant time period. Before considering ways in which recent disciplinary developments are caught up in contemporary practices, it is surely vital to begin by establishing how and indeed if research practices have actually transformed.

More significantly, with three exceptions (Edgeworth 2003, Everill 2009, Yarrow 2003) the vast majority of ethnographies of archaeology have focused on the rather limited field of research excavations. In doing so, these accounts have failed to address the practices of a much broader spectrum of archaeologists (in local authorities, commercial units etc.) who are involved in producing archaeological knowledge. While some ethnographers have attempted to use insights gained on research projects to reflect on wider archaeological practice (Wilmore 2006) their success in doing so has (unsurprisingly) been limited.

Overall, my analysis will importantly operate at a different (much broader) scale to most existing critical studies of archaeology. However, it will also draw from some of the approaches which these studies have advocated, and will certainly connect with and augment many of the insights they have raised.

Making connections with these studies My own research will connect with and build upon insights raised thus far in critical approaches to archaeological practice in the following ways. Firstly, rather than focusing on one or two particular aspects of the research process (writing, excavation etc.) as the vast majority of critiques and ethnographies of archaeological practice have done thus far, I will tackle research practices in archaeology at a wide level. This will bring into view, and explore links between, the activities of a cross-spectrum of archaeologists who are involved in the archaeological endeavour, including those who write, excavate, analyse materials, and manage (in various ways) the research process. It could even be argued that my analysis embraces the ‘craft’ of archaeology as it is imagined most broadly. In doing so I will build upon many of the insights raised in existing critiques of archaeological practice. I will also hopefully move on from the narrow, predominantly excavationoriented scope of existing critical studies. Since it would be virtually impossible (and not necessarily desirable) to undertake an examination of all archaeological practices 16

Chapter 3.

Developing a multi-stranded approach Existing histories of archaeology over the last 3.2. 30 years

‘What is important about the present moment, that it should endow the recent past with such evidently special qualities?’ (McCarty 2004, 162) 3.1.

Chronicles of transformations in archaeological practice over the last 30 years do of course exist, and these have certainly informed the narrative presented here. Accounts have been written of recent developments in theoretical and interpretative approaches (e.g. Johnson 2010, Trigger 2006), fieldwork practices (Lucas 2001a, Roskams 2001), archaeological science (e.g. Andrews and Doonan 2003), digital technology (e.g. Evans and Daly 2006), the presentation, curation and organisation of archaeology (e.g. Hunter and Ralston 2006), and so on. These secondary sources highlight a huge diversity of developments in archaeology over the last 30 years. However, they were not used as a primary basis for exploring the themes outlined above for several important reasons which are outlined in further detail below. In brief, existing disciplinary histories for this period are arguably too specific and consequently tend to fragment different aspects of archaeological practice; they typically view developments at an abstract level rather than considering how these changes are played out in practice; few such accounts consider important social transformations in archaeology; and most of them end well before 2010.

Introduction

Towards the end of the previous chapter, I noted that critiques of archaeological practice have asserted frequently that archaeologists across the discipline have failed to respond to changing conceptions of the archaeological record. More specifically, such critiques have repeatedly argued that certain archaeological preoccupations, hierarchies and ways of working have persisted over very long time periods, even though they have subsequently been challenged (e.g. Bradley 2006b, Chadwick 2003, Jones 2002, Lucas 2001a). Overall, it can be suggested that an image of relative stagnation has been painted with regards to the character of recent and contemporary archaeological practice, despite attempts to alter this situation. Indeed, in answer to the question posed by McCarty above, it is perhaps this paradoxical perception of archaeological practice as being both highly dynamic and ultimately inert, which makes its recent history intriguing. The fact that archaeology’s capacity to change has repeatedly been challenged in recent years also makes it imperative that concerted attempts, such as the one I present here, are made to characterise this period in the discipline’s history.

To take up the first of these points, it is notable that existing accounts of archaeology’s recent history rarely make specific connections between different aspects of archaeological practice, or at least between aspects that are not normally considered in conjunction. For instance while Trigger acknowledges, at a general level, that a range of contextual factors probably influence how archaeologists interpret archaeological data (2006, 1726), he does not elucidate any particular factors which might have impacted upon recent interpretative trends. Meanwhile other, seemingly more connective accounts of recent changes in fieldwork practices (Lucas 2001a), the organisation of archaeological practice in Britain (Hunter and Ralston 2006), and digital technology (Evans and Daly 2006) do assess how theoretical developments are caught up in other kinds of archaeological practice, but rarely entertain the possibility that other channels of influence might be just as relevant to consider. Moreover these histories tend to reproduce traditional orientations of influence (for instance the impact of digital technologies on theoretical developments (Evans and Daly 2006, 11)) rather than exploring the potential that reciprocal relationships might exist (i.e. that theoretical developments might affect the emergence of new digital technologies). As a result, it is very difficult to use such accounts to try to illuminate novel connections between what have been treated as disparate elements of archaeological practice, or to question established directions of influence. For instance these texts could not easily be used as a basis for examining whether shifts in fieldwork practice have engendered the development of particular forms of digital technology in archaeology over

In relation to the overarching aim of this study – to investigate how recent developments in the discipline have affected research in British prehistory – it is therefore necessary to pursue three closely related questions. Firstly, it is important to consider in further detail how or indeed if various aspects of archaeological practice in general (theoretical, organisational, methodological etc.) have actually changed over the last 30 years. Secondly, in response to the apparent perception that archaeological practice is set in its ways, it is necessary to ask to what extent archaeologists, and in particular British prehistorians, working in different arenas have engaged with changes that are outlined. Thirdly, and perhaps most trickily, it is essential to reflect upon how such factors are implicated currently in practices involved in knowledge production. The remaining chapters set out to address these issues and to develop a detailed account of the circumstances that have led to the current context in which research in British prehistory takes place. Before defining an approach with which to investigate these themes, I will evaluate briefly existing historical accounts for this period in archaeology. I will then address some of the complexities involved in trying to produce a critical, integrated and hopefully more innovative account of recent and contemporary practices in British archaeology and, in this light, assess potential sources to use for this purpose.

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archaeology, Lucas (2001a) allocates hardly any space for considering very recent shifts. His chapter on the history of fieldwork techniques and conceptions of the archaeological record covers the periods from 1880-1920 and 1920-1960 in 17 and 16 pages respectively. By contrast, the period from 1960 onwards occupies just 12 pages, ten of which are devoted to issues such as ‘true’ open area excavation and single context recording which actually came to the fore in the 1960s and 1970s (ibid., 18-63). Meanwhile in supposedly providing an historical context for digital technologies in archaeology, Zubrow actually devotes the vast majority of his account to describing various contemporary technologies and their interpretative potentials (2006).

the last 30 years, or if major organisational shifts are implicated in subsequent theoretical developments. Secondly, each of these texts provides an authoritative summary of developments in one, or at most two specific arenas in archaeology, according to the views of the particular author(s) concerned. However with one obvious exception (see Darvill et al. 2002, which does attempt to analyse how recent planning guidance has affected the kinds of archaeological investigations that take place in Britain), these studies do not set out specifically to investigate how archaeologists in various different arenas have actually engaged with the developments that are outlined, or indeed to reflect upon how the latter have ultimately affected the kinds of knowledge that are produced. As a result they do not make evident how the many changes they purport to have happened have actually been played out in (archaeological) practice. To cite a specific example, Lucas (2001, 56-8) quite rightly describes the Harris matrix and single-context planning as important methodological advances in fieldwork techniques during the 1970s. However, since it is not his explicit intention to do so, no account is given of debates which surrounded the introduction of these methods, or the various ways in which different archaeological bodies and individuals adopted, adapted or even entirely rejected them. Neither does he consider how or if the adoption of these recording systems led to further changes in practice or to the construction of different kinds of narratives about archaeological sites.

Since it was clear that these secondary sources would not, alone, be sufficient for the scope of this study, I decided to seek less obvious, primary sources of information. This involved considering forms of evidence that did not necessarily set out to provide an historical narrative, but which potentially connected the experiences of archaeologists working in different arenas, touched upon topics that might not be included in conventional histories of archaeology, and allowed for a consideration of both how archaeologists have actually engaged with professed recent developments, and how these developments are caught up in British prehistoric research practices. In order to inform the process of searching for alternative sources, it is worth considering first some particular qualities that have been raised in relation to the endeavour of writing histories of very recent times. Given the aforementioned paucity of precedents for producing recent histories in archaeology, insights from contemporary historians, and historians of science, technology and medicine are useful in this respect.

Thirdly, although in conjunction these volumes cover developments in most areas of archaeological practice, certain elements, in particular social aspects of disciplinary change, are almost completely overlooked. Indeed, as Roskams has previously noted (2001), an explicitly social history of archaeology in Britain has not been written since Hudson’s account of The British Experience (1981). This might seem surprising given postprocessualists’ attempts to forefront archaeology as a social practice (e.g. Shanks and Tilley 1992). On the other hand, this omission could well relate to Trigger’s pertinent observation that analyses of the influences of social factors on archaeological interpretations can be somewhat controversial (2006, 17): it is possible that a certain reticence exists about conducting this sort of investigation.

One important consideration when working on contemporary and very recent histories is that, evidently, a huge volume, variety and complexity of evidence exists for recent times. It is widely acknowledged this wealth of potential information can sometimes seem overwhelming (e.g. Catterall 1997, 446, McCarty 2004, 163). This issue is seen to have been exacerbated by the increasing availability of digital technology and the enhanced pace and capacity of communication and documentation that this allows (e.g. Doel and Söderqvist 2006, 4). Indeed anthropologists commented recently on how an increasing number of everyday practices in all arenas are subject to recording and analysis (see papers in Strathern 2000a), thus contributing further to the burgeoning data which recent historians could potentially tackle.

Fourthly, the usefulness of several of these accounts for the purposes of this enquiry is limited by the fact that in many cases their narratives tend to end, to falter, or to become less coherent after about 1990. In fact, Trigger notes specifically the paucity of historical research regarding the development of archaeology since 1990 (2006, 580). This issue almost certainly relates to the temporal proximity of this era and thus perhaps the feeling that it does not yet constitute ‘history’, even though in many ways it is portrayed as being a very active period in archaeology’s development. For instance, in focusing on the long-term relationship between developments in fieldwork practices and interpretation in

Oral history (or at least approaches which involve the accounts of people who were active participants in the developments under scrutiny) is seen by some contemporary historians as being unstable, if not severely flawed, due to the perceived unreliability of the memories of living informants, and to their potentially ‘biased' and ‘partial’ perspectives (Catterall 1997, 449). Indeed even researchers who advocate the use of oral history have attempted to counter such concerns by using documentary 18

CHAPTER 3. DEVELOPING A MULTISTRANDED APPROACH

accurate (if not entirely objective) accounts; something that I, and many other archaeologists, would dispute. It is not relevant in this context to enter into a discussion of the relative objectivity or subjectivity of historical accounts – this topic has been debated for a long time with little resolution, and as Latour has suggested, these frames of reference are not necessarily useful to the venture of untangling histories (1999, 147). However, I would argue that it is important to accept the partial nature of any analysis, and thus not to feel beleaguered by the potential array of evidence available for producing recent histories. I would also suggest that it is unhelpful to dwell in detail on the potential inadequacies of oral or documentary evidence. It is certainly vital to choose sources carefully and to be aware of the possible intricacies involved in using them. However I would contend that in order to produce an account which is critical and compelling, it is perhaps most important to use this evidence thoughtfully, to make meticulous observations based on a range of sources, and to reflect in detail upon the particular insights that are revealed by these alternative channels of understanding the topic or period in hand.

evidence (seen to be more reliable) to ‘test’ the accounts raised by interviewees (e.g. Hoddeson 2006, 192). Others, however, view oral evidence as an essential way of filtering and giving coherence to the potentially confusing mass of evidence (McCarty 2004, 164), and allowing for the development of more nuanced and animated accounts (Hoddeson 2006, 187). Such interactive approaches are also thought to be an important means of challenging orthodox histories (McCarty 2004, 163, 166), and of providing an interesting complement to documents, with disparities often emerging between these different sources (Hoddeson 2006, 188, 192). I will examine some of these methodological issues in more detail in Chapter 6 in considering my own use of oral evidence. Another concern which is shared widely amongst historians of recent times is a notion that it is very difficult to achieve a distance from the events upon which they are reflecting. This is seen to impinge on the historian’s capacity to reflect upon the relative significance of the histories which are told (e.g. Catterall 1997, 450); thus it has been argued that anyone who attempts such a feat ‘will continually have his eye caught by anything which moves quickly or glitters’ (Braudel 1980, cited in Gaddis 1995). Indeed certain 20th century historians believed that, as a result of this problem, recent histories should not even be attempted, or at least only with great caution (Collingwood 1924, 82, Kuhn 1977, 16). McCarty, however, did not see this issue as being insurmountable, arguing that all forms of history writing require an element of imagination, which involves the historian achieving a state of knowledge whereby he or she is ‘both oneself and another, both detached and engaged’ (ibid., 163). Even so, he does acknowledge that this lack of temporal detachment leads to a feeling that the issues being dealt with are somehow ‘unfinished’ (McCarty 2004, 172).

In relation to concerns that have been raised surrounding the temporal proximity of the very recent past, I would question whether any historical phenomena could be considered as being ‘finished’, and thus entirely detached from the situation in which we write. As Latour has noted ‘what was an event must remain a continuing event. One simply has to go on historicizing and localizing the network and finding who and what make up its descendants’ (Latour 1999, 168). In addition, while it is certainly possible that my embedded position in relation to the topic of my enquiry could lead me to become bedazzled by what are subsequently seen as inconsequential happenings (see above), I am optimistic that by being sensitive in my use of available data, and by taking on board the diverse experiences of the people who have been caught up in the developments concerned, such worries can be counteracted.

Many of these points clearly have resonance for my own attempt to ‘stitch together’ (McCarty 2004, 161) a methodology by which to create a critical, integrated and dynamic history of recent developments in British archaeology and prehistoric research. It is certainly true that a vast spectrum of information relating to the activities of archaeologists over the last 30 years now exists in institutional archives across Britain. Indeed a recent volume on histories of archaeology explicitly comments on the exciting array of documentary material (personal papers, correspondence, images, catalogues, government archives, etc.) that is now available, and has been used to good effect for writing historical accounts (Murray 2002, 237). It is also both useful and interesting to know that particular significance is attributed to oral evidence by historians of recent times. Furthermore it is very important to heed the potential complexities that the latter have raised of exploring a very recent history. Nevertheless, I would ‘problems’ which have writing ‘contemporary’ notion that it is actually

In developing my own approach, my intention was to draw upon documentary sources that were readily available, were considered to be exemplary exponents of their type, and were fairly consistent in their format, and thus comparable over the duration of the last 30 years. In order to provide an alternative perspective, and to render a sense of the complexity of history writing, I also wanted to juxtapose the analyses drawn from documentary sources with one drawn from oral evidence. As Marcus has advocated in relation to multi-sited approaches in ethnography, the nesting of alternative (conventional and more exploratory) accounts can create ‘a powerful marginal space for novelty’ (1998, 38). Moreover by conjoining varied accounts on a given topic, it is possible to emphasise not only how connections can be made between seemingly diverse sources of information, but also how ‘all analyses, no matter how totalistic their rhetorics, are partial’ (ibid. 1998, 37).

add that several of the main been noted here in relation to histories are underpinned by a possible to produce holistic and 19

PREHISTORY IN PRACTICE

3.3.

The second account I present (Chapter 5) is one of recent shifts in British prehistoric research practices. This includes an analysis of developments in both the ‘outcomes’ of British prehistoric research over the last 30 years, as represented by articles published in the Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society (PPS), as well as a consideration of what has actually been investigated. Insight into the latter is provided by the annual ‘Summary of excavation reports’ within PPS for the 1980s, and by information from the Archaeological Investigation Project (AIP) database for the period from 1990 onwards (http://csweb.bournemouth.ac.uk/aip/aipintro.htm). PPS is the leading British journal for prehistory, and explicitly claims to present articles that are of broad relevance to prehistorians in all archaeological arenas (Prehistoric Society 2010). In this sense it is not only integrative in its outlook, it also has the potential to raise key issues in prehistoric research over the last 30 years, and thus to provide an account which relates specifically to my intention to develop an understanding of the circumstances that have led to the current context in which British prehistoric research takes place. PPS is published annually in December.

A broad outline of my approach

The remaining chapters of this study thus develop two main approaches – divided accordingly into Part 1 and Part 2 – by which to present an integrated account of recent changes in prehistoric research and archaeological practice more broadly, which also reveals the implications of these changes for contemporary research. Part 1: written histories (Chapters 4 & 5) Chapters 4 and 5, comprise accounts of recent disciplinary change at a broad level, and in the particular domain of British prehistory, based upon written sources. These accounts primarily use evidence from two main periodicals – The Field Archaeologist and Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society – which span the period under consideration. Both were published on at least an annual basis over the last 30 years and were selected, at least in part, for their overt intention to represent the activities of a wide cross-section of archaeologists. To give a general idea of the circulation figures for these periodicals, the organisations responsible for publishing them – the Institute of Field Archaeologists (IFA) and the Prehistoric Society – currently have a memberships of 2831 and c.2000 respectively (IFA pers. comm., Prehistoric Society 2010).1 Information on the character of prehistoric fieldwork from 1990 onwards was gained from a comprehensive online database of British fieldwork – the Archaeological Investigations Project – which is described in further detail in Chapter 5.

Together, these written sources enable me to generate two quite different accounts of shifts in archaeological practice at a broad level, and prehistoric research in particular, over the last 30 years2. One very important merit of focusing on the primary sources outlined above (TFA, PPS and AIP data) is their capacity to highlight issues that were of concern at the time they were issued, rather than just those that have become significant retrospectively. As will become clear, these two perspectives often differ considerably. Even so, existing histories of this period rarely acknowledge this distinction with the result that they omit ideas and issues which came and went in archaeology, while devoting undue attention to topics which later gained significance. A range of other literature and periodicals published throughout this period was also consulted (e.g. conference proceedings, other Prehistoric Society publications etc.). Unlike the sources mentioned above, these were not intended to provide generalised, broadbrush coverage; they were therefore selected according to their relevance to each particular argument being discussed, and to provide further contextual detail at specific points where necessary.

The first narrative that I present (Chapter 4) is of developments in archaeology at a broad level over the last 30 years. This focuses particularly on the evidence presented in the newsletter of the Institute of Field Archaeologists’, The Field Archaeologist (TFA). This newsletter explicitly endeavours not only to raise current issues relating to the activities of the IFA itself, but also to contain ‘articles of high integrity which chart the development and growing pains of the profession as a whole’ (Hunter 1990, 214). A number of other leading archaeological magazines were also consulted (e.g. Current Archaeology (1967-), British Archaeology (1995-) and Rescue News (1972-)). However TFA proved the most suitable source for the purposes of this account because of its explicit aim to discuss topics of broad relevance to archaeologists (rather than focusing on ‘digging up the past’ or ‘latest discoveries’ as Current Archaeology does (Current Archaeology 2007), and its period of issue, which corresponds almost directly with the era in which my main interests lie. It was published biannually between 1984-1994, triennially between 19952001, and four times a year thereafter.

Part 2: oral testaments (Chapters 6-9) The account presented in Chapters 6-9 is based upon a quite different, anthropologically-informed approach to studying perceptions and experiences of recent disciplinary change. This will draw upon some of the themes elucidated in Chapters 4 and 5, and investigate these in further detail. It will also foreground issues

1

In 2008 the IFA was renamed as the Institute for Archaeologists (IfA); a shift that I will discuss in further detail below. However since all of the IFA publications drawn on in this study were produced before this name change took place, the original name – the Institute of Field Archaeologists (IFA) – is used throughout.

2

A broad chronology of the changes outlined in both these accounts is presented in Appendix 2.

20

CHAPTER 3. DEVELOPING A MULTISTRANDED APPROACH

different to subsequent understandings of these ‘happenings’, which have, over the years, accrued a ‘sediment’ of retrospective considerations. ‘There is … a portion of what happened in [any given year] that is produced after [that year] and made retrospectively a part of the ensemble that forms, from then on, the sum of what happened in [that] year’ (1999, 171).

which were not accessible or even apparent in the documentary sources examined. This anthropologically-informed study will draw mainly on the insights gained from a series of 14 interviews conducted with archaeologists across the discipline, most of whom consider themselves to be ‘British prehistorians’. The main aim of these interviews was to reveal how people in different arenas in archaeology, and at different stages of their careers, have engaged with an array of imposed, optional, and sometimes previously unconsidered changes in their working practices over the period in question. In order to do so, I asked the individuals who met with me to recount their lifehistories in archaeology, focusing in detail on the period from the late 1970s onwards. My reasons for using this specific methodology are discussed in detail in Chapter 6. However, it basically uses the notion that when people recount their own lives, they also tend to touch upon much broader events and processes (Andrews 1991, 23).

3.4.

Summary

Overall I hope to show that by bringing together a selection of what might be viewed as unusual and diverse narratives, it is possible to consider not only how (and if) archaeology in Britain has transformed in the last 30 years at a broad level, but also how British prehistorians in different arenas have created, engaged with, responded to, and been affected by these changes. The resulting account connects the experiences of archaeologists across the discipline, explores the different tempos at which developments have been enacted, and reflects upon the value of experimenting with different ways of writing critical disciplinary narratives. It also importantly considers ways in which the histories which I uncover have been and continue to be expressed in British prehistoric research practices.

The information from these interviews was supported by observations made during my involvement in a number of archaeological conferences and seminars at which some of the main topics of interest were raised. I also examined all available personal histories and autobiographical accounts covering roughly the same period (both published and available online), specific details of which are provided in Section 6.4. This anthropologically-informed account is necessarily richer in detail, and in some ways more complex than those derived from documentary sources. One interesting factor which had to be negotiated in producing a history on this basis was the extent to which the specific social context of an interviewee (age, gender, professional status, etc.) affected their perceptions of the happenings they recounted. However it is important to recognise that such complexities or biases should not be viewed necessarily in a negative light. As Marcus has noted ‘processes of remembering and forgetting produce precisely those kinds of narratives, plots and allegories that threaten to reconfigure in often disturbing ways versions (myths in fact) that serve state and institutional orders. In this way such narratives and plots are a rich source of connections, associations, and suggested relationships for shaping multi-sited objects of research’ (1998, 94). As will become apparent, by using this approach I was able to develop a subtler, and more thoroughly integrated narrative of how archaeologists in various different arenas have engaged with disciplinary change, and of how they think these changes have affected research practice in British prehistory. This methodology allowed me to address directly a number of points that have previously been raised in critiques of archaeological practice (Chapter 2). It also facilitated a consideration of which of the issues raised in written accounts over the last 30 years have actually gained (or lost) importance retrospectively. As Latour has noted, understandings of ‘happenings’ at the time they occur are often quite 21

Chapter 4. 4.1.

A broad disciplinary history concerned; to correspond with the years in which PPS was sampled for Chapter 5; and, in the case of Vol. 56, for its specific concern with British prehistory. The resulting vignettes can be seen as ‘snap-shots’ of archaeology as a profession over this period, much as archaeological trial-trenches act as ‘windows’ on much broader archaeological landscapes. Key themes arising from each of these TFA issues are defined at the beginning of each section.

An introduction to the IFA and TFA

This chapter gives a detailed history of developments in British archaeology over the last 30 years, based primarily on information from the newsletter of the Institute of Field Archaeologists (IFA). Before beginning this account, it is worth considering briefly who the IFA are, why and how an institute for ‘the profession’ was formed, and what the original remit of its newsletter, The Field Archaeologist (TFA), was.

An additional section (Section 4.8) examines two further elements – PPG16 and research frameworks – which were not elucidated fully in the TFA issues analysed in detail. Interestingly, although these topics have been highlighted elsewhere as key recent developments in British archaeology (Darvill et al. 2002, 3, Grenville 2009, 161-3, Lawson 2006, 210), within TFA their significance was only evident when data from throughout the archive were considered (Vols. 8-16, 19-21, 23, 28-9, 43-4, 46-7). In order to target these particular subjects, a search was conducted using the online ‘Index to The Archaeologist, issues 1-50’ (IFA 2007b), which covers the years from 1984-2004.

Histories of the establishment and subsequent activities of the IFA have been presented previously, and are not recounted in detail here (Carver 2006, Cleere 1984, 1985, Everill 2009, Hobley 1987, IFA 2006). However it is worth noting that, at the outset, there was no clear consensus about establishing a professional body for archaeologists in Britain. Many archaeologists, particularly in universities and local societies, strongly objected to the idea of forming such a body, and there were heated disputes over what the primary aims of such an organisation should be (Cleere 1984, 13, Everill 2009, 28). The IFA was established finally in 1982, following almost ten years of negotiation, with a primary intention of maintaining standards in all areas of archaeological practice. While the organisation’s initial membership was small – only 240 of a discipline of several thousand (Everill 2009, 29) – its current membership (as of May 2010) is 2831 (IFA pers. comm.), amounting to 41% of the 6865 archaeologists currently employed in the UK (Aitchison and Edwards 2008, 11).

The overall intention is not to enter in detail into every debate that has taken place in TFA since its inception. Rather it is to gain an overview of some of the major preoccupations that have been raised in this forum over the period in question. In addition, because TFA relates primarily to the activities of one particular archaeological organisation (however representative the IFA claims to be of the entire discipline), the evidence from this newsletter necessarily sheds important light upon how the activities of British archaeology’s professional body have changed over this period, in relation to broader disciplinary developments.

The Field Archaeologist was first published in 1984 with the aim of raising issues that were distinctive of ‘professional preoccupations’ rather than occupying similar ground to other contemporary magazines. As TFA’s inaugural editor put it, this meant focusing on ‘the how, the why, and the where-does-it-fit-in-with-the-restof-the-world, rather than what-has-been-foundsomewhere’ (Baker 1984, 2).

4.2.

‘The IFA will … seek to earn respect and support for the reality of archaeological practice; it will aim to build those foundations which mean that whatever the politics of the day, it will never again revert to the status of an eccentric hobby’ (IFA 1984, 5).

The following narrative is based on an examination of TFA issues produced throughout the period since its inception. For the purpose of detailed analysis, however, I focus primarily on a sample of six issues of TFA (Sections 4.2-4.7). This includes an in-depth study of the first TFA issue in 1984 (Volume 1), and then of subsequent issues at five yearly intervals from 1985-2005 (Volumes 4, 13, 24, 39, 56). Within these issues, all the available information (ranging from editorials and written articles, to various kinds of imagery, conference summaries and even contents pages) was scrutinised thoroughly. The inaugural issue of TFA was examined both for its capacity to capture the original mission of the IFA and its newsletter, and because it is the earliest issue and thus closest in time to the beginning of the period under consideration in this study (1980-). The subsequent five issues were selected in order to span, as far as possible, the remaining period with which I am

 

1984 (Vol. 1): building a profession

Key themes: • • •

22

Establishing an Institute of Field Archaeologists Concerns over communication within and beyond archaeology, and the publishing of fieldwork results The potential role of digital technologies in archaeology

CHAPTER 4. A BROAD DISCIPLINARY HISTORY

Figure 4.1: TFA Volume 1 front cover, including photo from T.J. Hurst, Museum of London Archaeology

 

23

PREHISTORY IN PRACTICE

architecture, surveying and the law (1984, 13). 1 Meanwhile an indication of the kind of image the IFA was trying to distance itself from is hinted at in a declaration that archaeological practice ‘will never again revert to the status of an eccentric hobby’ (IFA 1984, 5).

The inaugural issue of TFA in February 1984 depicts an organisation which is clearly in the early stages of development. It includes articles outlining why a professional institute was formed, what it sees as its primary roles, and a series of initiatives by which it hopes to fulfil its responsibilities. As well as defining its own remit, the IFA was clearly considering its position in relation to other organisations which it saw as part of the nascent profession: the role of universities is considered in a session at the IFA’s yearly conference (IFA 1984). While TFA does not directly address the issue of who ‘the profession’ it is addressing might be (see Dalwood 1987, for a more detailed discussion of this topic), it is possible to gain an impression of what ‘the profession’ comprised from the list of IFA members for that year. The latter includes archaeologists from national bodies (the Royal Commission on Historic Monuments (RCHM), English Heritage (EH), and the Council for British Archaeology (CBA)), excavation units, museums, government departments and universities. The category of ‘other’ comprises a large number of independent (mostly amateur) archaeologists. Interestingly, this implies that in order to be ‘a professional’ at that time, it was not considered necessary to be paid.

A number of other articles in Vol. 1 raise matters that were troubling British archaeologists in the early 1980s, and provide insight into some of the theoretical issues and technologies that were being explored. Concerns over archaeologists’ working relationships are expressed in calls for better communication ‘between field archaeologists themselves, and between the profession and the public (IFA 1984, 5). Problems surrounding the publication of archaeological fieldwork and the management of post-excavation analysis are raised in the annual conference report. An ongoing affiliation with processual archaeological approaches is suggested in the aspiration that ‘a science of archaeological practice might slowly evolve’ (ibid., 5), and the use of Clarkeian spatial patterning analysis in one of the conference presentations. In terms of technological developments, high hopes were held for the potential ‘power of the computer’ (ibid., 6), particularly with regards to its capacity for data management: ‘machine readable data-bases might well be the paper archives of the future’ (ibid., 7).

A section outlining the ‘need’ for an institute (Baker 1984, 2) together with a later series of articles on ‘The Origins of the Institute’ (Cleere 1984, 1985) provide an interesting portrait of British archaeology more broadly during the 1970s and early 1980s (see Jones 1984 for a detailed account of developments during this period).

4.3.

‘Archaeology will be blackballed as a social luxury, with an image it has itself helped to create and maintain until those people that have the most to lose from upsetting the status quo make an attempt to convince government, and the populace upon whose support they are ultimately dependent, and themselves, of the societal necessity (rather than luxury) of archaeological research’ (Heaton 1985, 48).

These articles explain how during the 1970s a bout of post-war development led to a significant rise in government funding for archaeological excavations, and thus to a massive expansion in both the amount of archaeology being excavated and the number of archaeologists engaged in this work. In response to such changes the Council for British Archaeology (CBA) set up a ‘Working Party on Professionalism in Archaeology’, claiming that ‘archaeology is now changing from an activity carried out by a small number of academics and a larger body of part-time enthusiasts into a fully fledged profession’ (CBA 1974). This acknowledgment that the discipline was undergoing a ‘fairly abrupt transition to professionalism’ (CBA 1974, 7) provoked a wider movement in archaeology towards the creation of a professional body for archaeologists (to set and maintain standards) and for employers of archaeologists (to provide a gauge by which to judge the competence of their potential workforce). Interestingly, the process of establishing this body – the IFA – is presented as a necessary act of modernisation: by 1982, it is declared that ‘archaeology as a profession had … come of age, and required a professional institution comparable to those in innumerable other disciplines which provided a service to the public’ (Baker 1984, 2). Cleere also indicates which ‘other professions’ archaeology was looking to for inspiration: analogies are made with engineering,

 

1985 (Vol. 4): defining roles and relationships

Key themes: • • • •

Concerns over the publication and management of archaeological projects Archaeology and the planning process Troubled working relationships between archaeologists in different arenas Archaeology’s poor public image

Published just 22 months later, the contents of TFA Vol. 4 deal less with the IFA itself, and much more with topics of relevance to British archaeology more broadly.

 

1

Interestingly before being appointed as director of the CBA in 1974, Cleere worked for 20 years in the iron and steel industry and was chief executive of the Institute of Metals. Consequently he had first-hand experience of another ‘professional’ institute (Richard Bradley pers. comm.).

24

CHAPTER 4. A BROAD DISCIPLINARY HISTORY

why it was so important to consider such issues at this time. In the first of these articles it is noted, with approval, that although ‘some [local] authorities have been imposing [planning] conditions requiring facilities for access [for archaeologists], or even excavation [in advance of development], for years’ (ibid., 42), the first explicit plans to make archaeology a routine part of the planning process were revealed in a government circular in 1985. Permission was to be granted to local authorities to impose planning conditions in order to protect land that was of archaeological interest, or at least to ensure that archaeologists were allowed access to record the site. The second article gives an insight into the kinds of battles that archaeologists (from local societies and national bodies), developers and planning authorities were engaged in across Britain at this time, especially during the redevelopment of historic town centres: EH were refusing to fund excavations, the responsibility for this was being passed on to developers, local authority development control officers who failed to manage this process successfully were losing their jobs, and new excavation units were being created in order to deal with the associated boom in development-led fieldwork (Timms 1985). Vol. 4 also gives a much better insight into some of the emerging roles and relationships within the discipline at this time. The creation of a forum entitled ‘Archaeologists Communicate Transform’ is announced, aimed at mediating (what were presumably discordant) relations between archaeologists ‘lower-down-the-order’ (circuit diggers and Manpower Services Commission (MSC) employees) and ‘the archaeological establishment’ (archaeologists from the various national bodies and universities) over issues such as pay, career structure and job security (IFA 1985, 44).2 Elsewhere, tensions between ‘professional’ and ‘independent’ archaeologists are voiced. The latter were apparently fighting for the right to undertake fieldwork on sites that were not being considered for funding, meanwhile they are criticised by the author for their poor publication record (Gregory 1985, 46). The difficulty of sharing and transferring information between archaeologists in different arenas was a major theme at the Young Archaeologists Conference in 1985. Interestingly, rather than being presented as a battle between different factions within archaeology – as it was subsequently (see Section 4.5) – it is argued, somewhat diplomatically, that this problem was the result of a ‘lack of understanding of the different approaches to and requirements for archaeological information, which are necessarily brought about by the different roles that people perform’ (IFA 1985, 48).

Figure 4.2: TFA Volume 4 front cover, including photo from the former Exeter City Museums archaeological field unit in conjunction with Devon County Council

Concerns over the publication and management of archaeological projects are raised once again, but explained in further detail. It is contended that in spite of considerable debate over publication, and the issuing of a major report outlining in detail how to publish excavations (DoE 1982), fieldwork reports were still inconsistent in format, and plagued by a surplus of irrelevant data (IFA 1985, 50). This is seen to relate to a general lack of familiarity with post-excavation procedures, and an unthinking adherence to pro-forma procedures which are ‘no more than a Polaroid camera; recording the action as it happens but not contributing to the process itself’ (ibid., 50). Interesting here is the similarity of these arguments to those made about excavation reports by postprocessual archaeologists, a few years later (see Chapter 2). The publication and management of archaeological projects also provided the theme for sessions at the 4th Annual Conference on fieldwork techniques and the Young Archaeologists’ Conference. Meanwhile it is noted that the first ever management course for archaeologists was held in May 1985 at Brunel University.

 

2

The Manpower Services Commission was a public employment training agency set up by Edward Heath’s Conservative government during the economic downturn in the early 1970s with the aim of addressing burgeoning youth unemployment levels. Continued high unemployment in the early 1980s led to the initiation of a further wave of MSC-funded projects across a range of professional sectors, with archaeology being a major beneficiary. See Everill 2009, 27 for a more detailed explanation.

Another major theme within Vol. 4 is that of archaeology and the planning process. One article discusses government plans in relation to this topic. Another presents a case study with the intention of illustrating

 

25

PREHISTORY IN PRACTICE

Finally, as the quote at the beginning of this section captures very well, there is evidence that archaeologists were concerned about archaeology’s image at this time. This unease appears to have been closely related to the previously mentioned troubled relationships between ‘the archaeological establishment’ and archaeologists ‘lowerdown-the-order’, and to the difficulties that many archaeologists were experiencing in gaining funding for development-associated archaeology at this time.

While vestiges of old worries about the management of archaeological projects, communication between archaeologists, and archaeology’s public image reside in Vol. 13, there are clear signs that by August 1990, archaeology had moved on. Issues surrounding the emergence of competitive tendering for archaeological projects dominate the scene. It also appears that competitive tendering had engendered the definition of new roles and relationships within archaeology, the emergence of new fieldwork activities, and the creation of new alliances beyond archaeology. Meanwhile a detailed report on the IFA’s annual conference in 1990, described by the editor as ‘surely … one of the highpoints of the archaeological year’ (IFA 1985, 221), reveals that previously sidelined research topics were blossoming at this time.

4.4. 1990 (Vol. 13): new affiliations, blossoming agendas ‘The workmanlike professional attitude of the archaeological contractors evaporated the initial boardroom flippancy that accompanied the mere mention of archaeology’ (IFA 1990, 220).

Described as ‘in many respects … the greatest challenge currently facing the profession’ (EH 1990, 216), debates surrounding the emergence of competitive tendering in archaeology pervade this issue of TFA. An article by EH describes how competitive tendering and the production of formal contracts for archaeological projects undertaken in advance of development emerged in the light of growing pressure (from EH) for archaeology to be considered as an integral part of the planning process. As a result, it is claimed, archaeologists were installed in local authorities in order to provide advice on such matters, and there was an increasing acceptance by developers that they should take responsibility for funding archaeological work that arose as a result of their actions. The editorial for Vol. 13 provides further insight into this topic, indicating that the situation surrounding competitive tendering was probably more complex than EH suggests in this article. For instance, it is mentioned that the impetus for competitive tendering was not solely created by EH, but was also linked to broader political and economic factors (a major economic recession was underway at the time) (Darvill 1990).

Key themes: • • • • •

Competitive tendering for archaeological projects Policies for archaeology/guidelines for archaeologists Reworking roles/relationships within and beyond archaeology Transformations in fieldwork practices: flourishing evaluation techniques Emergence of new/previously sidelined archaeological specialisms

Another interesting dimension of TFA’s coverage of this topic is that although there was evidently widespread concern about the potential impact of competitive tendering in archaeology in the early 1990s, there was also a clear desire to make it known that this practice was run-of-the-mill in the wider world, and thus a requisite part of archaeology’s newfound maturity as a profession: ‘such competition is normal practice in commerce …’ (ibid., 216). Perhaps as a result of this ethos an emphasis is placed upon creating measures for overseeing the burgeoning of competitive tendering in archaeology, rather than on challenging it directly. Both EH and the IFA advocate careful consideration of the issues involved, rigorous monitoring, regulation through ‘codes of practice’, and the provision of guidance on ‘good practice’, for example a manual on the Management of Archaeological Projects (EH 1991b). In addition, the forthcoming implementation of new planning policy guidance (PPG), intended to consolidate archaeology’s role in the planning process and provide new statutory provisions, is seen as a ‘glimmer of hope’ with regards to this subject (Darvill 1990).

Figure 4.3: TFA Volume 13 front cover, including photo from Archaeological Services (WYAS)

 

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In terms of field practice, it seems that the emergence of developer-funded archaeology was beginning to provoke changes in the emphasis of fieldwork. A massive increase in the numbers of archaeological assessments and evaluations is noted (IFA 1990, 217). In fact a session on ‘Evaluating Archaeological Sites’ at the IFA’s annual conference in 1990 was so popular that a new venue was required to accommodate the audience. Survey also plays a much more prominent role in this issue of TFA. These shifts in the character of fieldwork were almost certainly tied to a broader desire to assert the notion that archaeology’s primary activity should be preservation rather than excavation. Thus EH states that ‘the preservation in situ of archaeological deposits is regarded as the first option if the resource is threatened’ (EH 1990, 216). There is also evidence that widespread attempts by archaeologists at this time to emphasise the discipline’s role in preserving/conserving the past, may have been linked to efforts to build links which extended beyond ‘the profession’. Thus it is announced that a new working party on ‘Archaeology as a Green Issue’ was being established, situating archaeology alongside broader environmental concerns.3 In addition, it is noted that a special interest group in ‘Cultural Resource Management’ (CRM) was being created. The use of this North American term could even be seen as an endeavour by the British ‘profession’ to justify and reinforce its new emphasis on ‘protecting’ and ‘managing’ archaeological remains, by situating it in relation to archaeological practice at a global level.

More broadly, however, it appears that there was widespread opposition to the appearance of competitive tendering. In the ‘Chairman’s Notes’ Darvill describes ‘the emergence of a virus that manifests itself as anonymously produced documents and papers which invariably conclude with calls for the IFA to outlaw competitive tendering in archaeology’ (1990, 215). Elsewhere, concerns are raised over the potential surfacing of an archaeological ‘profession’ whose practices were entirely unrelated to those of ‘academia’, and which paid little consideration to the social and economic context in which it operated (IFA 1990, 235). It is observed that while developers, consultants and funding bodies (like EH) stood to make significant gains from competitive tendering, fieldwork organisations would be forced into battle with one another (ibid., 235). It was also feared that competitive tendering would lead to a disintegration of the regionally-based fieldwork teams that were typical at the time (ibid., 235). In relation to these concerns it is interesting to observe that, although still in its infancy, developer-funded fieldwork was already beginning to have an effect on the language, practices, roles, relationships and broader affiliations of archaeologists. While the integration of archaeology within the planning process had led to the initiation of new jobs for archaeologists in local government, it had also created a dilemma of sorts with regards to these posts. Until this point, the tasks of advising planners on archaeological matters and carrying out the fieldwork itself were seemingly ‘happily combined’ (Darvill 1990, 215). However, it is noted that there was an increasing unease over this relationship, and there are requests for a formal distinction to be drawn between the two functions. It is presumably from discussions such as these that the terms ‘curator’ and ‘contractor’ emerged as vectors for separating these roles (Section 4.5). Having been released from the responsibility of funding the vast majority of development-led work, EH’s position in British archaeology was also changing. While this shift is not discussed explicitly, the articles which refer to EH make abundant references to its policy-making activities, discuss its responsibility for upholding ‘good practice’, and mention its now subsidiary role in providing financial support for fieldwork in instances where ‘all other possibilities for saving the site [had] been exhausted’ (EH 1990, 216).

There is a general sense in Vol. 13 that ‘professional archaeology’ was becoming much more outward-looking at this time. For instance, it is suggested that stronger ties should be created with Europe in advance of the implementation of the Final European Act in 1992. 4 Archaeology’s desire to engage with its new financial backers is also illustrated very effectively by the inclusion of an inaugural column for developers in this issue of TFA. In the opening article of this section, a former-archaeologist-turned-developer relays his recent encounter with archaeology, observing that ‘the businesslike manner in which the whole affair was conducted, especially the firm and clear manner in which the authority’s policy was presented, and the workmanlike professional attitude of the archaeological contractors evaporated the initial boardroom flippancy that accompanied the mere mention of archaeology’ (IFA 1990, 220). One notable aspect of this statement is the extent to which it sits uneasily with the descriptions of archaeology and archaeologists set out in slightly earlier issues of TFA. It suggests that either the discipline had changed very rapidly, beyond recognition (at least in some quarters), or that perhaps the IFA, amongst others, were trying to create the impression that after all of its

Meanwhile, there are signs that the IFA was experiencing difficulties in delineating its own role at this time. There are calls for more active participation by its members: ‘the last thing we want is a passive organization’ (Hunter 1990, 214). A programme of restructuring is announced in order to make the IFA more targeted and to create ‘a stronger position for archaeology in the professional world’ (Darvill 1990, 215). Interestingly, the list of members also shows that there was still considerable academic involvement in the IFA at this time. For instance, Ian Hodder is recorded to have chaired an IFA committee for that year on ‘Career Development and Training’.

 

 

3

Indeed an edited volume resulted from an IFA conference on this topic in 1991 (Macinnes and Wickham-Jones 1992). 4 Put simply, this followed on from the Single European Act established in the late 1980s which aimed to create a common European market, and ultimately led to the creation of the European Union and the Euro currency. It is better known as the Maastricht Treaty.

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struggles, archaeology had finally become a legitimate and respectable profession. Finally, there is evidence that having gained greater control over the issue of how to deal with developmentrelated archaeology in Britain, the IFA was beginning to turn its attention to archaeological practices and topics that had previously been neglected. A blossoming of different branches of ‘the profession’ is noted (IFA 1990, 214). The IFA’s annual conference in 1990 included sessions showcasing the growing fields of ‘Industrial Archaeology’, ‘Buildings Survey’ and ‘Women’s Studies’. A new special interest group in ‘Maritime Archaeology’ is also announced. 4.5.

1995 (Vol. 24): embracing technology

‘Thousands of archaeologists world-wide are linked [via the Internet] in … conversations, many of which have direct relevance to IFA members who work in museums, in county archaeological services, in professional contracting units and in universities’ (Champion 1995, 19).

Figure 4.5: TFA Volume 24 contents page (© IfA 1995)

Intriguingly, it appears that earlier debates surrounding competitive tendering had abated entirely by the winter of 1995 (TFA Vol. 24). In fact in order to trace developments that had occurred in relation to this topic from the late 1980s onwards, including the introduction of PPG16, it was necessary to consult the entire TFA archive for the period from 1988-95. This is perhaps surprising given that the implementation of PPG16 in 1990 has since been hailed as the single most important change to have taken place in the recent history of archaeology (see above). Since, in order to pursue this topic effectively, it was necessary to stray from the main account, a fuller history of TFA’s coverage of competitive tendering and PPG16 is outlined separately, together with other themes which, though seemingly important, were barely visible within the initial sample of TFA (Section 4.8).

Key themes: • • • •

Concerns over communication between ‘amateur’, ‘professional’ and ‘academic’ archaeologists. Rationalising archaeological information Standards/‘Codes of Practice’ for archaeologists The positive role of new digital technologies

Putting these issues aside, a number of other topics which arose earlier on in TFA resurface in Vol. 24. The need for improved communication between archaeologists is reiterated, although it is also clear that the circumstances surrounding this issue had changed considerably. Concerns are voiced over the increasing volume of information being produced in relation to archaeological fieldwork (Thomas 1995, 16), indicating that there was perhaps more to communicate about. There are signs that membership of the IFA, and the discipline more broadly, had grown and diversified: it is suggested that the profession was becoming difficult to characterise as a whole (IFA 1995, 3). Indeed so voluminous was the annual list of IFA members for 1995 that it had to be published in a separate directory rather than within TFA. The implication is that there were more archaeologists, located in a wider range of venues, to communicate between. In addition it is clear that communicative channels between archaeologists were becoming much

Figure 4.4: TFA Volume 24 front cover, including photo from Bedford Borough Historic Environment Service

 

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more varied. For instance, the future significance of digital publication and interaction (email) are discussed at length (Champion 1995). It also appears that the IFA was taking steps in order to address perceived communicative shortcomings in archaeology. For instance, agreements were being formalised for the exchange of information between national bodies such as the IFA and CBA.

Alongside these concerns, there is continuing evidence that the IFA was having problems in finding a niche in archaeology’s changing milieu. It is noted that the AGM was poorly attended, and there is talk of restructuring, streamlining and even ‘professionalising’ archaeology’s professional body (an interesting concept in itself). The IFA’s new initiatives also seem decidedly conservative at this time, and mainly relate to defining standards for archaeology. Thus it is announced that a catalogue of ‘Registered Archaeological Organisations’ (RAOs) was being assembled, whose practices were deemed to be of a ‘professional standard’. In addition, the IFA’s remit for setting standards had apparently broadened. While initially the IFA set out to create standards primarily for archaeological practice (Baker 1984), it was now concerned more explicitly with creating standards for the working lives of archaeologists themselves. This shift in emphasis is demonstrated quite clearly in an article outlining the results of an IFA survey which investigated how the circumstances of archaeological employment affected the quality of the archaeological endeavour. Slightly disappointingly, although this article set out to investigate how working conditions actually affected archaeological practice, this question remained unanswered. Rather it concluded, somewhat unsurprisingly, that the investigation proved that most archaeologists were badly paid, with little job security, poor career prospects, and few opportunities to settle down (IFA 1995, 7) (Figure 4.6).

Earlier tensions between archaeologists working in different areas of the discipline also seem to have resurfaced around this time. Ongoing arguments between ‘professional’ and ‘amateur’ archaeologists are voiced, with the latter still feeling the need to assert their value within the discipline (IFA 1995, 20). There are signs of new disparities between ‘academic’ and ‘professional’ archaeologists, with reports that a leading universitybased archaeologist, John Barrett, had expressed his resistance to the ethos of preservation that now reigned in ‘professional’ circles (Oatgen 1995). An archaeological publisher also notes how the activities of university-based archaeologists were becoming increasingly divorced from those of other professionals: ‘the interest of university archaeologists seems increasingly to be directed outside Britain or at primarily theoretical concerns, which are only distantly related to the existence of excavation archives in any format’ (McAdam 1995). In addition it is mentioned that the IFA’s ‘Code of Approved Practice’ was being amended following complaints that some archaeologists were continuing to blur the boundaries between the roles of ‘curators’ and ‘contractors’ following the implementation of PPG16 (IFA 1995, 4).

Figure 4.6: ‘What Archaeologists Want' (IFA 1995, 7)

 

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‘The pages of The Archaeologist are littered with acronyms’ (IFA 2000, 7).

On a more optimistic note, the remainder of Vol. 24 is taken up with articles demonstrating the potential role of digital technologies in archaeology. The launch of an academic internet journal is announced, noting the new possibilities of publishing ‘types of archaeological evidence un-publishable in printed form (such as video clips of excavation work and dynamic visualisations of what sites might have looked like), unlimited colour photography, complete excavation databases, and access to software originally used by authors of articles to analyse their material’ (Heyworth 1995, 12). There are also discussions about the potential of publishing on the internet and on CD ROM, both of which were thought likely to be ‘important media of archaeological communication in the future’ due to their cheapness, accessibility, and potential for interpretative interrogation (Thomas 1995). A sense is thus generated that the arrival on the scene of these new technologies offered new hope for solving many of archaeology’s most persistent shortcomings (in communication, publishing and information handling). It is also noted with caution, however, that digital technologies were constantly changing, that their use would in turn shape the ways in which archaeologists made their data, and that despite their potential, access to these technologies was by no means widespread.

Key themes: • • • • •

Revamping archaeology’s image Promoting the value of non-intrusive fieldwork Organisational restructuring and review New archaeological terminologies Encouraging collaborative practice

With a new name, The Archaeologist (TA), and a new glossy format with themed titles and colour photos, it appears that the IFA’s newsletter, and perhaps archaeology more broadly, had undergone something of a facelift at the start of the new millennium. Beneath the gloss, tired debates over the affects of competitive practices, relations between ‘amateur’ and ‘professional’ archaeologists, and the need for better communication, training issues, pay and conditions in archaeology still reside in the pages of Vol. 39. Moreover, there are signs that archaeologists were becoming bored with discussing these persistent, yet difficult to resolve topics: it is noted that an IFA conference session on ‘Stratification in Archaeology [as a discipline rather than in terms of deposits]: Listening to the Profession’ was poorly attended (IFA 2000, 24). However, new practices and preoccupations were also emerging at this time. The substantial effects of digital technologies on archaeological practice were beginning to be realised. There is a new concern with name-changing (both in relation to TA and beyond). Finally, driven by a new emphasis on working collaboratively, it appears that longstanding relationships between archaeologists in different arenas, and between archaeologists and the outside world were changing.

2000 (Vol. 39): reviewing, restructuring, 4.6. renaming

The influence of new technologies is apparent not only in the refurbishment of the IFA’s newsletter (TA is also accessible online from 2001 onwards, Vol.41 – (IFA 2007a)), and the provision of a new ‘Web Guide’ for readers, but also more broadly in discussions of the practices in which archaeologists were engaged at this time. For instance, there is talk of how, with the aid of digital technologies, regional databases of archaeological sites and monuments (SMRs) were being transformed from ‘static records’ to ‘dynamic syntheses of the past’ (IFA 2000, 25). A shared aspiration to highlight technological aspects of archaeological practice is also apparent in a section profiling Registered Archaeological Organisations (RAOs). It is thus mentioned explicitly that a computer-based display was put on for the Queen’s visit to Birmingham University Archaeological Unit, that an ‘Historic Aspect Layer’ for ‘LANDMAP’ on the Welsh valleys had been created by Gifford Archaeology, and that ultrasound and nuclear magnetic radiation techniques for use with degraded wood and an Integrated Archaeological Database system (IADB) were being developed by York Archaeological Trust. Figure 4.7: TA Volume 39 front cover, including photo from Ken Smith and Jon Humble (© Peak District National Park Authority 2000)

 

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Figure 4.8: TA Volume 39 contents page (© IfA 2000)

 

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environment’. There is talk of an ‘Historic Environment Review’ by EH, and it is noted that the ‘Centre for Wetland Archaeology’ had changed its name to ‘Wetland Archaeology and Environmental Research Centre’ (IFA 2000, 3). Once again, there is no clear explanation for why this linguistic shift was enacted. However, it seems likely that it relates to the previously observed new emphasis that was being placed on the diversity of archaeological practice at this time: it is possible that a point had been reached where it was felt that the word ‘archaeology’ was too restricted to describe fully the diversity of practices that the discipline embraced by this time. Other notable linguistic trends at this time can be explained by archaeology’s now firm attachment to the political arena in Britain. The appearance of terms such as ‘strategic planning’, ‘performance indicators’, ‘best value’, ‘synergy’ and ‘sustainability’ suggests that archaeologists in local authorities and governmentfunded institutions were having to develop both a new vocabulary and new practices (e.g. auditing) in relation to their work.7

Indeed there are signs that the makeup of archaeological practice (at least as it was represented in this forum) was changing much more broadly. While previous issues of TFA retained a focus on excavation, as well as including occasional articles about survey projects of various kinds, in Vol. 39, excavation plays a much less prominent role. Once again, this is illustrated very well in the section profiling RAOs. The spectrum of activities these organisations present does include three excavation projects (of a Roman fort, Palaeolithic deposits and a Saxon farmstead). However it also includes many more projects involving surveys of quays, canal boats, and 19th century bridges/hospitals, an assessment of the impact of military vehicles on Hadrian’s Wall, the creation of conservation plans, and the undertaking of historic landscape assessments and large-scale mapping programmes. As a result, it certainly appears that excavation played only a minor role in the activities undertaken by archaeological organisations in 2000 (whether this was in fact the case is considered in further detail below, Section 5.2). This sense that a marked shift had taken place in the emphasis of archaeological practice by 2000 is reinforced by the fact that neither of the two projects presented as case studies in Vol. 39 mention any excavation at all. 5 One looks at issues surrounding the preservation of a Bronze Age stone circle in Derbyshire; the other reinterprets the well known monument complex at Thornborough, North Yorkshire, using new technology (Virtual Reality Modelling Language) and a ‘new’ theoretical approach (phenomenology).

The ongoing influence of the government on British archaeological practice is also apparent elsewhere in Vol. 39 of TA. The government apparently played an instrumental role in professional archaeology’s increasing involvement in creating European archaeological legislation, having recently ratified the Valletta Convention. 8 A report on EH’s Historic Environment Strategy Review exhibits a new government-driven and IFA supported desire to emphasise archaeology’s social value, highlighting the discipline’s potential to play a role in issues such as social inclusion, social and economic regeneration, life-long learning, and sustainability. Interestingly, it appears that the government’s increasingly significant role in archaeology at this time was accompanied by a growing mistrust between ‘professional archaeologists’, ‘the government’ and ‘EH’. For example, in relation to EH’s Historic Environment Strategy Review, the IFA regards the government’s ambiguous plans for financing and organising archaeological activities with suspicion. Doubts are also expressed about whether EH would actually uphold the IFA’s opinions when it came to making decisions about this document (IFA 2000. 18-19).

Moving on, a concern (verging on obsession) with creating new terms by which to describe archaeological practice is apparent both within TA, and more broadly in archaeology. In fact archaeology’s burgeoning vocabulary is acknowledged explicitly in TA, which provides a new section on ‘Acronyms Uncovered’, in response to the fact that ‘the pages of The Archaeologist are [now] littered with acronyms’ (IFA 2000, 7).6 One potential factor in the rise of this phenomenon is the fact that various reviews and restructuring programmes were taking place in archaeology at this time. As a consequence, new terms were being invented to describe the nascent organisations, the roles they performed and the people they employed. The removal of the word ‘Field’ from the IFA’s newsletter’s title is also interesting. Although not explicitly discussed in this issue (see Bell 1996 for the IFA's explanation of this change), it might well be viewed as reflecting a decline in the proportion of archaeologists actually working in ‘the field’.

On the other hand, efforts were clearly being made at this time to forge links between ‘professional’ and ‘academic’ archaeology, and, more specifically, to highlight archaeology’s united ethos of ‘research’. Almost all of the profiled RAOs explicitly underline their research credentials, perhaps in response to earlier doubts over whether high quality research could be carried out in developer-funded contexts (Section 4.8 ‘PPG16’). Several organisations emphasise their close connections with university departments and one mentions its creation

It is also notable throughout Vol. 39 that the word ‘archaeology’ is substituted by the term ‘historic

 

 

5

Although one of these projects (at Nine Ladies stone circle) did actually involve limited excavation (Richard Bradley pers. comm.). 6 Interestingly it appears that this trend has continued: the recent edition of Hunter and Ralstons’ edited volume on Cultural Resource Management in the UK, lists 184 acronyms which are now in use in archaeology in the UK (2006, xi-xvi).

 

7

See Strathern (2000a) for a fuller consideration of the governmentrelated growth of auditing. 8 A pan-European treaty for the protection of archaeological heritage which was established in 1992, and basically made archaeology integral to the planning process in many parts of Europe.

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of an academic committee to advise on research. There is also an explicit injection of ‘theory’ into the IFA’s conference in 2000, although this was seemingly approached quite cagily: it is noted that the juxtaposition of ‘theory’ and ‘evaluation’ in one session title ‘undoubtedly raised a few eyebrows among contracting archaeologists and local authority curators, who imagined their lives would never again be troubled by “theory” after leaving university’ (IFA 1995, 21). By contrast, elsewhere, it is accepted that ‘what is clear is how a theoretical framework can enhance interpretation of data and open up avenues for further research’ (ibid., 27). Interestingly, little explicit evidence is given of which theoretical ideas the archaeologists contributing to these sessions were actually engaging with. Rather, it seems, it was important for them to be seen to be endorsing the use of archaeological theory at a broad level. In relation to this topic, it is notable that compared to earlier issues of TFA (Section 4.4), there is very little evidence in Vol. 39 that university-based archaeologists were directly involved in the projects that were presented in this forum, or indeed in the IFA’s activities more broadly. Another related theme which permeates Vol. 39 of TA is that of collaboration. While no explanation is provided, it is certainly clear that archaeological organisations wanted to be seen to be working with each other, and with the world ‘outside’: there are numerous references to collaboration between local authority planners, universities, engineers, EH, the British Museum and Time Team. One RAO even notes the existence of ‘burgeoning links between the so-called academic world and the world outside’ seemingly implying that previously, each had operated in isolation (IFA 2000, 10). Once again, this development can be viewed as a response to earlier contentions that archaeologists were poor at communicating, and that archaeology as a discipline was fragmenting (Section 4.5). It is also notable that this new emphasis on collaboration corresponded with a growing government-led requirement at this time for university-based archaeologists to conduct interdisciplinary, and thus collaborative, research (e.g. Hunter et al. 2006). 4.7.

Figure 4.9: TFA Volume 56 front cover, including photo from Tertia Barnett

The Spring edition of TA in 2005 (Vol. 56) focuses specifically on ‘prehistoric Britain’. As a result, it was expected that this issue could be used as a basis for tracing broad themes that have been developed throughout this account, and for examining how such issues are specifically implicated in British prehistoric research. Following a previously observed desire to highlight the diversity of archaeological practice, the cover image presents a colourful photo-montage of prehistoric sites, materials and archives (Figure 4.9).

2005 (Vol. 56): British prehistory

In fact it appears at first sight that, following a period of relative discontentment in the 1990s, by the mid-2000s, professional archaeology and the IFA were regaining strength. The IFA’s yearly conference was the best attended for years, providing ‘an excellent showcase for the diversity, strength and vitality of the IFA and its membership’ (Jennings 2005). Moreover, the attendance of Tessa Jowell (government minister for the Department of Culture, Media and Sport) is hailed as ‘a significant “coming of age” for the Institute and the sector, demonstrating the incremental and progressive steps that have been taken to move the historic environment and archaeology up the political agenda’ (ibid.).

‘Data from a decade of developer funded work is set to revolutionise the study of prehistory ... We can now prove that good and useful work is being done: the challenge now is to make it more readily accessible to ensure that it is put to good use’ (Bradley 2005, 19). Key themes: • • • •

 

Engaging with political agendas Concerns over training, social inclusiveness, working conditions for archaeologists, and disciplining errant archaeologists The diversification of archaeological practice The effects of developer-funded archaeology on British prehistoric research

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Figure 4.10: TFA Volume 56, contents page (© IfA 2005)

 

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institutional support. More broadly, concerns are raised over training and social inclusion, showing that these enduring issues were also still plaguing archaeologists. It is contended that ‘training is a major issue facing British archaeology and in particular the IFA’ (Geary 2005). Another article outlines a new project on ‘Inclusive, Accessible Archaeology’, investigating the participation of people with disabilities in archaeology. As with many of the new initiatives announced in Vol. 56, the government’s influence is clear in the rationale provided for undertaking this research: in this case, the project was launched in response to recent changes in disability legislation.

Contrary to this, there are signs that, behind the scenes, doubts still existed about archaeology’s self-image. It is urged that in spite of cynicism over the government’s involvement in archaeology, such dialogue was vital for the future of both archaeology and archaeologists (ibid.). Responding to a suggestion that the IFA was tardy in reacting to the changing environment in which it operated, it is contended (somewhat half-heartedly) that ‘progress seems slow, with our goals constantly distant mirages; but … with enthusiasm to slake our thirst we will gradually refine image into reality’ (ibid.). Elsewhere it is warned that ‘a fragmented archaeological profession plays into the hands of insincere politicians and unscrupulous developers’ (IFA 2005, 6).

The articles on British prehistory which provide a focus for Vol. 56 present an important opportunity to observe the ways in which some of the themes raised throughout this account are implicated specifically in prehistoric research. For instance, the previously noted desire from the late 1990s onwards to emphasise the diversity of contemporary archaeological practice is very much in evidence in these articles. The projects outlined include university and development-led excavations, digital mapping programmes, artefact studies, dating programmes, site management plans and survey. The aforementioned aspiration to highlight the socially inclusive and collaborative aspects of archaeological work is also apparent. Indeed an article by EH’s new head of prehistoric research policy, Jonathan Last, explicitly stresses the need to increase public awareness of the ‘historic environment’ in general, and of prehistory in particular, through better education, publicity and access. In a similar vein, one of the featured projects, ‘The National Ice Age Network’, is specifically designed to provide a nexus for people interested in the Ice Age, including archaeologists, geologists, quaternary scientists, quarry companies and the public (Chambers 2005). Another project relating to the recording and monitoring of rock art sites in Northumbria was designed as a community venture involving over 90 volunteers, with outcomes including exhibitions, demonstrations and ‘interactive events’ for a wider audience. Notably, both of these projects received government (EH) funding. This suggests that as well as providing a means of countering criticisms that archaeology was too inward-looking, this emphasis on collaboration and social inclusion also related to criteria which had to be met in order to obtain government funding.

Despite my intention to do so, it actually proved difficult to use Vol. 56 to follow broad themes which have emerged over the duration of this account (the roles and relationships of archaeologists in different arenas, concerns over communication etc.), principally because its format and character are substantially different to those of earlier issues. Very little of Vol. 56 is devoted to voicing general concerns facing the discipline. Instead the focus is almost entirely upon aspects of British prehistory. 9 What exactly had caused this shift of direction is not clear, but it certainly makes the newsletter more entertaining to read. What is notable, however, is the extent to which TA’s new format marks a divergence from the newsletter’s original remit: the emphasis from this point onwards is very much on ‘what-has-beenfound-somewhere’ rather than ‘where-does-it-fit-in-withthe-rest-of-the-world’, as was initially envisioned (see Section 4.1). With regards to the activities of the IFA itself, it appears that this organisation had settled into a regulatory role by this time. Reports are provided on recent disciplinary wayward archaeological action taken against organisations and on plans to improve the effectiveness of the IFA’s disciplinary procedures and RAOs scheme. The organisation’s continued efforts to improve working conditions for archaeological excavators are indicated by its announcement of a new ‘Diggers Forum’. While it is not acknowledged, it is interesting to note how the aims of this forum are very similar to those of ‘Archaeologists Communicate Transform’, which was established in 1985 (IFA 1985, 44), and whose fate is not apparent. In relation to this topic, a new research project on ‘The Invisible Diggers’ is also featured, with the intention of investigating issues within developer-funded archaeology, such as why so many young archaeologists were abandoning the profession (the key conclusions of which are presented in Everill 2009). These two initiatives provide clear evidence that although the context in which the vast majority of British excavations took place had changed substantially since the 1980s (following the emergence of developer-funded archaeology), excavators themselves were still perceived by ‘the profession’ to be undervalued and in need of

The articles on British prehistory also provide insight into some of the new technologies being used by prehistoric researchers at this time, and illustrate how at least one major initiative that had been set in place over the period under investigation (the emergence of developer-funded archaeology) was beginning actively to affect understandings of British prehistory. With regards to technology, the use of new, non-intrusive digital recording methods such as laser scanning, remote sensing and photogrammetry is said to have enhanced both the interpretation and presentation of rock art in Northumbria. The interpretative scope of a new technique

 

9

In fact, a glance through adjacent issues of TA confirms that this ‘themed’ approach was the norm by this point.

 

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4.8.

for dating cremated bone is asserted in relation to a project by the National Museum of Scotland. Indeed it is claimed that the results of the museum’s ongoing radiocarbon-dating programme had ‘transformed our understanding of Scotland’s archaeology and that of neighbouring countries’ (Sheridan 2005). Meanwhile the building of an accessible, nationwide digital database for ‘portable antiquities’ (archaeological finds) over the period from 1997 is said to have been ‘challenging previous understandings of the distribution of items such as Iron Age horse/vehicle equipment’ (Worrell 2005). One interesting point here is how, during an era in which professional archaeology was trying to promote an ethos of preservation and thus to distance itself from the ‘destructive’ act of excavation (Section 4.4), these new technologies were apparently creating novel avenues for prehistoric research which did not necessarily require the production of new archaeological material through excavation.

PPG16 Given that competitive tendering was so hotly debated in TFA prior to 1990, and that PPG16 has since been highlighted as one of the most important changes in British archaeology’s recent history (see above), the low visibility of these developments in TFA issues examined in detail after 1990 (Sections 4.5-4.7) is interesting in itself. It implies that although PPG16 has become significant retrospectively, at the time it may have been viewed as one part of much broader set of changes that were taking place in archaeology. Additional research into TFA’s coverage of this topic did yield some further information: a report on an IFA conference session dedicated to reviewing PPG16 (Manley 1993), an article discussing the perceived emergence of a two-tier system of research following the implementation of PPG16 (Bishop 1994), and an article testing local authority planners’ knowledge on planning guidance relating to archaeology (Roe 1995). However, perhaps surprisingly, none of these articles discuss PPG16 itself in detail. Rather, they reveal that earlier debates over the role of competitive tendering in archaeology faded following the implementation of PPG16 (Section 4.4). They describe the emergence of equivalent paperwork for archaeology in Scotland (NPPG5/PAN42). More significantly, they elucidate how the launching of PPG16 precipitated further organisational changes in archaeology, as well as provoking new concerns over the quality of the archaeological practice it engendered and the ways in which its policies were being implemented.

At the same time, a number of other articles address directly the issue of how the advent of developer-funded excavation was transforming understandings of British prehistory. The most substantial of these discusses a project specifically intended to collate published and unpublished (or grey) literature together with the records from regional and national databases, in order to produce a current prehistory of Britain and Ireland. Implicit within the rationale for this project is the notion that the evidence relating to recent archaeological excavations was so abundant, and so widely dispersed by this point, that it would have been impossible to produce such an account without consulting this disparate range of sources. Thus it is concluded that ‘data from a decade of developer-funded work is set to revolutionise the study of prehistory ... We can now prove that good and useful work is being done: the challenge now is to make it more readily accessible to ensure that it is put to good use’ (Bradley 2005, 19). Another article on a project synthesising grey literature relating to Bronze Age field systems gives a measure of the extent to which developer-funded archaeology had increased the capacity to study certain forms of evidence. It is contended that prior to the advent of developer-funded archaeology, fewer than six Bronze Age field systems had been excavated in Britain, while in contrast, over 300 were known in 2005 (Yates 2005, 31). Elsewhere it is noted that ‘it has become a truism that archaeologists now study landscapes rather than sites’ (Mudd 2005), a comment perhaps on the scale at which excavation programmes were often conducted by 2005.

The report on a series of sessions on ‘Archaeology and the Planning Process’ at the IFA’s annual conference in 1993 reveals that, following the implementation of PPG16, archaeology’s new ties with local government were accompanied by a new requirement to respond to changes in this arena: discussions were held over how to deal with immanent local authority restructuring (Manley 1993). This report also outlines how, with PPG16 in place, EH was setting out new initiatives to strengthen aspects of this legislation (e.g. in relation to urban archaeology) and to produce new guidelines for its implementation (e.g. Exploring Our Past (EH 1991a)). Interestingly, the report yields further evidence of archaeology’s previously noted strong desire to forge links with the world of commerce at this time (see Section 4.5). One clear example of this aspiration is the fact that the conference included a session entitled ‘Planners, Developers and Consultants: Reflections from the Other Side’, which allowed developers, amongst others, to voice their opinions on ‘Archaeology and the Planning Process’. Another instance is that businessderived terminology is used to describe certain changes that were being implemented in archaeology at the time: a discussion of the need to distinguish much more clearly the roles of archaeological ‘curators’ and ‘contractors’ in the light of PPG16 raises the idea of implementing

Finally, it is notable that these articles are not explicit about the specific kinds of interpretative approaches which British prehistorians were using to understand their evidence at this time. This could suggest that despite attempts by the IFA to raise the profile of theory in archaeology, for instance at the annual conference in 2000 (Section 4.6), the contributors to TA were still reticent about voicing their specific theoretical leanings in this forum.

 

Other important themes

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In contrast to the scenario for competitive tendering/PPG16, there was no hot debate in the TFA issues examined in detail (Sections 4.2-4.7) regarding the development of archaeological research frameworks. However it was clear from this detailed analysis that research frameworks were widespread in archaeology throughout the period under investigation, and that they suddenly became much more prevalent after 1995. Thus when they are mentioned explicitly in Vol. 56 (2005) it seems to have been assumed that their purpose is selfevident; it is enough merely to note that a new research agenda was being created for the World Heritage Site of West Mainland, Orkney, in order to identify ‘gaps in knowledge’ and to develop potential research questions, regionally specific research techniques and strategies for prioritisation (Foster 2005). Nevertheless, a glance through TFA/TA over the preceding 10 years, shows that unlike PPG16, issues surrounding the creation of research frameworks were actually debated in some detail in this forum.

‘Chinese Walls’. Finally, it is worth noting that archaeological ‘consultants’ feature prominently in this report, marking the apparent emergence of a new role in archaeology. Overall, it is clear that the implementation of one important piece of paperwork (PPG16) had, in turn, provoked the creation of new forms of paperwork, new roles, and the negotiation of new relationships in archaeology. With regards to wider concerns surrounding PPG16, the article discussing how the latter had affected research refutes the notion that intellectual aspirations were being sidelined under the pressure of planning-related work. Indeed it is contended that research is fundamental to all archaeological practice (Bishop 1994, 25). In addition, it is suggested that the advent of developer-funded archaeology had actually given archaeologists ‘more archaeology, better-funded archaeology, and more productive and stimulating archaeology than in any other … period before’ (ibid., 427). Bishop also raises the interesting point that by asking developers to pay for its practice, it was important to acknowledge and respond to the fact that archaeology had made a transition from being a ‘closed’ community to an ‘open’ one: ‘archaeology is now forced upon others’ (ibid., 425). As a result, he argues, archaeology needed to become more aware of its broader responsibilities as a discipline.

Histories of research frameworks have been written previously (Buckley 1997, Olivier 1996) and are not recounted in detail here. However, it is worth providing a basic outline of how these documents were discussed within TA, and highlighting the issues they were initially intended to address and concerns that have been raised over how they should be produced. In summarising the debates which took place in relation to this topic, it is also interesting to note how they encompass many of the themes that have emerged throughout this account (e.g. government-driven practice, collaboration, disciplinary fragmentation, a desire to forefront archaeology’s research credentials, the importance invested in terminology).

Research frameworks

Discussions about building a new generation of research frameworks for British archaeology first appears in the spring issue of TA 1997 (Vol. 28), in which a pair of articles written by EH representatives outline a history of earlier documents of this kind and give rationale for creating new ones. These articles explain how research frameworks are government-led documents which facilitate the channelling of funds towards the ‘most important’ archaeological work. This is achieved by identifying ‘gaps in knowledge’ and on this basis, drawing up lists of research priorities. They recount that numerous research frameworks had been produced from the 1970s onwards, operating at various different levels – site specific, regional, national etc. (see Hawkes and Piggott 1948, Peers 1929, for even earlier examples). However, they suggest that the advent of PPG16 revived the need for such documents. It thus becomes apparent that while EH were no longer primarily responsible for funding or choosing what was excavated in Britain following the introduction of PPG16, they still felt responsible for guiding the overall direction of archaeological fieldwork, particularly that which took place through the planning process. In relation to this sense of responsibility, EH endorse research frameworks as a way of addressing widespread concerns over disciplinary fragmentation and the perceived lack of

Figure 4.11: Front cover of EH’s Research Agenda 2005-10 (© English Heritage 2005)

 

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over the difficulty of producing research frameworks that were both broad enough to cover a wide range of issues at a regional level, and specific enough to be meaningful in relation to specific archaeological projects. Meanwhile it was recognised that the research agendas that were ultimately to be built upon the basis of research frameworks were likely to be multifarious and flexible. Although this variability was seen as acceptable and indeed necessary, it raised the issue of who had the right to dictate such agendas.

academic focus of work conducted through the planning process (Olivier 1997). Hopes are also raised that such documents might provide a framework for supporting the decisions made by local authority archaeologists regarding the protection and recording of archaeological remains. Having recently undertaken a comprehensive review of earlier and existing research frameworks, and an extensive survey of contemporary perceptions of archaeological research – Frameworks for Our Past (Olivier 1996) – the author of one of these articles admits that previous documents of this kind were incoherent. As a result, he asserts, there was widespread support for developing a systematic network of regional and national frameworks for investigating British archaeology, involving contributions from archaeologists across the discipline. A structure for the creation of such documents is thus set forth, starting with the production of a comprehensive review of known archaeology on a county basis, which would then be synthesised regionally, and ultimately be incorporated into strategic documents at a national level (Olivier 1997). The need for close collaboration between archaeologists in different sectors is stressed, as is the ultimate aim of building a united ‘research culture’. Having initiated the process of building a new generation of research frameworks, however, EH itself clearly planned to play a peripheral role, by ‘facilitating and enabling’ (ibid., 4) them (rather than funding them, perhaps?).

Five years later, in the Autumn of 2002 (Vol. 46), one further article on research frameworks, once again by the author of Frameworks for Our Past, does little to elucidate how such concerns were addressed in the meantime, or what (if any) the effects of these documents had been on archaeological research (Olivier 2002). However it is clear from this article that by 2002 archaeologists were, as predicted, facing difficulties in their endeavours to produce research frameworks: many regions were still without a ‘framework’ even if one was planned. The article describes the organisational hierarchy which had been established for producing regional research frameworks, led by national bodies (EH, CBA, Association of Local Government Officers (AGLAO)) and universities, with local authority archaeologists playing a ‘fundamental role’ (Olivier 2002). This implies that although the question of who had the right to dictate such documents was initially debated, when they actually came to be produced, they were organised using traditional lines of authority in archaeology. It is also noted that, as expected, the ways in which research frameworks were produced, and their contents, were actually quite varied. Interestingly despite this state of apparent disorder, which might seem antithetical to the initial idea of creating an integrated system for British archaeological research, research frameworks are still presented in a positive light: ‘indeed the process of building active and functioning regional consortia is just as important as the resulting product’ (Olivier 2002). It also appears that by this time, research frameworks, as a concept, were cemented into a much broader network of strategic paperwork within EH; they are stated to underpin the objectives laid out in policy documents entitled Power of Place and Force for Our Future.

An accompanying article, written by an archaeological curator, raises a number of additional reasons for research frameworks (Williams 1997, 7). Williams suggests that the creation of research frameworks was vital if archaeology was to profit by engaging in broader (government-related) debates on ‘sustainability’. In addition, however, he identifies a potential difficulty relating to the scope of research frameworks: they ‘must be sufficiently general so as not to become an academic straightjacket and to allow the development of new ideas within those frameworks. At the same time they must be explicit enough to demonstrate that academic rigour has been applied in their formulation’ (ibid., 5). The debate is continued in the subsequent issue of TA (Vol. 29, Summer 1997) which voices broad support for research frameworks, but identifies further complexities in relation to their production. Thus it is argued, again by an EH representative, that some confusion already existed over the terminology used in such documents, and that a clear distinction had to be made between ‘research frameworks’, ‘research agendas’ and ‘research strategies’ (Thomas 1997, 10). Concerns are expressed over the temporal qualities of such documents. For instance it was realised that no document of this kind could ever be up to date given the ever increasing volume of archaeological work being undertaken in Britain, and the considerable period of time that it would take to produce each research framework: ‘any written version of that framework is simply a partial and static “snap-shot” of a larger and dynamic whole’ (ibid., 10). Further worries are raised

 

A sense is thus given that, whatever their complexities, the place of research frameworks was embedded in British archaeological practice by the early 2000s. This is perhaps puzzling given the doubts that were expressed quite candidly about the worth of these documents, as well as how to produce them, in the late 1990s. Moreover it is evident that considerable difficulties were still being encountered in creating research frameworks towards the end of the period under consideration here. 4.9.

Discussion

Before moving on to develop a complementary account which looks more specifically at developments over the

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upon archaeology’s social responsibilities, both to archaeologists (training and working conditions) and to the world beyond (social inclusion).

same period in British prehistoric research, it is useful to reiterate and to discuss briefly some of the main themes (italicised in the text) which have arisen in this chapter. In short, using evidence from TFA it has been possible to generate an account of broad changes which have taken place in the organisation of archaeological practice over the last 30 years as well as in the methods, technologies and theories employed in relation to archaeological evidence. More unusually, it has been possible to trace significant preoccupations within ‘the profession’ over this period; to look at how both ‘archaeology’ and ‘archaeologists’ have been objectified and portrayed; and to characterise the principal roles that archaeologists have made for themselves and the relationships they have developed both within the discipline, and with the wider world.

In relation to how archaeology, archaeologists and the IFA itself have been portrayed over this period, it is clear that, early on, there were concerns that archaeology was perceived as being amateurish, eccentric, and disorganised (hence, perhaps, the need to create a professional body to set its standards), or otherwise that ‘established archaeologists’ were seen to be ‘aloof’ and that archaeology itself was a social luxury. During the 1990s there were constant renderings of archaeology, archaeologists, and the IFA as being slow to respond, fragmentary or uncommunicative. A widespread concern with re-branding at this time emphasises the notion that archaeologists in many spheres were uncomfortable with archaeology’s image. Alongside these concerns, there was clearly an aspiration in some circles at least, to represent archaeology as being business-minded, effective, socially inclusive and high-tech, with a strong research ethos (as if by doing so it was possible to counter these anxieties).

With regards to organisational, methodological, technological, and theoretical developments, a valuable impression has been gained of major structural shifts in archaeology (such as events surrounding the introduction of PPG16), general trends in fieldwork practices (e.g. the flourishing of non-intrusive and evaluative approaches from the 1990s onwards), and, more recently, the widening availability of new digital and scientific technologies. Perhaps more surprisingly (given the contentions raised in Chapter 2 with regards to professional archaeology’s perceived lack of response to recent theoretical developments) it has been possible to glean a broad, if sketchy, outline of theoretical trends over this period. For example, a continued affiliation with processual approaches well into the 1980s was noted, as well as an interest in archaeology as a social practice at the beginning of the 1990s (when TFA included an article on gender studies). More recently contributors to TA have engaged with phenomenological approaches, mainly as a way of interpreting archaeological landscapes. With regards to shifts in archaeological practice more widely, evidence from TFA certainly implies that excavation has played a much less prominent role in archaeological practice since the early 1990s. However survey techniques have prospered, as have projects that engage with new technologies, and practices which are associated with the administration of archaeology – whether this involves creating strategies for its management and investigation (e.g. research frameworks), overseeing archaeology’s practices, or accounting for the activities of its practitioners.

In terms of the roles and relationships by which archaeologists have defined themselves, it is apparent that while ‘professional archaeology’ initially tried to embrace ‘academia’ in the 1980s, by 1990, ‘professional’ and ‘academic’ archaeology were increasingly being discussed as separate entities. More recently, it appears that some, mainly ‘professional’, archaeologists have attempted to bridge this gap. Within ‘professional archaeology’ itself, it is interesting to observe how lines were drawn between ‘established’ and ‘lower-down-theorder’ archaeologists in the late 1980s and subsequently in the early 2000s, and between ‘curators’, ‘contractors’, ‘consultants’ and ‘clients’ (or developers) at the end of the 1980s. Meanwhile from the 1990s onwards, it is perceptible that ‘professional archaeologists’ were increasingly forging alliances with other government sectors (e.g. environmental conservation), archaeologists in Europe, and the developers who were now vital to their work. Perhaps most interestingly, it has been possible to identify potential connections between various developments outlined within TFA. For instance, it is evident that events surrounding the introduction of PPG16 in 1990 and the emergence of competitive tendering were strongly associated with significant changes in archaeological practice itself (e.g. the proliferation of survey techniques), in the various roles that archaeologists perform, and in the relationships that have developed between archaeologists in different arenas, and between archaeology and the outside world. It is also possible to suggest that the commonly expressed perception of archaeology (and the IFA in particular) as being ineffective and slow to respond to change during the 1990s was almost certainly linked to numerous attempts to reshuffle, rename and streamline archaeological organisations around this time. In addition, it is apparent that archaeology’s strong ties with

Regarding archaeology’s main preoccupations, it has been possible to follow shifts in the major topics of debate from issues surrounding publication and the management of archaeological projects in the mid-1980s, to concerns over the emergence of competitive tendering for archaeological projects at the turn of the 1990s, to fears that archaeologists were factionalising, producing too much information and failing to communicate about it in the early-1990s. From this point onwards, there was seemingly a growing worry that the quality of archaeological research was being compromised by archaeology’s competitive practices. More recently still, efforts have been invested in highlighting and acting

 

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In addition, a number of historians and sociologists of disciplines and professions have commented recently on the mounting difficulties which professional bodies face in retaining their status as autonomous and authoritative units (Evetts 2003, Fournier 2000). For instance Evetts noted that professions are increasingly required to respond to external (often governmental) demands for political, economic, cultural and social change rather than initiating these changes themselves. Thus they find themselves in a state of persistent and often disorientating flux (2003, 403). In this light, the observation made here that the IFA appears to have had difficulties in finding a clear niche within a changing disciplinary milieu (Section 4.5) seems less surprising.

the government, especially following the implementation of PPG16 in 1990, were increasingly implicated in the practices that archaeologists engaged in, the language they used, and how they presented themselves over the course of the 1990s and early 2000s. In relation to this account it is important to highlight that several aspects of the history I have outlined have been viewed elsewhere as representing key markers in the formation and reproduction of academic disciplines and in the process of professionalisation much more broadly (a theme which I will return to in detail in Chapter 8). Archaeologists’ attempts to demarcate the activities of various groups of practitioners, the chronic concerns which have been expressed about archaeology’s public image, the emergence of new specialist vocabularies (e.g. the burgeoning use of acronyms), and the creation of standards both for working practices and conditions, might all be seen as ways in which British archaeology has engaged with strategies through which emerging ‘disciplines’ and ‘professions’ much more broadly have traditionally defined, maintained and asserted (aspects of) their own distinct and autonomous identities (see for example Abbott 1988, Fournier 1999, 2000, 2002, Shapin 1992, Wright 2000).10

Finally it is worth noting that, perhaps predictably, TFA provides only occasional insights into how archaeologists’ understandings and interpretations of the past have changed over the course of the last 30 years or so. This makes it very difficult to use this source as a basis for reflecting in detail upon how broad disciplinary changes are related to interpretative developments, or indeed how (or if) the latter are implicated in archaeological practice more broadly. Only in the final issue of the main sample of TFA was this theme addressed explicitly, when it was contended that the archaeology were results of developer-funded revolutionising interpretations of both certain kinds of prehistoric evidence (Bronze Age field systems) and British prehistory in general. Similarly, it was acknowledged that the creation of a new database for ‘Portable Antiquities’ was challenging previous understandings of certain classes of artefacts (Worrell 2005, 35), and that new dating techniques were revolutionising interpretations of Scottish prehistory (Sheridan 2005, 40).

With particular reference to archaeology, Taylor (1995) discussed how, throughout the discipline’s history, the notion of ‘the amateur’ has been reinvented repeatedly by ‘professionals’ as a means of justifying their own activities (1995, 505). Meanwhile both Moser (1995) and Smith (2009) illustrated eloquently (in the very different contexts of Australian prehistory in the mid to late 20th century and British prehistory in the early 20th century) how attributes generally associated with professionalisation – the demarcation of disciplinary territories, the creation of specialist vocabularies, the standardisation of practices, and attempts to project to a wider audience a clear and assertive professional identity – have been fundamental traits of archaeology’s history much more widely. They also elucidated some of the tensions which can emerge between practitioners as a consequence of implementing such strategies. For instance Moser described how academic archaeologists in Australia initially embraced and were closely involved in the creation of new heritage bodies (government-funded institutes and associations) during the 1960s. However over the following decade or so as these groups came to define their own agendas, conflicts arose increasingly between the interests of academics and those of the emerging heritage sector (1995, 200).

In order to gain a better understanding of how archaeological interpretations have transformed over the last 30 years, and to develop a more specific understanding of shifts in British prehistoric research, in Chapter 5, I build a contrasting history of this period using evidence from Prehistoric Society publications, and the Archaeological Investigations Project (AIP) database.

 

10

It is also worth noting that for much of the 20th century studies of professionalisation and disciplinary formation focused on defining the key criteria which marked these processes and arranging these traits into evolutionary schemes. However over the last 15-20 years researchers in these areas have warned against becoming preoccupied with what professionalisation should look like (e.g. Broman 1995, 835-6) and have moved on to examine the particular expressions of aspects of professionalisation in a range of different contexts (see Moser 1995, 359 for an overview of this shift).

 

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Chapter 5 5.1.

Prehistoric research, 1980-2005 exhibitions (Champion and Gamble 1986). The Prehistoric Society’s role has remained similar for much of its existence, excepting slight shifts in wording and intent: its initial intentions to promote ‘friendly intercourse between prehistorians’, ‘study all matters connected with prehistoric man in East Anglia’ and disseminate ‘knowledge of prehistory by means of papers and exhibitions of implements’ (Clark 1985, 1), were later simplified to read ‘to promote interest in Prehistoric Archaeology, to encourage and engage in Research, and to disseminate information on Prehistory’ (Childe 1935). Wainwright mentions a further shift in the Society’s objectives in the early 1980s, when its policy guidelines were amended to state an explicit concern for heritage conservation (1984, 3).

Introduction

Chapter 5 presents a detailed account of how research in British prehistory has changed over the last 30 years. This includes an empirical study of shifts in the character of prehistoric fieldwork, and a critical analysis of changes in prehistoric research more broadly. The former is based on records from annual summaries of excavation reports in Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society (PPS), and the Archaeological Investigations Project (AIP). The latter addresses the outcomes of prehistoric research (fieldwork reports, artefact studies, works of synthesis etc.), as represented by the main articles in PPS. As a setting for this account, I supply a general synopsis of the main sources I consulted. This is followed by an outline of how I structured my narrative, and approached these sources according to their particular capacities.

Archaeological Investigations Project The Archaeological Investigations Project (AIP) was set up by EH in response to a realisation in the early 1990s that no comprehensive record was being kept of archaeological investigations in Britain (Carver et al. 1992). As a result, it was argued, it was very difficult to gain an accurate impression of, and thus to form understandings, or make curatorial decisions on the basis of ‘contemporary’ archaeological knowledge. In order to address this issue the AIP team, housed at Bournemouth University, has collated and published online databases and gazetteers of archaeological investigations in England annually from 1990 onwards (AIP 2008b). It also produces analytical reports documenting overall trends in the nature and extent of archaeological work during this period (e.g. Darvill et al. 2002). Where possible, AIP seeks to include investigations that have taken place in all archaeological spheres. However it is acknowledged that work undertaken by ‘independent’ archaeologists (such as local societies) is less exhaustively represented, partly because the response from groups such as these to the questionnaire circulated by AIP was low (Darvill et al. 2002, 49). In addition it is worth noting that AIP records the results of ‘each and every’ investigation (published as ‘grey’ reports, not undertaken) during the year in question. The database also includes investigations which produced negative results, as well as those where archaeological evidence was encountered.

Background to the main sources Prehistoric Society publications For British prehistorians at least, the Prehistoric Society barely requires introduction: aspects of its history have been told on several occasions, often within the pages of its own journal, PPS (e.g. Chapman 1985, Clark 1985, Coles 1980, Pope 2011, Smith 2000, Wainwright 1984). It is therefore sufficient to note that the Prehistoric Society of East Anglia (PSEA) was founded in 1908, and expanded in 1935 from whence it operated on a national basis (see Smith 2000 for an enlightening account of this transition). Its membership has always been broad, and purportedly includes ‘professionals’, ‘amateurs’, ‘students’ and ‘the retired’ (Prehistoric Society 2010), or as Coles neatly put it ‘most of the active prehistorians in the United Kingdom’ (1984, 437) and many from abroad as well. From an initial membership of c. 400, a plateau (in terms of numbers) was reached by the mid-1980s, since when the figure has remained at around 2000. While the Society’s early focus was on the prehistory of one specific English region (East Anglia), its decision to act on a national basis in 1935 was followed by a further widening of its scope to include Europe and the rest of the world. Even so, a review of PPS’s geographical range in 1994 concluded that its primary focus should remain on British prehistory (Harris 1994, 3). In addition to conducting various other activities (providing lectures, seminars, study tours etc., and funding research) the Prehistoric Society produces two main publications: an annual journal (PPS), and a triennial newsletter (PAST). The former has been described as ‘our main vehicle of communication about prehistoric archaeology [which], presumably, should reflect what is of national and international importance’ (Chapman 1985, 26). PAST was launched in July 1986 and was intended to be ‘more of a bedside read’, delivering short articles on current fieldwork, events and

Structure and approach The order of this chapter follows broadly the temporal sequence of the research process itself. 1 I begin by analysing records of British prehistoric fieldwork or the creation of primary data, and follow this by considering the outcomes of research. Before commencing this narrative, it is useful to outline the principal aims of 1

Accepting that the research process should not necessarily be viewed as being linear in form (cf. Lucas 2001a)

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consult two broadly comparable sources for this purpose – the annual ‘Summary of excavation reports’ in PPS for the period up to 1985 (after which these were no longer produced), and the AIP database and gazetteers for the period from 1990 onwards. Both sources were consulted at five-yearly intervals.

studying each of these aspects of prehistoric research, to describe the key qualities of the main sources I used, and to explain how I addressed them. Prehistoric fieldwork

The annual summaries of excavation reports in PPS comprise lists of abstracts outlining the findings of fieldwork investigations for that year (including both excavations and other types of fieldwork project), which had either sought or produced prehistoric archaeology. As a result they provide a useful record of prehistoric fieldwork, and the material it generated over the period they were produced. Although in many ways these summaries are ideal for the purposes of this account, their value is limited by two important factors. Firstly, and most importantly, the excavation report summaries are only available for the period up to 1985. Moreover the list for 1980 is significantly longer than that for 1985 (the total number of investigations listed for these years is 83 and 29 respectively) suggesting that contributions to this feature had dwindled in the meantime. As a result, these summaries can only be used to shed light on British prehistoric fieldwork at the very beginning of the period under consideration here.

To begin my study of recent shifts in British prehistoric research, it is important to gain an understanding of how fieldwork practices and the prehistoric data they produce have changed over the last 30 years. This topic has been raised previously in various archaeological forums. However such discussions have almost always been based on conjecture rather than on detailed analysis. As a result, a somewhat incongruous picture has been painted of recent shifts in fieldwork practices, both in prehistory and more broadly. For instance, in a recent volume on Prehistoric Britain, Pollard highlighted the dramatic increase that has taken place in the scale of excavation since the introduction of PPG16 in 1990, which he suggested has been witnessed most dramatically in the economically ‘super-charged’ regions of the East Midlands and the Thames Valley (2008, 12). By contrast, Hunter and Ralston proposed that changes in fieldwork practices since 1980 have been characterised by ‘a significant trend away from large-scale excavation’ (1999, 8).

Secondly, since the summaries were submitted by fieldwork coordinators on a voluntary basis, it is likely that the lists are somewhat incomplete. While this is problematic to a certain extent, the facts that overall the summaries derive from a broad geographical area, were provided by an extremely wide range of organisations and individuals, and include both sites that produced vast quantities of prehistoric evidence and those that produced none at all, suggest that they are largely representative of prehistoric fieldwork at the time they were written. More importantly, they are probably the only available source for assessing a broad cross-section of prehistoric fieldwork that was undertaken at this time.3

The main publication arising from AIP, Archaeology after PPG16: Archaeological Investigations in England 1990-1999, does provide a more rigorous examination of ‘the changing character and distribution of archaeological work in England since the introduction of PPG16’ (Darvill et al. 2002, 3). However, this analysis focuses upon shifts in the character of archaeological ‘interventions’ (which in this case includes desk-based assessments, as well as excavations, field evaluations, etc.) at an abstract level: it highlights changes in the number, scale, etc. of ‘interventions’, rather than also in the kinds of materials and interpretations they produce, as is the intention here. 2 Interestingly Wainwright did broach such issues for the period from 1970-80 (1984). However his analysis both predates my main era of interest, and looks specifically at the impact of ‘rescue’ archaeology on the kinds of prehistoric sites being investigated. For the purposes of this investigation, it was necessary therefore, to undertake primary analysis of records pertaining to what prehistoric fieldwork has actually been carried out from 1980 onwards, and the kinds of data it has yielded.

The AIP website comprises gazetteers and a database of all ‘grey’ literature arising from archaeological investigations in England published since 1990. As a result, for the period from 1990 onwards, it includes information that is generally comparable to that within the PPS excavation summaries for the early 1980s. It thus represents the best source through which to continue my analysis of developments in prehistoric fieldwork in Britain beyond 1985.4

Having set out with this intention, I soon discovered that it is surprisingly difficult in practice to conduct such an investigation: no comprehensive record exists of archaeological fieldwork in Britain for the entire period in question, let alone of fieldwork that produced prehistoric remains. As a result, it was necessary to

3

The AIP database does actually include grey literature relating to the period from 1982 onwards. However prior to 1990 the database is far from comprehensive in its coverage (for instance it includes only two reports on fieldwork investigations which produced prehistoric remains for the period from 1982-85). As a result the data prior to 1990 was not included in this study. 4 Similar projects to the AIP do exist for Scotland, Wales and Ireland. However the way in which the data from these projects are constituted and presented varies, and only that for Ireland is available online. As a result this study focuses on the information for prehistoric investigations in England.

2

A forthcoming AIP publication will, however, seek to build a more nuanced account of how shifts in the character of archaeological interventions have affected knowledge production practices (Ehren Milner pers. comm.)

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CHAPTER 5. PREHISTORIC RESEARCH, 1980-2005

Firstly, I provide a characterisation of prehistoric fieldwork in the early 1980s. This section uses key data from the PPS excavation summaries for 1980 and 1985, including geographic location, site types (periods and principal archaeological features represented), methodologies employed and so on. Information from 113 sites recorded in PPS excavation summaries in these two years was compiled into a digital database for analytical purposes. Although, as already mentioned, the list of excavation summaries for 1985 appears to be less complete than that for 1980, it was included in the study in order to gauge any developments in prehistoric fieldwork in the meantime.

However, several attributes of the AIP data meant that it was necessary for me to consider carefully how to use them. Firstly, although the range of information available on the AIP website is similar to that in PPS excavation summaries, the database excludes certain significant criteria (such as funding sources). Other important criteria – the scale of investigations and the rationale provided for undertaking them – are not recorded systematically, to the extent that it was not possible to use these data meaningfully. 5 Secondly, the way in which investigations are categorised in the database is not always useful for the purposes of my own analysis. For instance, confusingly, survey investigations (such as field walking) are sometimes listed as ‘desk-based assessments’, and sometimes as ‘evaluations’; trial trenching investigations are sometimes recorded as ‘evaluations’ and sometimes as ‘excavations’; and ‘deskbased assessments’ are sometimes recorded as ‘evaluations’. In addition, the site descriptions are often rather abstract; thus for a project where a trench was excavated across hillfort earthworks, the findings are described as ‘prehistoric ditch’. As a result, it was necessary to re-categorise some of the data before using them in my analysis. Thirdly, the sheer volume of investigations recorded in recent years made it necessary for me to be selective in using these data (see below and Section 5.2): the AIP database lists almost 7800 projects which have produced prehistoric evidence since 1990.

Secondly, I outline major shifts that have taken place in prehistoric fieldwork since 1980, as represented by evidence from two particular regions of Britain. The latter comprise two of the nine government administrative regions also adopted by EH (Alexander 1999), around which the AIP gazetteers are also structured. This section compares data from PPS excavation summaries for 1980 with data on all investigations that produced prehistoric evidence listed on the AIP database for 2005. The two regions considered in detail – the ‘East’ and the ‘North West’ – were selected in part for their geographical distinctiveness. They also represent one of the busiest, and one of the quietest regions respectively in terms of prehistoric fieldwork activity: in 2005, 101 projects in the ‘East’ and four in the ‘North West’ produced prehistoric remains. Where relevant, data for the intervening years and from across Britain are also drawn upon. Once again, this information was compiled into a database for analysis.

Overall it is worth emphasising that while incomplete, the records of prehistoric fieldwork between 1980-2005 which were collated for the purposes of this analysis (using a combination of evidence from PPS excavation summaries and the AIP database) were as full as they reasonably could be. Moreover they are certainly a considerable improvement on the data available through the AIP alone, primarily because the latter includes only a handful of records for the period prior to 1990 (only 48 in total of which 33 relate to investigations which took place in 1988-9). 6

Overall, the main topics broached within this section include shifts in the geographical distribution of projects, the kinds of sites recorded, the methodologies employed, the scale at which the work was undertaken, the people responsible for funding and carrying out the work, and the rationale provided for undertaking it.

Bearing in mind the particular qualities of these sources, the following strategy was devised for building a recent history of British prehistoric fieldwork:

Prehistoric research more broadly Following this investigation of transformations in prehistoric fieldwork since 1980 using ‘objective’ records, it is important to ask how British prehistoric research more widely has changed over the same period. In order to do so, I undertook a critical analysis of some of the more ‘subjective’, but very important outcomes of prehistoric research between 1980-2005: the main articles in PPS. Again, it is worth briefly reviewing the principal attributes of these articles before explaining how I tackled them analytically.

5

For instance, the AIP database records the ‘study area’ (area investigated) for only 163 (35%) of the 464 prehistoric investigations listed for the whole of England in 1995 and only 42 (12%) of the 349 investigations listed in 2005. Once these data are examined in detail, it is also clear that the way in which the study area is defined varies considerably – some measurements refer to the area actually examined within excavation areas or trial trenches, while others refer to the entire development area. 6 More comprehensive data for prehistoric investigations in England during the 1980s reside within the Royal Commission on Historic Monuments Excavation Index (RCHMEI). For a summary of this source see http://ads.ahds.ac.uk/newsletter/5blurbs/excav.html. Unfortunately however, these data are extremely difficult to extract in a form which is suitable for the purposes of this analysis (for instance the database cannot be searched by the year of investigation). Consequently, while it might become possible in future (S. Jeffrey & M. Barratt pers. comm.), at the time of writing this data could not be included in the research.

The main articles in PPS cover a broad spectrum of research into prehistoric sites and materials. They include fieldwork reports, works of synthesis at a regional and national level, reassessments of previously excavated sites, and occasionally almost entirely theoretical pieces (e.g. Cullen 1995). All prehistoric periods from the

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sampling strategy was devised in order to evaluate this material. For the purposes of detailed analysis PPS volumes were consulted at five-yearly intervals between 1980-2005 (Volumes 46, 51, 56, 61, 66 & 71). Every article relating to British and Irish prehistory within these volumes (64 in total) was assessed according to key criteria.8 These included (a) the broad character of the article (fieldwork report, synthetic study, etc.), (b) who was responsible for funding and producing the work, (c) the reasons given for undertaking the investigation, d) the methodologies employed, (e) the main interpretations which resulted, and (f) the article’s ‘aesthetics’ attributes (photos, illustrations etc.). For comparative purposes, these traits were recorded on pro-forma sheets.

Palaeolithic to the Iron Age are represented. While the number of contributions relating to international prehistory has increased through time, the primary focus for these articles has always been evidence from Britain and Ireland. Clearly, the main articles from PPS form only part of a continuum of British prehistoric research outcomes over the period in question (books of various forms and grey literature being other obvious examples). However, given that these articles pertain to many different forms of enquiry into British prehistory, are written by prehistorians from a variety of backgrounds, and are explicitly intended to convey information about everything of significance in prehistoric research, they are certainly the best accessible source for the purposes of this account.

Further details as to my reasons for choosing these particular criteria for analysing PPS articles are provided in the relevant sections below. However it is worth summarising these briefly at this point, particularly since there are no obvious precedents for undertaking this kind of analysis. The broad character of the articles was recorded in order to be able to identify general trends in the general modes of investigation being undertaken (at least as they are represented in this forum). One reason for recording who was responsible for funding the prehistoric investigations represented is that previous critiques of archaeological practice (e.g. Hamilton 2000) have noted explicitly that funding sources can be an important influencing factor in the interpretative process. Moreover, as the evidence presented in Chapter 4 demonstrates clearly, significant changes have taken place in this respect over the last 30 years. Consequently it seemed important to consider the extent to which these shifts were evident in the outcomes of British prehistoric research. The reasons provided for undertaking investigations were noted in order to address the concern raised repeatedly over the last 30 years (see Chapter 4) about the research credentials of development-led work. The principal methodologies employed in and interpretations arising from these investigations were documented as a means of assessing the extent to which widely acknowledged shifts in these arenas were actually apparent in research outcomes. This allowed for a consideration of the ways in which British prehistorians had actually engaged with these developments. Finally the PPS articles’ aesthetic attributes were recorded in order assess the extent to which developments in understandings about the visualisation of archaeological data (see Chapter 2) and in the technologies employed in producing archaeological images (see Chapter 4) were evident in the research published in this forum.

Nevertheless, it is important to acknowledge two specific attributes of PPS articles which undoubtedly colour the history they yield. Firstly, given that PPS is Britain’s leading prehistoric journal, the articles it includes typically embody what is seen to be ‘exemplary’ prehistoric research, rather than being necessarily typical of British prehistoric research in general.7 In addition, the contents of certain PPS volumes are unambiguously attuned to the interests of the particular editor(s) concerned, rather than representing a broad cross-section of research. For instance Volume 56 (1990), which was edited by two university lecturers from Cardiff, contains an unusually high number of articles from Wales. These biases might be seen as problematic to a certain extent. However they can also be viewed as positive attributes of this particular source. The fact that the main articles represent ‘exemplary’ research in British prehistory (that which is of national and international importance, see above) also means that they are potentially a context in which cutting-edge ideas are aired, and in which the effects of broader disciplinary changes become evident more quickly. The exclusive character of this forum also makes it ideal for highlighting disparities between research actually being undertaken, and that being presented to prehistorians more broadly, particularly in the realm of fieldwork. Moreover, given that the contents of PPS are peerreviewed and meant to be representative of the interests of the Prehistoric Society in general, it seems fair to assume that any biases introduced by particular editors also reflect wider perceptions that such topics needed to be foregrounded. PPS volumes throughout the period from 1980-2005 were examined. However, as a result of the very large number of articles of direct relevance to British prehistorians published in PPS over this period (305 in total), and the tempo at which it is likely that the developments I am interested in could be observed, a

8

Articles on Irish prehistory were included in this analysis together with those on British prehistory in order to ensure that the arguments put forward were based on the broadest possible sample of relevant data from the PPS volumes analysed in detail. The prehistoric evidence from Britain and Ireland is comparable in many ways and, as a result, they are often discussed in conjunction within academic literature (see for example Bradley 2007). Moreover similar interpretative issues have been raised in relation to the evidence from both regions throughout the period in question.

7

In relation to this point it is worth emphasising that PPS is certainly not the only forum in which exemplary prehistoric research is published. For instance within the field of Palaeolithic archaeology, the Quaternary Science Reviews and the Journal for Quaternary Science provide alternative high-profile contexts in which to showcase exemplary research.

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The resulting history focuses on key themes which arose during this analysis. It begins by providing a rather different perspective on shifts in prehistoric fieldwork to that provided in the section detailing what fieldwork actually took place (Section 5.2). This is followed by assessments of developments in how prehistoric materials have been analysed following their retrieval from the ground, how interpretative approaches have been picked up on and employed, the aesthetics of articles (photos, illustrations etc.), the overall composition of articles, and the makeup of the authors of articles included in PPS since 1980. 5.2.

Prehistoric fieldwork

The early 1980s This section considers the character of prehistoric fieldwork in Britain in the early 1980s in terms of the geographical distribution of sites, the types of site identified, the methodologies employed, the scale of investigations, funding sources, the people involved in undertaking the work, and the rationale provided for doing so. The analysis is based on evidence from 113 investigations published in PPS excavation summaries in 1980 and 1985. Geographical distribution Figure 5.1: Density (per 100x100km square) of prehistoric fieldwork investigations undertaken in Scotland, Wales and English administrative regions, 1980 & 1985

The main point to observe with regards to the geographical distribution of prehistoric fieldwork in the early 1980s is that, in terms of density, the majority of work was concentrated in southern and eastern England (Figure 5.1). Otherwise, a fairly low but even spread of projects was recorded across England and Scotland (no projects were recorded in Wales). One important implication of this patterning is that the areas of Britain in which the most prehistoric fieldwork took place (the south and east) at this time (i.e. before PPG16) were also those in which the most development – the construction of new buildings, changes of land use etc. – traditionally takes place (AIP 2008a, Figure 5). Significantly, this suggests that development was a major factor determining where prehistoric investigations took place well before the advent of developer-funded archaeology in the late 1980s. Meanwhile, archaeological criteria (research questions) and the availability of active and capable fieldwork teams almost certainly played important, but auxiliary roles in the distribution of prehistoric fieldwork at this time.9

Character of evidence (period and form) The overarching impression with regards to the character of prehistoric evidence investigated in the early 1980s, is that it was very varied (Figures 5.2 and 5.3). Fieldwork was undertaken in relation to both specific archaeological features (e.g. a round barrow), and to more extensive archaeological landscapes (e.g. parts of a field system or several ‘sites’ within a given investigation area), and unearthed remains dating from the Palaeolithic to the end of the Iron Age. Despite this general diversity, it is notable that certain prehistoric periods and certain features were investigated much more often than others at this time. For instance, 49% of projects which produced prehistoric remains in 1980/5 recorded Iron Age evidence. Similarly, although the full range of prehistoric features investigated was very broad (including artefact scatters, marine deposits, monuments, settlements, isolated features, findspots, etc.) the vast majority of projects focused on settlementrelated or monumental evidence: 37% of investigations targeted known monuments (represented by the classes ‘Religious, Ritual & Funerary (Monument)’ and ‘Defence’), while, 43% of investigations produced substantial settlement remains (represented by the class ‘Domestic 1’).

9

It is notable that the regions in which the most prehistoric fieldwork took place were also those in which the largest and most active fieldwork organisations were based. This is partly because fieldwork teams tend to gather in areas where significant quantities of archaeology are being uncovered during the course of developments. However a greater number of research projects were also initiated in areas in which development was not that prolific but where there were local societies with a strong tradition of undertaking fieldwork (e.g. Sussex).

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Figure 5.2: Periods of prehistoric archaeology investigated, 1980 & 1985

Figure 5.3: Types of prehistoric archaeology investigated, 1980 & 1985 (see Appendix 3 for a discussion of the site categories used)

and the ground surface. It is therefore unclear whether their high incidence in fieldwork investigations in the early 1980s represents their actual abundance in prehistory, or also relates to the fact that they were the easiest sites to identify and thus to target for investigation.

In many ways, these figures are hardly surprising – Iron Age material is more prevalent than that of other prehistoric periods, and settlements and monuments are undoubtedly the most common forms of evidence. However it is worth noting that these types of prehistoric remains are also the most visible from aerial photographs

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Figure 5.4: Methodologies employed in relation to prehistoric evidence, 1980 & 1985

Figure 5.5: Shifts in fieldwork methodologies, 1980-1985

Methodologies

were used only occasionally.10

Excavation was the predominant methodology applied in relation to prehistoric evidence by far in the early 1980s: 90% of projects listed in 1980/5 involved some form of excavation – whether in trenches, across an open area, or very rarely when significant remains were encountered during the course of a watching brief (Figure 5.4). Survey (topographic, geophysical, auger or field-walking) was the other common fieldwork activity: it was employed in 24% of projects, often in conjunction with excavation. Meanwhile, watching briefs, trial trenches and test pits

It is also noteworthy that there were clear differences between the methodologies used in projects in 1980, and those used in 1985 (Figure 5.5). By 1985, fieldwork projects tended to draw upon a broader combination of techniques. In particular, prehistoric remains were commonly located using speculative techniques by this time (survey and trial trenching): such approaches were adopted in 55% of projects. 10

It is worth noting that it is difficult to define ‘excavation’ as a methodology, particularly because trial trenching and watching briefs can also involve excavation. Throughout this analysis, the term ‘excavation’ is taken to mean open area excavation, the excavation of trenches specifically in order to investigate a known archaeological feature (e.g. a round barrow), or where substantial excavations were undertaken alongside a watching brief.

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Figure 5.6: Organisations undertaking prehistoric fieldwork, 1980 & 1985

funding was provided by local authorities, universities, the Manpower Services Commission, the British Academy, the Society of the Antiquaries, a museum, and an unnamed private benefactor. Overall, this suggests that prehistoric fieldwork was funded from many different sources in the early 1980s. However, significantly, most of these financiers were linked to the government, and none were developers.

Scale The scale at which prehistoric investigations took place – the area examined within trenches or excavation areas – was not noted systematically within PPS excavation summaries. This is unfortunate, given that such criteria undoubtedly relate closely to the kinds of evidence that are ultimately produced. Where such information is provided (for 31 of the 83 investigations in 1980, and 11 of the 29 investigations in 1985), it is clear that prehistoric fieldwork was typically small in scope at this time: the total area investigated was usually well below 1ha.

Fieldworkers Overall, it is clear that archaeologists in many different working contexts were actively involved in undertaking prehistoric fieldwork in the early 1980s (Figure 5.6). This includes archaeologists within rescue committees, 11 National Museums, the Central Excavation Unit (CEU), the Department of the Environment (DoE), county councils, development corporations, local societies, specialist excavation units (independent and those associated with local authorities, museums, and universities), the Ancient Monuments Laboratory (AML), the Scottish Development Department (SDD), and universities. It is also worth noting that the general picture of who was undertaking prehistoric fieldwork in the early 1980s is complex and fragmented – many different groups and individuals were involved, situated in many different workplaces; some of whom operated independently, while others formed part of wider (archaeological or otherwise) establishments (museums, local authorities, development corporations etc.).

However, once again, it also appears that this situation was changing by 1985. In 1980, 81% of investigations (for which scale was noted) involved digging trenches across known prehistoric features. Open area excavation was employed in the remainder. By contrast in 1985, 64% of investigations for which scale was noted involved open area excavation. This certainly suggests that by 1985, the practice of digging trenches into known prehistoric features was being overtaken by one of opening up larger areas for investigation. Funding sources Funding sources were also rarely specified within PPS excavation summaries. Interestingly, this may suggest that funding was not necessarily an important issue for prehistorians at this time, or at least that (in contrast to the current situation) it was not vital to state publicly who financed investigations. Of the 15 projects for which such information was available, almost all received funding from government bodies, including the Department of the Environment, the Historic Monuments and Buildings Commission (precursor to EH), English Heritage itself, and the Scottish Development Department. Additional

11

Rescue committees were typically established during the 1950s-70s in direct response to the threat of development in an area of known archaeological significance. Most included both amateur (volunteer) and professional (paid) archaeologists (Rahtz 1974, 116-7), although as will become clear these groups were not necessarily clearly distinguishable at the time.

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university-based fieldworkers always included a ‘research’-related reason for undertaking fieldwork, whereas other organisations sometimes did not. Secondly, investigators associated with development corporations always provided ‘rescue’-related reasons for undertaking fieldwork but were less likely to give ‘research’ rationale as well. Importantly, this implies that despite the growing prevalence of development-related fieldwork in the early 1980s, most people who undertook prehistoric investigations, whatever their working context, were aware of, and felt that it was important to foreground the research credentials of their work.

With regards to how fieldwork was distributed between these organisations, many investigations (at least 65%) were carried out by specialist fieldwork teams (independent trusts and units, the CEU or groups associated with local authorities, development corporations etc.).12 Importantly, however, university and museum-based archaeologists were also responsible for undertaking a substantial proportion of investigations which produced prehistoric remains – they were involved in 12% and 13% of such projects respectively in 1980 and 1985. Rationale Unsurprisingly, a wide spectrum of specific rationales was given for undertaking prehistoric fieldwork projects in the early 1980s. For the purpose of this analysis, however, the vast majority of these rationales can be seen as relating to particular ‘research’ questions, to ‘conservation or management’ issues, or to the ‘rescue’ of a site from the threat of damage or removal. Viewed in this way, prehistoric fieldwork was undertaken for ‘research’ and/or ‘rescue’ reasons in roughly equal measure at this time: 28% of projects mention only ‘rescue’ criteria, 31% of projects note only ‘research’ criteria, and 23% of projects cite both (Figure 5.7). Two sites in 1985 were also investigated primarily in order to generate ‘management plans’ for their upkeep.

Figure 5.8: Rationales given by different types of organisation for undertaking prehistoric fieldwork, 1980 & 1985

Summary To summarise, the main geographical focus of prehistoric fieldwork in the early 1980s was in southern and eastern England, in areas traditionally associated with high levels of development. A broad range of prehistoric evidence was investigated. However most fieldwork was limited in scale, and targeted highly visible archaeology that had previously been identified by survey. Prehistoric fieldwork was funded through a variety of channels. However most of these funding sources involved government bodies (and thus probably used public money), and none involved developers or private businesses. A broad variety of people, linked to numerous different archaeological and other organisations were actively engaged in prehistoric fieldwork. Finally, roughly equal proportions of prehistoric projects were undertaken in pursuit of specific research questions, in relation to development or damage threats, or for both of these reasons.

Figure 5.7: Criteria given for undertaking fieldwork, 1980 & 1985

Given the concerns raised increasingly in the 1980s about the ‘research’ credentials of ‘rescue’-related work (Sections 4.3-4.4), it is also valuable to assess the kinds rationale provided by different types of fieldwork organisations and individuals (Figure 5.8). Interestingly, only two clear patterns emerge in this respect. Firstly, 12

It is actually very difficult to determine the exact number of projects undertaken by ‘specialist fieldwork teams’ using the available data. Some projects (65%) were ascribed explicitly to a regional or national fieldwork unit, whether independent or linked to a wider organisation. However it is certainly possible that many of the projects attributed to county councils, and some of those attributed to museums and universities were also undertaken by specialist fieldwork teams embedded within these institutions.

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1980-2005

Having characterised British prehistoric fieldwork at the very beginning of the period under consideration, it is essential to examine if and how this situation changed over the ensuing 25-30 years. In order to do so, this study focuses on data from 105 investigations which produced prehistoric evidence in Eastern and North Western England in 2005 (Figure 5.9). Once again, the geographical distribution of fieldwork, the character of evidence produced, the methodologies employed, the scale of investigations, who undertook fieldwork, and the rationale provided for doing so are considered. An examination of shifts in the funding of fieldwork was precluded by complexities in extracting the required information (see above). Throughout this analysis it is important to bear in mind that, as Darvill et al. have demonstrated previously (2002), there was undoubtedly a dramatic shift in the overall amount of fieldwork taking place between 19802005, particularly following the introduction of PPG16 in 1990 (Figure 5.10). According to Royal Commission on the Historic Monuments of England (RCHME) records, the number of excavations taking place annually in England rose by up to four times after 1992, compared to the average number for the preceding 30 years. More specifically, the number of investigations producing prehistoric material rose by over eight times in Eastern England, and by four times in the North West between 1980-2005 (Figure 5.11). Even before considering changes in the scale of investigations over the same period, this represents a substantial shift in the scope of prehistoric fieldwork.

Figure 5.9: English regions analysed for changes in prehistoric fieldwork, 1980-2005 (following Alexander 1999)

Figure 5.10: Overall number of excavations in England, 1960-2002 (redrawn from Darvill et al. 2002, 53)

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Figure 5.11: Shifts in the density (per 100x100km square) of prehistoric investigations in Eastern/North West England, 1980-2005

These shifts should, however, be interpreted with care. For example once examined beyond the level of individual regions, it is clear that changes which have occurred in the distribution of prehistoric fieldwork over this period have also been relatively limited in other respects (Figure 5.13). Importantly, the increase which has taken place in the proportion of investigations being carried out in the area (including the South East, the South West, the Eastern region and Greater London) which traditionally has the highest levels of development (AIP 2008a, Figure 5), and which includes sub-regions that have habitually been a focus for prehistoric research (e.g. Wessex, East Anglia, the South Downs) has been relatively slight: 71% prehistoric investigations took place in this broad area in 1980, rising to 75% in 2005 (not statistically significant at a 0.05 level – Χ²=2.91, v=1, α0.001). 14 There were marked rises in the proportion of investigations taking place in the East Midlands and in Eastern England (of 8% and 9% respectively). Meanwhile slightly lesser falls took place in the proportion of investigations taking place in the North East, the West Midlands, Yorkshire and Humberside, the South West and the South East of England (of 3%, 3%, 6%, 2% and 4% respectively).

13

In all instances where this statistical test was employed the null hypothesis was that the 2005 proportional distribution of projects in the EH regions specified was not significantly different to the 1980 distribution. The level of statistical significance used is stated explicitly for each example. 14 Where Χ²=calculated chi-squared value, v=number of degrees of freedom and α=the significance level.

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Figure 5.12: Changes in the geographic distribution of (prehistoric) fieldwork 1980-2005, according to EH administrative regions

Figure 5.13: Broader changes in the geographical distribution of (prehistoric) fieldwork, 1980-2005

Palaeolithic evidence was encountered at all. By contrast Neolithic and Bronze Age evidence was proportionally slightly more abundant. It is also notable that, where prehistoric evidence was identified in investigations in 1980, the period of prehistory was always specified. However the period of prehistory represented was not determined on a significant proportion (32%) of investigations in 2005. It is certainly possible that this trend relates to the fact that in recent years, specialists in prehistoric materials have increasingly been located outside fieldwork units. Consequently they have not been on-hand during the excavation process to identify finds.

Character of evidence (site type) Two main points stand out with regards to changes in the character of prehistoric evidence produced in Eastern and North Western England between 1980-2005. Firstly, a slight shift took place in the overall balance of periods recorded (Figure 5.14). In both 1980 and 2005, the incidence of Bronze and Iron Age evidence was much higher than that for the Palaeolithic, Mesolithic and Neolithic. However in 2005 Mesolithic and Iron Age evidence was encountered on a distinctly lower percentage of sites than in 1980, meanwhile no

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Figure 5.14: Changes overall in the periods of prehistoric evidence investigated, 1980-2005

Figure 5.15: Changes in the types of prehistoric evidence investigated, 1980-2005

‘Domestic 1’ & ‘Domestic 2’)15 were the most commonly investigated site type: such evidence was encountered on 38% of sites in these regions in 1980, and 45% of sites in

Secondly, there were marked differences in the forms of prehistoric evidence being investigated in Eastern and North Western England in 1980 and 2005 (Figure 5.15). In both years, settlement remains (including both

15

Domestic 1 represents substantial settlement remains usually including structural features, meanwhile Domestic 2 represents subtler occupation evidence (see Appendix 3 for more details).

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Overall then, in 2005, the forms of prehistoric evidence which are most prominent from the ground surface or on aerial photographs (monuments and substantial settlements) were investigated relatively far less frequently, while certain less visible forms of evidence (field systems and subtler settlement remains) were encountered on a much higher proportion of fieldwork projects.

2005. However, a considerably lower proportion of investigations in 2005 (only 6% compared with 38% in 1980) focused on monuments (represented by the classes ‘Religious, Ritual & Funerary (Monument)’ and ‘Defence’). Meanwhile other types of evidence, such as field systems (the primary feature type within the class ‘Agriculture & Subsistence’) were encountered relatively more frequently. It is also notable that a higher proportion of the settlement evidence produced in 2005 fell into the ‘Domestic 2’ class, than into the ‘Domestic 1’ class. This patterning almost certainly relates partly to the fact that in 2005, many ‘Domestic’ sites were encountered in trial trenches rather than in open excavation areas, in which case only a few features may have been recorded from what was potentially a much more substantial settlement. However, even if only the data from excavations are considered for both years, a similar pattern is produced (Figure 5.16).

Methodologies One of the most dramatic changes which took place in prehistoric fieldwork between 1980-2005 was in the methodologies that were employed.16 While this issue has been discussed in detail by Darvill et al. for fieldwork in general (2002), it is important here to consider the specific implications of this shift for British prehistoric research. In 1980, almost all prehistoric investigations in Eastern and North Western England included excavation (90%). However in 2005 excavation was employed much more sparingly, on only 20% of projects (Figure 5.17). Instead, by this time, trial trenching was the primary way in which prehistoric evidence was encountered, with watching briefs playing a further significant role: these two approaches were employed on 65% and 19% of projects respectively. In connection with this rise in the use of rapid and speculative fieldwork techniques, new methodological variants such as ‘strip-map-and-sample’ (a cursory mode of excavation) and ‘archaeological monitoring’ (an enhanced form of watching brief) had been defined by 2005. Interestingly, although survey projects were well represented within the pages of The Archaeologist from 1990 onwards (Section 4.4) such techniques were actually employed on a much higher proportion of prehistoric investigations in 1980 than they were in 2005 (they were employed on 23% and 5% of such projects respectively in Eastern and North Western England). Overall the main finding to highlight here is that by 2005 a significant amount of prehistoric evidence was produced ‘inadvertently’ – during the course of speculative work, or using rapid or semi-controlled excavation techniques (typically employed where no substantial remains are expected).

Figure 5.16: Changes in the character of domestic evidence encountered in excavations, 1980-2005

16

It is worth noting that there were relatively few investigations for which more than one methodology was employed on the site concerned. Where this did occur, each of the methodologies employed was recorded.

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Figure 5.17: Changes in the methodologies employed in relation to prehistoric evidence, 1980-2005

sample regions (Figure 5.18). 17 Such analysis reveals that, as noted previously, in 1980, prehistoric fieldwork was undertaken by archaeologists associated with a variety of regional and national organisations. It is also worth observing that only 34% of prehistoric investigations in England at this time explicitly involved archaeologists in specialist fieldwork units, and that many of the latter (approximately two-thirds) formed part of broader archaeological sections within county councils. By contrast in 2005, the vast majority of prehistoric fieldwork (92%) was undertaken by archaeologists in specialist fieldwork units. Moreover of these fieldwork units, a significant proportion (50%) operated as independent organisations, with county council, university, and museum-affiliated units undertaking 23%, 14%, and 5% prehistoric investigations respectively.

Scale As discussed above, it was not possible to quantify in any meaningful way shifts that have taken place in the scale of prehistoric fieldwork over the period from 1980-2005. However given the significance of this topic, and the availability of some relevant information, it is worth commenting briefly on this issue. It is notable that many of the ‘excavations’ listed in PPS in 1980 (30% of all excavation projects or 80% of those for which the investigation area was actually defined) involved digging trenches into or across known archaeological entities (either clearly defined features such as round barrows, or spreads of features such as settlement remains), while only 6% of excavation projects listed in PPS in 1980 mention ‘open area’ excavation. By contrast almost all of the excavations (as opposed to trial trenching evaluations) recorded in the AIP database for 2005 were described as being either ‘open area’ or ‘full’ excavations. As a result, as others have speculated (e.g. Pollard 2008, 12), it does seem likely that the excavations which produced prehistoric evidence in 2005 were typically more extensive than those which took place in 1980.

This evidence demonstrates that prehistoric fieldwork was much more specialised in 2005: it was almost always undertaken by teams specifically dedicated to fieldwork, rather than by archaeologists in universities, county councils, the DoE and so on, for whom this activity formed only part of a broader remit. It also suggests that the context in which specialist fieldwork units were situated had shifted by this time: by 2005 a much higher proportion of such organisations functioned independently, rather than being tied to larger archaeological or other bodies.

Fieldworkers With regards to shifts in terms of who actually undertakes prehistoric fieldwork, it is worthwhile examining the data from across England rather than from only the two

17

In this particular respect the data from the sample regions is not representative more broadly. For instance in the Eastern region, an unusually high proportion of prehistoric fieldwork was undertaken by county council archaeologists in 1980 (92% compared with 40% in the South Eastern region).

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Figure 5.18: Changes in the make-up of prehistoric fieldworkers in England, 1980-2005

Importantly, these findings add considerably to the widely held understanding (e.g. Bradley 2007, xvi, Darvill et al. 2002, 53) that the rise of developer-funded archaeology associated with the implementation of PPG16 has been a prime factor in shifting the focus of fieldwork (both generally and in prehistory) away from traditional research areas such as Wessex. The advent of PPG16 has almost certainly contributed to a shift in the overall distribution of prehistoric fieldwork. However the character of this change is arguably more complex than has previously been acknowledged. Moreover the extent to which the focus of fieldwork has moved away from traditional research areas is very difficult to establish unequivocally.

Rationale As noted above, the reasons for undertaking fieldwork are not recorded systematically on the AIP database. Research rationales are raised for 46% prehistoric projects in Eastern and North Western England listed in excavation summaries in 1980 but were evident in only 18% of such projects listed in the AIP database for 2005. Discussion To summarise, the number of prehistoric investigations taking place on an annual basis increased hugely between 1980-2005, right across England. Evidence for shifts in the geographic distribution of fieldwork over the same period is less straightforward to interpret. Viewed at a broad level it is clear that the focus of prehistoric investigations has remained in development-rich areas (in southern and eastern England) throughout the period in question. Viewed at the level of EH administrative regions, however, there have been more substantial shifts in the distribution of fieldwork between regions. Perhaps the most striking change which has taken place in this respect is that the principal focus of prehistoric investigations has expanded northwards slightly from the South East and South West regions of England (where 48% of prehistoric investigations undertaken across the whole of England were recorded in 1980 falling to 42% in 2005), to Greater London, the East and the East Midlands (where 29% of prehistoric investigations undertaken across the whole of England were recorded in 1980, rising to 48% in 2005, a shift which is statistically significant beyond a 0.001 level – Χ²=68.58, v=2, α>0.001).18

Within the two regions examined in detail, a lower proportion of Mesolithic and Iron Age material was recorded in 2005 than in 1980. Meanwhile no Palaeolithic evidence at all was recorded in these regions in 2005. However there was a slightly higher proportion of Neolithic and Bronze Age material, together with a much higher proportion of ambiguous prehistoric evidence (of unknown period or type). A marked shift was also observed in the types of evidence being investigated by 2005: there was a significant fall in the proportion of prehistoric monuments examined, and a relative rise in investigations which recorded field systems and subtler forms of settlement evidence. Overall it seems likely that the shifts in the character of prehistoric evidence recorded in these regions from 19802005 relate closely to changes in fieldwork methodologies over this period. 19 By 2005, the predominance of open-area excavation (rather than targeted trenching of previously known features) increased the likelihood of producing certain types of evidence that are not easily identified from above the ground (Neolithic and Bronze Age archaeology, less substantial settlement remains etc.). Meanwhile the

18

It is also likely that the geographical distribution of prehistoric fieldwork has shifted within EH regions, for instance onto different types of geology and into different topographical zones (unfortunately, it was not possible to investigate such patterning using the available evidence).

19

Accepting that the character and extent of this correlation is difficult to define precisely.

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included systematically in the AIP database, particularly given recent efforts which have been made to promote the research-orientation of development-related work (Section 4.6). Nevertheless, as a result, an impression could certainly be gained that by 2005 archaeologists had accepted passively that fieldwork took place mainly because of development rather than in pursuit of specific research questions. If this is indeed the case, this loss of research focus almost certainly has implications for the kinds of prehistoric evidence produced.

widespread employment of trial trenching and watching briefs raised the probability of encountering fragmentary prehistoric remains (parts of features, scraps of materials) which could not be identified specifically. The absence of any sites producing Palaeolithic material and the fall in the proportion of Mesolithic sites being investigated in 2005 probably relates to the fact that evidence from these periods is notoriously difficult to identify. Consequently it is less likely to be recorded unless known sites are specifically targeted, as they were more frequently in 1980. Additionally, Palaeolithic material often occurs within the drift geology (e.g. gravel) which is to be extracted, rather than on the surface of this material, where most investigations focus. The observed disparity between the high representation of survey projects in TFA, and their fairly low incidence in the evidence examined here, is also noteworthy. It implies that readers of TFA – a highly regarded newsletter which explicitly claims to represent the ‘reality’ of fieldwork in Britain – were not always presented with a balanced view of fieldwork practices over the period in question, either in prehistory or more broadly.

Overall, it is clear that highly significant shifts occurred in the character of fieldwork investigations between 1980-2005. Moreover, as I have hopefully shown, such shifts almost certainly relate closely to transformations in the make-up of prehistoric evidence which is ultimately produced. 5.3.

Prehistoric research more broadly

This section considers recent transformations in British prehistoric research practices more broadly, as they are represented in some of its key ‘outcomes’: the main articles in PPS. I begin by examining how these articles shed light on important changes in data production – both in fieldwork and post-excavation analysis – over this period. This is followed by an assessment of shifts in how British prehistorians have engaged with interpretative approaches, in the aesthetic properties of articles, and in the overall balance of research (fieldwork reports, works of synthesis, artefact studies etc.) and balance of researchers represented in this forum.

While in 1980 prehistoric field investigations were carried out by archaeologists in many different (nationally and regionally-based) working contexts, only some of whom specialised in fieldwork, by 2005 prehistoric fieldwork was undertaken almost exclusively by archaeologists located within specialist fieldwork units (operating independently, or attached to county councils, universities, or museums). Perhaps the most significant consequence of this shift is that by 2005, the vast majority of primary data – both in British prehistory, and almost certainly in other periods as well – were produced by fieldwork specialists, rather than by archaeologists with wider working remits such as those based in local authorities, universities, museums and national bodies. Consequently, by this time, researchers in British prehistory who were not situated in fieldwork units were almost certainly much more dependant on using data produced by archaeologists other than themselves. As Bradley has noted (2007, xv), such a transformation in the distribution of primary data has major consequences for the flow of information between prehistorians in different working arenas, and thus for the understandings of prehistory that are ultimately produced.

Fieldwork Since transformations in prehistoric fieldwork were discussed in depth in Section 5.2, this topic is touched upon only briefly here. However, it is worthwhile considering how prehistoric fieldwork has been presented in research ‘outcomes’ (as well as in fieldwork records) for two main reasons. Firstly, because PPS articles showcase ‘exemplary’ research, they potentially provide a rather different view of recent changes in prehistoric fieldwork to that produced using fieldwork records (i.e. PPS excavation summaries and the AIP database). This is important because the authoritative and publicly accessible perspectives on prehistoric research, which a journal such as PPS conveys, undoubtedly exert a strong influence over the orientation of research practices. Secondly, the fieldwork-related articles in PPS describe prehistoric projects in more detail than the fieldwork records examined in Section 5.2. Unlike the latter, they are also available in consistent format throughout the period from 1980-2005. Accordingly, they have the potential to reveal changes in prehistoric fieldwork which were not visible in more cursory fieldwork records, and to allow for a consideration of the tempo at which certain changes were enacted.

Finally, although almost half of the excavation summaries listed in PPS in 1980 mention archaeological or research reasons for undertaking the work, this was the case for only 18% of the summaries of projects which produced prehistoric remains listed in the AIP database for 2005. Clearly it is not necessarily a straightforward process to compare the way in which fieldwork summaries are presented in an academic journal such as PPS with the way in which they are recorded in the AIP database. Regarding the latter, it is very difficult to ascertain whether information about the rationale for fieldwork projects was not available in the grey literature which was consulted, or if it was not included in the database. Nevertheless it is perhaps surprising that the archaeological reasons for undertaking fieldwork are not

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units were rarely involved in significant investigations until at least the late 1990s/early 2000s20.

Geographical distribution One of the most striking differences in the account provided in PPS of prehistoric fieldwork since 1980 is in the geographical distribution of projects. As mentioned previously, evidence from fieldwork records suggests that prehistoric investigations were broadly distributed across Britain throughout this period, although they have always been distinctly focused in regions where there are high levels of development (in southern and eastern England). By contrast, within PPS, fieldwork projects featured in the 1980s derive solely from central southern England (Wessex, and the Thames Valley), Dartmoor, Yorkshire and Orkney: regions which already had a strong tradition for prehistoric research. During the 1990s fieldwork featured in PPS derives from a broader geographical area, with investigations in Ireland and Wales featuring prominently. However it is not until the 2000s that PPS regularly includes reports on fieldwork investigations from right across Britain. As a result, PPS certainly gives the impression that the geographical focus of British prehistoric fieldwork has broadened dramatically since 1980.

Methodologies Methodologically, fieldwork-related articles in PPS provide further detail of the approaches that were important to British prehistorians, particularly during the 1980s. They also give insight into the tempo at which changes in fieldwork methods during the 1980-90s were played out in the outcomes of prehistoric research. With regards to which approaches were important to British prehistorians, PPS articles reveal that the employment and enhancement of sampling methods for both prehistoric features and environmental remains was a key issue for fieldworkers in the 1980s. This is interesting given that such approaches initially came to the fore at least a decade previously (Orton 2000, 15). One fieldwork report foregrounds the employment of ‘probabilistic sampling’ to examine a Mesolithic shell midden (Mellars and Wilkinson 1980). Another investigation was designed specifically in order to develop a regional strategy for sampling Iron Age enclosures and trackways (Bedwin and Holgate 1985). Several articles argue for the interpretative potential of environmental sampling, and urge that it should be undertaken much more systematically on fieldwork projects (e.g. Jones 1980, Monk and Fasham 1980). Meanwhile (mostly unsuccessful) sampling for phosphates analysis, pollen analysis, flotation and radiocarbon dating is explicitly highlighted in several contexts, in a manner which suggests that these techniques were still seen to be ‘cutting-edge’ rather than routine aspects of fieldwork at this time, even if they had been available for a while.

Fieldworkers PPS articles also present a rather different profile of who was actively undertaking prehistoric investigations between 1980-2005. As noted above, evidence from fieldwork records indicates that during the 1980s, prehistoric fieldwork was undertaken by archaeologists from a wide range of working contexts, but that, within Eastern and North Western England at least, archaeologists associated with county councils were responsible for the vast majority of investigations. By 2005, however – and almost certainly for some time previously (Darvill et al. 2002, 54) – the vast majority of prehistoric evidence was produced by specialist ‘commercial’ fieldwork teams. Fieldwork records also suggest that, throughout this period, archaeologists from different contexts rarely worked together on prehistoric investigations. By contrast, many of the fieldwork investigations profiled in PPS resulted from partnerships between universities, local volunteers, specialist fieldwork units (regional and national) and museums. More significantly, during the 1980s and 1990s, PPS features very few fieldwork projects that were undertaken by archaeologists from county councils or specialist fieldwork units. Indeed it is not until the 2000s that the first investigations undertaken by ‘commercial’ fieldwork teams are included (e.g. Garrow et al. 2005, Guttmann and Last 2000).

Somewhat surprisingly, PPS articles provide little evidence of important methodological issues for prehistoric fieldworkers in the 1990s and 2000s (although one fieldwork report in 2005 does mention experimenting with new computer modelling techniques (Chapman 2005)). This might suggest that fieldwork techniques had stabilised to a certain extent by this time, and thus were no longer a focus for discussion in research articles. With regards to the tempo at which changes in fieldwork methods became evident in the outcomes of prehistoric research, as noted above, fieldwork records suggest that during the 1980s, most prehistoric investigations comprised landscape surveys or small trenches cut across, around or within previously known prehistoric features. Meanwhile by 2005, although excavation was employed on a significantly lower proportion of sites, it was typically undertaken across open areas rather than within trenches. This shift is undoubtedly linked closely to the advent of PPG16 in 1990. Within PPS, however, the

An impression is therefore created in PPS that throughout the period under examination, prehistoric fieldwork has commonly been a collaborative venture, and that fieldworkers in county councils and specialist fieldwork

20

This remains the case once the 1-2 year delay between the submission and publication of articles in PPS is taken into consideration.

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Post-excavation analysis

prehistoric investigations featured throughout the 1990s are little different methodologically to those presented in the preceding decade. It is not until 2000 that PPS articles present the findings from complex multi-period investigations extending over large areas, as well as from projects which target neatly defined features. Similarly, it is not until this time that change is visible in the character of prehistoric evidence discussed in fieldwork-related articles in PPS: indeed it is only in 2005 that subtler features such as Neolithic pit clusters (Garrow et al. 2005) come to the fore, and detailed yet broad landscape histories are generated on the basis of the findings from just one site (Last 2005).

It is actually very difficult to extract information about recent changes in post-excavation analysis using PPS articles. Overall, very few artefact studies are included in the PPS volumes analysed in detail, particularly from 1995 onwards (see Section 5.3). Indeed even in 1985, a review of The Prehistoric Society, prehistory and society asserts that ‘papers of a theoretical or methodological nature have … figured rarely in our Proceedings’ (Chapman 1985, 27). In addition, the methods used in and insights derived from post-excavation analysis rarely feature strongly in fieldwork-related articles. This is perhaps surprising given the abundant evidence elsewhere to suggest that the application of new scientific and digital technologies has transformed this aspect of archaeological research in recent years (e.g. Andrews and Doonan 2003, Evans and Daly 2006, Jones 2002, Lock 2003).

Overall, therefore, the evidence from PPS suggests that British prehistorians became less concerned with developing and applying new fieldwork methods after the 1980s. It also appears that considerable delays – of 10-15 years – occurred between when major methodological shifts took place initially, and when they became evident in prehistoric research outcomes.21

In fact most of the methods employed in artefact studies and post-excavation analyses in the PPS volumes analysed in detail were not, in themselves, new to archaeology at the time these investigations were conducted, even if their use did represent ‘cutting-edge’ research in the particular fields under discussion. For instance one investigation uses detailed spatial analysis to reanalyse material from Winklebury hillfort (Fisher 1985). Another employs thin-section petrographic analysis to investigate hammerstones from Neolithic axe factories (Bradley and Suthren 1990). Data from later Neolithic flint assemblages in the Yorkshire Wolds are examined using computer-aided statistical analysis (Durden 1995). In addition a study of human bones from a Mesolithic site in Oronsay applies stable-isotope analysis (Meiklejohn et al. 2005).

Rationale Finally, the fieldwork-related articles in PPS raise a quite different type of reason for doing prehistoric fieldwork to those mentioned in fieldwork records. Throughout the period in question, in both PPS articles and fieldwork records, the ‘research’ rationale given for undertaking fieldwork are fairly consistent. They typically include investigating the basic character of prehistoric sites (chronologies, sequence, date etc.), examining issues such as temporality of occupation, primary purpose, economy, environmental sequence, landscape setting, or spatial organisation of sites, and exploring methodological issues. However, in 2000 and 2005, several fieldwork projects in PPS were also carried out specifically in order to investigate interpretative issues. Projects were undertaken with the explicit intention of assessing landscape perceptions, the movement of prehistoric people in relation to architectural features or the landscape more broadly, instances of plural or contested meanings, the role of structured deposition, or evidence for social exclusion (e.g. Chapman 2005, Kirk and Williams 2000, Last 2005).

The application of one methodology which was available for the entire period under analysis did, however, show some temporal patterning. Radiocarbon-dating was used much more frequently as time progressed, both in new artefact studies, and in re-assessments of material from sites excavated some time previously (e.g. Allen et al. 1995, Bradley and Sheridan 2005). This shift almost certainly correlates with the emergence of refinements to radiocarbon-dating methods which made them applicable to a broader range of prehistoric materials, and more widely accessible.

The emergence of this new genre of fieldwork rationale in PPS in 2000 and 2005 is perhaps not surprising given that, from the mid-1990s onwards, theoreticians have repeatedly called for fieldwork to become more theoretically-oriented (Section 2.3). What is notable, however, is that this shift is not at all apparent in records of British fieldwork described in Section 5.2.

In addition, in one instance it does appear that a set of new analytical methods emerged and had a sharp impact on interpretations of a particular aspect of British prehistory. The application of lithological and biological analysis, oxygen-isotope analysis and biostratigraphic/aminostratigraphic analysis on Palaeolithic materials from the late 1990s onwards, together with the employment of new behavioural modelling techniques, was seemingly vital for refining chronologies, and in turn broader understandings of the lower and middle Palaeolithic (e.g. Wenban-Smith et al. 2000, White and Schreve 2000).

21

This is not just a consequence of a 10-15 year delay occurring between fieldwork and publication. In fact, with four exceptions (where delays of between 11-31 years took place between the completion of fieldwork and its publication in PPS) the average delay between fieldwork and publication throughout the period from 1980-2005 was 45 years (based on data from 27 fieldwork reports from the PPS volumes analysed in detail).

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The use of scientific or ‘processual’ approaches is widespread in PPS in the 1980s, particularly in fieldwork-related articles and artefact studies. One fieldwork report notes how the investigators intended to develop the most objective and empirical inferences possible (Mellars and Wilkinson 1980). Another notes how the investigators sought to ‘test’ certain interpretative hypotheses (e.g. Needham 1980). One article uses the excavated evidence to estimate population sizes, discuss inter-site functional variability, and define social territories (Wainwright and Smith 1980). A study of Neolithic stone axes in Britain and Ireland uses the distribution of these artefacts as a basis for inferring social territories (Cummins 1980). Meanwhile an analysis of charred cereals from Iron Age settlements in Hampshire offers interpretations about harvesting and storage techniques (Monk and Fasham 1980).

Overall, however, the evidence from PPS suggests that although many new ways of investigating archaeological materials have been developed since 1980, in general these approaches have not had an immediate or necessarily significant impact on the outcomes of British prehistoric research. Interpretative approaches The question of how interpretative approaches employed in relation to prehistoric evidence have changed since 1980 is perhaps especially interesting given the widely held perception that British prehistorians tend to lead the way in archaeological theory (e.g. Coles 1980, 2). Rather than trying to seek out all of the interpretative approaches which British prehistorians have drawn upon during this period, this section considers, by decade, the interpretative themes which have been particularly influential in British prehistoric research, as well as the tempo at which such themes have become evident in research outcomes following their initial discussion in archaeology more widely.

The influence of emerging structural-Marxist and postprocessual ideas – particularly the notion that material patterning could be used as a basis for commenting on past social practices and ideologies (e.g. Hodder 1982) – is traceable in only a few articles. One fieldwork report considers the potential for a site’s inhabitants to produce economic surplus, and thus to gain access to exchange networks involving prestige items (Bradley et al. 1980). A study of pottery traditions in the early 1st millennium BC, suggests that widespread changes evident across southern Britain at this time in practices of making, using and depositing pottery may relate to broader social shifts, such as the creation of new forms of communication and exchange (Barrett 1980). In addition, an analysis of chambered tombs on Orkney argues that these structures could be understood as material vestiges of the concepts held in past people’s minds, discusses the extent to which such remains were representative of past social practices, and considers how certain symbols and items associated with chambered tombs might have been used to negotiate social relations (Sharples 1985).

1980s Overall, a broad mix of interpretative approaches is included in PPS during the 1980s. While the vast majority of researchers at this time were employing what can be characterised broadly as ‘processual’ approaches, some were still clearly influenced by earlier interpretative traditions (culture-history). Meanwhile other researchers were beginning to use ideas from the newly emerging ‘structural-Marxist’ and ‘postprocessual’ paradigms. As a result the impression is generated that this era in British prehistoric research was particularly dynamic interpretatively. The ongoing influence of culture-historical approaches is evident in several articles. The latter include discussions which focus in detail on the identification of prehistoric artefacts, and how they can be situated in relation to broad typological sequences such as Clarke’s Beaker classification system, and the Wilberton/Wallington scheme for later Bronze Age metalwork (e.g. Needham 1980, Robertson-Mackay 1980). The interpretations ultimately arising from these articles also tend to be conjectural rather than verified by hypothesis testing or reference to ethnographic analogy. For instance, an excavation report about an early Bronze Age barrow considers its relationship to local tribal centres (assuming that these existed), and proposes that the cattle ‘head and hooves’ associated with the central inhumation represents a chief’s cloak (assuming that chiefs existed) (RobertsonMackay 1980). In addition, an article about later Bronze Age metalworking interprets the evidence as the work of itinerant smiths with a warrior/princely clientele (again assuming that such categories were relevant to prehistoric people) (Needham 1980).

Interestingly, despite the fact that a melange of approaches was being used in PPS articles in the 1980s, there is no clear sense that one approach was being replaced by another, or that there were significant disagreements between the advocates of different interpretative tropes. Rather it appears as if these different ways of understanding prehistoric material coexisted quite happily at this time. 1990s Perhaps the most striking observation with respect to the interpretative approaches arising in PPS articles in the 1990s is that there is a dramatic difference in character between those presented in 1990 and those presented in 1995. In 1990 PPS articles are surprisingly conservative interpretatively. In fieldwork-related articles, interpretations rarely extend beyond providing a basic

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concept feature strongly within several articles in 1995, although it was actually first discussed in archaeology in the early 1980s (see for example Grant 1984, Richards and Thomas 1984) if not earlier (Bradley and Ellison 1975).22 Thus, a reassessment of late Neolithic material from Woodhenge (Pollard 1995) proposes that depositional acts on this site were used as a means of defining certain categories of material, and of marking out specific areas of the monument, thus creating what might be understood as a symbolic microcosm of the Neolithic world. A reanalysis of a previously unpublished excavation at Buckskin, Basingstoke identifies a potential fertility cult on the basis of unusual depositional acts (Allen et al. 1995). Meanwhile a study of human remains from later Bronze Age sites in southern Britain argues that ritual understandings may have been closely caught up in everyday disposal practices at this time, and that depositional acts involving human remains were a way of reproducing and renegotiating later Bronze Age social relations (Brück 1995). Even a discussion of late Neolithic field-walking assemblages from two sites in the Yorkshire Wolds raises the potential that special flint objects may have been ritually destroyed and deposited (Durden 1995).

site characterisation, and considering issues such as economy and environmental context. Even where the discussion develops a little further, the interpretations raised can hardly be described as innovative. One fieldwork report considers the kinds of societies represented by two Beaker burials (the care that the funerary party must have taken, and what kinds of intercommunity relations might have existed (Russel 1990)), and another argues that an early Bronze Age roundhouse may have had a ‘ritual purpose’ (Benson et al. 1990). More broadly, several interpretative topics arise more than once in 1990, perhaps indicating that these were common themes for discussion at this time, even if they are not particularly distinctive. Two separate articles discuss whether the Mesolithic/Neolithic transition (in Ireland and the Kennet Valley) resulted from shifts in indigenous practices or from colonisation (Peterson 1990, Whittle 1990). Several other articles seek evidence for past power relations. An article on vase à anses from Guernsey considers what their presence implies about social dynamics between late Neolithic/early Bronze Age communities in Guernsey and mainland France (Nilan 1990). Two further articles on early Neolithic axe factories at Great Langdale, and copper mining sites in south west Ireland, discuss how access to these sites, and items made from materials retrieved from them, were controlled (Bradley and Suthren 1990, O'Brien 1990).

The use of interpretative ideas derived from social theorists and philosophers (e.g. Bourdieu 1977, Giddens 1984), and from readings of anthropological literature more generally, is also widely apparent in PPS articles in 1995. Again many of these ideas were aired initially in archaeology in the 1980s. Within synthetic articles, there are discussions of the extent to which certain materials were evidence for prehistoric peoples’ understanding of an ancestral past (e.g. Brück 1995), their negotiation and redefinition of individual and group identities, their expression of concepts of liminality (for instance the marking of boundaries), or their creation of metaphorical links (for example between humans and animals) (e.g. Pollard 1995). Meanwhile in fieldwork-related articles, the topics raised include landscape perceptions, human/landscape relations, social aspects of occupation practices, the choices made in locating, marking and moving between Mesolithic places (Barton et al. 1995), and attitudes to life, death and the universe in the early Bronze Age (Moore 1995).

One notable and longstanding shift in interpretative practice is, however, evident in PPS in 1990. In this year, for the first time, two researchers justify the interpretations they make of past social and ritual practices using ethnographic analogies rather than empirical observations or hypothesis testing (Coles 1990, Whittle 1990). By contrast, in 1995, a much wider spectrum of interpretative issues are raised, and a number of distinctive themes emerge. The use of ethnographic analogy to support interpretations is also commonplace by this time (e.g. Barton et al. 1995, Brück 1995). Indeed there is an overarching sense of interpretative freedom in PPS articles in 1995, which was barely evident in preceding years. As a result, the impression is given that following a period of relative interpretative stasis, British prehistorians had suddenly embraced a wealth of new ways of understanding their data. At the same time it is notable that at least some of the ideas raised for the first time in PPS articles in 1995 originally came to the fore some time previously. As was the case with methodological shifts (see above), it appears that significant delays – of up to 10-15 years – sometimes occurred between when new interpretative ideas emerged initially, and when they were employed widely in the outcomes of prehistoric research.

In addition, one PPS article in 1995 reveals, for the first time (in the PPS volumes analysed in detail at least), the presence of a certain animosity between the advocates of different theoretical paradigms (Harding 1995). This article spurns the mainly ‘postprocessual’ ideas which were experimented with in the vast majority of articles in PPS at this time, suggesting that they were far too insular. Rather, it calls for a return to the kinds of approaches (mainly ‘processual’ in origin) which operate at more extensive scales, consider longer time periods, and discuss notions such as social networks and processes, population size and density, site hierarchies, and the

The most obvious example of such a delay is in the employment of the notion of ‘structured deposition’ – the idea that depositional patterns can be used to comment on past ideologies or ritual practices. Variations of this

22

Although this mode of practice was not explicitly described using the term ‘structured deposition’ at this point (see Garrow in press for a detailed history of the development of this concept).

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Palaeolithic sites at Elveden and Barnham in Norfolk raised the possibility of discussing intra-site variability for the first time in this period (Ashton et al. 2005).

spatial organisation of political entities. Of course, the existence of this sort of disagreement is hardly surprising. However, what is perhaps surprising is that such differences were not evident previously in PPS, especially given that there is abundant evidence to suggest that new interpretative ideas emerging in the 1980s and early 1990s were actually very hotly debated (Section 2.2).

Within later prehistoric articles in 2000/2005, the concept of ‘enchainment’ – the idea that links between prehistoric people may have been forged, maintained, and renegotiated by deliberately breaking or fragmenting ‘materials’ and ‘human remains’ and reusing these fragments in depositional practices (Chapman 2000) – is noted to have been popular in Neolithic studies at this time (Garrow et al. 2005). In addition, the notion of ‘taskscape’ – the idea that landscapes comprise not only physical features, but also socially constructed spheres of activity, both of which are constantly shifting in composition (Ingold 1993) – is presented as a useful way of understanding prehistoric people’s engagement with their landscapes (Last 2005). However, both these concepts can be seen as variations on the themes of ‘structured deposition’ and ‘landscape perceptions’, which, as noted previously, were discussed widely in PPS articles from 1995 onwards. Indeed the concept of archaeological ‘taskscapes’ was first raised in British prehistory in the mid-1990s (e.g. Edmonds 1997).

The 2000s Following the flood of ‘new’ interpretative approaches that appeared in PPS in 1995, there are relatively few notable developments in this respect in articles in 2000/2005. Rather the themes of ‘structured deposition’ (Guttmann and Last 2000, Kirk and Williams 2000), ‘landscape perceptions’, ‘power relations’ (Needham 2000), ‘social identity’, ‘metaphorical associations’ (Kirk and Williams 2000), and the interrelationship between ‘ritual and everyday practice’ (Guttmann and Last 2000) continue to be prevalent in articles from both of these years. As was noted in relation to PPS articles in 1995, many interpretations in the 2000s are supported by reference to ethnographic analogies. Indeed overall, this evidence suggests that the period from 1995-2005 was one of interpretative homogeneity or consolidation in British prehistoric research.

More distinctively, ‘violence’ and ‘social memory’ were clearly topical themes by 2005. One study in this year makes a case for studying violence in the Neolithic using evidence from damaged crania (Schulting and Wysocki 2005). Another article about two late Iron Age sites in Cumbria focuses upon the extent to which ‘social memory’ or ‘acts of remembrance’ are relevant to the interpretation of such sites. Ultimately it is argued that such practices – for instance the placement of Iron Age settlements close to earlier funerary monuments – were a defining feature of the late Iron Age in central and northern England (Loney and Hoaen 2005).

Nonetheless, a few new interpretative themes are raised in PPS in 2000/2005. In addition, several articles challenge the widespread validity of slightly earlier interpretative concepts showing that there was at least some dynamic in this respect. Interpretations of Palaeolithic evidence are generally quite different in character to those discussed in relation to later periods: Palaeolithic archaeologists deal with very different chronological frames, and quite different forms of evidence to later prehistorians. As a result, until the 2000s, the few articles on Palaeolithic sites included in the PPS articles analysed focused on providing basic site characterisations, discussing the site’s environmental context, suggesting potential taphonomic biases, and speculating about its significance in terms of potential patterns of colonisation (e.g. Aldhouse-Green et al. 1995, Gale and Hunt 1985). This difference between Palaeolithic and later prehistoric approaches is perhaps particularly evident in the 2000s given the strong influence of postprocessual theory on the latter. Nevertheless, a new interpretative optimism is apparent in Palaeolithic studies in 2000 and 2005. This almost certainly relates to aforementioned methodological developments in the 1990s, principally advances in dating techniques. For instance, one article discusses how improved understandings of changing sea-levels during the period from 500,000 BP onwards, and thus of episodes during which Britain’s islands were colonised and then isolated, would ultimately allow for discussions of issues such as the social and cultural aspects of the British lower Palaeolithic (White and Schreve 2000). Meanwhile the tantalisingly close dating of two lower

Finally, at least two articles in 2005 question the widespread use of certain interpretative themes in prehistory over the preceding decade or so. This implies that some of the approaches initially developed by postprocessual theorists were being challenged by this time; not only by prehistorians yearning for a return to earlier kinds of analysis (e.g. Harding 1995, as discussed above), but also by those trying to engage with such ideas. Thus, one article argues that the importance of ‘ritual activity’ had been overemphasised in Neolithic studies (Schulting and Wysocki 2005). Meanwhile another article about an early Neolithic pit site at Kilverstone, Norfolk suggests that applications of the concept of ‘structured deposition’ had become somewhat generic by this time, and that this was certainly not necessarily a useful way of understanding the material from this particular site (Garrow et al. 2005). Aesthetic properties Given recent interest in how imagery is used in archaeology (e.g. Smiles and Moser 2005) and the developments which have undoubtedly taken place in

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digital recording and publishing techniques over the last 30 years (Section 4.5), it is worthwhile considering how the aesthetics of British prehistoric research have in fact changed over the period in question. Perhaps the most notable outcome of this enquiry is that there were actually very few significant changes in the aesthetics of PPS articles between 1980-2005. For instance, it might be expected that the aforementioned interest in prehistoric landscape studies during the 1990s would have led to a rise in the number of landscape photos in PPS articles at this time. However there are actually very few photos at all of archaeological landscapes in PPS articles over the period in question. Similarly, it might be expected that technological developments, which have made it cheaper and easier to produce images (see Section 4.5), would have led to a general increase in the use of graphics in PPS articles. Once again, however, although there is a slight rise in the total number of images used after 1985, this rise is by no means dramatic. Indeed PPS articles in 2005 typically included fewer images in total in than those in 1980 (Figure 5.19). It therefore appears that overall, British prehistorians have been remarkably conservative in their use of imagery over the period under analysis. Indeed, it could be argued that the aesthetics of PPS articles during this time has been governed primarily by personal choice, rather than by the influence of technological or interpretative developments: the use of imagery PPS articles is as variable within any one volume of this journal as it is over the entire period in question.

Figure 5.20: Mean number of finds illustrations in fieldworkrelated articles, 1980-2005

Secondly, there is a slow shift from the use of hand drawn graphics to the use of digital graphics in PPS articles between 1995-2005: only by 2005 is the use of digital graphics commonplace. This indicates that although digital recording techniques and graphics packages were widely available from at least 1995 onwards (IFA 1995), it took a considerable time for the effects of such technological developments to become evident fully in the outcomes of prehistoric research. Thirdly, none of the photos in PPS articles prior to 1990 include any people. After this date, however, archaeologists feature much more frequently in photos (in three of the seven articles including photos in 1990, two of the five in 1995, one of the three in 2000 and three of the seven in 2005). Indeed in one article in 2005, over half the photos include both prehistoric remains and the people investigating them (Garrow et al. 2005). This change may well relate to the fact that after 1990, prehistorians were increasingly willing to acknowledge the socially constructed character of their data (e.g. Hodder 1984, Shanks and Tilley 1987a). As a result, it became less important to present the evidence they were discussing in an objective, scientific (and thus essentially un-peopled) manner.

Despite this overall aesthetic constancy, several small shifts are apparent. Firstly, the number of finds illustrations in fieldwork-related articles does fall sharply after 1980 (Figure 5.20). This may relate to the declining influence of culture-historical approaches after this time (see above), or to contemporary criticisms that fieldwork reports included too much superfluous data (IFA 1985, 50).

Balance of research In many respects, it is difficult to track shifts in the broad composition of research in British prehistory since 1980 using evidence from PPS. Given that this journal is intended to accommodate the interests of all prehistoric researchers, it is necessarily inclusive. As a result it is not possible to use the articles as a basis for considering, for instance, whether research into the British Palaeolithic has been particularly active during this period, or whether Bronze Age researchers shifted the focus of their attentions from funerary monuments to settlement studies. Nevertheless, it is worthwhile making two observations with regards to the overall balance of research (fieldwork-related articles, works of synthesis, artefact studies etc.) included in PPS since 1980. Firstly, the proportion of fieldwork-related articles has declined since

Figure 5.19: Mean number of drawings and photos in PPS articles, 1980-2005

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articles on British prehistory has changed very little over this period. Other than in 1985, when the authors of PPS articles are derived from an unusually broad range of contexts, most authors (at least 50%) have been based in universities. The majority of other authors have been attached to specialist fieldwork units (15-23%) or to (mostly national) museums (up to 17%). Indeed the proportion of authors based in museums has increased since 1990. This is interesting given that, according to the best available estimates (Carter and Robertson 2002, 1516) archaeologists from universities, specialist fieldwork units, and national museums actually constituted 13%, 42% and 3% respectively of all paid archaeologists in Britain in 2002.

1995. Instead, since 2000, PPS has included a higher proportion of works of synthesis and reanalyses of previously excavated material (Figure 5.21). This shift is certainly not dramatic. What is notable, however, is that the massive increase in prehistoric fieldwork investigations in Britain after 1990 (see Section 5.2) is not reflected in any way by an increase in the number of fieldwork-related articles in PPS. Secondly, the number of artefact studies presented in PPS has fallen throughout the period under consideration. Indeed no such articles were included in the PPS volumes analysed in detail from 1995 onwards. This shift is difficult to explain but could simply relate to the fact that artefact analysis has become a less popular mode of British prehistoric research.

Despite this broad consistency in the makeup of authors, it is noteworthy that overall, contributors to PPS in the 1980s came from a wider range of working contexts than those in the 2000s. In some cases, this is due to the fact that certain organisations ceased to exist or to function in the same way over this period (e.g. rescue committees, the RCHM, the CEU). Nevertheless, while researchers working independently or in association with local societies made up 11 of the 61 authors (18%) of PPS articles on British prehistory in 1980, 1985 and 1990, they constituted only 2 of the 69 authors (3%) of such articles in 1995, 2000 and 2005. Again these figures are interesting given estimates that even in 2002, there were potentially more volunteer than paid archaeologists in Britain (Carter and Robertson 2002, 20). Moreover data from the AIP suggest that archaeologists working independently or in association with local societies were actually involved in a higher proportion of prehistoric investigations in 2005 than they were in 1980 (see above).

Balance of researchers Once again, it is difficult to use the evidence within PPS as a basis for assessing how the makeup of researchers in British prehistory has changed since 1980. Obviously, due to its selective remit, PPS necessarily only represents researchers who carry out ‘exemplary research’. In addition, although the institutional details of authors are always listed, those of other contributors (e.g. primary data collectors, authors of specialist reports etc.) are not noted systematically. However, given that marked changes have taken place since 1980 in terms of who is actually creating primary data on British prehistory (see above), it is certainly worth considering whether transformations have also taken place in terms of who contributes to the broader outcomes of British prehistoric research (Figure 5.22). The main point to note is that, in contrast to the situation for fieldworkers, the overall makeup of authors of PPS

Figure 5.21: Changes of the balance of research published in PPS, 1980-2005

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Figure 5.22: Shifts in the backgrounds of authors contributing to PPS, 1980-2005

involved conflict, translation and transformation as well as mutual understanding and the reconciliation of ideas.

Discussion Overall, this detailed analysis of PPS articles between 1980-2005 has provided insight into shifts in British prehistoric research at a broad level, and revealed ways in which an account of disciplinary change built using ‘subjective’ outcomes of research can diverge quite considerably from one produced using ‘objective’ records. One overarching pattern which has emerged is that there are often quite considerable time delays – of up to 10-15 years – between when marked shifts in practice (methodological or interpretative) initially occur, and when these changes become evident widely in the outcomes of prehistoric research. This provides a distinctive sense of the tempo at which new ideas and methods are raised and become assimilated in British prehistoric research practices.

More specifically, it was observed that PPS articles yield a rather different account of recent shifts in British prehistoric fieldwork to that provided by fieldwork records. In contrast to evidence from the latter, a distinct impression was gained from fieldwork-related articles in PPS that a clear-cut shift had taken place in the geographical distribution of prehistoric investigations between 1980-2005, from fieldwork focused predominantly in areas with a longstanding tradition for prehistoric research (e.g. southern and central England) to fieldwork located in a much broader spectrum of geographical locations. Fieldwork records also show that investigative methodologies have changed considerably since 1980, and that specialist fieldwork teams are increasingly responsible for undertaking the vast majority of investigations. However, within PPS there is little evidence until very recently that developer-funded archaeology (or indeed the work of commercial archaeologists) has impacted significantly on the character of prehistoric fieldwork. In addition, fieldwork records suggest that threat from development is increasingly the primary reason for undertaking fieldwork investigations. However PPS articles reveal that some prehistoric fieldwork at least has become much more explicitly theoretically-orientated in recent years.

In relation to this point it is worth noting that the way in which knowledge flows (both spatially and temporally) from its initial context(s) of production to its assimilation and reworking by much wider groups of people, has recently been a topic of considerable interest to historians and sociologists of science (see for example Gibbons 1994, Secord 2004). Becher (1989) suggested that for disciplines in which the potential topics of research are numerous and widespread (as is arguably the case with archaeology) communication patterns between practitioners tends to be less well organised than in disciplines which have clear channels of investigation (for instance in the ‘hard’ sciences). Consequently, in the former, news about significant conceptual or methodological advances tends to trickle between researchers rather than spreading rapidly. Meanwhile in her study of the relationship between science and literature, Beer (1996) noted the complexities involved in knowledge circulation, highlighting that it frequently

The existence of such discrepancies is perhaps unsurprising given that PPS is necessarily selective in its depiction of British prehistoric research. However it is important to note that according to PPS’s perspective on fieldwork over this period, it is understandable how widely held perceptions have been formed that the focus of prehistoric fieldwork has recently shifted away from traditional research regions such as Wessex (Darvill et al. 2002, 53). Similarly it is easy to see how, according to its

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their work for publication in PPS, or a combination of all these factors.

low representation in PPS articles, concerns have been perpetuated over the research credentials of developerfunded fieldwork (see Sections 4.6 and 4.8).

Finally, it was noted that developments in postexcavation analysis since 1980 have thus far made little impact on the research presented in PPS. Similarly, despite recent theoretical considerations of how imagery is used in archaeology, and the increasing influence of digital technologies on recording and publishing, the aesthetics of PPS articles has hardly changed over this period. Given the observation made previously about the tempo at which new ideas and methods are incorporated in prehistoric research (about 10-15 years after they are raised initially), it is certainly possible that recent developments in post-excavation analysis and the use of imagery have yet to become widely evident in the outcomes of prehistoric research.

PPS articles provide a very useful long-term perspective on how developments in interpretative approaches have been caught up in British prehistoric research since 1980. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this history is the extent to which it reveals the very variable tempos at which different archaeological concepts have been engaged with by prehistorians over this period. Aspects of certain theoretical paradigms (culture-history) clearly persisted for decades (at least into the late 1980s), while the mainstays of other schools of thought (processualism) were seemingly abandoned fairly abruptly in the 1990s, at least for a while. Some newer (postprocessual) ideas and ways of working were incorporated into research practices fairly quickly (for instance the notion that material culture analysis could be used to comment on prehistoric ritual and social practices). Meanwhile others – the notion of ‘structured deposition’, and the use of ethnographic analogy to justify interpretations – were seemingly dormant in prehistoric research for at least a decade before they were applied much more widely.23 It is also worth noting that since at least 1995, critiques of earlier interpretative approaches have become much more commonplace within PPS articles, even though (or perhaps because?) the overall range of approaches being drawn upon has almost certainly diminished.

5.4.

Summary

In this chapter I have explored shifts in the motivations for, methods of, geographical focus of, and people responsible for undertaking British prehistoric fieldwork since 1980. In connection with these shifts, I have demonstrated how the evidence base available for research in British prehistory has also undoubtedly been transformed. Using information from PPS it has been possible to generate a dynamic account of interpretative trends in prehistoric research at a broad level over this period. Through this investigation, a distinctive sense has also been gained of the tempo at which new ideas and methods have become caught up in wider research practices.

With regards to shifts in the balance of research presented in PPS and the makeup of contributors, it was observed that the substantial increase in the volume of prehistoric fieldwork being undertaken in Britain, particularly since 1990, is not reflected in the contents of PPS. The proportion of fieldwork reports published in this forum has remained relatively stable over this period, and if anything has fallen in recent years. This trend could well relate to the fact that researchers based in universities – habitually the main contributors to PPS – have become relatively less involved in fieldwork over this period.

Despite the many positive aspects of the historical account I have built thus far, as the analysis progressed I became increasingly aware of the limits of producing a history of recent research in British prehistory based solely upon written evidence, however carefully this material is chosen and addressed. 24 To begin with, unsurprisingly, the evidence within PPS represents a rather narrow view of British prehistoric research: it only presents work which is deemed to be exemplary. In addition, certain important topics were very difficult to broach using the available documentary sources. At a basic level it was not possible to elucidate which specific research themes (e.g. later prehistoric settlement studies) have provided a particular focus for British prehistorians since 1980, or the extent to which methodological developments (particularly in post-excavation) have been connected to interpretative shifts. More importantly (and somewhat disconcertingly) it was very difficult to use

In relation to this last point, while archaeologists in specialist fieldwork units are increasingly responsible for producing the vast majority of primary data on British prehistory, this has not resulted in them also making a greater contribution to the broader outcomes of prehistoric research, at least as represented by PPS articles. In addition, while there continues to be a significant number of ‘independent’ archaeologists in Britain, their involvement in authoring PPS articles on British prehistory has declined significantly since 1980. It is difficult to tell whether this patterning relates to the fact that independent archaeologists and researchers situated in specialist fieldwork units are generally less active in publishing their work, if they carry out ‘exemplary’ research less often, if they rarely present

24

Of course a vast array of other documentary sources – conference reports, university curricula, other published material etc. – could have been consulted in order to develop a more comprehensive impression of developments in British prehistory over this period. However like PPS, none of these other written sources seek explicitly to make connections between disciplinary change at a broad level and developments within British prehistory in particular. Consequently even if this much larger and rather diffuse body of material had been examined, arguably many of the same limitations would have been reached.

23

The increased popularity of the concept of ‘structured deposition’ during the 1990s is almost certainly also linked to the fact that, having previously been employed mainly in studies of the Neolithic, it was increasingly drawn upon in studies relating to the Bronze and Iron Ages.

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these sources to develop an understanding of if or how broad disciplinary changes, such as those outlined in Chapter 4, have been implicated in British prehistoric research over this period. Developments in British archaeology’s make-up, its organisation, its broader relationships, its funding basis, its major preoccupations (for instance about publication, disciplinary fragmentation etc.) and so on, have undoubtedly been caught up in the way that prehistoric research has transformed since 1980. However, perhaps understandably, such topics are not discussed explicitly (or even evident implicitly) within written accounts of British prehistory over most of this period.25 In order to add another layer to my narrative of recent developments in British prehistoric research, it therefore seemed essential to talk to archaeologists across the discipline who have been integral to this history. With the assistance of these people it was hoped that it might be possible to explore further some of the themes which have been raised in the account given thus far, to make connections between broad disciplinary shifts and specific developments in prehistoric research, and to discover other aspects of this era in archaeology which were not at all apparent within written sources.

25

Interestingly matters such as these are discussed in several PPS articles in the early 1980s. However a decision was made by the Prehistoric Society committee in the early 1990s to move away from publishing articles about contemporary issues (Harris 1994, 11).

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Chapter 6. 6.1.

Oral testaments: methodological considerations literary biography (1997, 24), that where I chose ultimately to situate my work has as much to do with its intended audience as it does with its technical content.

Introduction

Before developing an account of recent disciplinary developments based on oral evidence, it is important to provide a background for the approach which I have taken, and thus for the narrative which ultimately I produce. In order to do so, I begin by positioning the work I have carried out in relation to the disciplines of oral history and anthropology. I go on to consider some of the implications of undertaking anthropologicallyinformed research in a community of which I also consider myself to be part. Finally, I examine in detail the interview technique I adopted in my investigation – a ‘life-history’ approach. I consider the role that personal histories currently play in archaeological discourse (both as a genre and analytically), and raise key issues which researchers in various disciplines more broadly have raised about this mode of enquiry. 6.2.

Connecting with anthropology In positioning my work in relation to anthropology, it is worth acknowledging first of all that this is not necessarily a straightforward process. As many anthropologists have pointed out (e.g. Gellner and Hirsch 2001, Gupta and Ferguson 1997, Wright 1994) the parameters of anthropology are constantly being redefined. Anthropologists themselves have devoted a significant amount of time in recent years to questioning where, how, and why they carry out their research (e.g. Amit 2000, Clifford and Marcus 1986, Marcus 1998). Meanwhile they have also observed how researchers beyond anthropology have taken aspects of its ideas and both used and transformed these in understanding their own disciplinary practices (e.g. Wright 1994, Strathern 2004). Indeed it is in response to this potentially frustrating vagueness of definition that Gupta and Ferguson made the important point that ‘there are many more interesting questions to ask about any given piece of work than whether or not it “belongs” within anthropology’ (1997, 5).

Positioning myself (amongst genres)

First, I will consider briefly exactly how I would like to situate the approach I have taken in Chapters 7-9 at a broad level. While I do not want to dwell on this topic in detail, it is important to raise it for three main reasons. Firstly, although separate aspects of my approach are familiar within certain spheres of archaeological discourse (personal histories of archaeologists have been used in producing several recent archaeological histories, meanwhile there are many anthropologically-informed, or historically-situated archaeological critiques), the way in which I fuse these genres is particular to this study. Secondly I would argue, following Herzfeld (1997) and Roberts (2006, 46), that the process of identifying explicitly the genres with which one is working clarifies things for both for the author and for potential readers: ‘what we call our writings radically affects how they are read: the attribution of genre is in this sense always a political act’ (Herzfeld 1997, 22). Thirdly, I would suggest that in instances where archaeologists have adopted a hybrid approach but have not taken the time to consider the exact nature of their enquiry (as, I would argue, has been the case with many ethnographies of archaeology), this has contributed to shortcomings in the accounts which are ultimately produced (see Section 6.3 for a further discussion of this point).

Turning to my own approach, I would argue that my work ‘connects’ with anthropology in the following ways. I have used a form of interview technique – a ‘lifehistory’ approach – which is widespread within (although certainly not unique to) anthropology. My approach could even be described as being a form of multi-sited ethnography, in the sense that I seek to comprehend and connect the ideas, values and social relationships of a particular group of people who have operated in numerous and distinct locales (Marcus 1998). The manner in which I have analysed and made sense of my interview data is informed by anthropological ideas. I have also aimed to draw on aspects of what are widely understood to be the key attributes of anthropological (field)work: its capacity to generate knowledge about marginalised histories and social locations; to apprehend taken-for-granted social routines, informal knowledge and embodied practices; to reveal phenomena which would otherwise have remained invisible; and to unearth new perspectives on things we thought we already understood (Gellner and Hirsch 2001, 9, Gupta and Ferguson 1997, 36-7, Herzfeld 1997, 12, 16).

In order to position my own approach or ‘tactic’ (Herzfeld 1997, 1), I will therefore consider the account which I build on the basis of oral evidence in relation to the two broad modes of enquiry with which I feel it connects most closely: those of anthropology and oral history.1 At the same time I recognise, as Herzfeld does in positioning his own work between ethnography and

However, for a number of reasons, I would suggest that my approach does not actually ‘belong’ within anthropology. I do not intend to write primarily for anthropologists, even though I hope that some of what I say might be of interest to them. Moreover I am not, at least unambiguously, using anthropology’s primary fieldwork method of ‘participant observation’, which has even been viewed as being synonymous with the

1

I could also have highlighted the sociological dimensions of the approach taken in this part of my study. However I would argue that my research relates more closely to anthropology than it does to sociology, not least in terms of its intentions.

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discipline itself (Gupta and Ferguson 1997, 2).2 Consequently, in contrast to other archaeologists who have undertaken ethnographies of archaeological practice (see for example papers in Edgeworth 2006), I would suggest that my work is anthropologically-informed rather than being anthropological or ethnographic per se.

possible of the topic I am addressing (Howarth 1998, 9, Thompson 1998, 25). Rather I would suggest following Roberts and other post-modern historians (e.g. Jenkins 2003) that ‘we cannot uncover the truth about the past but we can study the traces of that past and use them to try and tell resonant stories’ (Roberts 2006, 47). Nor do I wish to ‘fill in gaps’ left by histories made using documentary sources (e.g. Johnson 1996, 46, Laporsky Kennedy 1998, 344, Smith 2009, 10). Instead, like Portelli (1998, 64), I view written and oral sources as having particular but overlapping qualities. I also find the relationship between these resources interesting in itself. Equally, I would distance my own work from that of oral historians who seek chiefly to celebrate the fictional character of oral accounts, and to focus in detail on issues such as processes of remembering (e.g. Frisch 1998). While I appreciate the importance of recognising this dimension of oral accounts, I prefer as Sangster suggests (1998, 94), to focus instead on exploring how such ‘fictions’ operate ‘in reality’. In addition, in contrast to some oral historians I have not set out primarily to empower any particular marginalised community (Perks and Thomson 1998, Part III).

More than (oral) history The disciplinary genre with which this part of my research corresponds with most closely is arguably that of oral history. Unlike anthropologists, oral historians have had less difficulty in defining what they do. For example in their Oral History Reader, Perks and Thompson define oral history simply as ‘the interviewing of eye-witness participants in the events of the past for the purposes of historical reconstruction’ (1998, ix). Rather, oral historians have had to contend with the fact that their mode of enquiry is often eschewed within academia (Howarth 1998, 7), despite the fact that considerable methodological and theoretical debate has actually taken place amongst oral historians over the last 30 years (see papers in Perks and Thomson 1998). Accordingly, a sense still lingers that oral history work needs to be elevated in some way in order for it to be academically relevant (e.g. Grele 1998, 48). In this sense, I am aware that in claiming to produce an orally-based account which is something ‘more than’ oral history, I am to a certain extent reinforcing this archetypal (although not necessarily deserved) hierarchy.

Finally, in relation to Herzfeld’s point (see above), I do not intend to write first and foremost for oral historians (in their various guises), nor even necessarily for historians of archaeology, although once again, I hope that much of what I say will be of relevance to these groups. An interdisciplinary archaeological critique

Certainly, as an oral historian would, I aim to produce an historical reconstruction of British prehistoric research and archaeology more broadly over the last 30 years on the basis of oral evidence. The ‘life-history’ approach which I take up has even been described as being ‘the backbone of oral history work’ (Howarth 1998, v). I will also draw on insights from oral history work throughout my account. Moreover I intend to employ aspects of what have been described as the principal capacities of this genre (many of which notably overlap with those of anthropology): its potential to produce histories which represent a multiplicity of standpoints (e.g. Johnson 1996, 40); to connect personal experience with broader cultural entities (e.g. Schrager 1998, 285); to reveal different kinds of historical reality (e.g. Sangster 1998, 87); to elicit the complex, messy, colourful and informal qualities of history-making (e.g. Blee 1998, 335); to investigate not only what happened in the past but also what these happenings meant to people (e.g. Portelli 1998, 67); and to explore how the past is caught up in contemporary lives (e.g. Thomson 1998, 301).

In fact overall, as discussed in Chapter 2, I view this study as belonging to a broad and diverse body of critical studies of archaeological practice. More specifically, while the accounts which I presented in Chapters 4 and 5 operated primarily as historical studies, the account which I present on the basis of oral evidence in Chapters 7-9 defies any straightforward categorisation. It is neither wholly an ethnography nor a history of archaeological practice. Rather, it seeks to keep in view both recent historical and contemporary archaeological practices, and draws on methods and ideas from archaeology, oral history, and the social sciences more broadly. Consequently the approach which I have taken in this part of my study is best viewed simply as being interdisciplinary. 6.3.

Auto-anthropology

Having initially outlined the extent to which I feel the work I present in Chapters 7-9 is anthropological, it is useful to consider some of the implications of doing work which is at least anthropologically-informed, in a community of which I also consider myself to be part. Within anthropology, such research might be described as ‘anthropology at home’, ‘native anthropology’ or ‘autoanthropology’. Once again, I will not dwell on this topic in detail. However it is important to raise it, not only

However, unlike many oral historians, I do not aspire to produce as ‘complete’ and ‘accurate’ an account as 2

See Gupta and Ferguson (1997, 32) for a discussion of the extent to which a background in ‘the field’ one is studying can be considered as a form of extended participant observation. Within archaeology, Moser (1995, 57) for example explicitly viewed her own training and involvement in archaeology as constituting ‘participant observation’ in undertaking her study of archaeology’s disciplinary culture in Australia.

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anthropologists to be much more explicitly reflexive in their work.

because debates surrounding the topic of autoanthropology are germane to the account I present in this part of my study, but also because previous anthropologically-informed studies of archaeological practice have ignored the issue almost entirely. This is perhaps surprising given the now extensive literature which is available on auto-anthropology. Rather, most ‘ethnographers’ of archaeology seem to have assumed (rightly or wrongly) that the task of doing anthropology, and more specifically, doing it in a familiar context is relatively unproblematic.3 The following section considers what auto-anthropology is, key issues which have been raised in relation to the concept, and why I feel it is important for me (and by implication other archaeologists) to consider these issues while conducting investigations of anthropologically-informed archaeological practice.

Turning to the main implications of undertaking anthropology ‘at home’, Strathern suggests that one of the key consequences of such work is that it puts a particular focus upon how anthropologists define the relationship between themselves and the ‘others’ whom they study. As she asked ‘how does one KNOW when one is at home?’ particularly given that ‘the grounds of familiarity and distance are shifting ones’ (Strathern 1987, 16). Several anthropologists have commented on the complexities involved in trying to gain analytical ‘distance’ in familiar situations (Rapport and Overing 2000, 22, Weston 1997, 175). Others have described how the relationship between the ‘researcher’ and the ‘researched’ can seem particularly fragile, uncomfortable and ambiguous in such contexts (Clifford 1997, 213, Knox 2005, 1, Weston 1997, 172). Partly because of such complexities, it has been suggested that despite its increasing prevalence, doing anthropology ‘at home’ continues to be treated with suspicion within the discipline (Gupta and Ferguson 1997, 11-18, Rapport and Overing 2000, 23, Weston 1997, 165), much like oral history is within history.

Over the last 20 years or so, at least partly in response to anthropology’s desire to distance itself from the suspicion that its practices were a form of neo-colonial intellectual imperialism (Jackson 1987, 8), an increasing number of anthropologists have focused their efforts on investigating aspects of their own societies (typically Western European and North American), or in other words on working ‘at home’. As Knox puts it: ‘anthropologists increasingly find themselves sharing their own theories about the world with the people with whom they chose to do research’ (2005, 1). In relation to this shift, the term auto-anthropology was ‘invented’ by Strathern (Rapport and Overing 2000, 18), who defines it as ‘anthropology carried out in the social context which produced it’ and suggested that anthropological research could be identified as such in situations where ‘a cultural continuity exists between the anthropologist’s output and what the people in the society being studied produce by way of accounts themselves’ (1987, 17).

For Strathern, one of the main reasons why such feelings of discomfort are heightened when anthropologists undertake research in familiar contexts is that in these contexts anthropologists’ accounts are much more likely to be set alongside the interpretations of the ‘others’ they research, making the exploitative tendencies of their work more evident (1987, 21). As Vivieros de Castro puts it in discussing anthropologists’ attempts to study scientific practices, ‘the discomfort provoked by the idea of an anthropological description of scientific activity – a queasiness felt not just by practitioners of the hard sciences, but also by many anthropologists – suggests we are seen, and maybe we even see ourselves, as an accursed race of anti-Midases capable of transforming everything we touch into error, ideology, myth and illusion’ (2003, 2). Consequently, it is argued, undertaking anthropology ‘at home’ throws a particular light on the way that anthropologists analyse and write about the people they study. Anthropologists working in ‘exotic’ contexts can more easily justify the investigation of their subjects using preconceived analytical constructs (kinship, religion etc.), since such themes arguably assist in the process of translating aspects of the very ‘different’ worlds they encounter for audiences ‘back home’. By contrast anthropologists working in familiar contexts must devise different ways of representing the people they study, in order to avoid a situation whereby accounts they produce appear simply to be contrived: ‘for informants, anthropologists’ accounts of the home society may be regarded as partial, obvious, repeating what is already known, but also idiosyncratic, and trivial; he/she has merely authored another version. For fellow scholars on the other hand, the conventional basis of the analytical framework is made transparent; writing is revealed to be a device’ (Strathern 1987, 26).

Rather than simply trying to define better what anthropology ‘at home’ was, Strathern undoubtedly introduced the concept of auto-anthropology as a means of stimulating further debate. She was concerned that anthropologists (including herself) who had worked ‘at home’ had assumed too easily that by studying aspects of their own societies they would automatically gain heightened critical reflexivity. Consequently, she hoped that by introducing and indeed questioning the concept of auto-anthropology, she would focus anthropologists’ critical attention on the exact implications of working ‘at home’ (Strathern 1987, 16). According to Rapport and Overing the concept of auto-anthropology has subsequently become situated at the confluence of important debates about the very nature and status of anthropological work (2000, 18). In addition, they argue, an auto-anthropological awareness has encouraged 3

While he does not engage explicitly with the issue of autoanthropology, as discussed in Chapter 2, Edgeworth is an exception in this sense, in that he does take time to consider in detail the implications of doing anthropology in a familiar context (2003, 2010). Meanwhile Hamilakis and Anagnostopoulos 2009 do raise the issue of doing ‘anthropology at home’ very briefly. However they dismiss the idea with little further consideration.

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As outlined in Chapter 2, the uncritical manner in which some archaeologists have adopted the mantle of ‘an anthropologist’ or particular ethnographic techniques (e.g. participant observation), and simply assumed that in doing so they would gain a heightened capacity to perceive the ‘embedded, implicit, shared background assumptions’ (Gero 1996, 258) which archaeologists brought to their work, ultimately imbued the insights they gained with a tautological, self-evident quality. It could also be argued that in cases where archaeologists have employed anthropologists to undertake ethnographies of archaeological practice it has been assumed too easily that because the researchers concerned were ‘anthropologists’ rather than ‘archaeologists’ (and were thus less ‘at home’) the insights they gained would automatically be more perceptive (see for example Hamilton 2000).

Ultimately therefore, Strathern contends, anthropology ‘at home’ requires a different kind of authorship (1987, 247). Furthermore anthropologists who undertake such work need to consider very carefully how their own ways of organising knowledge relate to those of the people they study, since what ‘our representations of others will mean must depend in part on what “their” representations mean to them’ (ibid., 23). Both she (ibid., 30) and Vivieros de Castro (2003, 8) suggest that one way for researchers to address this issue is by drawing their analytical categories from the specific techniques that the people they study use to represent themselves. Before outlining why I feel that these arguments are relevant to the account I present in Chapters 7-9, it is worth mentioning one further point of interest. One notable facet of debates surrounding the concept of autoanthropology is that (perhaps unsurprisingly) they have taken place entirely within anthropology and have been directed specifically at anthropologists. This is the case despite the widely acknowledged fact within anthropology that over the same period an increasing number of scholars beyond this discipline have adopted anthropological ideas, ethnographic methods, and even the guise of being ‘an anthropologist’ in studying either their own disciplinary practices (e.g. Wright 1994, 3-4), or other aspects of Western and North American societies (see for example papers in Chamberlayne et al. 2000, Perks and Thomson 1998), and thus have undertaken work which could be considered in some ways to be autoanthropological. Indeed Strathern has commented specifically on the fact that anthropologists have not responded defensively to the recent widespread borrowing of the ethnographic method since, she suggests, they have actually been ‘bemused’ rather than challenged by such efforts: ‘[ethnography] is often watered down to mean nothing more than talking with people’ (2004, 554).

Thirdly, and almost certainly in relation to the fact that I was researching in a familiar context, I can certainly identify with the feelings of marginality and discomfort which some ‘native’ anthropologists say they have experienced in conducting their studies. There is a certain awkwardness about entering into discussions with colleagues (I use this term in the broadest sense), on unusual (i.e. non-archaeological) and in some ways ambiguous terms. This is particularly the case given that the people I talked to clearly feel very strongly about some of the issues they were discussing, that I might potentially re-encounter these people in different (archaeological) circumstances in future, and that archaeological critique (especially that which is arguably occupies a anthropologically-informed) subsidiary position within the discipline and continues to be treated with suspicion. Turning to how I have actually tried to address these concerns within my own work, as Visweswaran (1994) suggests, it is important to use feelings of discomfort (such as those described above) as a starting point for thinking critically. My sense of unease has made me consider very carefully the extent to which I feel I gained an analytical ‘distance’ from the subjects of my enquiry. It has also heightened my awareness of the points of connection and separation which exist between the account which I produce and broader archaeological discourse on the topics I have addressed.

There are several main reasons why I feel it is important for me (and by implication other archaeologists) to consider such issues when conducting anthropologicallyinformed investigations of archaeological practice. Firstly, as I have already discussed, although I do not consider the work I present in Chapters 7-9 to be entirely anthropological, it is informed by anthropological ideas, and it does employ a method which is used widely in anthropology (a ‘life-history’ approach). Moreover this research can potentially augment understandings of certain anthropological lines of enquiry, and without doubt, it involves studying aspects of a community (researchers in British prehistory) to which I consider myself to belong.

With regards to gaining analytical distance, I am keenly aware that my position as an archaeologist studying archaeologists (rather than as a researcher from any other background) is likely to have a profound effect on the account I produce in Chapters 7-9. I would also argue that I value seeking critical awareness of my relationship with the people I am working with, and the potential effects of these relationships on the outcomes of my work, more than I value producing ‘analytical distance’ in an abstract sense. Nevertheless, as Weston (1997), and Clifford (1997) have suggested, huge differences can exist within any given community, and these can become junctures for producing the sense of difference seen to be required in order to perform anthropological work. ‘No-one can be

Secondly, Strathern’s assertion that many of the anthropologists who pioneered working ‘at home’ had assumed too easily that in studying aspects of their own societies ‘anthropologically’ they would automatically gain heightened reflexivity, seemed pertinent to my own opinions about the shortcomings of several existing anthropologically-informed accounts of archaeological practice, in particular those conducted by archaeologists.

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capacities, although the two are clearly closely related. I begin by considering the specific role that personal histories currently play in archaeological discourse, in both these respects. Having hinted at the uncritical manner in which I feel such accounts are commonly rendered and used in archaeology, I examine insights which have been raised by life-history researchers more broadly with regards to this particular narrative form and its employment as a mode of enquiry.

an insider to all sectors of a community. How the shifting locations are managed, how affiliation, discretion, and critical perspective are sustained have been and will remain matters of tactical improvisation as much as of formal methodology’ (Clifford 1997, 214). Certainly as my work progressed I became increasingly aware of points of connection and separation between myself and the people I talked to – generational, gender, social, political etc. differences, and in terms of our archaeological experiences. As Berglund mentions in describing her ethnography of environmental activism whilst being an environmental activist herself (1998, 15), there were also moments at which my position seemed ambiguous – I necessarily (and I believe often productively) slipped in and out of my investigative role. This process of negotiation undoubtedly had implications for the account I have produced. Even at a basic level, points of difference between my own understandings of issues and those of the people I talked to became hubs for more detailed discussion. In addition, while our common archaeological experiences might sometimes have led us to focus, for instance, on the evidence relating to one particular site, such discussions more often than not led to further points of departure. Moreover, as will become evident, given British archaeology’s now diverse makeup there were many more situations in which I found what we were discussing quite alien to my own archaeological experiences (for instance the jargon used to describe contemporary archaeological practices in governmentrelated institutions). In this sense, I can certainly identify with Visweswaran’s suggestion that ‘home, once interrogated, is a place we have never been before’ (1994, 113).

Personal histories in archaeology While biographical accounts of ‘great’ archaeologists have for a long time been part of archaeological discourse (e.g. Hawkes 1982, Wheeler 1955), personal histories have undoubtedly become more prevalent in archaeology since the early 1990s. While this burgeoning has not been theorised explicitly it seems likely to relate, at least in some cases (e.g. Roberts 2006) and often very loosely, to the introduction of post-modern ideas and the recognition that many important (and colourful) aspects of archaeology’s past are not included within traditional disciplinary accounts. At a broad level, recent renditions of personal histories in archaeology fall into two main groups. Firstly, autobiographical and biographical accounts of archaeologists, as well as personal versions of historical happenings have been presented in published form, in public seminars or conference sessions, or on the internet. Secondly, a few archaeological researchers have employed ‘life-history’ approaches as a means of examining archaeology’s historical and contemporary practices.

Finally, I hope to resist the danger which Strathern highlights (see above) of producing an account which simply repeats back to the subjects of my enquiry what they feel they already know, in the following ways. Firstly, and perhaps most importantly, I will remain constantly aware that this is a potential problem associated with undertaking a critical study of a community of which I consider myself to be part. I will also be very careful to draw my themes of analysis directly from the discussions I had (rather than basing them on any preconceived lines of enquiry). Additionally, I will bring a set of ideas (mainly anthropological) to my work which have rarely been drawn on previously within archaeology, and thus produce an account which is continuous with but also distinct from existing discourses. 6.4.

With regards to the first of these groups, autobiographies of pre-eminent British archaeologists have appeared in leading journals (e.g. Mercer 2006, Wainwright 2000). Personal accounts of aspects of archaeology’s recent history have appeared in popular archaeological magazines (e.g. Carver 2006), in internet journals (e.g. Wainwright 1997), and have even been collated into entire books (Schofield 2011). A series of personal histories seminars has been set up at the Department of Archaeology, Cambridge, at which key figures are asked to recount significant happenings within the recent history of the discipline, such as the establishment of the Theoretical Archaeology Group, or the emergence of postprocessual archaeologies (Smith 2007-2009). Interviews with prominent archaeologists, many of which are biographical in their emphasis, have featured in a number of other leading academic journals (e.g. Hodder et al. 2008, Miles et al. 1999, Parker Pearson et al. 1997, Tringham et al. 2008). Meanwhile personal accounts of the histories of organisations (the Birmingham Archaeological Field Unit), sites (Crickley Hill) and individuals (Martin Carver) are widely accessible on the internet (Buteaux 2006, Crickley Hill Man 2008-9, University of York Department of Archaeology 2009).

Life-histories

In the remainder of this chapter, I will look more closely at the particular form of interviewing technique I have drawn upon in my investigation: a ‘life-history’ approach. In doing so it is important to make the distinction between life or personal histories as a genre with a particular set of attributes, and life-histories as an analytical tool, with a particular set of interpretative

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With regards to the second of these groups, ‘life-history’ approaches have been employed as a means of producing accounts of the working lives of contemporary commercial archaeologists (Everill 2009), of British archaeology during the inter-war period (Roberts 2006), of prehistoric archaeology at Cambridge University during the earlier part of the 20th century (Smith 2009), and of the professionalisation of Australian archaeology during the 1960s and 1970s (Moser 1995). In such contexts life-history interviews have typically been used to supplement archival research and other (more formal) methods of interviewing. More importantly, they have generally been used to foreground the historical contributions of certain marginalised groups – principally women and ‘diggers’.

archaeological analogy, were I to propose analysing a later prehistoric pottery assemblage, it would almost certainly be considered to be presumptuous if I did not take the time to engage with the insights of specialists in this area regarding the specific properties of this material, potential taphonomic factors involved in the production of such assemblages, and how these factors enable particular modes and levels of interpretation to be made; especially if no other researchers had done so previously. Consequently, in the context of my own investigation I have chosen to outline in detail issues which have been raised by life-history researchers beyond archaeology in relation to this narrative form as both a genre and a method.

Overall, although all of these personal narratives are undoubtedly historically important, as well as being very interesting and vibrant, several of them might also be criticised in terms of their contribution to understandings of the discipline on at least three different levels. Firstly, despite the efforts of recent users of life-history approaches, the vast majority of such accounts still focus on archaeological ‘greats’ – ‘great archaeologists’ (mainly men), ‘great sites’, and ‘great’ events – thus they arguably entrench dominant views of archaeology’s history, rather than challenging and broadening them. Indeed, as Sharples comments in his contribution to the recent volume on Great Excavations ‘greatness seems to be fashionable these days’ (2011, 58). Secondly, even where the details of personal histories are actively contested (see for example Baker and Morris 2001, Fowler 2001, Geake 2002, Lawson 2001, Rahtz 2001, in response to Wainwright 2000) such accounts (and reactions to them) are almost without exception allowed to stand in their own right rather than being addressed critically – their relevance to the discipline is presented as being self-evident, rather than as needing to be established.

Wider understandings of life-histories as a genre and a method At a basic level, life-histories have been defined as being underpinned by ‘a similar logic in which biographical events are linked in an overarching frame’ (Yarrow 2008b, 338). With regards to their use as an analytical tool, some have commented on the significant diversity of life-history methods, most of which tend towards either focusing on the objective qualities of ‘the life’ or on the fictitious character of ‘the story’ (Peacock and Holland 1993, 368). Meanwhile others have viewed lifehistory approaches as a specific mode of ethnographic enquiry, which elicits the happenings which constitute a person’s life, or at least those which are important to that person (Kamat 1999, following Linde 1993). As noted above, life-history methods have been seen as synonymous with the practice of oral history, and have been used widely in anthropology and the social sciences more broadly in recent years. It is also worth noting that following the initial popularity of life-history approaches in history and the social sciences during the 1970s and early 1980s, the use of such methods was critiqued substantially during the 1980s, particularly within anthropology (see for example Crapanzano 1984). Recently, however, there has been a resurgence of interest in the use of life-history methods much more broadly, largely in connection with the introduction of post-modern ideas. For instance, such methods are valued widely for their capacities to connect personal experiences and histories of broader social developments (e.g. Andrews 1991, 23), to play a role in identity formation at a personal and group level (e.g. Andrews 1991, Chamberlayne et al. 2000, Greenhouse 1996), to render novel issues in relation to the particular topic under investigation (e.g. Faraday and Plummer 1979, 778, Squire 2000, 197), and so on. Within anthropology, ‘following the life-history’ is also mentioned explicitly as one of several useful strategies to employ in carrying out ‘multi-sited research’ (Marcus 1998, 94). Indeed it was in consideration of all these potential virtues that I was initially attracted to employ this method of enquiry for my own research.

Thirdly, although several researchers have undertaken life-history interviews as a means of reflecting upon broader disciplinary practices and developments, none of them have considered fully the particular qualities of lifehistories either as a genre or in terms of their specific analytical potential. Rather, some have arguably sidelined the complexities involved in producing and using lifehistories and have chosen instead to focus on certain of their positive attributes – extolling them for their vibrancy and broad accuracy (e.g. Smith 2009, 11-12). Meanwhile others have simply not considered explicitly their academic relevance at all (e.g. Everill 2009). This is not to downplay the very valuable work which has been undertaken in this area. Rather, it is to suggest that if archaeologists are to engage with such narratives and forms of enquiry more effectively it is essential that they also take into account the considerable efforts which have been made by researchers elsewhere (principally within anthropology, sociology and oral history) to examine both the particular qualities of personal histories, and also their capacities as an investigative method. To use an

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remembering and forgetting are particularly interesting in contexts where the topics under discussion are historical (as is the case with life-histories). This is due to the temporal distance between the times about which people are talking and the time at which they produce the account, and consequently the varied experiences people tend to have had in the interim period (Frisch 1998, 37).

Nevertheless it has also been observed that, while lifehistory approaches are widely understood to have considerable potential (Behar 1990, 223), they continue to be treated with suspicion (Faraday and Plummer 1979, 773, Peacock and Holland 1993, 377). In particular the use of such methods has been criticised explicitly within anthropology due to their tendencies to evoke sentimental attitudes to the issues being discussed (Crapanzano 1984, 954), due to the particularity of autobiography as a narrative form and thus the inappropriateness of employing such approaches in certain contexts (Hoskins 1998, 4), and due to the potentially artificial character of the interview situation and thus the superficial nature of the evidence provided by such accounts in relation to the richness of people’s ‘real lives’ (Weiner 1999, 77).

At a general level, it has been appreciated that lifehistories are shifting, contingent entities, which are constantly being reshaped as people try to make sense of their lives (e.g. Andrews 1991, 65, Fischer-Rosenthal 2000, 118, Oochs and Capps 1996, 37): ‘Individuals are constructed by their pasts but at the same time they are constantly involved in restructuring, reinterpreting and remembering that past’ (Andrews 1991, 65). Andrews also makes the important point that the issues which have endured and become important enough to include in lifehistories can be as interesting as those which were important at the time (Andrews 1991, 112).

Largely in response to this growing awareness of the complexities involved in both producing and using lifehistories, considerable effort has been invested recently by researchers from various disciplinary traditions to explore the particular qualities of such narratives, and their capacities as a mode of enquiry. In the following sections I outline four key methodological issues which have been discussed at length in relation to life-histories, also highlighting ways in which life-history researchers have attempted to address these issues. The first two sections cover issues involved in the production of lifehistory accounts, and thus their properties as an evidence base. The last two sections cover issues relating to the analysis of life-histories.

In addition, it has been observed that processes of remembering at a personal level can be closely related to broader collective narratives and modes of remembering and forgetting (e.g. Andrews 1991, 66, Laporsky Kennedy 1998, 345-8, Sangster 1998, 89). For instance, Sangster (1998, 89) notes how contradictions can arise at points in life-history accounts when people’s memories are shaped both by dominant ideologies and by their own personal experiences. Laporsky Kennedy (1998, 346) discusses how well-rehearsed autobiographical accounts can take on a different – more coherent, colourful, evocative and confident – quality. Additionally, in the light of her work in the former East Germany, Andrews notes how according to dominant understandings of historical happenings, some people have much more reason to amend their remembered pasts than others: ‘to understand the workings of the social memory it may be worth investigating the social organization of forgetting, the rules of exclusion, suppression or repression, and the question of who wants whom to forget what and why’ (Andrews 2000, 181).

Hopefully the benefits of going into these issues in detail will become evident over the course of the account I present in Chapters 7-9. Certainly I feel that my familiarity with matters involved in the production of life-histories and thus their particular qualities as an evidence base contributed to my research in a number of specific ways. It helped me to approach my investigation more sensitively, and to be alert to the various dynamics which might be caught up in shaping the accounts which were ultimately produced. My awareness of the interpretative potential of examining the particular structures and tempos which inhere in the telling of lifehistories impacted significantly on the way in which I built my account. Meanwhile, given that I have used the life-histories I garnered as a means of reflecting upon broader historical processes, I would argue that is vital that I was aware of how researchers had perceived that these different levels of analysis could be connected.

With regards to other factors which can shape the ways in which people recount their life-histories, it has been noted widely that the particular identities of interviewees, and the specific context in which their life-histories are told are key factors for consideration (e.g. Behar 1990, 225, Johnson 1996, 41). It has been emphasised that qualities such as the gender, class, age, ethnicity etc., of interviewees can shape significantly the accounts they produce, as can contemporary concerns within the community under consideration (e.g. Denzin 1989, 83, Lummis 1998, Sangster 1998, 89). Sangster noted that women’s narratives are more likely to be characterised by understatements, avoidance of the first person point of view, fewer references to personal accomplishments, and disguised statements of personal power (1998, 89). Lummis suggests that older informants tend to be less radical and thus to under-report conflict (1998, 276). Laporsky Kennedy discusses how communities who feel that their common identity is threatened at the time of the

Memory, truth and coherence: factors involved in the telling of life-histories One of the defining traits of recent critical assessments of life-histories as an analytical tool is their focus on examining the many factors which have a role to play in the way that people produce (remember, forget, tell) their accounts, and on discussing the extent to which those accounts therefore represent the ‘reality’ of ‘lived lives’. Such issues are obviously of concern in any interview situation. However it has been suggested that processes of

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collaboratively produced (e.g. Denzin 1989, 28, Holloway and Jefferson 2000, 170, Portelli 1998, 72-3): ‘the biographical method rests on subjective and intersubjectively gained knowledge and understandings of the life experiences of individuals including one’s own life’ (Denzin 1989, 28). On this basis Denzin even suggests that fully-grounded biographical studies should include elements of the writer’s own personal history (ibid., 34). In tune with anthropological debates more broadly (e.g. Strathern 1987, 18-19), life-history researchers have also stressed the unequal tendencies of this relationship (e.g. Andrews 1991, 53), as well as the difficulties involved in trying to address this imbalance. Thus Sangster (like Strathern) argues that attempts to resist such inequalities, for instance by emphasising the extent to which the interview encounter was a shared experience, and the resulting dialogue cooperatively produced, have ultimately disguised rather than addressed the qualities of this relationship (1998, 95). In response to this realisation there is widespread agreement that, as well as being sensitive to issues and identities which connect and divide interviewers and interviewees, it is ultimately very important for interviewers to build a close rapport with interviewees, and thus to foster a situation whereby the interviewer is a ‘good listener’ and the interviewee an ‘active helper’ (Perks and Thomson 1998, 27).

interview can view their pasts nostalgically (1998, 352). Meanwhile, Herzfeld (1997, following Sartre 1949) observes that ‘people of a same period and collectivity, who have lived through the same events, who have raised or avoided the same questions, have the same taste in their mouth; they have the same complicity, and there are the same corpses among them’ (Herzfeld 1997, 25, original emphasis). Several researchers have also commented on the performative character of life-histories (Denzin 1989, 33, Yarrow 2008b, 339), and how the perceived audience of these accounts (both immediate and more widely) can produce particular effects on their form and content (Andrews 1991, 62, Fischer 1990, 25, Greenhouse 1996, 197). Turning to the relative ‘truthfulness’ of life-history accounts, the relationship between ‘lives lived’ and ‘lives told’ has been imagined variously. Some researchers appear to view ‘truth’ and ‘fiction’ as being in opposition to one another (e.g. Fischer-Rosenthal 2000, Johnson 1996, 115, Oochs and Capps 1996, 20). By contrast other researchers have actively questioned the validity of drawing a distinction between ‘truth’ and ‘fiction’, seeking instead to demonstrate how life-histories blur the boundaries between these poles (e.g. Denzin 1989, 9-10). In line with this view, Yarrow (2008b, 337) explicitly opposes Weiner’s (1999, 77) contention that due to their ‘artificial’ contexts of production, life-histories are somehow more detached from ‘real life’ than other products of ethnographic enquiry.

Finally, life-history researchers have noted the complexity of dealing with the evidence which results from life-history interviews (e.g. Faraday and Plummer 1979, 786). In doing so they have sought to foreground the importance of the creative work which takes place not only during, but also prior to and following the lifehistory interview itself, and thus to present life-history research as a process. It has been contended that the work of analysing and writing about life-history accounts is potentially both creative and disruptive (Behar 1990, 228, Denzin 1989, 69, Samuel 1998, 389): ‘the act of representing [another] almost always does violence of some sort to the subject of the representation, using as it must some degree of reduction, decontextualization, and miniaturization’ (Behar 1990, following Said 1985). In order to address this issue, some have emphasised the importance of maintaining close working relationships with interviewees beyond the interview itself, and of seeking to reach some level of consensus about the account which is ultimately produced (Andrews 1991, 49, Borland 1998).

The role of interviewer An allied effect of the widespread appreciation of the contingent character of life-histories is that it has focused particular attention on the role that researchers themselves have to play in the production of lifehistories, in particular via the relationships they build with interviewees, and through the process of transforming the oral accounts into analytical texts. It is worth noting that similar issues have been discussed extensively in anthropology in relation to the process of undertaking ethnographic research much more broadly (see for example papers in Clifford and Marcus 1986). There is also undoubtedly an overlap between discourse surrounding the role of interviewers in life-history research, and that surrounding the concept of autoanthropology in anthropology (Section 6.3). However, it is useful to outline briefly the thoughts of life-history researchers on this topic, given that they are pitched specifically in relation to the production of this narrative form. Moreover unlike discussions surrounding autoanthropology, they are not underpinned by the anthropological principle that it is necessary to gain analytical distance from those being researched, which gives them a rather different (and arguably more practical) timbre.

Ultimately therefore, it has been recognised that it is vital to be both aware of and explicit about how the researcher is implicated in life-history research. As Behar puts it ‘in performing [the] delicate act of mediation, the [researcher] is obliged to let the reader know, somewhere … just what the micropolitics of the situation was in which the life-history was obtained and the ways in which the [researcher] was personally involved in, and even transformed by, the intense one-to-one relationship of telling and listening’ (1990, 224). Interestingly, perhaps the most extreme, subtle and certainly compelling example of such a process I have come across is not within an explicitly academic work, but in

With regards to the overall relationship between interviewers and interviewees, it has been accepted widely that life-histories are ultimately always

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entities are mutually constitutive, and exist in a dialectical relationship to one another (e.g. Andrews 1991, 19, Oochs and Capps 1996, 30). Others have drawn upon more complex social theories in attempting to understand the relationship between individuals and societies (e.g. Fischer-Rosenthal 2000, Holland and Lave 2001).

Alexander Masters’ non-fictional biography of a homeless man in Cambridge, Stuart a Life Backwards (Masters 2006). In this, not only does Masters become closely (and sometimes dangerously) involved in Stuart’s own life over the course of producing the biography; he also, crucially, heeds Stuart’s adamant contention, having read a preliminary version of Masters’ account, that his life has been presented in an unnecessarily ‘boring’ and ‘negative’ manner. Thus, according to Stuart’s wishes, his life story is ultimately ‘written backwards’, beginning with his somehow uneventful death, and ending with his childhood in the Fens. Moreover due to the sensitive and often difficult relationship that the author and subject build, and which is written explicitly into the account itself, the final result is undoubtedly enhanced considerably.

By contrast, Yarrow (2006a, 2008b) contests whether it is in fact possible to make such clear distinctions between ‘individuals’ and ‘societies’ or between ‘particular’ and ‘general’ levels of analysis . Rather, he suggests, attention should be focused on interrogating ‘the various ways in which different people imagine their lives in relation to broader social and historical processes’ (Yarrow 2008b, 334). Narrative genres: temporalities

Connecting individuals, agents and broader social configurations

autobiographical

forms

and

A number of researchers have also turned their attention to exploring the narrative forms – the structure and temporality – which life-histories assume. Indeed it has been contended that the process of seeking out the generative structures of life-histories should be a key role of biographical research (Fischer-Rosenthal 2000, 119, Kamat 1999).

The notion that by gathering life-histories it is possible for scholars to make connections between individual lives and broader social phenomena was arguably one of the key factors which fuelled the recent resurgence of interest in biographical approaches in the social sciences (Andrews 1991, 23, Chamberlayne et al. 2000, 1-2). Indeed some researchers have even questioned the relevance of investigating personal histories at all if the intention is not to imagine them in relation to broader social entities (e.g. Rustin 2000, 42). More specifically, it has been suggested that the introduction of post-modern thought in history, anthropology and the social sciences more broadly stimulated an interest in examining the ways in which human experience and societal development interweave (Chamberlayne et al. 2000, 1), and in exploring the particular qualities of selfhood in a post-modern world (Fischer-Rosenthal 2000, 112, Holloway and Jefferson 2000, 168, Peacock and Holland 1993, 368), assuming that ‘we are all now fragmented, de-centered multiple-selved post-modern subjects’ (Holloway and Jefferson 2000, 168). More simply, as Yarrow puts it (on behalf of anthropologists, at least), ‘life-histories have been imagined to provide an antidote to anthropology’s generalisations and grand-narratives, enabling the possibility of introducing other kinds of voice’ (2006a, 72).

At a general level, Denzin has contended that life-history accounts tend to incorporate a number of key attributes. Thus, he argues, they often begin by alluding to family context and include ‘key markers’ which can be ‘mapped, charted, and given meaning’ (Denzin 1989, 19). Moreover they tend to be structured principally around ‘epiphanies’ or significant turning points, which he believes become evident at times of crisis in people’s lives or when significant events are confronted or experienced, and can often have long-lasting effects. He also suggests that the concept of ‘epiphanies’ is deeply entrenched in Western thought (Denzin 1989, 25). Regarding the broader temporal qualities of life-histories, researchers have commented both on their inherently linear ordering, and conversely on the extent to which, in practice, they often deviate from such formats. For instance some have suggested that, since the essentially linear structuring of life-histories coincides happily with that of broader historical processes, they provide an ideal medium for mediating between these two levels of analysis (Fischer-Rosenthal 2000, 117). It has even been proposed that the conventional ordering of life-histories is such a strong and stable force that it can act, for the teller, as a means of normalising life’s unsettling events (Oochs and Capps 1996, 27). Rather than viewing linear time as residing passively within life-histories, however, both Fischer-Rosenthal (2000, 114) and Greenhouse (1996, 208-9) view this time-form as being institutionally produced, and actively imposed upon peoples’ lives, and ultimately their life stories. In order to resist this dominant temporal principle, Greenhouse suggests, it is vital to recognise the plurality of conceptions of time within any given culture (ibid., 96), and to seek ways of

Despite the widespread acceptance that biographical approaches have such capacities, the ways in which the relationship between ‘individuals’ and ‘societies’ have been conceived vary considerably. Indeed even the notion that it is relevant to separate these two levels of representation has recently been challenged. With regards to the character of the relationship between personal histories and broader social entities, some seemingly view the former as a product of wider group, cultural, ideological and historical contexts, which ‘provide the languages, emotions, ideologies, taken-for-grantedunderstandings, and shared experiences from which the stories flow’ (Denzin 1989, 73). More commonly, it has been suggested that individual lives and broader social

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explicitly as an anthropologically-informed, historicallysituated, and therefore ultimately interdisciplinary critique of archaeological practice. I stated my intention to produce an account which, while having a historical dimension, has relevance for contemporary working archaeologists rather than being orientated primarily at historians of the discipline.

eliciting this variability, especially given the widely held understanding that the way in which people conceive time is implicated in how they experience their lives and their own agency (ibid., 1). In fact, despite the common connection which has been made between linear time and autobiographical narratives, particularly in Western contexts, it has long been recognised that life-histories are rarely straightforwardly linear in their telling (e.g. Faraday and Plummer 1979, 785). Rather, it has been widely observed that in recounting their personal histories, people include multiple narratives, tend to shift back and forth in time (e.g. Oochs and Capps 1996, 24), and to slip between past and present tenses in their conversation (e.g. Yarrow 2008b, 347). As Squire puts it when discussing her lifehistory research with British HIV sufferers, ‘multiple narratives occurred in each interview, and narrative lives were usually discontinuous, repetitive or incomplete. People returned to stories they had started or told earlier, sometimes spontaneously, sometimes after an interviewer’s comment or question’ (Squire 2000, 200). Moreover it has been suggested that even if life-histories tend to conform broadly to a linear form, this does not necessarily preclude the possibility that other understandings of time might be evoked in such accounts (Yarrow 2006a, 73). Indeed, Yarrow actively contests Greenhouse’s idea that individual agency is necessarily appropriated by linear/institutional time (1996, 180), arguing instead, in the context of his investigation of Ghanaian NGO workers, that interviewees viewed national developments as a demonstration of, rather than a frame for, their own agency (Yarrow 2006a, 73).

I followed this with a discussion of debates surrounding ‘auto-anthropology’, a notion which I believe is highly pertinent to the task of undertaking anthropologicallyinformed research in a community of which I also consider myself to be part. It has been suggested that working anthropologically in a familiar context places a heightened focus on both the relationship between the researcher and the researched, and that between their respective discourses. This is particularly important given anthropology’s guiding principle that in order to perform good anthropological work it is vital for researchers to attain a degree of analytical distance from the topic under consideration. Ultimately therefore, it is essential to consider very carefully how such relationships are defined, not least in order to avoid simply producing insights of a tautological nature. Finally I examined in detail the particular mode of enquiry which I have used in this part of my research: a ‘life-history’ approach. I outlined the role of personal histories in contemporary archaeological discourse and noted how, despite the prevalence of such accounts, their use has thus far received little critical attention within the discipline. Consequently, I outlined four key issues which have been raised more broadly in the social sciences regarding the particular qualities of life-histories and their uses as an analytical tool.

Overall then, many researchers are in agreement that, although life-histories (particularly in Western contexts) often share similar structuring principles (epiphanies) and understandings of time (linear), the exact forms which autobiographical accounts take are ultimately highly variable and contingent. For instance, on the basis of her work in Melanesia, Hoskins notes how in certain contexts biographies (and the identities of their narrators) are produced metaphorically through objects: ‘an object can thus become more than simply a “metaphor for the self”. It becomes a pivot for reflexivity and retrospection, a tool of autobiographic self discovery, a way of knowing oneself through things’ (1998, 198). Consequently, it is essential to consider the particular ways in which autobiographical accounts are rendered in the community under consideration, and to examine the specific ways in which people imagine the different tempos and structures of their lives. 6.5.

Firstly, accepting that life-histories are contingent and creatively produced, there are undoubtedly a wide range of factors which shape the way that they are told. However rather than simply seeking out such factors with a view to eradicating them or celebrating them in their own right, it is important to examine how and why particular influencing factors come to the fore in certain contexts. Secondly (and in relation to this last point), the context of the interview itself and the actions of the interviewer(s) and researcher(s) involved in conducting life-history research obviously and necessarily have a prominent role to play in the accounts which are produced. Consequently it is vital for researchers to be sensitive in the relationships they build with interviewees and in the way that they deal with interview material, and to be explicit about their own interests and identities and the specific context in which life-histories are garnered. Thirdly, one valuable facet of life-histories is that broader social phenomena are necessarily implicated within them. Nevertheless rather than assuming straightforwardly that by gathering personal histories it will be possible to make inferences about such broader social phenomenon, or that the relationship between these two levels of analysis is fixed in any way, it is important to examine the particular ways in which the tellers of life-histories imagine their own lives and agency in relation to developments at a

Summary

In summary, this chapter has raised a number of issues which I believe are vital to consider in building the account which I present in Chapters 7-9. To begin, and in response to its somewhat hybrid and arguably novel constitution, I positioned this work

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wider level. Finally, the forms which autobiographical narratives take vary considerably, as do the roles they play within particular social groupings. As a result, investigating the autobiographical genres of particular communities – the structuring principles and understandings of time which are generated in their telling – is an interesting pursuit in itself. Overall, by considering explicitly the genre of my work, I have been able to define the broad tone of my account. By discussing the issue of auto-anthropology, I have sought to gain a level of critical awareness about the nature of my enquiry which will hopefully become evident, if often implicitly, in the outcomes of this research. Finally, by considering the particular methodology which I have employed in my investigation in detail, I have encountered a number of issues which will undoubtedly fashion my account in more explicit ways.

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Chapter 7. 7.1.

Lives in archaeology (and British prehistory) 1975discussions I have had over the last few years with many other archaeologists and anthropologists, relating to topics which arose during the interviews. Where relevant, I also drew on material from other published personal histories of archaeologists which cover the period under consideration (as discussed in Section 6.4).

Introduction

Given the methodological considerations raised in Chapter 6, it is useful at this point to outline in detail the particular approach which I have taken in this part of my study. Firstly I will describe briefly the main features and outputs of the interview process. Having done this, I will highlight a number of important issues which arose during the course of my analysis. Finally, I will describe some of the key traits of the life-histories of the British prehistorians I talked to, considering the basic makeup of these narratives, their overall form, and how interviewees perceived changes in their own lives to relate to broader disciplinary developments. In doing so I will introduce and provide an important context for the themes I explore in Chapters 8 and 9. I will also consider the extent to which some of the attributes commonly associated with life-histories (as outlined in Chapter 6) were apparent (or not) in those which I was told. 7.2.

Photos of the interviewees and interview locations, together with representations of some of the basic qualities of interviewees’ lives (lifespan in archaeology and geographical coverage) are presented in Figures 7.17.4. In short, they included: a London museum curator, a project officer and director from two separate commercial fieldwork units (both of whom have a considerable reputation for their contributions to prehistoric research), current and retired prominent employees of English Heritage (EH), a researcher (who at the time of the interview was working alongside archaeologists from a commercial fieldwork unit, National museums, and a local archaeological group), a postgraduate student (who also had considerable experience of working in developer-funded archaeology), leading academics from Manchester, Oxford and Sheffield, a consultant who was instrumental in initiating recent landmark investigations at Terminal 5, Heathrow and researchers and managers from three widely dispersed local authorities (see Table 7.1 and Figure 7.5).

The life-history interviews

Summary of the interview process In total I undertook 14 life-history interviews with British prehistorians from across the discipline.1 As outlined in Chapter 3, my initial intention was to conduct interviews with as broad a range of British prehistorians as possible, working in a variety of different contexts including museums, commercial fieldwork units, consultancies, national bodies, and independently. Given the main period under consideration in this study (from 1980 to the 2010), I sought principally to interview people whose lives in archaeology incorporated this entire period. Nevertheless, in order to shed light on some of the generational specificities or ‘tastes in the mouth’ of the accounts I was told (Herzfeld 1997, 25), I also planned to interview younger British prehistorians, indeed those of my own generation, who had principally engaged with archaeology in the latter part of my research period (from the early 1990s onwards). The interviews were recorded on mini-disc and transcribed in full: I accumulated over 32 hours of recorded material and over 245,000 transcribed words. The interview material was analysed using NVivo8 qualitative analysis software.

One notable point is that not all interviewees viewed themselves explicitly as being ‘British prehistorians’ (a matter I will discuss in further detail below). Nevertheless, all of them accepted that they had been involved to a significant extent in British prehistoric research at least at certain times in their lives, and had reflected upon and indeed contributed to developments in this arena. It is also worth mentioning that obviously not all types of ‘British prehistorian’ were represented in this sample. For instance, although several interviewees had lived and worked in Scotland, Wales, or Ireland at different points in their lives in archaeology, none were based in these geographical locations at the time they were interviewed. In addition, in the process of seeking out interviewees, I came to appreciate that it was not actually possible to select straightforwardly archaeological ‘curators’, ‘academics’, ‘fieldworkers’, ‘consultants’ and so on, and to compare how people in these different working contexts had perceived of and engaged with recent disciplinary developments. Although some interviewees had progressed through hierarchies within one particular working arena, many more had shifted between different archaeological arenas throughout their working lives (a point which I discuss in further detail below, Section 7.4).

The account which I present in the remainder of this chapter and in those which ensue, centres on key themes which emerged over the course of this analysis. It is also worth noting that while the interview material did provide the primary basis for my writing, the latter was also undoubtedly informed by the many informal

1

A full account of the process through which I selected interviewees, my interview methodology and the transcription process and subsequent analysis can be found in Appendix 4.

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Figure 7.1: Photos of eleven of the interviewees (from top to bottom, left to right: Barry Cunliffe, Jon Cotton, Jamie Wright, Nigel Brown, Jacky Nowakowski, Ann Woodward, Adrian Olivier, Geoff Wainwright, Mike Parker Pearson, Julian Thomas, Hugo LamdinWhymark)

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Figure 7.2: Photos of interview locations (From top to bottom, left to right: Society of the Antiquaries, London (GW), Manchester University (JT), EH, London (AO), Exeter University (JN), Kent County Council, Maidstone (JWI), Wyndham Arms, Salisbury (JWR), Sheffield University (MPP), Essex County Council, Chelmsford (NB), Museum of London (JC), Cambridge Archaeological Unit (CE), The Junction Hotel, Dorchester (AW), Private address, Havant (GA), Institute of Archaeology, Oxford (BC, HLW))

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Figure 7.3: Summary of interviewees’ lives in archaeology

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Figure 7.4: Geographical coverage of interviewees’ lives in archaeology based on locations (within England, Scotland and Wales only) mentioned during life-history interviews

Interviewee Gill Andrews Nigel Brown Jon Cotton Barry Cunliffe Chris Evans Hugo Lamdin-Whymark Jacky Nowakowski Adrian Olivier Mike Parker Pearson Julian Thomas Geoff Wainwright John Williams Ann Woodward Jamie Wright

Initials GA NB JC BC CE HLW JN AO MPP JT GW JWI AW JWR

Occupation at time of interview Freelance consultant Head of Heritage, Essex County Council Curator of Prehistory, Museum of London Professor, University of Oxford Director, Cambridge Archaeological Unit PhD student, University of Reading Senior archaeologist, Cornwall County Council Director of Strategy, EH Professor, University of Sheffield Professor, University of Manchester Freelance consultant Head of Heritage, Kent County Council Research Fellow, University of Birmingham Project Officer, Wessex Archaeology

Table 7.1: List of interviewees

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subsequently followed up. Indeed one interviewee referred me constantly to articles or reports he had written, and to literature which had influenced him during his life in archaeology, almost in the manner that one would reference a written account. Meanwhile another interviewee appeared to have planned his account in advance to such an extent that I found it difficult to broach topics which diverged from his scheme. A few interviewees were considerate enough to comment explicitly upon the complexity and arduousness of certain aspects of my project, such as the processes of transcription and analysis. Meanwhile others clearly felt a responsibility for providing me with as full and accurate account of their archaeological lives as possible:

Ultimately however, as mentioned above, my intention was not to represent the community of British prehistorians as a whole, but to engage with as wide a variety of people who had been involved in British prehistoric research over the period under consideration as was possible under the circumstances; an aim which I think I broadly achieved. Interview outcomes Full transcripts of the interviews are lodged with the Archaeology Data Service (ADS) (http://archaeologydataservice.ac.uk/). Brief synopses of the archaeological life of each interviewee are also provided in Appendix 5. In the account which follows, the names of the people I interviewed are written in full when they are mentioned in the main text. Elsewhere (for example in association with quotes, or specific arguments) interviewees are represented by their initials (see Table 7.1). In contrast to the authors of many anthropologically-informed analyses of archaeological practice (e.g. Everill 2009), and even recent ethnographies undertaken ‘at home’ (e.g. Berglund 1998, Knox 2005), I felt that it was important to make the identities of interviewees visible in my account. More importantly, the interviewees themselves were quite happy for me to do so. Although this policy did place certain limits on what I have been able to discuss, I felt that these limits were ultimately negligible (Section 7.3). As one interviewee pointed out, British prehistory remains an intimate community and had I not included people’s names, in many cases readers would probably have guessed who they were anyway.

‘I was just thinking what have I not said? What should I be saying something about that I haven’t said?.’ (JT) Secondly, and very importantly for me, interviewees clearly felt able to be frank with me, both in expressing their opinions about the project itself, and over the course of the interview and transcription process. Indeed such responses have been viewed an essential part of the process of what some anthropologists have described as ‘studying up’ – examining ethnographically the powerful (as well as the exotic or marginalised) within a ‘home’ setting (Nader 1969, Gusterson 1997, see also Section 6.3). Thus Mike Parker Pearson was subtly critical of my research, explaining how he saw it as part of the tail-end of ‘the rise and fall of archaeological theory with a big T’ and questioning the relevance of the concept of ‘British prehistory’. Geoff Wainwright was shocked at how little he felt I knew about the history of the period I was studying: ‘Blimey – you don’t know much do you?!’ (GW)

7.3.

Reflecting on the investigative process Chris Evans told me quite candidly when he felt that I was trying to get him to answer a question in a particular way. Meanwhile all of the interviewees who returned their transcripts clearly felt able to assert their authority in producing the accounts which I ultimately analysed. Rather than seeing these contributions in a negative light, I would suggest that they are both analytically interesting, and helpful to me in producing work which is sensitive to the views of those whom I am representing.

Before examining some key attributes of the personal histories I was told, it is worthwhile making a few brief observations about the investigative process, as well as outlining how, in relation to this process, characteristics of the life-histories themselves came to shape the outcomes of this research in a number of specific ways. Experiences of telling and listening

A third, perhaps surprising effect of the interview process was the extent to which the process of telling their lifehistories clearly provoked some interviewees to reflect in novel ways about their lives in archaeology, and on disciplinary developments at a broad level. Thus Ann Woodward clearly enjoyed thinking through her life in archaeology and the ways in which she felt she had shaped it:

Firstly, with regards to the interviews themselves and the broader interpretative process, despite my initial concerns about the potential awkwardness of my position as an archaeologist interviewing other archaeologists in an anthropologically informed manner (Section 6.3), my experience of this process (and apparently also that of interviewees) was ultimately both challenging and very positive. Most interviewees expressed interest in what I was doing, and many were even keen to see the outcomes of my research. A number of interviewees engaged particularly enthusiastically in the process of telling their life-histories in archaeology, bringing illustrative material along to the interview, and colouring their accounts with broader cultural references, many of which I have

‘Some interesting things have come out for me, like I’ve never really thought about the fact that what I do is unique, that I’m in a unique professional position. That there actually probably isn’t anybody like me anywhere else in the profession … [Another] thing that came out that I hadn’t really fully appreciated before, was the

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Parker Pearson referred me to these texts, not wishing to repeat what they had already said:

funding. The changes in the funding [of archaeology]. And I could suddenly see some patterns there, which I’d only been half aware of.’ (AW)

‘The advantages, the experimentation and the fiascos are actually in the book.’ (CE)

By contrast others felt (in some cases somewhat dejectedly) that, having recounted their life-histories, they had actually achieved very little in archaeology, or that they were only just, towards the end of their careers, beginning to attain what they wanted to:

‘You can read all about that in the “Assemblage” interview, so we don’t really have to cover that now.’ (MPP) Even so, both these interviewees were happy to be probed further about issues which they had discussed in previously biographical accounts, and thus to produce a version of them which was specific to the interview itself. By contrast Geoff Wainwright used his article Time Please as a prop throughout our conversation and even appeared to view this account as being absolute. Thus, while he clearly wanted to help me with my research,2 he seemed uncomfortable about being queried about aspects of his life which went beyond the boundaries of this text.

‘I suppose one of the things from where I’m standing right now, at this moment, I don’t really feel I’ve achieved very much at all. I feel that I’m at the stage of finally getting to that point. It’s taken me almost 50 years to actually start doing what I really want to do. That’s not quite fair because, I think, from about ’98 in the Outer Hebrides was when it really clicked and I thought “yes – this is really changing what we thought we knew!”.’ (MPP) Interestingly, while the potentially therapeutic effects of telling life-histories are discussed in the wider literature (Section 6.4), particularly research contexts where interviewees have undergone significant trauma (for instance they are recovering alcoholics (e.g. Denzin 1989)), little has been said about the potentially negative effects of undertaking such research, however minor these might be. Importantly, once again, comments such as these raised my awareness of the sensitivities involved in asking people to review their lives, even when the topics under discussion – recent developments in British prehistory and archaeology more broadly – seem relatively banal.

‘I’m sorry, I just keep having to refer you back to “Time Please”.’ (GW) Defining the parameters of my account While the many issues that interviewees were keen to get across are built into and will become evident over the course of Chapters 8 and 9, it is important to mention at this point that there were several aspects of life-histories I was told which I feel have directly delimited the account I have produced at a broad level. These include topics which interviewees actively did not want to discuss in this context, or which they found particularly easy or difficult to articulate during the course of our discussions.

Finally, it is important to mention that several interviewees had either recounted aspects of their lifehistories in other contexts previously, or had been the subject of earlier biographies, factors which undoubtedly shaped the accounts I was told. Geoff Wainwright authored a passionate personal account of the recent history of British archaeology in the journal Antiquity (Wainwright 2000), and has discussed various aspects of his archaeological experiences elsewhere (e.g. Wainwright 1997). Barry Cunliffe wrote a brief account of his childhood forays in archaeology in the popular magazine History Today (Cunliffe 2000), and brief biographies of both Barry Cunliffe and Mike Parker Pearson appear on Wikipedia (2009a, 2009b). Chris Evans outlined his experiences of excavating at Haddenham in the 1980s in the published monograph from this site (Evans and Hodder 2006, 9-13). In addition Mike Parker Pearson discussed at length his involvement in the emergence of postprocessual archaeology in an interview published in the internet journal Assemblage (Parker Pearson et al. 1997).

British prehistory Certainly the most important way in which I felt it was necessary to shape my account actively in relation to the interviews is with regards to its intended primary focus on recent transformations in British prehistory. As I discussed at the end of Chapter 5, I initially imagined that by investigating the lives of a group of people who had worked in various different contexts and had been actively involved in British prehistoric research over the last 30 years, I would be able to produce a more integrated account of recent transformations in British prehistory and archaeology more broadly over this period. However, over the course of the interviews, it soon became clear that I had underestimated the complexities involved in being a British prehistorian, and thus for interviewees of articulating shifts in British

In most cases the fact that aspects of these interviewees’ life-histories had been represented elsewhere did not have any obvious impact on the course or content of the interviews conducted for my own research. However it is worth noting that at points which coincided with their earlier written accounts, both Chris Evans and Mike

2

Of all interviewees, Geoff was perhaps the most dependable and certainly the quickest in terms of responding to my additional queries. He was also actively encouraging about my research and wrote to me following our interview to outline details of recent developments in archaeology which he felt were important but which we had not covered in our initial conversation.

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difficulties involved in actually being a prehistorian only became evident through talking to British prehistorians; they are certainly not at all apparent in key outputs of British prehistoric research, such as those analysed in Chapter 5.

prehistoric research through the medium of their lifehistories. As one interviewee put it very astutely: ‘I think that … what I think we’ve been talking about is actually my career (for want of a better word) in archaeology without actually really talking about prehistory and how it was done and how I was involved in it really, which is possibly not much use from your point of view!’ (NB)

In most cases, the difficulties people had experienced in this respect were due to the fact that they were not able to focus exclusively on researching British prehistory in the particular contexts in which they were working at certain times in their lives – in fieldwork units (JC, CE, HLW, JN, AO, AW), in local authorities (NB), and in EH (AO, MPP, GW). Thus Nigel Brown described how:

In view of this complexity, I will discuss briefly the extent to which interviewees feel that they have been able to be British prehistorians over the period in question, before outlining the consequences of this issue for my own project.

‘If we want to say a bit more about my involvement in prehistory, one of the things, of course, if you go back to what I was doing in the 1980s, there was a very strong prehistoric element to it – very strong focus on the Neolithic and Bronze Age. But of course, inevitably, it was multi period – I did lots of other things. And of course, as my career’s progressed, I’ve got more and more involved in the generality of the past and, you know, it’s quite useful to have that kind of general background in some ways. Although it does detract with, you know, some of the detailed specialist knowledge that I might have acquired, obviously it’s been a bit more diffuse because I’ve been working on other things. You can’t do everything, of course you can’t.’ (NB)

Firstly it is important to state that, as mentioned above not all interviewees were comfortable with the idea that they were (just) British prehistorians in the first place, or even with the concept of British prehistory. Thus while most interviewees specified particular points at which they had been ‘bitten by’ (British) prehistory, and went on to outline ways in which they had shaped and maintained their identity as prehistorians during their lives in archaeology, three interviewees, for very good reasons, did not identify themselves in this way. For Chris Evans, this was due to the fact that he felt his work in British prehistory lay alongside a much broader spectrum of topics he had engaged with, thus he did not want to privilege one aspect of his research over and above others:

Meanwhile when I asked Chris Evans whether, when he established the Cambridge Archaeological Unit during the early 1990s, he had set out to focus the attentions of his own research and that of this organisation specifically on doing prehistoric research, he suggested:

‘I’m still not really that concerned with defining myself in that way – I’m more of a prehistorian, but not exclusively so. It’s just much more an open and different world in that way.’ (CE)

‘Not particularly at the time, no. I mean that’s something that’s become more increasingly so, but it was also a luxury you couldn’t afford in the early days. You know for the first few years you’d be operating on £10-30,000 and taking on three or four people salaried for that. You know, it’s like Josh [Pollard] and I doing the recording for the medieval old schools. You just couldn’t be just a prehistorian ... It took quite a while to get into the gravels networks, where the main emphasis on prehistory came.’ (CE)

Meanwhile both Gill Andrews and John Williams actively distanced themselves from being identified in this way, preferring instead to see themselves simply as having contributed (significantly) to British prehistory, and as having strong opinions on developments in this arena. As John Williams put it: ‘Well, I might be a bit different in that respect in that I’m not a prehistorian and I’ll never be a real prehistorian but I’ve got involved in prehistory and I feel that we’ve done some things for prehistory along the way. And probably what I’ve done which is of most advantage to prehistory is that I haven’t been a prehistorian, if you know what I mean.’ (JWI)

In addition, it is worth noting that although most interviewees felt that they had sustained their interests and involvement in prehistory through the periods during which their attentions had been focused elsewhere, and thus had actively clung onto their identity as British prehistorians, others suggested they had made a conscious decision to shed this role entirely until a later point in their lives. Thus for Geoff Wainwright, in terms of his engagement with British prehistory:

Secondly, for those who did identify themselves as being British prehistorians, it was clear that most were able to exercise this role actively for only parts of their lives in archaeology. With the exception of Julian Thomas and Barry Cunliffe, who had had the privilege of being able to focus on their primary research interests for the duration of their careers, all of those whom I interviewed had necessarily set aside or even entirely relinquished their focus on prehistory at certain points during their lives. Interestingly (although perhaps unsurprisingly), the

‘There is a black hole between 1980 and 2000.’ (GW) Obviously these articulations of the complexities involved in being a British prehistorian are implicated substantially in the account I produce. Given that many of the people I interviewed were not able to undertake

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assumed that the people or groups they mentioned might encounter my research at some point in the future, and could be offended by what they read. What is perhaps most interesting in this respect, however, is that interviewees clearly wanted to tell me their opinions on such matters regardless of the sensitivities involved. Indeed in commenting on a certain section of his lifehistory transcription one interviewee even suggested that while, understandably, he did not want to be associated with certain quite personal comments, he thought that they provided an important context for what I was interested in. Thus in describing the role that certain personalities had played in determining the course of British archaeology during the 1980s, in terms of research directions, the success of certain organisations, and indeed the careers of certain archaeologists (including himself), this interviewee suggested that:

British prehistoric research (or to be prehistorians) for much of their lives in archaeology, it is hardly surprising that the themes which were raised during their lifehistories were often more pertinent to disciplinary change at a broad level than they were to transformations in British prehistoric research in particular. Accounting for this, I have importantly shifted the balance of my account. Given that all of the people I interviewed either defined themselves as being British prehistorians, or accept that they have contributed significantly to British prehistoric research, the history I present unavoidably relates to recent shifts in this specific arena, if often implicitly. However, at the same time, it necessarily centres mainly around transformations in British archaeology at a broader level. Things that people didn’t want to talk about

‘Most of this is speculation and innuendo, so don’t use it. Though there maybe no harm being aware of this sort of thing as useful background.’ (Anon.)

‘I can’t possibly tell you that – you’ll have to find out for yourself! I see him every week, virtually.’ (GW)

Overall, these acts of silencing did place certain boundaries on the account that I could produce. However, I would argue that these limits are illuminating rather than being necessarily restrictive – it has never been an aim of this project to relate ‘gossip’ about certain individuals, organisations, projects or roles in archaeology over the last 30 years. Rather, interviewees’ avoidance of certain topics – the role of commercial field archaeology, and burgeoning administrative burdens in many archaeological arenas – helped to reinforce for me the notion that these issues (which were actually discussed widely in other interviews) have not only been important, but are also contentious, and tend to be discussed speculatively and in negative terms, which many people find unproductive. Moreover interviewees’ enthusiasm for voicing quite critical opinions about personalities, groups and projects they had encountered, while not wishing these opinions to be disseminated more widely, makes evident once again the sensitivities involved in recounting life-histories in a small field such as archaeology, particularly when the period under consideration is fairly recent in time. In addition such comments underline the extent to which ‘gossip’ has itself had an important role to play both in the lives of interviewees, and almost certainly in archaeological practice more broadly over this period.

‘Well I’ll tell you a little bit about that … We might have to turn this off – we might have to expunge … or you might find it actually highly relevant.’ (AW) Clearly in constructing their archaeological life-histories, there were many imperceptible ways in which interviewees, deliberately or otherwise foregrounded and obscured aspects of their lives. However, there were also a few issues which interviewees actively stated they did not want to talk about during our interviews, which they removed from the consequent transcriptions, or which it became evident in other ways they preferred not to discuss. Without wishing to compromise interviewees’ sensibilities, it is worth considering briefly the kinds of issues this involved, why people did not want to talk about them, and the extent to which I feel this has shaped the outcomes of my research. During the course of the interviews themselves, it was principally interviewees’ desires to be positive which led them, openly or otherwise, to avoid certain parts of their life-histories or topics of discussion. For instance Barry Cunliffe felt so strongly about the negative effects that competitive tendering had had upon archaeology, and about the current (poor) standards of (commercial) fieldwork in Britain, that he tried to avoid these topics on several occasions during our discussion: ‘But anyway, I won’t bore you with all that.’ (BC)

Time frame

However, by far the main reason that people asked me to remove sections of their life-histories – both during the interviews themselves, and having read the transcriptions – was that they felt the comments they had made about certain individuals, groups of archaeologists, or projects they had worked on were too personal, too critical, and thus were ‘just gossip’. This reluctance to be linked with such comments is unsurprising given that many of the archaeologists I talked to still work in the relatively small world of archaeology. Rightly or wrongly, interviewees

One final respect in which I felt it was important to respond at a broad level to the particular qualities of the life-histories I was told was in terms of the time frame which they covered. Basically, as the interviews progressed it became evident that despite my original intention to focus discussions around the period from 1980 onwards (in line with the parameters of this study), interviewees actually found it quite difficult to do so. Firstly, many interviewees had initially become involved in archaeology much earlier than this date (typically

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Given the scope of this investigation, it was not possible (or necessarily desirable) to shift the time frame of my analysis back significantly. However, with respect to these suggestions I have thus considered in my account all interview material relating to the period from 1975 onwards (rather than from 1980). The emphasis of many interviews on the earlier part of the period with which I am concerned also stressed to me the importance of also having interviewed at least one younger British prehistorian, for whom the period from 1990 was potentially more vital.

during the late 1960s and early 1970s). In addition, most interviewees clearly found it much easier to discuss at length experiences earlier in their archaeological lives, than those which had taken place in the last 10-15 years. Thus, there often came a point when interviewees felt there was very little else to say, which often coincided with the period from about 1990. The following extract from one interview demonstrates this point very well: Anwen Cooper: ‘We’ve slightly … what do you want to do?’ Jacky Nowakowski: ‘It’s quarter to four.’

7.4. AC: ‘I mean we’ve gone through in detail until about the late ‘80s and then our discussion’s become a bit more general.’

Characterising a narrative genre

Turning directly to the material from the interviews themselves, I start by examining some key qualities of the life-histories I was told. I provide a brief outline of how and why interviewees first became involved in archaeology, and of some of the broad traits of their lives in the discipline. I then consider how interviewees presented the structures and tempos of developments in both their own lives in archaeology, and in the discipline more broadly. Finally I examine ways in which interviewees made connections between these two levels of analysis.

JN: [Perhaps hopefully] ‘I don’t know if there’s much more to say?’ Undoubtedly these tendencies relate to a range of factors which I will not discuss at this point, not least the fact that our conversations often lasted a considerable period of time, and so towards the end of the interviews both the interviewees and myself often seemed weary. It is also worth noting that this privileging of early experiences is evident in published autobiographical accounts which cover broadly the same period (e.g. Carver 2006, Mercer 2006). In addition, in recounting her involvement in the emergence of postprocessual archaeology (Conkey et al. 2007), Henrietta Moore made the insightful comment that she found it very difficult to view her own life as history – a point which is perhaps particularly pertinent in relation to interviewees’ difficulties with narrating very recent aspects of their lives. Nevertheless, several interviewees also gave me a strong sense that there were very good reasons for me to push back the time frame of my account. Thus when I suggested to John Williams that I was not intending to focus primarily on developments in the 1960s and 1970s, he contended:

Broad traits of interviewees’ lives in archaeology (and British prehistory) Beginnings To begin, I will examine why and how interviewees first became involved in archaeology, since this provides an important insight into what initially excited them about the discipline. In turn, this presents a context for understanding how people dealt with the changes they encountered during their subsequent working lives. The vast majority of interviewees felt that they had almost ‘always’ been interested in archaeology, having discovered it at an early age (NB, BC, JC, HLW, JN, AO, MPP, GW, JWI, JWR). Indeed, as Jacky Nowakowski commented, there is a certain repetitiveness about the way that people who entered archaeology during the 1960s and 1970s recount their ‘origin stories’. Even so, it is worth highlighting that three interviewees trained in other disciplines – teaching, art history, and maths – before considering working in archaeology (GA, CE, JWR). In addition, several of those who professed to have had an early interest in archaeology stressed how they had considered very seriously whether or not to actually pursue archaeology as a career (NB, BC, JWI, AW).

‘Well, I think it’s important to go back to the 60s, because the changes between then and today are even more significant.’ (JWI) Meanwhile Geoff Wainwright advised that: ‘If I were you, I would have started the period in question round about 1977-78. Because there were a group of students at Southampton – there was Tim Darvill, Roger Thomas, Bob Smith who died of cancer about 10 years ago, and Mike Parker Pearson. And they organised a conference at the University of Southampton, invited me to speak, and I spoke on project designs, and that was the first time, I think, that people had raised their heads in this country and talked about asking questions as well as going out and digging sites. And that is the start of what you would be interested in really – that paper is the start point.’ (GW)

Looking more closely at what initially attracted interviewees to the discipline, some first read about archaeology in popular books such as Leonard Cottrell’s ancient history texts (AO) and Fun with Archaeology (MPP), or found out about it through TV programmes (JT). Several interviewees encountered and then became interested in prehistoric and Roman finds in the plough

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JN, JWR). Indeed despite their considerable successes within the discipline, one interviewee specifically discussed how she had enjoyed the ‘challenge of archaeology as a career’ (JN), while another described how at various points he had felt keenly aware of the vulnerability of archaeology as a job (NB).

soil (BC, HLW, GW), and two undertook their own ad hoc excavations as children (HLW, MPP). Many interviewees mentioned that they were generally interested in history and/or Latin at school, and had visited archaeological sites as children, either with school teachers, their parents, or other close relatives. Meanwhile, as a teenager in the early 1960s, John Williams went to the lengths of writing to Sir Mortimer Wheeler to ask about the possibility of undertaking an archaeological career.

The tempos and structures of working lives Turning to the formal qualities of interviewees’ archaeological life-histories, it is worth observing that as researchers of this genre have observed widely elsewhere these followed a broadly linear structure as well as incorporating various ebbs, flows, and deviations from this configuration (see Section 6.4). Indeed perhaps the most explicit evocation of this linear form was one instance in which an interviewee suggested that in some ways his archaeological career had been played out ‘in reverse’ rather than following a logical, unilinear trajectory. Julian Thomas discussed how he had set out by posing ambitiously large and complex research questions, and then spent the rest of his career breaking these down in order to resolve them more satisfactorily. He considered how he might alternatively have started out by asking small research questions, and then augmenting these as his career progressed. 3 Alongside their broadly linear narratives, however, interviewees characterised the shape and tempo of their lives in archaeology variously.

However without exception, it was interviewees’ early experiences of excavation – with a school teacher, a local society, via the Manpower services commission, the Central Excavation Unit, or as a student – which spurred them to consider actually pursuing a working life in archaeology. Interviewees’ pleasure in excavating commonly related to the practices involved in doing excavation itself – ‘the simple discovery that things got older the deeper you got’ (JWR), and the healthiness of digging (CE). Others were attracted to the social milieu associated with this practice – ‘the feeling of apprenticeship’ (AW), the days and long evenings spent puzzling collaboratively over finds and features (BC), and the inspiring personalities who were involved in the digging scene at the time they first became involved (AW, MPP). Several interviewees were encouraged by the feeling that they were good at digging (BC, CE, JN, AO, MPP, JT, JWI). In addition, at least two interviewees discussed being enthused by the RESCUE movement in the 1970s, thus their motivation to get involved in excavation was also to a certain extent politically charged (NB, JN).

Pivotal moments In line with Denzin’s discussion of broad characteristics of life-histories (1989, 25), many interviewees defined ‘epiphanies’ or ‘pivotal moments’, typically during their earlier careers, when they had endured or encountered significant experiences, and made major decisions which had produced long-lasting effects on their subsequent archaeological lives. However the make-up of these ‘pivotal moments’ actually varied significantly, rather than being coherent. In some instances such ‘pivotal moments’ were represented by changes in personal circumstances– having a baby, a parent’s death, a marriage break-up. In others, they comprised workrelated disappointments. Thus several interviewees found themselves in situations in which they either could not do what they wanted to do in archaeology (usually to work in universities), or felt driven to remove themselves from working contexts which they simply did not enjoy. Two interviewees were forced into making significant decisions about their working lives as a direct consequence of events surrounding the introduction of PPG16 (NB, JC). Others mentioned particular encounters or discussions they had engaged in with colleagues which had caused them to rethink their lives, or at least encouraged them to make decisions which had turned out to be life changing (HLW, MPP):

Working lives One final characteristic to point out about interviewees’ archaeological life-histories is that they were extremely varied (Figure 7.5). Four (BC, CE, JT, JWR) had worked in similar contexts throughout their lives in archaeology (either as fieldworkers or as university academics). Nonetheless, their responsibilities had increased or at least changed as they grew older, and they had moved about geographically. Three other interviewees (NB, JC, JN) had become affiliated with particular institutions (county council planning departments and a city museum) early on in their careers, and had stayed attached to these institutions ever since. Even so, the specific remits of their jobs had changed dramatically, as had those of the institutions concerned. However, the remaining seven interviewees had occupied various positions in various different contexts throughout their careers – within fieldwork units, universities, museums, government bodies, planning departments, or working on a freelance basis. Perhaps the only common factor within the archaeological lives of all interviewees was that they had spent a considerable amount of time excavating, typically earlier on in their careers. It is also worth noting that a number of interviewees had either taken time out of archaeology at some point (JWI), or had experienced brief periods of unemployment or part-time work (CE,

3

Although, on reflection, he was still pleased that he had gone about things in the way he had.

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Figure 7.5: Shifting contexts: the archaeological lives of interviewees

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is that I’m totally driven by research [laughs]! Just driven to do research.’ (AW)

‘Actually Graeme Barker has a lot to answer for, for me ending up doing this [my PhD] because … In 2000, I went to work for him in Jordan, and I was obviously very happy at that time, in the field, digging a lot of archaeology. And I was just saying how fantastic that was and we had one of these discussions about how there were an awful lot of very good field archaeologists working for commercial units, and how some of them were a lot better archaeologists than academics. And he turned around to me and said “well it doesn’t mean anything if you don’t publish it!” which really stuck out in my mind in that … He’s basically saying that the only archaeologists that count are the ones who publish stuff. And that sort of stood at the forefront of my mind, thinking “ok, so I can do that [field archaeology] now, but I have to publish stuff”. So a couple of years later, I did actually pull my finger out and write to Richard [Bradley] saying “I want to research Neolithic pits [laughs]”.’ (HLW)

Others felt they had devoted substantial parts of their careers to ‘sorting things out in archaeology’, or to ‘being pragmatic’ in various ways (GA, BC, AO): ‘I suppose I’ve always been blessed or cursed by having a fairly pragmatic view of life and seeing what it’s all about and where it’s going in terms of archaeology.’ (AO) motivations, several these primary Alongside interviewees suggested that during the early part of their careers they had felt strongly motivated to gain as much excavation experience as possible, usually as a an adjunct or precursor to undertaking research (BC, HLW, JN, MPP). Three interviewees suggested that they had commonly been motivated by the need to ‘get things published’ or to ‘produce books’ (CE, HLW, JWI). Several said they had been driven by a desire to communicate archaeology to the public or to deliver ‘value’ to archaeological clients and the public more broadly (GA, JC, JN). Jacky Nowakowski discussed how, particularly early on in her career, she had been motivated by a desire to be part of a movement which was doing something which was both for the public good and of environmental value. Meanwhile one universitybased archaeologist suggested that most of his working life had been shaped by pursuing ‘ideas’ in archaeology (JT).

Meanwhile, Chris Evans noted perceptively how ‘pivotal moments’ are actually quite difficult to recognise at the time they occur. It was only retrospectively that he had realised that he had been on some of the major excavations of the late 1970s and early 1980s, and that his experiences in these contexts had been ‘life-defining’. Enduring motivations Alongside these ‘pivotal moments’, many interviewees mentioned key motivations which they felt had driven them through many of the decisions they had made in their working lives. In some cases these motivations were fairly generic. For instance several interviewees discussed how ambitions of various sorts – the opportunity of operating at a national level (AO), being at the centre of shaping an academic department (JT), or directing one of Britain’s most important regional archaeological fieldwork units (AW) – had led them to apply for certain positions. Others discussed how job and financial security had been primary motivating factors in the careers they had pursued (NB, JC, AO). However, many interviewees identified motivations which were more specific to the task of working out a life in archaeology during the period with which I am concerned here. Indeed once they had discovered these motivating forces, interviewees often adhered to them with great self-determination. Thus their commitment to these causes had arguably provided them with a form of continuity which had carried them through their varied and sometimes unpredictable working lives.

Interestingly, while it was certainly possible for several of these motivating forces to operate in tandem (for instance the desire to undertake research and to get things published), two interviewees also suggested that some of the primary factors which had driven them at different points in their lives were actually incompatible. Both Adrian Olivier and Geoff Wainwright felt that it had been vital for them that, for most of their lives in archaeology, they had been motivated by a desire to be pragmatic and to get things sorted out. However in doing so, they believed that other ambitions (their desire to carry out research) had necessarily been sacrificed. Consequently, they both planned to, or were in the process of switching their focus back to research once they had reached the age of retirement. In addition (and in contrast to most interviewees) Chris Evans suggested that his personal motivations had shifted with age, and with the flow of archaeological material he was working with, rather than being fixed and continuous throughout his life in archaeology.

The most commonly expressed motivation of this kind was the desire to carry out research, whether this involved research as a general concept (JN, MPP, JT, AW) or a particular aspect of research such as ‘understanding the bigger picture’ (NB, JC, JWI):

More by accident than design Finally, while Geoff Wainwright presented his archaeological life as though each decision had been carefully planned and executed (perhaps a consequence of the fact that his life-history was well-rehearsed, see above Section 7.3), many interviewees felt that there was a strong element of chance about the way that their

‘So, I suppose, the purpose of that story is just to demonstrate what you probably knew all the time, which

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Alternatively, Chris Evans was unsure about whether it was possible to summarise exactly how archaeology had changed over the duration of his career, while recognising that it could never be – and was not – the same as it used to be.

archaeological lives had unfolded, particularly during their early careers. Although it has been contended elsewhere that women are much more likely than men to attribute happenings in their working lives to ‘chance’ (Conkey et al. 2007), there was no suggestion that this was the case in the life-histories I was told. While most interviewees had committed themselves to archaeology from an early age, Chris Evans discussed how he had had no ‘life plan’ in the discipline, and Mike Parker Pearson suggested that it was ridiculous to even consider having such a thing in the context of archaeology. In addition, both Chris Evans and Julian Thomas felt that aspects of their working lives had been quite ‘accidental’, and Jon Cotton discussed how he had made several major career decisions ‘on a whim’. Meanwhile other interviewees (perhaps in modesty) suggested that ‘luck’ had been a significant component in elements of their archaeological lives in which they had been successful (BC, JC, JN), or that they had simply been ‘in the right place at the right time’ (JC, MPP).

‘I don’t know if it’s wildly different than it was. It’s difficult to quite know where the change is. That takes a bit more thinking about – that gives it an historic dimension … But it’s also partially could it ever be the same? That’s partially it. I mean somebody could wake up and say “my God, I just got a new interpretation of Bronze Age field systems!” but can you ever … kind of … When Francis Pryor interpreted Fengate – you could never do it again.’ (CE) Nevertheless, two common characterisations of recent transformations in archaeology (and British prehistory) were evident in interviewees’ life-histories. Firstly, a number of interviewees discussed broad changes in terms of ‘phases’ or ‘eras’ (much as they might frame transformations in the more distant past). Secondly, and somewhat contradictorily, there were numerous evocations of ways in which archaeology had remained unchanged, had become repetitive, and in which earlier ideas had simply been recycled.

Perceptions of change in archaeology at a broader level While interviewees rendered changes in their own lives in archaeology as being prompted by pivotal moments, driven by persistent motivations, and allowed to flow by coincidence, they found it much more difficult to discuss change in archaeology at a broader level; or at least understandings of developments at this level were much less evident in their accounts. Indeed, when I (perhaps crudely) asked interviewees directly to characterise disciplinary transformations over the period in question, the answers I was given were, perhaps not surprisingly, slightly vague. Both Barry Cunliffe and Julian Thomas stressed the significant degree to which they felt archaeology had changed over the course of their working lives:

The various ‘eras’ which emerged during our discussions both corresponded and overlapped with the years from 1975 to 2010. Thus Mike Parker Pearson characterised this entire period as coinciding with the ‘professionalisation’ of the discipline, and ‘the rise and fall of archaeological theory with a big T’. Meanwhile Julian Thomas suggested that the same era, particularly from 1990 onwards, could be characterised as having witnessed ‘the de-politicisation of archaeology’. A number of interviewees suggested that the period from 1975 up until the mid-1980s overlapped with the end of ‘the rescue era’ (GA, HLW), ‘the “Golden Age” of excavation in archaeology’ (MPP, JWI), ‘the EnglishHeritage-Inspectorate-are-the-pinnacle-of-achievement era’ (GA), or ‘the era of archaeological personalities’ (GA, AW). In addition a few interviewees felt that archaeology was currently entering a new era, in terms of changes in the role of consultants in the archaeological process (GA), and the impact of new post-excavation methodologies (CE, MPP).4

‘Yeah. I think it has changed … I think that there are big changes that I would identify in archaeology over this period.’ (JT) Barry Cunliffe also suggested that rather than being constantly aware of disciplinary change, it sometimes only became apparent to him at unexpected moments. For instance, he described a meeting he attended (concerning the henge monument at Avebury) during the early 1980s in which:

With regards to the various ways in which interviewees foregrounded aspects of archaeological practice which had remained unchanged over the last 30 years, several interviewees suggested that there had almost always been a ‘publication crisis’ in archaeology (NB, CE, AO):

‘A house had come up for sale, and there was a debate, you know, should the Department of the Environment buy the house and demolish it? … I said “why? We shouldn’t demolish it – why? What’s this about?” And they produced a policy paper which dated back to the 1930s and it was the policy in Avebury that when the houses became available, they would be bought up and demolished, so that the site would go back to it’s original state … And suddenly realising that we’ve moved on since those days.’ (BC)

‘There is always a publication crisis in archaeology, or rather there is always perceived to be one. I daresay the

4

This links well with the observation made in Section 5.3 that recent developments in post-excavation methodologies have yet to become evident at a broad level in the outcomes of prehistoric research, and that this shift might take place imminently.

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archaeology’s recent history as being characterised by both significant change and considerable stasis.

current version is not a great deal different from the 1980s (or indeed any earlier period).’ (NB) It was contended that the people and atmosphere of archaeology had remained ‘refreshingly the same’ (MPP) at a broad level, as had ‘the basic logic of archaeology’ (CE):

Connecting personal lives and broader developments Finally, having considered how interviewees perceived of developments in their own working lives, and how they viewed those which had taken place more broadly in the discipline, it is vital to examine the particular ways in which interviewees understood these different scales of change in relation to one another.

‘It’s pattern-based recognition: it takes numbers whether it’s finds densities, or it’s the number of sites you’re addressing.’ (CE) Several interviewees suggested that the overall format of archaeological publications had, more problematically, become very rigid (BC, HLW, AO):

Interestingly in this respect, several interviewees discussed explicitly how they felt that developments in their own lives related to those of the discipline more broadly and indeed to wider societal change. Two interviewees appeared to view their lives in opposition to, if also closely implicated in, change at a broader level in archaeology. Gill Andrews suggested that her own career had been shunted along by disciplinary changes over the last 30 years, and thus could be seen as a direct measure of these broader developments:

‘It’s just become a sort of given that, you know – you’ve done a big project therefore thou shalt produce a big publication.’ (AO) Meanwhile other interviewees highlighted significant continuities in aspects of the post-excavation process (AW), in the make-up of local societies (JC, HLW), in the tense relationship between ‘academic’ and ‘public’ archaeology (MPP), and in the importance of ‘personal relations’ and ‘networking’ in how archaeology operated (GA, NB). In addition, several interviewees discussed aspects of archaeological practice which they felt had been repeated, rediscovered or recycled over this period. These included broad topics of enquiry such as synthesising the evidence from major British towns and cities (AW), the excavation of certain sites such as Durrington Walls (GW), the use of research agendas to prioritise research (GW), the notion that consultants could facilitate communication between archaeologists in different arenas (GA), and the idea of using site notebooks as a means of encouraging interpretative dialogue on excavations (BC, CE, HLW):

‘I have had quite an interesting career. Cos it’s just been a one off, and I don’t think that anybody would particularly do it now. And it’s interesting in view of what you’re doing because I think I have been doing absolutely ... I have been pushed along by the changes that have happened. In a certain sense I am a barometer of what’s been going on. I think it’s quite interesting ...’ (GA) Meanwhile, at various points during our discussion, Nigel Brown talked about how he understood there to be a dialectical relationship between his own actions and the broader social milieu in which they took place. Moreover he attributed his opinions on such matters to his readings of Russian novels and of Thomas Hardy novels, as well as to his role as a prehistorian, which meant that he was always trying to make connections between the particularities of life and broader social processes:

‘I remember in Antiquity [journal] a little while ago, the new Terminal 5 – there was suddenly a revelation that we should actually think about the site as we dig it, you know. And I thought “where is this coming from? You mean that you haven’t been thinking about the site as you dig it?” It’s as though this is a new way to look at archaeology – curious, old-fashioned.’ (BC)

‘That is interesting in itself in the sense that during the course of the conversation, I’ve sort of said, you know – there is always a sense of people living their own lives and doing their own things, and having clear influence on what goes on around them, but never really being in control of their own lives. There are forces out there which are just beyond what you can actually do. And that I think comes through very clearly. And it’s also, looked at another way, one of the things that makes the world go round. Because we’re all individuals living individual lives, but we’re also part of wider society. You can’t be an individual without being part of wider society. So there is that dialectical tension which drives that modern world.’ (NB)

Overall, it was much more difficult to comprehend the ways in which interviewees viewed changes in archaeology (and British prehistoric research) at a broad level over the period under consideration here. Indeed despite the fact it was widely accepted that the discipline had transformed significantly since the mid-1970s, they found it much easier to discuss ways in which archaeology had stayed the same. It was almost as if perceptions of change in archaeology over this period were obscured by the fact that many particular aspects of archaeological practice had remained seemingly unchanged. Interestingly this observation echoes that made in Chapter 2, where I suggested that one unusual trait of recent critiques of archaeological practice is that they, somewhat incongruously, have presented

By contrast, Julian Thomas was mindful of the complexities involved in trying to view his own life in relation to wider developments in British prehistory and archaeology more broadly:

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to strategic developments, to methodological advances in fieldwork and post-excavation analysis, to the establishment of key archaeological roles and organisations, to significant theoretical movements, and so on:

‘I find it very difficult to have a sense of myself in the great panoply of archaeology.’ (JT) Ultimately, however, he felt that the relationship between his own work in archaeology and broader disciplinary developments was mediated by the various networks of which he had been part. He also suggested that it was at the level of such interactive networks that personal contributions became visible. In the case of both Nigel Brown and Julian Thomas it is also clear that their understandings of this relationship were influenced by their broader readings of social theory (e.g. Giddens 1984, Latour 2005).

‘I got there [to Cambridge University, to do a PhD about Bronze Age exchange around the Alps] to discover that we were going to be doing something which was utterly different, which was recasting the whole of archaeological theory … which we did!’ (MPP) ‘But like I said if I’m pioneering that GIS, in 5 years time that might become fairly standard. Some of the mistakes I made, whatever, will help get a better one for the next generation.’ (JWR)

Beyond these explicit discussions, what came across most clearly in the interviews in relation to this topic was that the vast majority of interviewees, whatever the positions they had occupied in archaeology over the period in question, felt very strongly that they could affect change at a broader level.5 Although interviewees did mention instances in which wider developments (both disciplinary and more widely) had impacted on their working lives in both positive and negative respects, they highlighted many more ways in which they felt they had actively contributed to disciplinary change by ‘inventing’ or ‘pioneering’ certain practices or by taking charge of certain happenings. It is also worth noting that this was the case regardless of their gender, contrary to the notion raised elsewhere (Sangster 1998, 89) that women are more likely to under-report personal accomplishments in telling their life-histories.

‘… it’s the strip-map-and-sample technique which I think is very much ours.’ (JWI) ‘So I worked out this scheme, which is the way that I still code things, and actually, I suppose, I invented it. And then later on, you know, it all gets into … lots of people started doing it and it got into the Prehistoric Ceramics Research Group guidelines and now everybody does it’. (AW) ‘To a certain extent I evangelised the introduction of management into archaeology’ (GA) Alongside interviewees’ widespread portrayals of how they could and had actively contributed to disciplinary transformations at a broad level, however, many of them also mentioned ways in which they had resisted certain developments. While the vast majority of interviewees clearly felt a commitment to making changes in archaeology, most also felt a certain sense of independence from broader disciplinary developments, in that they did not feel bound to go along with every change which they encountered. Several interviewees discussed their refusal to embrace new technologies (BC, JC, AW), meanwhile others outlined their resistance to new theoretical ideas (CE, AW), or to the adoption of new methodological approaches where they were thought to be inappropriate or in fact wrong (BC, HLW, JWI):

Gill Andrews even suggested that the sense that it was possible (and indeed important) to make a difference in archaeology and more broadly, was perhaps a particular trait of the generation of archaeologists which she grew up amongst, and which most other interviewees also arguably belong to, who first engaged in archaeology during the late 1960s and early 1970s : ‘Yes, there was an investment in youth – you’re quite right actually. And there weren’t very many people ahead of us. And I think that was quite interesting really … It was a sort of feeling that we were at the beginning of something quite interesting ... And there was a belief that we could deliver something that might be worth having, which is certainly not the case now with people who are just coming out of university. And that’s sad.’ (GA)

‘The way of recording, I’m very old fashioned in that. I believe that it’s a notebook and a person with a pencil. When people started using recording forms, we used them for two years at Hengistbury. I used them with a very experienced team who eventually rebelled and said “we cannot record in this trashy way”.’ (BC)

Certainly the most extreme example of this sense of efficacy was that of Geoff Wainwright’s account. In recounting his personal life-history in archaeology, Geoff referred repeatedly to his own broader history of the discipline (Wainwright 2000), clearly viewing the two as being interchangeable. Meanwhile other interviewees discussed numerous ways in which they had contributed

‘As I say, I’m not the best person to talk to you about that [developments in digital technologies] because I tend to try and avoid technology where I can.’ (JC) It is also worth noting that ‘resistance to change’ was clearly a phenomenon which interviewees were aware of as existing well beyond their own lives in archaeology. In addition to mentioning numerous ways in which they themselves had shunned disciplinary change,

5

One notable exception to this was HLW, who perhaps because he was at an earlier stage of his career and is particularly modest in character, but also possibly because he belongs to a different generation of archaeologists, was much less forthcoming in discussing ways in which he had shaped the discipline.

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7.5.

interviewees raised many other instances in which individuals or groups of archaeologists had reacted slowly to or actively opposed the introduction of new methodological approaches, new theoretical ideas, the establishment of new organisations, shifts in funding mechanisms, the introduction of new legislation, and even the availability of new forms of archaeological evidence. Indeed such examples were often rendered when interviewees were describing situations in which they themselves had actively tried to change things:

Discussion

Earlier in this chapter, I set out various ways in which I felt that it was necessary to define my orally-based account of recent transformations in British archaeology (and prehistory) according to the evidence produced in the life-histories I was told. This included shifting the primary focus of this account from British prehistory to British archaeology more broadly, moving the starting point of my account back to the mid-1970s, and avoiding topics which could be perceived of as being mere ‘gossip’.

‘And I was really taken aback really. Because I was pushing the agenda with the senior people who’d asked for this review, and saying, you know, surely in order to make decisions there needed to be this research ethos. And it was just like “shut the doors”. “wash your mouth out”, and “that’s not what we’re doing”. Which, yes, I was really disappointed and quite shocked by it.’ (GA)

I went on to focus in detail upon the particular characteristics or ‘tastes in the mouth’ (Herzfeld 1997, 25) of the life-histories I was told – their basic make-up, structure and tempos, and how interviewees presented their own lives as proceeding in relation to broader disciplinary developments. In doing so I hoped to unearth some of the generative principles of these narratives and to reveal some of the key themes they embraced, in order that ultimately such phenomena could be built into the themes I explore in Chapters 8 and 9. I discussed how interviewees were commonly inspired to work in archaeology (and British prehistory) by their early experiences of excavation. I also described how their subsequent working lives were often highly changeable; a facet which almost certainly relates to the highly changeable character of the discipline over the same period.

‘It was very difficult because I had to weld together all these people who didn’t want to move and didn’t want to be centralised and didn’t want to be told what to do. They wanted to just carry on doing exactly what they’d been doing for the last so many years which is … You can’t blame them can you?’ (AW) Indeed, in discussing his colleagues’ responses to the demands of the Research Assessment Exercise (RAE) and the Quality Assurance Agency (QAA) for Higher Education’s subject review in academia,6 one interviewee even provided a potential explanation as to why interviewees might feel a sense of both commitment to and a degree of independence from developments in archaeology more broadly:

Moving on, I highlighted how, while several interviewees described their lives as having been punctuated by ‘pivotal moments’ or having often taken shape ‘by chance’, the dominant way in which they felt that their lives in archaeology had been fashioned was through their enduring commitment to either ‘carrying out research’ or to ‘getting things sorted out in the discipline’. Indeed these two aims were sometimes rendered as being in opposition to one another, thus certain interviewees felt that it had been necessary to sacrifice their research ideals in order to make changes in archaeology. I suggested that interviewees found it much more difficult to present an overview or to characterise recent transformations at a broader level in archaeology. Indeed their capacities to comprehend change at this level was probably obscured by the common feeling that many aspects of archaeological practice had remained unchanged. Nevertheless, several interviewees did define what they perceived to be distinct ‘eras’ of change in archaeology which both coincided and overlapped with the period from 1975 to 2010. These included the ‘professionalisation’ or alternatively the ‘depoliticisation’ of the discipline, ‘the rise and fall of archaeological theory with a big T’, and ‘the end of a “Golden Age” of excavation’.

‘I think there was [initially] a feeling it [the research assessment method] was going to settle down into a particular pattern and that was what the pattern was going to be. The [subsequent] recognition that there is no settled pattern and that, as I say, the goal posts are going to keep moving, means that more and more people are sort of saying “well, I’m going to not fix my working patterns so they fit whatever is demanded of me”. Now, I think, there’s more of a feeling of “well, I’m simply going to do a good job”.’ (JT) It is certainly possible that interviewees have become so attuned to the changeability of their own lives in archaeology, and of the discipline more broadly over the period under consideration here, that they have necessarily become to a certain degree distanced from it.

6

The RAE was a scheme initiated in 1986 on behalf of higher education funding bodies as a means of assessing, at roughly five-yearly intervals, the quality of research undertaken in universities. The results formed a basis for research funding allocation. It has recently been replaced by the Research Excellence Framework (REF). The QAA was established in 1997 as a body responsible for guaranteeing the quality of UK higher education at a broad level. The subject review, just part of their remit, was a method used between 1997-2001 for evaluating the quality of educational provision within individual academic subject areas.

Finally I examined the ways in which interviewees perceived their own lives in archaeology in relation to broader disciplinary changes, and indeed to transformations beyond this level of analysis. Thus, as Yarrow has suggested about the telling of life-histories

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‘commitment’ and ‘sacrifice’ have been viewed by lifehistory researchers elsewhere as characteristics of the lives of activists (Andrews 1991, Yarrow 2006a). It could thus be suggested that many of those who have pursued lives in archaeology over the period under analysis here have either been activists of sorts, or otherwise that such qualities are common in the lives of many people who do something which they are passionate about over a long period of time.

much more broadly (Yarrow 2008b, 334), it emerged that interviewees imagined such relationships variously. Moreover it was apparent that interviewees’ understandings of how their own lives were entangled with broader social developments related to a combination of factors, including their readings of social theory and literature more broadly, and their practices as prehistorians, which required them to negotiate frequently how different levels of analysis were interrelated. More significantly, through addressing this topic, it became evident that most interviewees were highly aware of their capacity to contribute to developing archaeology at a broad level, and indeed some clearly felt that it was imperative to do so. However they were also conscious that changes which had taken place beyond their own lives were often fleeting and partial, and thus it was not always necessary for either themselves or for others to respond to them. Indeed, in view of interviewees’ complex renditions of how their own working lives related to broader disciplinary developments, it seems hardly surprising that in trying to view change in archaeology overall since 1975 they felt both that it had changed significantly, and in many ways had stayed the same.

A number of the ‘eras’ of change which were rendered in interviewees’ life-history accounts are either mentioned or are at least implied within published personal histories. Carver devotes an entire section of his reminiscences about rescue archaeology to the topic of the ‘Golden Days’ of excavation (2006, 6), and Hodder discusses in detail his opinions of the notion that recent years have witnessed the ‘death’ or ‘fall’ of archaeological theory (Hodder et al. 2008, 37-9). Moreover, although the notion that the period from the late 1970s onwards has seen the de-politicisation of archaeology is not examined explicitly in published personal histories, Hodder certainly mentions the divide which he perceived existed between archaeology and politics in the early 1970s, and which he then felt had been redressed somewhat by early postprocessual archaeologists over the course of the late 1970s and the 1980s. His assessment is corroborated by the accounts of those involved in the personal histories seminar on postprocessual archaeology (Conkey et al. 2007), many of whom were closely involved in feminist politics, and one of whom, Henrietta Moore, suggested that she found it much easier to recount what was happening in politics during the late 1970s and early 1980s than she did to recount what was happening in archaeology.

It is also important to note that a number of the attributes of interviewees’ life-histories which I have outlined above are also apparent within previously published personal histories of archaeology which encompass the period from 1975 onwards. This reinforces the notion that people who have lived through this period in archaeology, including and beyond those whom I interviewed, have not only shared certain experiences, but have also developed some common perceptions of their own and others’ archaeological lives, and of the disciplinary changes which they have been integral to.

Finally, the notion that people who first engaged with archaeology during the late 1960s and early 1970s felt a heightened capacity to change not only archaeology, but also the world more broadly, is evoked not only by Hodder, but also by Carver, and several panellists from the personal history seminar on postprocessual archaeology (Carver 2006, 8, Conkey et al. 2007, Hodder et al. 2008). This provides an important context for my own observations that many interviewees were strongly aware of their contributions to developments in archaeology at a broad level, and indeed had felt driven throughout their careers to change things. However it is also important to be cautious about attributing this keen sense of personal agency exclusively to this particular generation of archaeologists, or even only to people working in archaeology over the period with which I am concerned. For instance Smith mentions how one of the interviewees for her own doctoral research, Jack Golsen, also described how during his time in Cambridge in the late 1940s ‘we knew we were pioneering something’ (Smith 2009, 12). Meanwhile in his General Editor’s preface to Subculture: The Meaning of Style, Hawkes captures very well the sense which was shared amongst at least part of the broader academic community during the late 1970s (within literary studies), that radical social change was underway, and that it was vital for

Several of the panellists involved in a recent personal histories seminar about postprocessualism (Conkey et al. 2007), together with Carver (2006, 6), and many of the anonymous interviewees who contributed to Everill’s doctoral research on The Invisible Diggers (2009, 144) mention that early experiences of excavation were their prime motivation for deciding to pursue lives in archaeology. Indeed Moser has suggested that this is a feature of archaeological lives much more broadly (1995, 2007). In addition, a number of other common aspects of interviewees’ life-histories – their engagement with archaeology from an early age, the unpredictability of their working lives, and the notion that it had been necessary for them to be both highly committed and to make personal sacrifices in order to pursue their careers – were also evident in the life-histories of ‘commercial’ archaeologists, elicited by Everill (2009, 144). While Everill presents these attributes as being specific to the lives of this particular sub-set of archaeologists, evidence from my own investigation together with that from other personal histories which cover this period (e.g. Conkey et al. 2007, Miles et al. 1999) suggests otherwise. Rather, such traits are evident in the life-histories of all sorts of archaeologists who have lived through the period in question. It is also interesting to note that renditions of

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contemporary students to engage with it (Hawkes, T. in Hebdige 1979, vii-viii). To finish, I will outline briefly how insights from this analysis have been built into the account of recent transformations in British archaeology (and prehistory) which I present in Chapters 8 and 9. Firstly, it is important to note that interviewees raised a multitude of topics in recounting their life-histories which I could have pursued in detail, thus it was essential to be selective in how I presented these. However, at a broad level, upon reflecting on the life-history accounts I was particularly struck by interviewees’ somewhat contradictory renditions of immense change, yet also significant stasis, in archaeology during the period in which I am interested.7 Consequently in Chapter 8, I have chosen to explore in more detail two closely related aspects of change in archaeology over the period in question which many interviewees commented upon – the ‘professionalisation’ of archaeology and ‘the end of the “Golden Age” of excavation’. Meanwhile in Chapter 9, I scrutinise one key theme which has persisted in archaeology throughout the period in question and thus has arguably contributed to perceptions that the discipline has in many ways stayed much the same: that the discipline is fragmenting socially. Within this overarching structure, a number of other issues which have arisen in this chapter will also resurface. Additionally, throughout the account I present in Chapters 8 and 9 I will refer back to aspects of the histories outlined in Chapters 4 and 5, thus pursuing my intention to explore how British prehistorians have actually engaged with recent disciplinary changes.

7

A phenomenon which, as mentioned above, I also observed in reviewing postprocessual critiques of archaeological practice in Chapter 2.

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Chapter 8. excavation)

An era of change: professionalisation (and the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of (Carver 1984). Meanwhile others are of a more nature, considering what ‘being philosophical professional’ might mean for archaeologists, and highlighting some potential pitfalls of pursuing this direction (Dalwood 1987, Raab 1984). For instance both of these authors, in different ways, predicted that tensions might emerge as the result of a new requirement for archaeologists to satisfy the demands of both ‘clients’ and ‘research’.

‘Rather than being seen as this slightly odd bunch of long-haired people in sandals based in Portsmouth who went out and did excavations, … English Heritage, you know, frankly … needed a different sort of professional.’ (AO) 8.1.

Introduction

This chapter examines in detail what was probably the key way in which interviewees characterised change in archaeology in the period under consideration in this study: as entailing a process of ‘professionalisation’. Since aspects of the professionalisation of British archaeology have been discussed extensively in the existing literature (e.g. Carver 2006, Cleere 1984, 1985, Dalwood 1987, Everill 2009, Jones 1984, Raab 1984, Roskams 2001, Selkirk 1997, Wainwright 2000) my intention is not to use the interview material simply to present another, perhaps more multi-vocal, account of this process. Rather, I aim to use the evidence from interviews to ‘unpack’ the notion of professionalisation in archaeology, by questioning exactly what interviewees meant when they used this term and by foregrounding and exploring particular qualities of professionalisation which interviewees evoked in their accounts. In addition, since this topic has rarely (if ever) been addressed critically, I would like to investigate ways in which interviewees suggested that aspects of professionalisation have become caught up in research practices. 1 Consequently, I hope to emphasise how this process is of relevance to everyone involved in archaeological research, rather than simply to ‘professionals’. 8.2.

A second group of existing literature relating to archaeology’s recent professionalisation comprises retrospective narratives of this process (e.g. Chadwick 1998, Chadwick 2003, Everill 2009, Lawson 2006, Roskams 2001, Selkirk 1997). These explain how the need for archaeology to professionalise arose in relation to a combination of factors including a shift in government approach together with a massive expansion in post-war development. They also outline many of the landmarks which are seen to have defined professionalisation. These include the establishment of the pressure group RESCUE and the IFA, the creation of ‘professional’ or ‘specialist’ fieldwork units at a regional and national level, the installation of archaeologists in local authorities (including the setting up of Sites and Monuments Records (SMRs)), shifts in the financing of development-related archaeology (ultimately enshrined by the issuing of PPG16), the creation of standardised methods for recording and analysing archaeological evidence and for publishing and managing archaeological projects, the definition of specific roles for those involved (‘curators’, archaeology in development-related ‘contractors’, ‘consultants’), the creation of a nationwide system of research frameworks, the improvement of working conditions (pay, health and safety etc.), and even the ‘unionisation’ of archaeology (Roskams 2001, 27).

Existing accounts of professionalisation

Before considering interviewees’ renditions of British archaeology’s recent professionalisation, it is worth outlining briefly the scope of existing written accounts which address this topic. Broadly speaking, these fall into three main groups.

These retrospective accounts also discuss several consequences of professionalisation. They note how archaeology’s increasing engagement with the private sector led to a need for archaeologists to demonstrate professionalism, particularly from the early 1990s onwards (Everill 2009, 39, Lawson 2006, 208). They highlight some of the difficulties which have emerged as this process has unfolded; in particular, the usurping of the role of ‘amateur’ archaeologists (Roskams 2001, Selkirk 1997), and the severing of working relationships between ‘academic’ and ‘professional’ archaeologists (Roskams 2001, 27). They also evoke (but do not explicitly address) two further complexities which have arisen in relation to archaeology’s recent professionalisation. Firstly, although it is widely accepted that professionalisation has been worthwhile, necessary and inevitable, it has not necessarily been easy to enact: certain groups of archaeologists have resisted significant aspects of it (notably the establishment of the IFA, the shift to project funding in development-related archaeology, and the enforcement of rigid roles for

Firstly, there are articles from the 1970s and 1980s which consider the new professional status of the discipline at this time (Miles 1978), and discuss issues relating to the emergence of this new status such as the need to develop a better understanding of disciplinary ethics (Thomas 1971). Other articles from around this time put forward suggestions about how to further the process of professionalising or ‘modernising’ archaeology, for instance proposing ways in which the new Institute for Field Archaeologists (IFA) might conduct itself in future 1

Everill does examine the effects of professionalisation on archaeological practices at a broad level (2009, 16) within the particular realm of developer-funded archaeology. However, although he expresses an aim to do so (ibid., viii), he does not consider explicitly ways in which professionalisation is a factor influencing practices involved directly in archaeological knowledge production.

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anthropologically the concept of ‘the network’ in international development corporations, situations in which the notions being analysed have already received considerable attention might also be seen as opportunities for ‘developing ways of thinking that do not resort to surprise discoveries, do not uncover hidden generalities, and yet do not treat cultural phenomena as uninteresting or undeserving of analysis because they are already understood, elaborated on, and even critiqued by those who are used to provide the raw ‘data’ for our analyses’ (2001, 4). She also advises that in such contexts what is needed is not the provision of more detail of the phenomenon concerned, but rather a ‘selective erasure’ of such details ‘as, for example, the abstractions of modern art have brought modernity itself into view’ (ibid., 20).

practitioners), and some still regret its occurrence (Roskams 2001, 27). Secondly, despite the fact that, as a consequence of professionalisation, archaeology has become much ‘more professional’ (Lawson 2006, 194), uncertainties remain about the discipline’s professional credentials (see for example Everill 2009, 47, Lawson 2006, 203). Unsurprisingly (since it was drawn from the newsletter of archaeology’s professional institute (the IFA), many of these aspects of professionalisation were touched upon in the account I gave in Chapter 4. One final study which is of relevance to any consideration of this topic in archaeology is Moser’s doctoral research into the professionalisation of Australian archaeology (1995). This draws on broader theories of professionalisation developed over the duration of the 20th century in studies of scientific practices, in order to consider in detail exactly what this concept means, before examining its manifestations in Australian archaeology over the course of the late 20th century.2 Importantly, Moser presents professionalisation as a much broader social phenomenon than is evident in retrospective accounts of this process in the context of British archaeology (see also Section 4.9). She defines it as ‘a dynamic social process involving the production and sanction of disciplinary knowledge’, which involves ‘the construction of disciplinary boundaries, the delineation of certain norms of modes of practice and behaviour and the creation of a sense of professional identity’ (ibid., 34). She also emphasises how complex the notion of professionalisation is, despite the fact that its meanings and manifestations are often assumed to be self-evident (Moser 1995, 34). Additionally, in contrast to retrospective accounts of archaeology’s recent professionalisation, she also notes how, rather than being a discrete entity relating to a particular set of events, professionalisation is a much longer-term process. Indeed she suggests that it commonly comprises three distinct stages. The first of these involves a long period of various forms of amateur research, the second comprises the institutionalisation of the subject in government bodies and universities, and the third constitutes professional expansion (ibid., 34). The professionalisation of British archaeology with which we are concerned here, thus overlaps with the end of the second and the beginning of the third phase of professionalisation, whilst other accounts of professionalisation in British archaeology, for instance in the earlier 20th century (e.g. Smith 2009), primarily relate to the second phase.

Indeed when I came to analyse the interview material it was striking that many of the qualities of professionalisation which interviewees raised in their accounts were not evident in the existing literature. I was also interested to use the interview evidence to explore further some of the contradictory opinions which were voiced within existing written accounts. In particular, I was keen to ask why archaeologists broadly appear to have embraced professionalisation in principle, yet seem unsure about some of its outcomes. Moreover by abstracting one particular aspect of professionalisation for more detailed analysis – that of standardisation – I hoped to shed light on the potential complexities of this process more broadly. Consequently it is upon these aspects of professionalisation which I focus in the following narrative. Re-examining 8.3. alisation

the

notion

of

profession-

Defining professionalisation To begin, it is worth considering briefly what interviewees meant when they suggested that archaeology had undergone a process of professionalisation in recent years. This is important because the notions of ‘professionalisation’ and ‘professionalism’ are so ubiquitous in archaeological discourse (indeed these terms are often used interchangeably), and are so often presented as being primarily a good thing, that they demand critical attention. As Apthorpe has argued in discussing the terminology which is invoked in policy documents such ‘key words’ ‘do not require an apposite nod to give or enhance their meaning’ and are ‘not ever put to serious empirical test’ (Apthorpe 1997, 53-4). Moreover, I felt that it was important to ascertain how interviewees themselves understood professionalisation as well as how it was presented in the literature, since it is on this basis that they have actually engaged with the topic.

Overall, rather than curbing the scope of my own analysis, I would argue that this extensive body of existing literature on professionalisation in archaeology (in Britain and more broadly) revealed to me the considerable potential for exploring this topic in more detail. As Riles suggested in attempting to analyse 2

In fact, overall, when they were discussing British archaeology’s recent professionalisation, interviewees defined this term and described its characteristics in much the same way as existing written accounts. They gave

Interestingly, Moser stopped short of analysing the recent professionalisation of Australian archaeology (subsequent to the 1970s) as I intend to here in the context of British archaeology, arguing that the processes involved were ‘simply too close and too complex’ (1995, 241).

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‘In reality the trappings may be there (contracting units with project managers in suits, a professional institute, standards, guidelines etc.) but in my experience the commercial sector are frequently not convinced.’ (GA)

similar rationale for the initiation of this process and likewise presented professionalisation as having been ‘necessary’ (GA), ‘inevitable’ (BC), and ‘advantageous’ (JC) for the discipline. They outlined a similar range of constituent features, and noted a similar shift in emphasis from an early focus on creating a profession and installing its required attributes, to a later focus on demonstrating the discipline’s newfound professionalism:

Interestingly in relation to this point, Moser commented that professionalisation has frequently been characterised by archaeologists as an endpoint of much longer-term developments, and that consequently the complexity and diversity of this process has been denied (1995, 75). I would add to this that, as I hope will become clear below, it is questionable whether professionalisation can ever actually achieve an endpoint.

‘It started with the setting up of the units in the early ‘70s. The development of systematic recording techniques, pro-formae etc., all started then. Within the units people began to develop professional “behaviour” in relation to developers and later professionalism was influenced by legislation e.g. health and safety, risk assessments, more complex accounting etc.’ (AW)

There was at least one important way in which interviewees’ accounts foregrounded a feature of professionalisation which is not evident in existing written accounts. When they were discussing professionalisation directly, like the authors of existing written accounts (see for example Everill 2009, Lawson 2006), interviewees presented this phenomenon as being something which has happened almost entirely within the realm of development-related archaeology. However, it was clear from interviewees’ descriptions of individual aspects of the professionalisation– the formalisation of working procedures, the increased requirement to clarify and justify working practices, and development of a more professional attitude – that practices associated with professionalisation have actually infiltrated archaeology much more broadly over the period in question.

In relation to this point it is worth noting that while Moser suggests that it is important to distinguish between ‘professionalisation’ and ‘professionalism’ in archaeology (1995, 74), interviewees presented the actual demonstration of professionalism as an integral part of archaeology’s recent professionalisation. Consequently in the context of my own research these two terms were, in practice, often difficult to untangle. Like existing written accounts, interviewees presented the recent professionalisation of archaeology as being somehow detached or independent from any previous episodes of disciplinary professionalisation, despite the fact that they were undoubtedly aware that this was not the case. For instance, in outlining his involvement in the setting up of RESCUE, of the IFA, and of a network of professional fieldwork units in Britain in the early 1970s, Barry Cunliffe explained how:

In describing shifts which had taken place in EH since it’s foundation in 1984, Barry Cunliffe described how: ‘The Advisory Committee … To start with … I remember people like Stuart Rigold – these wonderful old scholars embedded in the Civil Service – he was meant to be presenting in the meeting and had to be woken up to do his presentation! It was amateur and rambly. And now it’s tough, strategic stuff, or really, really hard casework we go out and look at.’ (BC)

‘It was the whole idea of professionalising the discipline if it was going to go out and deal with contractors; it had to become professional in some way.’ (BC) Interviewees’ accounts also captured very well the feeling which is apparent in existing written accounts that archaeology’s recent professionalisation is both an event which happened in the past, and a process which still requires further work. Thus for instance Jacky Nowakowski, currently operating as a researcher in a local authority context suggested that:

As I mentioned in Section 7.4, several university-based interviewees discussed how an increasing amount of their time was spent justifying what they do (MPP, JT), a practice which can arguably be viewed as a method of demonstrating professionalism. Meanwhile in describing his experiences of starting out as a lecturer in the late 1980s, Julian Thomas recounted how, in contrast to the situation today:

‘Today, more so than perhaps 30 years ago, I think archaeology can be regarded as a vocation with a professional standing and across the professional archaeological community as a whole there is a general agreement that shared working standards and best practice are important to work towards in order to do good archaeology.’ (JN)

‘It’s before you’d have anything like a teaching course. How universities worked was very opaque. So I had no idea of how universities were managed or … I think it was just in those days, you just went into this situation and had to work it out as you went along, rather than now, there’s far more of a sense of induction.’ (JT)

Meanwhile, Gill Andrews, who worked closely with English Heritage (EH) throughout the 1980s and was heavily involved in putting in place guidelines for managing archaeological projects, suggested that:

Importantly therefore, unlike most written accounts, interviewees renditions of British archaeology’s recent professionalisation acknowledged that aspects of this process have actually been (or perhaps I should say are

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The very idea that there was a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation can be challenged at a number of different levels, as can many of the qualities which are attributed to this phenomenon (see for example Jennings 2011). For instance, as discussed in Chapter 5 and illustrated very well in Bradley’s recent account of the Prehistory of Britain and Ireland (2007), evidence from excavations which have taken place since 1990 has revolutionised understandings of prehistory, and so could be viewed as ‘greater’ than that produced during the ‘Golden Age’. However, it is also worth highlighting that Moser has suggested that the mythologisation of excavation (as the notion of a ‘Golden Age of excavation might be regarded) has for a long time been integral to the creation of professional identity, both in British archaeology and elsewhere (2007, 248). What is interesting with regards to the specific ‘myth’ under consideration here is that rather than referring to contemporary excavation practices, or even to excavation as a generic mode of practice, the ‘Golden Age’ of excavation is presented (both by interviewees and more broadly) as belonging to a time prior to (if overlapping with) the professionalisation of British archaeology. Instead of being central to expressions of contemporary professional identity, the ‘Golden Age’ of excavation is commonly presented as being in opposition to the professionalisation of archaeology in Britain, and thus in some ways can be seen to define it.

being) experienced right across the discipline, rather than being specific to one arena (that of development-related archaeology).3 This is interesting in the sense that while professionalisation is widely presented as something which has divided archaeology in different ways (e.g. Lawson 2006, 207), it can also be viewed as something which connects the practices of its various domains (a theme which I will return to in Chapter 9). As the title of this chapter suggests, I would also like to argue that interviewees defined British archaeology’s recent professionalisation in relation to another way in which they characterised change over the period under analysis here: as having encompassed the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation. There is little scope in this context to question in detail whether or not there was indeed a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation. However it is germane to outline briefly how this concept was rendered by interviewees (and has been evoked elsewhere in the broader literature), before highlighting the connections that interviewees made between professionalisation and the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation. As noted in Section 7.4, several interviewees raised the idea that the earlier part of the period under consideration here (between 1975 and 1990) could be characterised as representing a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation. During this time, they suggested, archaeologists imagined that they could ‘change the world’ (JWI), they could get on and dig great sites without having to wade through the paperwork (risk assessments, health and safety and so on) currently associated with getting fieldwork projects underway (MPP), and excavators (at all levels and in all areas of the discipline) were archaeology’s ‘lead players’ (GA). Others described the inspiring personalities who were involved in excavations at this time (MPP, GA, JWR), the degree of methodological (and sociological) experimentation which took place (CE, JWI), and the euphoria which was caught up in this movement (AW). Importantly, however, interviewees presented a definite sense that that this era had ended around 1990, coinciding with the rise of developer-funded archaeology and the publication of PPG16. Indeed while some have dismissed entirely the idea of a ‘Golden Age’ excavation (e.g. Wainwright 2000, 929) the existence of such a phenomenon is substantiated in the wider literature (e.g. Carver 2006, Everill 2009, 180, Schofield forthcoming), where the ‘Golden Age’ is characterised (both explicitly and implicitly) as an era in which great sites were dug by heroic characters (both women and men) in what were often adverse conditions. Moreover it is asserted, usually in contrast to the situation today, that the excavators involved were well-trained, worked to a high standard, were given the necessary time to practice their craft, and engaged enthusiastically in their research (see Cooper and Yarrow 2012 for further discussion of this topic).

The changing face of ‘being a professional’ In exploring the notion that archaeology has undergone professionalisation over the last 30 years, it is also interesting to ask who ‘the professionals’ in archaeology have been over this period, and how they have defined themselves in relation to other disciplinary groups. As Moser has noted, the creation of a ‘professional identity’ is a key aspect of professionalisation, which often includes both the reinforcing of community solidarity and the exclusion of others (1995, 162-8). Before considering this issue, once again, it is worth considering briefly the extent to which it is addressed in existing written accounts. With regards to the question of how ‘professional archaeology’ is defined in the light of professionalisation, it is interesting to note that there is a clear disparity in the literature. On one hand, many accounts of professionalisation tend to equate ‘professional archaeology’ straightforwardly with ‘developmentrelated archaeology’ (see for example Everill 2009, Lawson 2006), presumably because this is the realm in which aspects of professionalisation have been most focused in recent years.4 Meanwhile on the other hand, 4

Everill does acknowledge that there is disagreement as to whether development-related archaeology should be considered as a distinct professional practice or whether it should be considered as part of broader academic discourse (2006, 52). However throughout his analysis he presents ‘professional’ practices as being in opposition to ‘academic’ practices suggesting that, on balance, he equates the former to the realm of developer-funded archaeology.

3

Roskams does at least observe that there are parallels between developments in universities and fieldwork units in the sense that there has been an increasing trend in both for workers to be employed on short-term contracts (2001, 28).

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intellectual ideals; or that it would ignore professionalisation and its consequences entirely, as he suggested many academics did at the time (ibid., 61).

the IFA has always included (see Section 4.2), and continues to include (see for example Aitcheson and Edwards 2008, 11), all archaeologists when it is addressing ‘the profession’ including unpaid members of local societies. This is almost certainly in order to avoid the emotive issue of defining who is and is not professional. It is also worth noting that both of these definitions of ‘the profession’ are essentially timeless, since neither allows for the possibility that what ‘being a professional’ means might have changed over the course of archaeology’s recent professionalisation.

Turning to what interviewees had to say in relation to this topic I would like to raise three particular ways in which their accounts augmented and challenged written accounts. Firstly, it was clear from interviewees’ accounts that the distinctions which are made between ‘amateurs’, ‘professionals’ and ‘academics’ are not as precise as they appear to be in writing (see for example Coles 1971). As Roberts noted in her examination of the roles of ‘amateurs’ and ‘professionals’ in early 20th century British archaeology, once scrutinised, it is actually very difficult to see where the lines between such disciplinary roles have been drawn (2006, 221). Several interviewees discussed how they had belonged to more than one of these groups over the course of their lives in archaeology. Consequently, some felt that they could identify with the interests of more than one of these factions at any one time, and even hold more than one of these identities simultaneously. For instance in discussing the time at which it was realised that archaeology needed to define a distinct branch of ‘professional archaeology’ in the early 1970s, Barry Cunliffe discussed how:

Accepting the idea that professionalisation has entailed the creation of a new arena of professional (developmentrelated) archaeology, there are several written accounts which discuss how this arena has defined itself in relation to other disciplinary domains over the course of archaeology’s recent professionalisation. Thus, as mentioned above, various authors have noted how the rise of professional archaeology has engendered divisions between ‘professional’ and ‘amateur’ archaeologists to the extent that the latter feel that they have lost their disciplinary position (e.g. Selkirk 1997). 5 Meanwhile, researchers who have drawn on insights from theories of professionalisation (e.g. Dalwood 1987, Moser 1995, Raab 1984) have outlined ways in which relationships between ‘professionals’ and ‘academics’ might change in relation to this process. Moser suggests that the stage of professionalisation with which we are concerned here (entailing the increasing involvement of government organisations) throws a particular focus on the relationship between ‘professional’ archaeology and ‘academic’ archaeology (1995, 191). In addition, while Dalwood predicted that ‘academic’ and ‘professional’ ideologies would undoubtedly come increasingly into conflict as professionalisation progressed in British archaeology, and the ‘professional ideology’ became ‘more confident and assertive’ (1987, 104), Moser described how this version of events was actually played out in the context of Australian archaeology during the 1970s: ‘the institutions and organisations involved in managing the resource have come to develop their own highly distinctive discourse which is separate from and, in many ways, challenges the academic discourse of archaeology’ (1995, 191).

‘We realised, those of us who were in both the university and amateur camps, that neither were geared to dealing with what was going to be out there in a few years time. That professional interface with all the hardnosed people in suits.’ (BC) In relation to this point more generally, Strathern has suggested that the notion that individuals can be viewed as belonging to a collective with a shared set of characteristics, and yet at the same time embody their own unique set of circumstances, is a particularly important organising concept in English culture (e.g. Strathern 1982, 1984). According to such an understanding, she argues, individuals are able to move fluidly between social groupings. Secondly, it was evident that even within the realm of professional or development-related archaeology what ‘being professional’ means has actually shifted over the course of archaeology’s recent professionalisation. Several interviewees discussed how certain of the original professionals in ‘professional archaeology’ as it was defined in the mid-1970s – particularly the earliest employees of the Central Excavation Unit (CEU) – were later (during the late 1980s and 1990s) selectively removed from ‘the profession’ on the grounds that they were no longer suitably ‘professional’ (Figure 8.1).

Raab (1984) was mindful of the particular complexities which archaeologists face in undertaking professionalisation. Consequently, he argued, archaeology had the potential to challenge traditional theories about this process (ibid., 52). He also outlined three possible scenarios with regards to the future direction of the discipline in Britain: that it would embrace professional ideals and divide into distinct employment domains; that it would reject the notion that archaeology is professional and continue to pursue its

In discussing his involvement in development-related archaeology in the mid-1970s, Mike Parker Pearson described how, amongst his colleagues at the newly formed Committee for Rescue Archaeology in Avon, Gloucestershire and Somerset (CRAAGS), and the CEU:

5

Indeed the evidence presented in Section 5.3 substantiates this argument, in that it suggests that amateur and independent archaeologists have contributed far less to key research in British prehistory in recent years, at least as it is represented by articles published in PPS.

‘There was that sense that you were professionals.’ (MPP)

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Figure 8.1: ‘The age of innocence 2. Balksbury Camp. 1973’ (Wainwright 2000, 912). Many of those pictured, including Jo Jeffries, Peter Donaldson and Dave Buckley were employed soon after (in 1975) as some of the earliest ‘professionals’ at the newly established Central Excavation Unit

Geoff Wainwright (standing directly behind Pedro) in organising, supervising and monitoring governmentfunded fieldwork projects. Another of this team, Jo Jeffries (standing with trousers around ankles) devised a computerised database for the CEU, which was subsequently used as a template for establishing digital SMRs on a countrywide basis. Meanwhile Dave Buckley (in sunglasses to the left of Jo Jeffries) went on to build one of the foremost local authority archaeology teams in the country during the 1980 and 1990s.

According to Mike, these people, in contrast to many contemporary university-based archaeologists, were experts in the realm of excavation, as well as being very well-funded by comparison. Indeed he described his supervisors at the CEU in reverential terms; they were: ‘The life and soul of the party. Extraordinary characters. People you’ve probably not met like Robbie Browse and PJ Pikes, who just managed to carry out a kind of permanent conversation, which everyone would sit in on, and it was always funny. They were the funniest people I’ve ever met. We’d have followed them anywhere, I think.’ (MPP)

Even so, both Mike Parker Pearson and Jamie Wright described how many of these professionals were asked to re-apply for, and subsequently lost their jobs in the mid1980s in what Mike suggested was known ironically at the time as ‘The Night of the Long Knives’. 6 In describing the streamlining of EH’s fieldwork practices which took place in the 1990s, Adrian Olivier described how further changes were made as part of this process. Furthermore Adrian suggested that one of the principal reasons for these ‘culls’ was that by this time, some of these same ‘professionals’ were no longer considered to

Indeed his opinions about the professionalism of many of the early paid professionals are corroborated by evidence within written accounts of professionalisation (Jones 1984, 9, Roskams 2001, 25), and from other interviewees who were involved in development-related archaeology at this time (JWI, AW). It is also clear that at least some of these early professionals were widely respected and played important roles in government-related archaeology during the 1970s and 1980s. For instance Peter Donaldson or ‘Pedro’ as he was commonly known (seated with an eye patch in Figure 8.1) was described by interviewees to have occupied a key position assisting

6

Referring to an infamous purge enacted in Nazi Germany in 1934, when a series of political executions were carried out in order to eliminate critics or potential challengers to the regime.

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be sufficiently ‘professional’ to be employed in the arena of government-related archaeology. He recounted:

particular (earlier) form of professionalism. Indeed there is evidence that, even during the 1970s, some archaeologists actively denied the fact that certain of its new professionals did not conform to traditional models. In his account of the professionalisation of British fieldwork, Roskams comments on a photo which Hudson (1981) included in his Social History of Archaeology (Figure 8.2), in which the excavators pictured were described as ‘paid graduate professionals … a small army under the control of the site supervisor’. Rather, Roskams reveals that ‘many pictured were graduates only of “the university of life”’, and that ‘most would have resented anything resembling military control’ (2001, 26).

‘And I think Geoff [Wainwright, then Chief Inspector of EH] could see, frankly, that they needed to change into something that would support English Heritage core functions rather than being seen as this slightly odd bunch of long-haired people in sandals based in Portsmouth who went out and did excavations. Because Geoff was fighting a very hard battle at the time, about archaeology in English Heritage … English Heritage, you know, frankly didn’t really need that – it needed a different sort of professional.’ (AO) Thus several interviewees made it apparent that there has been a shift in emphasis in terms of what it has meant to be a professional archaeologist over the last 30 years, irrespective of where ‘amateurs’ and ‘academics’ fit into in this equation. While in the 1970s and early 1980s, it was sufficient for professional archaeologists to be paid experts in their particular arena (e.g. fieldwork), by the 1990s (if not earlier) other attributes of professionalism had come to the fore: the requirement to look professional, to act professionally, and (perhaps most importantly) to conform to the activities and ideals of the broader profession.

Secondly, most interviewees raised the notion that archaeologists had often been viewed (particularly by those who primarily fund its practices) as being ‘longhaired, sandal-wearing hippies’ (or something similar) at some point during our discussions. Moreover some suggested that concerns about this image have been a common source of motivation for acts of professionalisation. For instance in discussing the emergence of professional behaviour in London in the late 1980s and early 1990s Jon Cotton described how: ‘Nobody in positions of power and influence would take notice of sandal-wearing hippies banging on about the Beaker Folk, would they? So some archaeologists talked the talk, walked the walk, took up the laptop and outsuited the suits. I think the IFA is a case in point: government ministers now give keynote addresses at their conferences don't they?’ (JC)

In relation to this issue it is worth raising two further points of interest. Firstly it is important to note that this transition is not at all evident in the archaeological literature. As observed in Section 4.2, modern ‘professionalism’ has typically been opposed to ‘amateurism’ (the eccentric hobbyist), rather than to a

Figure 8.2: 'Professional site staff celebrating the end of another excavation' (Hudson 1981, 144)

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bringing into question the division which is usually made between the two.

Consequently, it appears that although many of the professionals of the 1970s were actively dismissed or have otherwise moved on from archaeology, and their role in the discipline’s history has to a certain extent been denied, a somewhat caricatured image of them has lived on. Indeed while some interviewees suggested that archaeology’s association with this kind of ‘unprofessional’ image had in some ways posed a threat to the discipline’s credentials, Geoff Wainwright noted how certain archaeologists, for instance Phil Harding from the TV programme ‘Time Team’, still embodied this image, and thus it has in some ways become iconic.7

During the 1980s, Gill Andrews described how she had employed ‘academics’ to advise those involved in development-related archaeology about procedures for publishing the results of archaeological excavations: ‘I was getting fed up of volumes [excavation reports] which I was eventually getting through and giving to an academic who would, you know, heave a heavy sigh and say “you must be joking – this is awful!”. You know “the structure’s wrong, the basic premise is wrong”. So it was clear that they were being brought in too late in the process. So I was very interested in getting academic mentors in – that’s something that I actually discussed with Geoff [Wainwright]. That we would actually try and buy in academic assistance earlier in the process.’ (GA)

One final way in which interviewees’ accounts augmented and challenged written narratives about how professional identity has been defined over the period in question was that, in contrast to the scenarios presented by those who have drawn on theories of professionalisation (Dalwood 1987, Moser 1995), interviewees did not suggest that professional archaeology in Britain has become a thrusting entity which has developed its own discourse to challenge and compete with that of academia. Nor did interviewees suggest that professional archaeology has entirely rejected or ignored professional ideals, as Raab predicted might happen alternatively (1984, 61). Rather, interviewees evoked the continuing complexities and contradictions which archaeologists face in trying to negotiate between various competing demands on their practices.

When the research credentials, competence, and ultimately the professional standing of developmentrelated fieldwork were being brought into question in the 1990s (see for example Biddle 1994), interviewees described how, once again, this problem was addressed by aligning the work of ‘professional’ archaeologists with that of ‘academics’. Both Nigel Brown and Adrian Olivier told how such criticisms fuelled the idea of developing a nationwide system of research frameworks, in which ‘academics’ would play a key guiding role: ‘And so I said “what we need is to have some sort of structure that will allow the work that’s being done in the developer-led context to fit into an academic research framework”.’ (AO)

Thus in certain contexts, interviewees did stress the differences which have emerged between ‘professional’ and ‘academic’ interests and areas of expertise in relation to professionalisation. For instance Adrian Olivier described how:

‘You know, we could invite them [academics] in and they could comment and it would be great.’ (NB)

‘When I talk to X and Y [theoretical archaeologists], you know, I think “Oh God!” I mean they’re really nice guys and I get on with them very well, but, it just goes over my head somewhere. I can’t relate it to what I do on any level. But I’m very happy for them to exist, you know. And we need people like that – we need thinkers. But this stuff just doesn’t intersect with the pragmatic political reality that I occupy. I mean they probably think exactly the same about me in reverse, you know!’ (AO)

Meanwhile, Gill Andrews described how she had bought in the services of a leading university-based archaeologist – John Barrett – in order to enhance the ‘academic’ value of her proposal for undertaking fieldwork in advance of the construction of Heathrow Terminal 5.8 Consequently, it seems hardly surprising that one interviewee, Jamie Wright, in considering the ways in which professional archaeologists have tried to demonstrate their professionalism in recent years came to the conclusion that, at a certain level:

However, elsewhere interviewees collapsed the distinction between ‘academic’ and ‘professional’ interests, revealing instead how ‘professional’ archaeologists have drawn pragmatically on ‘academic’ principles (and the skills of university-based archaeologists) over the duration of archaeology’s recent professionalisation. Thus it became clear that ‘academic’ ideals have been integral to the development of a ‘professional ideology’ over the period in question,

‘It [being professional] does also seem a bit like trying to be academic: “we are professional because we do what universities do”.’ (JWR) In addition it is worth mentioning that, at least during the 1970s and 1980s, academic archaeologists also actively involved themselves in the work of professional archaeology. Two of the university-based archaeologists I 8

7

The observation made in Section 4.6 that Registered Archaeological Organisations appeared to be self-consciously underlining their research credentials and connections with academia in the IFA’s newsletter in 2000, can be seen as yet another expression of this phenomenon.

Interestingly Moser suggests alternatively that Phil Harding’s appearance is a reworking of that of the stereotypical cowboy ‘a distinctive and instantly recognisable icon which conveys an idea about what archaeologists are like’ (2007, 252).

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People were still sort of sitting in sheds and doing things with marking pens and, you know, that was seen as a cushy number. There was nothing. There was no structure at all.’ (GA)

interviewed (BC, MPP) described their contributions to aspects of professionalisation during this period. Moreover, as noted in Section 4.4, leading academics were involved significantly in the activities of the IFA until at least the early 1990s. Indeed it is even possible to suggest that, at one level, ‘professional’ and ‘academic’ archaeologists’ ideals were in harmony during this period, with both postprocessual archaeologists (see for instance Hodder et al. 2008) and professional archaeologists (see for example Section 4.3) stressing their commitment to reconnecting archaeology with its social obligations.

In describing her involvement in developing standard procedures and formal guidelines for the management of archaeological projects during the later 1980s, Gill discussed how: ‘Well, somebody had just discovered these things called Gantt Charts – flow charts for project management. And somebody said “there’s this really good idea” and that was that you work out how long something’s going to take – this is how basic it was – and how much it’s going to cost, and you put it along a time line thingy, you know, and then ... and it was … Who was it? I remember Paul Gosling and Bill Startin, two [EH] inspectors, had been somewhere in industry and somebody said “this is a frightfully good idea!” … And, you know, none of us had a clue Anwen – none of us had a clue! Which, just looking back on it, is ludicrous.’ (GA)

From keen professionalisers to weary professionals Having discussed how the evidence from life-history interviews allows for a broadening of the scope of archaeology’s recent professionalisation, and for an examination of what being professional has meant to archaeologists over the last 30 years, I will now assess some of the key qualities which were rendered in interviewees’ narratives of professionalisation and its constituent features, which were not apparent in existing written accounts.

Meanwhile in recounting the important changes which he and his colleague, Graham Fairclough, had enacted in EH during the later 1980s, Mike Parker Pearson rendered a similar sense that in order to achieve the trappings of professionalism archaeologists were being required to enter into unfamiliar territory.

One striking aspect of interviewees’ accounts about professionalisation was their renditions of the naivety involved in many early aspects of this process, particularly prior to 1990. In contrast to the neat, assertive and progressive (if sometimes controversial) attributes of professionalisation which are relayed in written accounts, interviewees described some of the professionalising activities they were involved in during this period using terms such as ‘Noddy-esque’ (GA) and ‘laissez faire’ (JC). They conveyed a sense that while it was widely agreed in the early 1970s (particularly amongst those involved in development-related archaeology) that archaeology needed to become ‘more professional’, and some archaeologists had certain ideas about how this could be ‘achieved’ – by setting up a professional institute, by creating standardised recording methods etc. – there was no clear consensus about exactly how to enact this process. Rather, interviewees described how at times during the early stages of professionalisation, they felt that they were trying to ‘act professionally’ without actually considering why they were doing it (JN).

‘We computerised the rescue budget system, and that’s with Graham [Fairclough] having no knowledge of computing at all! I thought I knew about computing but I was useless at it. Thank God for Graham – he saved it all from going flat on its face!’ (MPP) Another interesting and surprising quality of interviewees’ accounts of the earlier part of archaeology’s recent professionalisation was the way in which key players in this process described how important decisions were made and key documents produced in a somewhat hasty and almost flippant manner. For instance in discussing his involvement in a landmark meeting, arranged in the early 1970s to determine the future of British archaeology, Barry Cunliffe told how: ‘I just rehashed a bit of my inaugural lecture [at Southampton University] and we drew a few flow diagrams – as we did in those days – and that nudged the [development of the] units.’ (BC)

In addition, several interviewees recounted how they had been required to acquire attributes of professionalism in an ad hoc manner. In discussing her experiences of taking up a post as a finds supervisor at the newly formed CEU (initiated as a centre for fieldwork expertise with a remit of undertaking excavations on nationally important sites in the mid-1970s) Gill Andrews described how:

Meanwhile in describing his role in producing a report detailing procedures for publishing the results of archaeological excavations (DoE 1982) (which has since been described as having been ‘of fundamental importance in developing approaches to the management of projects and the dissemination of their results’ (EH 1991, 1)) Barry described how he had written it:

‘Actually, I went down to Fort Cumberland and nobody knew what was happening at all, and there was nothing for me to do. And I sat around for months, in this great vastness inside that fort, just not knowing what to do at all … I had to make up the job. Nobody knew, you know.

‘On a train. Someone said it was done between Didcot and Oxford, which was a lie – it was done between London and Oxford!’ (BC)

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worked out further along the line. It is also worth noting that, although Mike Parker Pearson seemed surprised that it had taken as long as ‘six months backwards and forwards!’ to finalise the wording of PPG16 in 1990, its subsequent revision (DCLG et al. 2010) took almost 4 years to finalise (some interviewees were consulted about it in November 2006). This emphasises the degree to which the tempo at which acts of professionalisation are undertaken in archaeology has changed over the last 1520 years. Secondly, it is interesting and in some ways surprising that these interviewees felt quite comfortable about describing the inelegances and light-heartedness involved in some of these early acts of professionalisation. It is possible that this relates to the fact that they are quite proud of the consequences of their work. It is also possible that in telling these cheery tales of former chaos, interviewees’ were tacitly critiquing contemporary bureaucracy and professionalism.

In addition, both Mike Parker Pearson and Geoff Wainwright elucidated in different ways how, despite the many years of hard work involving many other archaeologists which had ultimately led to the production of PPG16 (a process which is described in more detail in Section 4.8), the document itself was put together quite clumsily. Mike elicited the somewhat chaotic manner in which PPG16 – arguably the most significant document within British archaeology over the last 30 years – came into being: ‘So when it actually came to the crunch, back in ‘87/’88, I thought “we’ve really got to write this down”. Paul [Gosling] never would, so I wrote out a document and in the early days of computers, as soon as I had it all written out, I lost the file and I had to type it all again! This is over a weekend, and I took it into the office and showed it to Geoff Wainwright, and he said “Christ, don’t show that to DoE, cos they’ll know what we’re up to!” It was basically setting out all of these things which we now take for granted … So, the next thing to happen was the Rose Theatre – Dustin Hoffman and all that – and then questions were asked in the House [of Commons]. What is the Government’s policy on archaeology? So this comes through to English Heritage and Geoff’s boss, Jane Sharman – very, very good civil servant – she says to Geoff “well what have we got?” and he says “ah, I think Mike wrote something … ”. So we open the filing cabinet, blow the dust off, she takes it away, types it up, reworks it, and off it goes to DoE. They don’t like the bit about pay, you know, we can’t make anyone pay for archaeology, so it comes back again and then Graham Fairclough takes it on, and he takes the next 6 months negotiating with English Heritage about the precise wording.’ (MPP)

Indeed this discussion leads to another widespread quality of interviewees’ accounts of their involvement in professionalisation: that whatever the difficulties and challenges they had encountered in enacting this process, and however contentious certain features of it had been, many interviewees had thoroughly enjoyed and had been excited by their involvement in professionalising archaeology. Moreover they were extremely proud of what they had been able to achieve, particularly, although not exclusively, in the 1970s and 1980s. John Williams discussed with pride how his team of fieldworkers employed by the Northampton Development Corporation had been one of the first to experiment with using context sheets, employing Harris matrices, and publishing data on microfiche. Several interviewees described with pleasure how they had worked hard to create numerous jobs in archaeology in the 1980s, particularly within fieldwork units and local authorities (AO, GW, JWI, JN). For instance, in discussing his mission to fund archaeologists in local authorities during the 1980s, Geoff Wainwright described how:

Meanwhile Geoff observed how, in the heat of the moment, certain elements of the discipline were left out of the document’s remit: ‘Museums – completely forgot about them! The museum profession completely got the hump over it and particularly when they came to see me – “why haven’t you mentioned museums, this is another example of museums being left out”. And I said “sorry boys – I just forgot about you!” [laughs]. And they loved that! So that was quite amusing. But in any review of PPG16 that has to be put right.’ (GW)

‘That programme was so successful that we soon built up to funding about 30 posts a year. After 15 years, we had funded 420 posts in the country, and I’m quite proud of that.’ (GW) Adrian Olivier recounted enthusiastically how he had needed to be pragmatic, entrepreneurial, creative, and sometimes wily in his role as deputy director and then director of the Lancaster University Archaeological Unit (which he contributed to building and then guided through difficult financial times, as government funding shifted over the course of the 1980s). Thus, although he felt that he had faced many challenges in engaging with and enacting aspects of professionalisation over this period, and had needed to work very hard, he suggested:

I would also suggest that these renditions of the haphazard way in which certain early aspects of archaeology’s recent professionalisation were enacted reveal two other qualities of this process. Firstly they evoke very well the rapid pace at which activities associated with professionalisation were sometimes undertaken during the 1970s and 1980s; a characteristic which, as noted in Section 4.2 was mentioned at the time in the IFA’s newsletter. More specifically, in describing his efforts to produce an SMR for Lancashire in the late 1970s, Adrian Olivier mentioned how there was a sense at the time that you needed to deliver the trappings of professionalisation quickly, and that the details could be

‘It was an exciting time – it was a heady time.’ (AO) Indeed similar sentiments were expressed by Ann Woodward and Jon Cotton, both of whom had occupied

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comparable positions in archaeology at broadly the same time.

‘Actually, that’s come up in the [EH] inspectorate review – they just live on acronyms!’ (GA)

Meanwhile, although Mike Parker Pearson was critical about other aspects of archaeology’s professionalisation, he was animated and positive when he was discussing his involvement in producing PPG16:

‘It has got harder over the past ten years though. The amount of time we spend with budget sheets, trying to sort out the funding. But that could also be the higher up the tree you go the more you have to sort out the finances? But the finance is tighter these days.’ (JWI)

‘I think the contribution that became PPG16 I’m very pleased with, because it needed doing. It’s probably the most important document in British archaeology of the last 30 years … It was a great time – it was a holy war worth fighting. We won the war!’ (MPP)

8.4. Appreciating the complexities of professionalisation: balancing professionalism with informality and independence In relation to this last point, I will now focus in detail upon one specific aspect of professionalisation which, according to interviewees, archaeologists across the discipline have encountered particular difficulties with: that of standardising or formalising archaeological practices. By this I mean the creation of standardised procedures for investigating, recording, analysing and publishing archaeological material, the definition of formal roles for archaeologists, and the delineation of common research aims. I will begin by looking at ways in which archaeologists’ difficulties with these processes were manifest in interviewees’ accounts, and go on to highlight how, in relation to these difficulties, the standardisation and formalisation of archaeological practices has become a seemingly unending process. By examining the complexities involved in one specific aspect of professionalisation, I also hope to shed light on the potential paradoxes of this phenomenon more broadly.

It is also worth emphasising that interviewees’ enthusiasm for professionalising archaeology extended beyond the earlier part of this process prior to 1990. Jacky Nowakowski and John Williams both described with satisfaction how they had contributed to building large and diverse teams of archaeologists in local authorities over the course of the 1990s: ‘We’ve created those posts – they wouldn’t have been there in the past. Those posts have been created out of particular projects, because … I guess we have worked hard at doing such a variety of projects which aim to be both reactive and proactive.’ (JN) In addition, Adrian Olivier discussed passionately his role in initiating the creation of a nationwide network of research frameworks for archaeology, claiming that: ‘I think that that’s the thing that I’m probably most proud of in terms of, you know, if there’s one thing that I’d like to think that I did that made a difference, you know – it’s that.’ (AO)

Seeking yet defying standardisation To begin, it is important to point out that most interviewees at some point during our discussions specifically mentioned how important they felt that the development of standardised practices has been and continues to be for the discipline. Ann Woodward described the development of systematic and standardised methods for recording and analysing prehistoric pottery over the course of her lifetime as being:

In fact it was clear from interviewees’ accounts that many of them believed strongly in the principles of professionalising archaeology, and had engaged wholeheartedly in the creative aspects of this process – in making jobs, developing standardised procedures for recording and publishing, improving the systems for funding archaeological excavation and so on. By contrast, it became evident that interviewees were much less positive when they were discussing some of the outcomes of professionalisation, in particular some of the requirements of ‘being professional’. Thus, they presented a sense that while they were very keen professionalisers of archaeology, they were much less certain about many of the trappings of being professionals:

‘Absolutely wonderful. The fact that it is fairly standardised, and that the PCRG [Prehistoric Ceramics Research Group] was able to standardise it with guidelines – most units use the guidelines – is a very great [achievement].’ (AW) Barry Cunliffe described how important it had been for him to sustain standardised methods of excavation and even broadly the same excavation and post-excavation teams over the duration of his 20 year fieldwork project at Danebury:

‘The problem is that, you know, you have to … It’s tedious sometimes, because the way that the project might be audited or monitored is very bureaucratic, so … that can sap your enthusiasm. But you try not to let it but it can get you down, you know – that you’ve got a really good idea but it’s got to be done in this way or whatever.’ (JN)

‘The other aspect of it was to apply exactly the same techniques of excavation, recovery and everything, and, as far as possible to have the same sets of people analysing the material all the way through – maintaining

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which archaeological features were not excavated in a manner which was appropriate to their research significance – Neolithic pits had been left half excavated or had otherwise not been explored at all, meanwhile ubiquitous Roman field systems had been investigated much more thoroughly. In addition Jon Cotton described his fear that archaeological evaluation had become an end in itself, losing sight of what it was actually meant to do:

the scheme. And we’ve done that pretty well – right the way through until this last programme … So all the standards are the same, so there is a direct comparability of results from site to site to site to site [tapping his hand lightly on the desk] which was really what we were aiming for.’ (BC) Chris Evans explained how maintaining consistency in recording methods was vital for enabling the use of statistical approaches to analyse archaeological data:

‘I just wonder if we don’t write off sites too cheaply sometimes in evaluation.’ (JC)

‘A lot of it [during the 1980s] was about producing a standard methodology, and that has been one of … I’ve always been aware of wanting to have statistical control at a fairly high level. So that a lot of the unit stuff has been about statistical practices, you know, obviously giving freedom to people if they wanted to do other things but you know the basis is, you want to be able to compare the field-walking results from here to there. You want to be able to compare the artefact densities from this site to the next site.’ (CE)

Hugo also illustrated very well how the existence of standard and deeply entrenched ways of writing about archaeological sites (as previously critiqued by Bradley 2006b) could lead to a situation where writing became an exercise which was orientated primarily towards achieving an expected, standardised output rather than being shaped principally by the character of the evidence in hand: ‘Like at Oxford [Archaeology], you can go instantly … well, first we’ve got the pottery in chronological order, and then it’ll be the flint, then it’ll be the stone, then it’ll be coins … And I can list it all off the top of my head because I’ve worked there for so long, it’s just automatic. And I know different units have different orders but they’re almost as prescribed. And the way monographs are produced. Oxford – it has to be at least an inch thick. And it will have huge amounts of description. A little bit of discussion – it usually tries to put it in a broad context. And every Oxford volume is virtually the same in that way. And I know I’m guilty of producing a couple myself – even for Taplow Court, which should have been a small journal article really – it’s turned into a monograph. You know it’s massively expanded in the scale … “oh, we could produce a monograph if we just elaborate it a bit more”.’ (HLW)

Meanwhile interviewees described the idea of generating research frameworks for archaeology which set out common investigative aims as being ‘good’ (MPP), ‘valuable’, ‘applaudable’ (AW), ‘a useful exercise’ (BC), and even ‘brilliant’ (JN). Nevertheless, interviewees also rendered many ways in which both they and others whom they had worked with had found aspects of standardisation and formalisation problematic. Indeed, as noted in Section 4.3 concerns about the standardisation of archaeological practices were raised very early on in archaeology’s recent professionalisation. One of the biggest concerns which interviewees raised was that having standardised methods, approaches and aims could and indeed did curb creative thinking. Indeed, as discussed in Chapter 2, similar concerns have been raised in recent critiques of archaeological practices (e.g. Lucas 2001a, 9). However what the interview evidence revealed was that such anxieties are held widely across the discipline and have clearly been arrived at independently, as well as in response to postprocessual critiques.

Indeed it could even be argued that such anxieties have been realised (in a somewhat Foucauldian manner) in the outcomes of the recent excavations undertaken in advance of Heathrow Terminal 5, Perry Oaks (Framework Archaeology 2006). As outlined in Section 2.3, the team responsible for this project (including Gill Andrews) invested considerable effort in developing an innovative and theoretically informed approach. Meanwhile the academic advisor for the project, John Barrett has stressed that ‘historical interpretation must … work against the uniformitarian aspects of the recording system. It must pervert it by repopulating the stratigraphic process with historically and culturally specific human beings’ (Barrett 1995, 10). However, perhaps in relation to the fact that this approach was implemented through standardised (if technologically superior) systems for recording, analysing and publishing archaeological remains, one interviewee (HLW) suggested that the project’s potentially innovative qualities seemed to have somehow been neutralised in the process, thus its outcomes were ultimately little different from the norm:

Barry Cunliffe described how he had become concerned about the use of context sheets in archaeology having experimented with them during the 1970s: ‘It was Geoff [Wainwright] developing them in English Heritage, in their archaeological unit. And I remember distinctly when Geoff and his two or three buddies came down to Hengistbury and I said “look, tell us what you’re doing, tell us how you’re designing these sheets”. We took all their good advice and we designed the sheets and we used them. But it is so mechanical that it cuts out the thought processes, I think.’ (BC) Several interviewees raised similar worries about the application of standardised investigative methods. Hugo Lamdin-Whymark gave examples of how the rigid application of such measures could lead to situations in

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numerous ways in which, despite (or perhaps because of) the existence of these measures, archaeologists’ had failed to achieve standardisation, and had often actively resisted doing so. In relation to this point, Yarrow suggested that systems which are devised to erase differences between people can actually often serve to make differences more visible (Yarrow 2006c, 26).

‘It’s a massive site but it’s as site-based as any other traditional report and doesn’t look beyond its boundaries. And so I think … I think it’s very honourable trying to write archaeology in a different way but that [the Perry Oaks] volume hasn’t achieved it.’ (HLW) Indeed Chris Evans expressed similar opinions (in more detail) in his review of the Perry Oaks publication in the journal Antiquity (2008).

Interviewees described how, regardless of their broadly standardised format, archaeologists actually use context sheets in many different ways. 10 Ann Woodward suggested that, even though they were devised with a common remit, the outcomes of recent attempts to create an integrated system of regional research frameworks were ‘highly variable’. Indeed, as mentioned in Section 4.8, it appears that archaeologists have actually found it very difficult to make these documents cohere. While several interviewees were worried about the effects of having prescribed investigative methods, they also mentioned how in fact these approaches were actually applied quite patchily (JWI, HLW). Meanwhile Hugo Lamdin-Whymark rendered very well how, although in certain respects the procedures involved in producing archaeological monographs have become systematic to the point of being formulaic, viewed at a different level the character of such monographs can be seen as distinctive to the individuals and organisations concerned:11

As well as being concerned about the use of standardised methods in archaeology, interviewees raised a number of ways in which the creation of formal measures or standardised agendas did not necessarily suit either the work of archaeologists or the nature of archaeological evidence. The roles which archaeologists perform are often quite varied and fluid (indeed it might be argued that this is a key attraction of the job) and so attempts to formalise posts can seem intrusive. Moreover one of the exciting qualities of archaeological evidence itself is its capacity to surprise and challenge its investigators, rather than necessarily conforming to expectations. For instance in discussing a jobs and grading exercise at the Museum of London which was being undertaken at the time of our interview, Jon Cotton described how: ‘They wanted to interview one or two curators who could stand for all curators. Well it doesn’t work like that. Everybody has their own set of things that they do within the overall framework. So each curator tends to sort of chart his or her own job, as it were. You kind of make it up as you go along.’ (JC)

‘You look at Wessex [Archaeology]. They have these slim, synthetic blue volumes … whereas Oxford [Archaeology] produce inch thick volumes and try to get every single individual feature, however dull, in the text somewhere … And then TVAS [Thames Valley Archaeological Services] publications fall somewhere in between the two – they’re not as thick as Oxford’s, they’re not as thin as Wessex’s, they’re just somewhere in between. And it just seems that each unit produces its own archaeology … And academics are also like mini-organisations in their own right if they’re prolific enough!’ (HLW)

In relation to this issue it is interesting to note that university-based researchers appear to have encountered similar difficulties in responding to the requirements of auditing in academia. Indeed anthropological critiques of auditing practices have suggested that the act of defining uniform roles in institutional contexts more broadly necessarily involves a degree of reification. Consequently the complexities of the practices concerned are inevitably concealed (Strathern 2000b, 314, Tsoukas 1997, 831).

In addition, interviewees outlined specific incidences in which they themselves or others, despite appreciating the value of setting or having standards, had actively opposed them, or resisted coming to a final agreement about them. Hugo Lamdin-Whymark related how at Durrington Walls, different site directors’ preferences for slightly different recording systems actually made it difficult for them to create the integrated database they all desired. Others relayed the complexities which had been encountered in trying to produce common glossaries for describing archaeological materials – flint, pottery and so on – which in the case of the Lithics Studies Group, led to a very long delay (of several decades) and ultimately to the (reluctant) abandonment of the project (see

Meanwhile both Hugo Lamdin-Whymark and Mike Parker Pearson pointed out how archaeological evidence itself frequently defies the setting of common research aims:9 ‘Well, that’s the problem you get back to – they [research frameworks] have to be very precise and proscriptive for anyone to apply them. But by being so rigid they’re not going to be very useful … the problem is always – you write these research proposals before you strip the site and then you find something entirely different when you strip it.’ (HLW)

10

Interestingly however, as well as raising various anxieties that they had about the standardisation and formalisation of archaeological practices, interviewees also discussed

A point that Yarrow elicits in his paper ‘In Context: Meaning, Materiality and Agency in the Process of Archaeological Recording’ (Yarrow 2008a). 11 Moore (2008) makes a similar point in discussing the variable quality of the evidence base available within contemporary Sites and Monuments Records, a trait which he sees largely as a product of problems associated with the implementation of PPG16.

9

In fact, as noted in Section 4.8, similar concerns were actually first raised before many Research Frameworks had even been produced.

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http://www.lithics.org/history.html (Accessed 14.08.12) for further details). Indeed in discussing the role of regional research frameworks in relation to his own research, Julian Thomas vocalised an approach which almost certainly resonates much more broadly in British archaeology:

information society is riddled with paradoxes that prevent it from satisfying the temptations it creates’ (Tsoukas 1997, 827).

‘I’m certainly very interested in what are perceived as being the research questions that the discipline is defining for itself. And yet, you know, I’ve very much got my own agenda. So I might tailor what I do to those frameworks, but you know, again, there are certain things I want to know and that’s why I do what I do. And, you know, I’d hesitate to get involved in a project which was dictating to me entirely what I was going to do.’ (JT)

Finally, I will highlight one further element of interviewees’ accounts which almost certainly explains some of the difficulties which archaeologists have encountered in trying to standardise and formalise their practices in relation to the discipline’s recent professionalisation. Indeed it might even be viewed as a product of this process. Almost all interviewees, whatever their disciplinary background, raised at some point during our discussions ways in which they valued informality and difference in archaeology; traits which they felt were particularly characteristic of the discipline’s practices in the 1970s and 1980s. This includes informality in terms of archaeologists’ roles, their working practices, and the relationships which they build with one another (a point which I will expand upon in Chapter 9).

Valuing informality

In fact, it can be argued that one significant effect of archaeology’s attempts to formalise and standardise its practices is that it has also made evident the considerable capacity of its practitioners to do exactly the opposite; a point which Adrian Olivier put down to the existence of a widespread reluctance ‘for any one archaeologist to do something the same as any other archaeologist.’

Several interviewees (BC, CE, JT) discussed the advantages of informal recording systems (using notebooks) which incorporate the debates which actually characterise the recording process on archaeological excavations; a point which, as discussed in Chapter 2, is echoed in critiques of archaeological practices (e.g. Hodder 2000). Julian Thomas said that he even enjoyed the fact that information was more frequently overlooked in archives which resulted from the use of informal recording procedures:

Consequently, it seems hardly surprising that some interviewees seemed uncertain about whether or not archaeological practices have actually become more standardised over the course of the discipline’s recent professionalisation. Jacky Nowakowski observed how recording methodologies still vary slightly from site to site in contemporary archaeology, much as they used to in the 1970s. Indeed Chris Evans contended that standardisation had ‘simply gone right down’ in recent years, explaining how standard practices had been implemented much more strictly in the early years of archaeology’s recent professionalisation:

‘I … really loved working with the material from the really old excavations [during his PhD research in the 1980s], because I liked the sense of there being little notes written on fag packets which were 60 or 70 years old. And the fact that there might just be a little bit of information there – a note or something written on a piece of pottery or something which would give me something that wasn’t in the publication.’ (JT)

‘The control systems always used to be much higher, that’s the thing. Site directors in London [in the late 1970s], you know, you really seriously vetted people’s recording and it had to have levels of standardisation. At least quarter of the director’s time was spent checking people’s records in the field. And that’s something we’ve slightly lost.’ (CE)

Adrian Olivier described how unity of approach was not even considered to be a factor when archaeologists were establishing county-based Sites and Monuments Records during the late 1970s:

He also discussed how he felt that it was no longer possible to easily compare the outputs of different archaeological organisations:

‘You know, we just all recognised that we did things slightly differently and we were different personalities.’ (AO)

‘We allow too much independence – we don’t have enough standardisation, which you can say is the opposite of the research ethos. That, you know, you want to be able to compare results from one [fieldwork] unit to another in a landscape and you can’t do it.’ (CE)

Adrian (and Jon Cotton) also acknowledged that the informal and varied roles which many archaeologists performed in the 1980s had actually worked very well:12

Thus interviewees ultimately presented the process of standardising and formalising archaeological practices (in some ways like professionalisation more broadly) as a seemingly endless task – by standardising archaeological practices at one level, they are revealed to be, or have otherwise become quite variable at another. As Tsoukas has argued in his critique of auditing practices: ‘the

12

As outlined in Section 4.4 similar opinions were raised in the IFA’s newsletter in 1990.

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formalisation, and their orientations towards informality and independence.

‘Our job was actually to do the rescue excavations that would come out, as it were, of the development control process. Now in Cumbria, development control was done by the county archaeologist, Tom Clare, in the planning department. In Lancashire it was done by me in the university, using the Sites and Monuments Record. So it was pre-Chinese Walls days, although it never bothered us.’ (AO)

In relation to this analysis I would also like to raise three further points of interest. Firstly, it is clear from interviewees’ accounts that archaeologists’ difficulties with standardisation and formalisation extend across the discipline. Thus in many ways postprocessual critiques of standardised practices (e.g. Jones 2002, Lucas 2001a) in fact parallel arguments which are ongoing much more widely in archaeology. Secondly it is important to point out that the requirement to balance attributes of informality with those of professionalism is certainly not unique to archaeology. For instance in her study of a local Housing Aid Office, Edwards describes how workers in a very different set of circumstances applied ‘strategies of informality’ as a means of negotiating between the often opposing interests of the homeless clients and the local authority officials they were required to engage with in their work (1994, 196). What is perhaps different with regards to the situation in archaeology is the extent to which, at least according to interviewees’ accounts, archaeologists remain unsure as to whether they have yet found a satisfactory balance between their twin desires to retain aspects of informality and to formalise and standardise their practices. Indeed recent attempts to formalise informal aspects of archaeological practice, for instance by trying to capture the voices of excavators within context sheets (e.g. Andrews et al. 2000), can perhaps be seen as a further expression of this ongoing negotiation.

Others described how the informality of teaching practices in universities in the 1970s and 1980s had empowered students, encouraging a positive, selfsufficient attitude towards investigating archaeology (JN, MPP, JT). Indeed Jacky Nowakowski captured this sentiment very well in describing the informal theory group which she and fellow students formed in Sheffield in the early 1980s: ‘We wanted to sort of learn to think for ourselves, and throw ideas around without the formal structures … It was a bit naff really. I mean it lasted about a term and a half and then I think everybody really thought “well we’re not getting anywhere, we’re just going around in circles”. But it was quite fun at the same time.’ (JN) A number of interviewees mentioned the benefits of informal relations between archaeologists working in different contexts; something which they felt had been curbed by the formalisation of archaeological roles, in particular the lines which had been drawn between ‘amateurs’ and ‘professionals’ (JC, HLW, AW). Moreover although these same interviewees very much appreciated the fact that collaboration between these particular groups was now encouraged by funding bodies in an attempt to promote social inclusion, Jon Cotton also expressed regret that in the 1970s and 1980s:

Thirdly it could be argued that the difficulties which archaeologists have experienced in standardising and formalising their practices are a particular expression of professional archaeology’s aforementioned ongoing adherence to both ‘academic’ and ‘professional’ principles (if indeed these ideologies can be viewed as operating in opposition to one another, as theorists of professionalisation have suggested (e.g. Robbins 1993)). Thus qualities such as independence, creativity and informality continue to be valued in archaeology alongside (rather than necessarily in opposition to) those such as uniformity and consistency.

‘You know you didn’t feel that [collaborative work] was something that you were required to do. You just did it; it was just there to do. But these days, you’ve got to do it.’ (JC) Summary To summarise, I have explored in detail one particular aspect of archaeology’s recent professionalisation in order to highlight the kind of complexities which this process has engendered within archaeology. Interviewees’ accounts reveal that attempts to standardise and formalise archaeological practices, as well as being undoubtedly invaluable in many respects (as written accounts have highlighted), have also met with considerable resistance, have almost certainly provoked new forms of diversification, and have probably contributed to a heightening of archaeologists’ appreciation for the (formerly) informal aspects of their work. Overall then, it could be argued that professionalisation has brought about an increased requirement for archaeologists to actively negotiate between their orientations towards standardisation and

8.5.

Implications for research practice

To finish my examination of archaeology’s recent professionalisation, I will outline the various ways in which interviewees suggested that this process has been implicated in practices involved in knowledge production. While it was very difficult to make such connections using the evidence from the IFA’s newsletter (see Section 4.9), as I had hoped, this was certainly not the case when it came to using the evidence from lifehistory interviews. Since I have already discussed in detail interviewees’ opinions about how the standardisation and formalisation of archaeological practices has been caught up in research practices, I will focus primarily here on the effects of other aspects of professionalisation – shifts in funding, the expansion and

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Obviously these comments cannot be seen to characterise the working attitudes of all developer-funded archaeologists. In addition most archaeologists (including the interviewees quoted above) would undoubtedly agree that improvements which have been made to archaeologists’ working conditions, particularly those who operate within developer-funded archaeology (see for example Everill 2009, 30, IFA 2010), have been a good thing. 13 However it is worth noting that similar views were also voiced by one of the interviewees in Everill’s study (2009, 176), suggesting that this is a perception which is held much more widely.

diversification of the discipline, the introduction of health and safety measures, and so on. With regards to the growth of professional archaeology at a broad level, Chris Evans outlined how the creation of centres of archaeological expertise at a local and national level over the last 30 years had improved significantly the flow of disciplinary knowledge. He mentioned the advantages of having a much better educated workforce, and discussed how much easier it is in contemporary archaeology to garner expert knowledge and to employ cutting edge scientific approaches than was the case previously. He also suggested that certain excavation projects may never have been written up without the infrastructure of specialist archaeologists and technologies which is now available within developerfunded archaeological units, contrasting this situation with that in the early 1980s when:

Interviewees also commented upon the extent to which shifts in the funding of archaeological work associated with the discipline’s professionalisation, in particular the advent of developer-funded archaeology, had been implicated in research practices. Unsurprisingly many of them raised the notions which are considered in detail in Chapter 5 and are voiced widely within existing literature (e.g. Bradley 2007, Darvill et al. 2002, Moore 2006), that the rise of developer-funded archaeology had resulted in the creation of much more data, in the discovery of new kinds of evidence, and in the investigation of sites in different geographical locations. In line with the fears and speculations of various authors (Carver 1996, Dalwood 1987, Raab 1984), two interviewees described how developer-funded archaeology had brought with it a requirement to produce a different level of archaeological information: one which was briefer and more pragmatic. However, unlike these authors, neither Adrian Olivier or Jamie Wright felt that this shift should necessarily be viewed in a negative light. For instance Jamie, who at the time of our interview was working for Wessex Archaeology, described how:

‘You know you’ve got the idea of the lone site director, who somehow in his house is going to reduce all his base plans and do all these … Well basically it’s saying you’re going to dedicate the rest of your life to this site.’ (CE) However, several interviewees, including Chris, raised another rather interesting phenomenon which had emerged in relation to the growth of professional archaeology at a broad level. They suggested that not only had this led to the creation of much more work in archaeology, it had also led archaeologists to treat archaeology as a job; a development which they suggested was particularly apparent within developerfunded archaeology, and had almost certainly become caught up in research practices. Chris explained how he felt that contemporary fieldwork archaeologists were often much less open to experimentation with different kinds of methodologies (for instance sampling techniques), since they had been trained to consider that their job was to dig archaeological features:

‘I was told the other week that I’d got to er … “focus on what’s important. You’re making professional judgements, they’re paying us for professional judgements – you don’t need to put all that detail in. Professionally judge – that’s not research!” You know, it’s something that I do feel fine with, you know. Some reports you look at and they describe every bloody soil in a ditch, and then every bloody soil in the ditch next to it, and you want to say “look, you’re digging clay – it’s going to be clayey soil ... Stop telling us all the time – just say at the start it’s a clayey site!” … I mean … we do live in a commercial world and … you’ve got to get stuff done.’ (JWR)

‘How the staff see the job of being an archaeologist themselves, does itself influence methodology.’ (CE) Indeed his arguments were corroborated by other interviewees, including Hugo Lamdin-Whymark, who discussed how those responsible for the recent excavations at Heathrow Terminal 5 had ultimately found it difficult to convince senior specialists to work fulltime on the excavation site and thus to inform data collection in the manner set out in the project design (Andrews et al. 2000). This could well relate to the fact that in recent years, the job of being a materials specialist in archaeology has become increasingly office-based. In this context, the prospect of undertaking work, however valuable, that requires spending long periods out of the office and away from home seems unattractive.

Additionally, Jon Cotton described how, although the creation of a formal system for implementing developerfunded archaeology (PPG16) has not necessarily increased the volume of excavations taking place in London (in contrast to other areas of England), for a very

13

Indeed without exception all of the interviewees who raised such ideas had primarily worked within developer-funded archaeology.

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not voiced in existing texts. He suggested that it had led to the creation of an evidence base which is more ‘honest’, if also sometimes repetitive to the point of being ‘horrifying’ (an observation which Barry Cunliffe made equally vehemently):

different reason it has almost certainly resulted in the discovery of much more prehistoric archaeology:14 ‘Because more people with a prehistoric background have come in [with fieldwork units based elsewhere], and people in London have realised “well yeah – there is a story to be told here”.’ (JC)

‘I mean one of the ways that developer-funding has undoubtedly changed the ethos that went before is that people don’t have to lie … You know, you can see it, not to name names, but you know, certain practitioners, they’ll always find the biggest, the deepest, the oldest, the longest, and ultimately the best. And there’ll always be that kind of summoning point to English Heritage – or you wouldn’t get cash … it creates a flagship archaeology. And that’s why there’s no reason to be sentimental about flagships, because they are inherently distorted … I mean, you see it a lot now [in excavations which take place beyond the remit of developer-funded archaeology]. It’s interesting why people want to go … you know, so many new sites have been found – why do people keep going back to the same sites to excavate? You know, we’ve got Star Carr being done, we’ve got Durrington [Walls], we’ve got Avebury … Part of it is the original basking glory of the site will reflect on you. You can do less on an already famous site and its repercussions seem to be greater. I mean one of the really great things about developer-funded archaeology is that it just allows you to look at the past realistically – rather coldly – for what it is. You know, not everything’s wonderfully famous – the first of this, or the second of that.’ (CE)

It is certainly possible that the trend associated with developer-funded archaeology for archaeologists to work in geographical areas beyond those with which they are familiar has affected the kinds of evidence which are produced much more broadly. Nigel Brown reflected how, in relation to the formal implementation of developer-funded archaeology, government bodies had directed their own funds away from excavation. Consequently a new realm of archaeological research has emerged within local authorities which tends to focus on landscape-scale analysis using non-intrusive techniques such as aerial photography and survey. Jacky Nowakowski substantiated this argument, mentioning Cornwall County Council’s recent appointment of a Countryside Advisor and a GIS Officer. In this light it seems more understandable that, as observed in Section 4.6, landscape archaeology featured so strongly in the IFA’s newsletter after 1990 despite the fact that a greater volume of excavation was taking place at the time. Perhaps, for whatever reason, this forum was focussing on reflecting the contemporary activities of local authority archaeology rather than those of archaeologists more broadly? It is also interesting to note how this shift in the focus of local authority research in the 1990s towards investigating archaeological landscapes coincided neatly with a renewed interest in landscape theory in university-based archaeology: a connection which is rarely, if ever, made.

Indeed this comment is in accord with the observation made in Section 5.2 that in recent years, in connection with the expansion of developer-funded archaeology, prominent prehistoric monuments and settlements have been investigated relatively far less frequently than they were in the 1980s.

Jacky Nowakowski also discussed how, while she found the constant requirement for local authority archaeologists to tailor funding applications to meet the demands of the government (and of EH) tiring, she had also come to appreciate the creative potential of this process. Thus she described how it could lead archaeologists into previously unforeseen research areas, giving the example of her recent successful collaboration with an offshore oil company:

Perhaps one of the more unusual ways in which interviewees suggested that professionalisation had been caught up in research practices was via the enforcement of health and safety legislation. Thus, while these interviewees obviously appreciated the importance of having such regulations, they also rendered ways in which, due to how they had been applied, research had unnecessarily been curbed. Barry Cunliffe described how ‘potentially really important research’ had been curtailed due to the enforcement of depth constraints. Moreover Hugo Lamdin-Whymark recounted how, although he felt that experimental flint knapping was essential to his own understanding of prehistoric flint working, the increasing bureaucracy associated with undertaking such activities, particularly within universities, could sometimes seem off-putting:

‘So if they want social inclusion … or whatever English Heritage’s next buzz words are, well you build that into the project … I mean I’m not making any judgements about those [requirements] because I’ve done projects where those things have become central to the ethos and the way the project has developed.’ (JN) Meanwhile Chris Evans raised one other way in which the advent of developer-funded archaeology has shifted the nature of archaeological research which is certainly

‘You get a lot of health and safety issues, because people don’t want … There’s a huge pile of paperwork to fill out to have someone flint knapping in a university.’ (HLW)

14

Indeed this assertion that there has been a distinct rise in the proportion of investigations producing prehistoric evidence within Greater London is supported by the evidence examined in Section 5.2.

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that a few interviewees (including those who instigated their production) did suggest that documents such as these had engendered some positive research outcomes. Nigel Brown, who has been involved significantly in the creation of regional research frameworks in the east of England outlined how the documents which he had contributed to had enabled Essex County Council’s heritage team to undertake a ‘whole raft of research’ involving the investigation of cropmark archaeology and the coastal zone. In addition Jacky Nowakowski felt that the collation of evidence from a whole region which the construction of these documents involves provided a useful resource which might:

Turning to the effects of the recent rise in auditing on research practices, interviewees agreed that this topic was worthy of further consideration: ‘I think that questions like how the audit culture changes the kind of publication that happens in archaeology is a very legitimate thing to be doing. Particularly where you’ve got things like corpuses, like large field projects, and so on … And how that can be tailored or not to the demands of that kind of a culture is very important.’ (JT) They also suggested that thus far this matter had been dealt with somewhat tacitly within archaeology, in contrast to the situation in other disciplines such as anthropology, where the effects of such practices have been considered in some detail (see for example Davis 1999, Strathern 2000a, 2000b, 2004, Tsoukas 1997). In addition, interviewees did offer a few indications of ways in which auditing activities had become caught up in their research practices. Ann Woodward described how she felt that justification practices curbed the potential to form research partnerships which did not follow prescribed channels (for instance between archaeologists based in fieldwork units and those based in universities):

‘Highlight some surprising things that you’re not aware of because, you know, you could get a little bit hemmed in or focused on your own piece of work, so the bigger picture is sometimes difficult to see.’ (JN) However most interviewees were much less optimistic about the potential for regional research frameworks to influence research practices, suggesting that they were ‘too rigid’ and too poorly-funded (thus thriftily produced) to be useful (HLW, AW). Several interviewees also commented on how the agendas these documents set tend to match the investigative intentions of their lead authors, which compromises their value for the broader research community (BC, CE, JWI). Thus, they suggested, research frameworks ‘ultimately … end up as an ignored document’ (MPP). Indeed in relation to this point, Strathern has questioned whether it is at all possible for strategic research documents to actually create knowledge, as they are intended to do (2007, 13).

‘The problem is that on the unit side it’s the pressure of filling in the timesheets against the project funding. And on the university side, well, they’re moving in the same direction aren’t they? They’re beginning to have to account for their time as well … And that goes completely against any informal interchange, which is a big shame.’ (AW) Meanwhile Jacky Nowakowski, who clearly appreciated the sense that auditing had heightened archaeologists’ awareness of the social value or significance of their work, evoked very well how such practices can become a habit, and can even actually constitute research. In discussing the recent Historic Landscape Characterisation project which has been undertaken in local authorities across Britain,15 she described how:

8.6.

Summary

To summarise, on the basis of interviewees’ accounts, I have shown that despite the extensive coverage of this topic in existing literature, there remains considerable scope for scrutinising further British archaeology’s recent professionalisation.

‘I did a little audit of it earlier this year when I did a paper at the Prehistoric Society conference called “Seeing the Bigger Picture”. I realised as I was pulling this paper together that somebody needs to do a proper audit of that particular interpretative tool in relation to PPG16, to see how well it’s worked.’ (JN)

I have highlighted that aspects of professionalisation have been implicated in all areas of the discipline over the last 30 years rather than being restricted to the realm of developer-funded archaeology, as many existing accounts imply. I have also argued that professionalisation can be defined in relation to another key way in which interviewees characterised change over the period in question: as encompassing the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation. I have suggested that the development of a distinctive identity for professional archaeology has not necessarily been straightforward, nor has it conformed to predictive or theoretical models of this process. Notions of what it is to be ‘professional’ have shifted over the period in question not only in relation to the domains occupied by ‘amateurs’ and ‘academics’ but also within professional archaeology itself. Moreover, rather than entirely abandoning or following academic discourse, professional archaeologists have incorporated academic

Finally, and somewhat ironically, one aspect of professionalisation which most interviewees felt would make very little impression on research practices, was the creation of regional research frameworks. Clearly, since these are a relatively recent development (having emerged over the last 10-15 years), many of their effects are yet to become apparent. It is also worth pointing out 15

Historic Landscape Characterisation is a local-authority and EHcoordinated project which uses data from Historic Environment Records to map historical landscape development (see http://www.englishheritage.org.uk/server/show/nav.1293 (Accessed 10.02.10) for further details).

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principles into their own discourse, thus collapsing the distinction which is often made between the two. I have foregrounded several qualities of archaeology’s recent professionalisation which are not apparent in existing written accounts – that it was often enacted naively and with surprising haste (especially in the early days), and that many archaeologists were actually excited by their involvement in it (a sentiment which, I would argue, is not commonly linked with the notion of professionalisation). In addition, I have suggested that despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that many interviewees engaged enthusiastically in enacting archaeology’s professionalisation, they were also quite critical about some of its outcomes. By focussing upon one particular aspect of professionalisation – that of standardising and formalising archaeological practices – I was also able to consider why such feelings of dissatisfaction might arise in relation to this process. I described how by adhering to a mixture of values which, although very important, are often conflicting – those of uniformity, informality and independence – professional archaeologists have reached a situation whereby it seems impossible actually to achieve any of these ideals. Finally I have explored the varied and sometimes unexpected ways in which interviewees suggested that aspects of professionalisation have become caught up (or not, as the case may be) in the practices involved in archaeological knowledge production. In this light, I would argue, professionalisation can be viewed as being of interest and importance to archaeologists across the discipline.

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Chapter 9.

A persistent theme: disciplinary fragmentation

‘Unless we get to be more coherent, the whole discipline is going to go down the political plug.’ (AO)

Exploring 9.2. fragmentation

9.1.

In order to appreciate the intricacies involved in archaeologists’ understandings of disciplinary fragmentation, it is worth considering exactly how this notion has been generated both in commentaries and critiques of archaeology over the last 30 years, and by interviewees themselves. In doing so, while accepting that written and oral accounts are undoubtedly mutually constitutive, I would also like to highlight a broad distinction between the two with regards to their coverage of the topic of disciplinary fragmentation. While written accounts tended to stress the persistent and unchanging character of disciplinary disharmony, interviewees more often highlighted historically specific attributes of this phenomenon.

Introduction

This chapter examines another key theme which, like professionalisation, interviewees raised repeatedly during their life-history accounts: the notion that British archaeology is ‘fragmented’ or ‘fragmenting’ socially as a discipline. However unlike professionalisation, which interviewees presented as characterising change in British archaeology over the last 30 years, the notion of disciplinary fragmentation appeared to have persisted throughout this period, while having certain historically specific expressions. In addressing this topic it is important to acknowledge that fragmentation or atomisation has been widely presented as a defining feature of late or post-modern social life (e.g. Giddens 1991, 27, Lyotard et al. 1984, 17) being seen to relate primarily to the separation of previously combined activities, the emergence of distinct realms of expertise, and the creation of abstract systems (e.g. money) which essentially remove social relations from their specific social contexts.1 Rather than simply accepting that this phenomenon is a somewhat generic adjunct to late modern social life, however, I will consider the particular qualities of social fragmentation within British archaeology over the last 30 years. I want to explore in detail how the notion of disciplinary fragmentation has been conceived both in written accounts and by interviewees. Following this, I will highlight how understandings of disciplinary fragmentation in fact exist alongside a series of personal friendships and working relationships which, conversely suggest that archaeology is in fact a closely-bonded and cohesive discipline. Accordingly, I will foreground two forms of relationship – ‘personal contacts’ (including ‘friendship’) and ‘networks’ – which interviewees suggested have operated alongside disciplinary divides. Throughout the analysis, I will highlight how the various relationships under discussion (both unifying and disaggregating) are implicated in the practices involved in knowledge production. To conclude I will consider why, given the fact that many archaeological relationships are very close, the concept of disciplinary fragmentation might have proved to be so pervasive.

the

contours

of

disciplinary

Fragmentedness as a constant In contrast to the topic of professionalisation in British archaeology over the last 30 years, the issue of disciplinary fragmentation has not been analysed as a progressive process, undoubtedly at least in part due to concerns over its potentially negative connotations. Rather the notions that archaeology as a whole is fragmented, and that certain disciplinary divides persist are generally presented as static and widely accepted facts (an impression which is reinforced by the repeated renditions and re-workings of these ideas in disciplinary commentaries – in conference proceedings, newsletters and disciplinary histories). In his history of rescue archaeology, Jones suggests that calls for greater unity in archaeology date back to the 1920s (1984, 10). Papers from a conference in 1986 entitled Rescue Archaeology – What’s Next, cite the observations of an ‘outsider’ at an extra-mural conference at Bristol University in 1969 who characterised the discipline using the terms ‘diffuse’ and ‘disunited’ (Barker 1987b, 7), and a report by the Science and Engineering Research Council in 1986 which described the activities of archaeological organisations as ‘disparate’ and ‘insufficiently co-ordinated’ (Wainwright 1987, 115). As outlined in Chapter 4, newsletters such as The Field Archaeologist and British Archaeology abound with references to the discipline’s fragmented state throughout the last 30 years (e.g. Morris 1993). Both Lawson (2006) and Everill (2009, 47) mention the findings of an All-Party Parliamentary Archaeology Group in 2003 which (amongst other things) described archaeology as being ‘fragmented’. One point of interest to highlight in relation to these accounts is that notions of archaeology being fragmented have often been generated in relation to opinions from ‘outside’ the discipline.

1

In presenting this argument Giddens (1991, 27) also stresses that he himself was wary of equating fragmentation with post-modern social life, preferring instead to examine the relationship between the fragmenting and unifying tendencies of late modern society, and arguing that in some ways, pre-modern societies were more fragmented than late modern ones.

Looking more specifically at the divides which are seen to contribute to the discipline’s disjointed state, authors

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have consistently commented on difficulties in the relationship between ‘rescue’ and ‘research’ in archaeology throughout the period in question (e.g. Carver 2006, and papers in Darvill et al. 1978, Mytum and Waugh 1987); a split which is suggested to follow the same lines as that between ‘professional’ and academic’ archaeology (Dalwood 1987), and that of the ‘age-old’ debate between ‘theory’ and ‘pragmatism’ (Barker 1987a). Others have pointed to splits between ‘professional’ and ‘amateur’ archaeologists (Morris 1993, Renfrew 1978) and, as mentioned in Section 8.2, have even recounted histories of the emergence of this division (Selkirk 1997). In addition Schadla-Hall (1987) discussed the parameters of a separation which existed (in the 1970s and mid-1980s at least) between museums and archaeology more broadly. Indeed many of these ‘splits’ and more (for instance those between ‘the establishment’ and ‘lower-down-the-order’ archaeologists, between competing fieldwork units, and between English Heritage (EH) and other key archaeological bodies, Figure 9.1) were raised in the account I gave in Chapter 4.

discipline (Barker 1987a), and to funding policies which have reinforced existing disciplinary divisions (Millet 1987). Almost certainly in response to this enduring notion that archaeology is factionalised, some authors (e.g. Sheldon 1987) have also stressed the importance of taking time to consider disciplinary relationships in detail. Overall, written accounts provide an impression that British archaeology’s fragmented state is a given and long-lasting phenomenon, and that the most important issue is working out how to deal with it. Consequently it is understandable that, as noted in Section 4.6, many archaeologists appear to find disciplinary disharmony an unproductive topic for analysis. It is also perhaps surprising, however, that while this matter is clearly important to many archaeologists – hence its occurrence so widely in archaeological discourse – the actual character of disciplinary relationships at a broad level (surely vital to any understanding of fragmentation) has rarely been scrutinised. A number of the archaeological critiques outlined in Chapter 2 do comment upon, and even analyse the character and effects of various fractures within the discipline, including those between ‘rescue’ and ‘research’ (Tilley 1989), between interpreters at various stages of the post-excavation process (Jones 2002), between key groups of workers on a research excavation (Wilmore in Bender et al. 2007, Hamilton 2000, Wilmore 2006), and between ‘fieldworkers’ and ‘intellectual elites’ (Lucas 2001a). However in most cases, the actual existence of these fractures tends to be assumed and viewed as being entrenched, rather than being open to scrutiny.

As for potential reasons for archaeology’s fragmented state, authors have suggested that it relates to the discipline’s lack of overall organisation and common purpose (Renfrew 1978), to the divergent driving forces of the various parties involved in archaeological practice (academics, fieldwork units, sponsors, the public) (Bradley 2006a, Carver 1987, Carver 1996, Dalwood 1987), to the alignment of certain archaeological arenas to movements beyond archaeology such as the environmental sector (Jones 1984, 4), to communicative difficulties associated with the diversification of the

Figure 9.1: ‘Another act that needs getting together’ (cartoon by Jim Symonds reproduced in Barker 1987a, 4)

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continues to exist within the discipline (GA) and to archaeologists’ liking for working in relative isolation:

Therefore in addressing the notion of disciplinary fragmentation through the evidence from life-history interviews, and in attempting to characterise it more fully, I have sought to stress how any meaningful understanding of this phenomenon can only be gained by considering disciplinary relationships at a broad level, setting those which are discordant alongside those which cohere. Consequently what ensues could be seen as a study of the relationship between fragmentation and unity in British archaeology over the last 30 years. I have also attempted to question whether or not the character of disciplinary disharmony is necessarily as static as it is often portrayed to be. As Riles suggests ‘to understand how things fail to change … requires an inquiry into how things are measured – into the nature of what [is taken] as information in other words’ (Riles 2001, 95-6). Additionally, I have tried to elicit ways in which perceptions of the character of disciplinary relationships actually operate within research practices.

‘I don’t know why, but archaeologists tend to be a bit lonerish – have you noticed that? Whereas in the scientific world, in the academic scientific world, everybody works in research teams. And yes OK, they have lots of arguments about who invented things first and such like but that is the research culture. It isn’t the research culture in archaeology.’ (AW) It is also worth mentioning that, contrary to such notions, not all interviewees agreed completely with the idea that archaeology was either ‘fragmented’ or ‘fragmenting’: ‘We have a diverse profession but we are not dysfunctional.’ (GW) Much more frequently, however, interviewees portrayed a sense that as well as being intrinsically disjointed, British archaeology had become more so over the course of the last 30 years. Indeed, several interviewees (GA, BC, JN, AW, JWI) reinforced this notion by contrasting contemporary archaeology’s fragmented state with the sense of archaeological unity which they had experienced during their earlier careers. For instance in describing her early excavation experiences, Ann Woodward emphasised the closeness of the relationships she had built with everyone whom she worked with:

Fragmentedness as constant and dynamic As mentioned above, while written accounts have generally presented disciplinary disjointedness as a pervasive feature of British archaeology over the last 30 years and more, in conversation, interviewees actually rendered a more dynamic and complex impression of this phenomenon.

‘These links are very, very strong in our age group.’ (AW)

In agreement with written accounts, a few interviewees (GA, CE, MPP) suggested that disconnections and disagreements between various archaeological entities had occurred throughout the discipline’s history:

When I asked her if she thought that excavators in contemporary archaeology experienced similar feelings of accord she hesitated before answering, contending that:

‘I don’t think it’s broken down … there’ve always been splits in archaeology, like the split between Wheeler and Bersu, which split the field pretty massively. And you have the equivalent now.’ (CE)

‘It’s so different. I mean it’s just such a huge profession now – it’s completely different isn’t it?’ (AW)

In line with this view, interviewees more broadly described numerous fractures, both brief and enduring, which they had encountered during their archaeological lives, throughout the period under consideration here and at various different levels – within organisations, between organisations, and cross-cutting these boundaries. In addition to the recent disciplinary divisions raised in written accounts (and outlined above), Hugo LamdinWhymark mentioned a deep rift which existed between and museum archaeologists, metal-detectorists particularly in the late 1980s. Meanwhile Barry Cunliffe felt that the heated theoretical debates which took place at around the same time had caused unnecessary acrimony both within academia, and between academia and the broader archaeological community. As well as voicing some of the organisational and logistical explanations for disciplinary fragmentation which were mentioned in written accounts, some interviewees also suggested that fragmentedness was integral to the character of archaeologists and of archaeological practice in general, pointing to the widespread ‘silo mentality’ which

Gill Andrews even pinpointed a particular moment during the late 1980s when the distinction was first drawn in archaeology between ‘curators’, ‘contractors’ and ‘consultants’, at which she felt that the discipline’s discordance had suddenly been laid bare: ‘Before that we were all archaeologists.’ (GA) In outlining the specific forms of disciplinary division which interviewees suggested had emerged during the period under analysis here and thus contributed to the feeling of increasing alienation, it is important to highlight that most (if not all) of these divides can be seen to relate closely to aspects of the professionalisation of archaeology over the same period, as outlined in Chapter 8. Indeed one interviewee, Mike Parker Pearson, explicitly made this link. Since I have already discussed some of the tensions which have emerged in relationships between ‘amateurs’, ‘professionals’ and ‘academics’ in connection with the

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widely perceived to exist between ‘academic’ and ‘professional’ archaeology is both more complex and more dynamic than is commonly acknowledged.

recent professionalisation of British archaeology (Section 8.2), I will not focus in detail on this particular set of relationships here. However, it is worth raising three further points of interest. Firstly, as mentioned above, the process of defining other kinds of role during archaeology’s recent professionalisation – for instance those of ‘contractors’, ‘curators’ and ‘consultants’ – was similarly viewed by interviewees (GA, NB, JC, GW) to have augmented the sense that the discipline was fragmenting. Secondly, several interviewees (GA, JC, JN, MPP, AW) stressed that although they felt that aspects of professionalisation had elucidated and aggravated existing differences between amateur, academic and professional archaeologists, such differences have been a factor throughout the period under consideration here rather than having materialised over the course of this period.

Moving on to other factors which interviewees felt had contributed to a sense of increasing disciplinary fragmentation, many interviewees discussed the dissipating effects of the expansion and diversification of archaeology over the last 30 years: ‘I suppose at that time [in the 1970s] there weren’t archaeologists in many other places. They weren’t like in utilities companies or in engineering firms – it was mainly the county services and the Central [Excavation] Unit. I suppose there were the county services and then there were the Wessex and Oxfords and so on. But gradually there were more archaeologists on the block.’ (GA)

Thirdly, I would argue that once examined in detail, the sense that an exceedingly stubborn disciplinary fracture exists between ‘academic’ and ‘professional’ archaeologists has been amplified by suggestions that this particular relationship can be equated with those which exist between ‘research’ and ‘rescue’, and between ‘theory’ and ‘pragmatism’ (see above). For instance, rather than being enduringly faulty, several interviewees (JC, CE, AO, AW) suggested that the proximity of working relationships between university-based archaeologists and those primarily engaged in development-related archaeology throughout the last 30 years is actually best characterised as being ‘cyclical’:

Interestingly several interviewees raised the idea that disciplinary expansion was closely associated with the erosion of a system of practice which cohered principally around key archaeological ‘personalities’. For instance Mansel Spratling explained how such personalities were much more visible when archaeology was smaller:2 ‘You could kind of get a national reputation because, you know – if you talk about people you know and all that, there are only so many people you can keep in your head and know reasonably well. Whereas nowadays I don’t know how many units and God knows what there are all over the country or, you know, university departments and the people working within them. It’s kind of … It’s almost as many people [in archaeology] as there are GPs. You aren’t expected to know all GPs in the country … Even if you are a GP, you don’t know many. And I would guess that archaeology is getting to that kind of fragmented state.’ (MS)

‘It comes and goes. We’re very close now to the university – we get quite a few students doing research projects, dissertation topics with us. And a lot of it’s about the fortunes of the department versus the fortunes of us [Cambridge Archaeological Unit]. It’s always been fairly creative – you can go to what lectures you want to. It varies how much the [Unit] staff participate at any one time. There’s cyclical things in there.’ (CE).

More specifically, a few interviewees (HLW, MPP, JWR) commented on the divisive effects of the expansion and mobilisation of certain large fieldwork units, particularly over the last 10 years. Hugo Lamdin-Whymark described the scattering of Oxford Archaeology’s digging community:

Interviewees also demonstrated quite clearly that definitions of the terms ‘rescue’ and ‘research’ have changed considerably over the last 30 years, even before considering shifts in the relationship which is imagined to exist between these two entities. Put briefly, ‘rescue’ has ceased to be ‘“lying down in front of a bulldozer” – recovering archaeological data immediately before development or with it actually having started’ (JWI). Rather a vestige of this concept remains as a parody of bad practice. Meanwhile as discussed in Section 8.2, the scope of research has broadened considerably both in terms of its remit and the spheres in which it is carried out. Additionally, I have already raised one way in which ‘professional’ archaeologists have blurred the boundaries between their own practices and those of ‘academics’, by embracing the ideal of ‘research’ (Section 8.2). Towards the end of this chapter I will consider how ‘professional’ archaeologists have also confounded to a certain extent the widely perceived division between ‘theory’ and ‘pragmatism’ in archaeology. Overall therefore, interviewees made it clear that the fracture which is

‘I think we [Oxford Archaeology] are getting further and further afield – big, big structural projects. So where you used to have a community of diggers … When I first came to Oxford most people eventually moved to Oxford, whereas most people eventually don’t now – they live elsewhere.’ (HLW) Meanwhile Mike Parker Pearson discussed the effects of such expansion on the working environment: ‘Of course it stops being the kind of long-term party that all excavations should be. Because people then, their 2

Mansel was interviewed separately as part of project to produce an oral history of excavation during the 1960s and 1970s (see Cooper and Yarrow 2012)

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had a terrific drive, terrific confidence, terrific vision, and their interpretative grasp on whatever it was that they were doing was the absolute central cord running through each project. And that’s why they delivered. And the minute that began to unravel was when you got these huge post-excavation backlogs. Because as the discipline diversified and more and more people started coming on board, actually you had people who were much less talented, had much less focus and vision, and didn’t have that ability to lead or to deliver.’ (GA)

working life is all about living in a B&B, broken up into small groups on big sites, four or five of you digging some miserable housing estate. You turn up at HQ on the Monday morning and find out where you’re going to spend the next four weeks … And that is how a lot of peoples’ lives go. It doesn’t have the cohesion of the good times.’ (MPP) One interviewee suggested that the emergence of new archaeological specialisms (for instance the incorporation of Bayesian modelling within radiocarbon dating) had been accompanied by the surfacing of a protectionist attitude towards knowledge about these methods and the information they produce (JN). Finally Gill Andrews outlined how, as ‘professional archaeology’ had grown, differences had emerged even within this domain. In particular she felt that an often unhelpful, hierarchical relationship had developed between government-funded archaeologists (who had increasingly taken on a monitoring role) and those based in developer-funded fieldwork units, which sometimes obscured the extent to which archaeologists in each of these domains needed to work collaboratively in producing archaeological knowledge.

Meanwhile Hugo Lamdin-Whymark explained how the physical dispersal of various contributors to development-related excavation projects, particularly in large fieldwork units, could lead to interruptions in the interpretative process: ‘People [working on site] don’t see the office. They don’t see the specialists … So you don’t have that instant feedback. If you see something really interesting then maybe it’s whizzed back to Oxford. Or you as a specialist might go out to have a look. But then things always get missed as well. So you spot a Neolithic pit in postexcavation and say “Was it 100% excavated?” – “No, half of it is still sitting in the field!”’ (HLW) In relation to the ongoing (if shifting) dislocation between the practices of university-based and professional archaeologists, Chris Evans outlined one way in which this had led to a pooling of unused data from developerfunded archaeology:

Effects on research practices As well as describing their understandings of aspects of British archaeology’s (increasingly) fragmented state over the last 30 years, interviewees raised some specific ways in which such severances and animosities between archaeological bodies have been implicated directly in research practices.

‘The kind of corpi PhDs – the sort of thing where you do all the Samian or do all the Grooved ware – I mean people don’t get PhDs for that any more. So what universities award PhDs for nowadays is in itself somewhat distancing from the real operation of units, and also the operation of the discipline in many regards. I mean we know that there’s thousands of students out there who would like to interpret our data but what we need is people to actually come to terms with them and to analyse them in fact, and to have the skills base.’ (CE)

With regards to disciplinary expansion, Jon Cotton described how it had become increasingly difficult to synthesise data from developer-funded excavations: ‘That has been one of the big challenges over the last 10 or 15 years, I suppose, in the sense that there are a lot more contractors out there producing a lot more data which you, as a curator, have to try and synthesise. So the process of synthesis has become rather more difficult … You know, there are times when you feel as if you have to be a sort of cross between, I don’t know – Henry Kissinger and the Archangel Gabriel! You have to go around and persuade people to give you bits of information.’ (JC)

Both Gill Andrews and Hugo Lamdin-Whymark proposed that the lack of direct academic involvement in developer-funded archaeology had perpetuated a situation whereby ‘grey literature’ and even formal site publications were commonly produced to a level which was limited in interpretative scope: My feeling is that a lot of it is simply dumps of information – we’re back to interpretation not record [(cf. Andrews et al. 2000)] – and that if archaeological work is properly informed from the start … we would be having a database of information that is more usable and more accessible, so that people don’t think “God it’s grey literature!”’ (GA)

Indeed Bradley discussed having encountered similar difficulties in producing his synthetic volume on The Prehistory of Britain and Ireland (Bradley 2006a, 2007). Gill Andrews outlined how she felt that the publication crisis which arose during the 1980s when massive postexcavation backlogs accumulated was linked closely to the breakdown of a research system which centred around key archaeological ‘personalities’:

Additionally, Jacky Nowakowski discussed how the separation of research into archaeological landscapes which took place in local authorities from that which took place in universities had led to a situation whereby few

‘It was a celebrity culture – that’s what it was … But that was both a negative and a positive. Because these people

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which I will turn to next – a topic which features much less prominently in archaeological discourse.

archaeologists were in a position to make connections between the findings of these separate endeavours: ‘I mean creating those links, creating those dialogues – where do you do that? [At the] IFA [conference] you can do that … It’s interesting that there’s an Historic Landscape Characterisation session here [TAG 2006] actually, because I don’t know how many people – I mean students who are studying archaeology – are aware of … that kind of approach of looking at landscapes for example. And aware that that’s come out of the planning field if you like. And it’s being applied to archaeological problems.’ (JN)

9.3. ‘All kinds of networks cross-cut friendships’: re-examining the character disciplinary relationships

by of

One noteworthy feature of my discussions with interviewees about the shifting configuration of disciplinary relationships over the last 30 years is that alongside their frequent renditions of disharmony and dislocation, interviewees also generated habitually a very different and somewhat contradictory impression of archaeology’s social makeup. They described it using the terms small, close-knit and even incestuous.

Summary

Indeed over the course of undertaking the life-history interviews, I was increasingly struck by how often interviewees referred to one another in passing. Many had worked together at some point during their lives (either directly or indirectly), had used each others’ work, or had been thrust together in the context of job interviews. This was the case despite the fact that I was not aware that many (if any) of the interviewees knew one another personally prior to undertaking my research. Consequently when I began to analyse the interview data one of the first actions which I undertook was to produce a map of the various points of connection which interviewees had recounted (Figure 9.2).

In summary, the evidence from written accounts and lifehistory interviews demonstrates that there is a widespread perception amongst archaeologists that the discipline is chronically fragmented. While it is apparent from both these sources that many of these relational tensions and separations have ebbed and flowed over the period in question, many interviewees also felt that there was a broad tendency towards increasing disciplinary disintegration. With regards to this point, it is interesting to observe that Laporsky Kennedy encountered similar tales of past harmony in contrast to contemporary dissonance in her study of gay and lesbian communities in New York (1998, 352). As her investigation progressed, however, she described how she felt increasingly that interviewees were employing this trajectory as a means of affirming community solidarity in the long-term. It is certainly possible that, likewise, archaeologists have built an impression of increasing disciplinary disunity as a means of safeguarding the closeness of disciplinary relationships. Indeed, rather than concluding the analysis at this point, it is important to note that interviewees also made it evident that social fragmentation was not the only way in which disciplinary relationships over the last 30 years could or should be characterised. In fact many interviewees gave the impression that while disciplinary fragmentation (in its many different forms) was a constant threat and concern in archaeology, this tendency was frequently curbed:

In order to construct this diagram I went through the interview transcripts noting systematically instances in which interviewees referred to one another. This included marking the point during the interviewees’ life-history (to the nearest year) when this occurred, as well as making a broad distinction between the properties of the connections which were made. For instance the links described as ‘direct connections’ represent cases in which one interviewee discussed having collaborated directly with another interviewee or having met up with them directly in some form of disciplinary context (at conferences, in interview situations, etc.). Meanwhile the links described as ‘indirect connections’ represent cases in which one interviewee more fleetingly mentioned the work of another interviewee, whether this involved some action which they had taken, some happening in which they had been involved, or a publication they had produced.

‘I thought it was going to be a real disaster – I don’t think it’s a real disaster … I think [archaeology] has factionalised – the academics have gone their way and have rather distanced themselves (too much) from the other face of archaeology. And certainly the commercial side of it has drawn in its vision, quite a lot … And then local government is totally separated, I think, from either of the real worlds. So I think that has happened. I think it’s inevitable, but it’s much less of a disaster than I thought it was going to be. And there are the people who link across and talk to each other.’ (BC)

In presenting this overview of the interconnections between interviewees’ lives it is important to point out that I did not pursue this topic systematically during the interviews; thus it is quite likely that interviewees’ lives were far more interrelated but that not all of these moments of contact were actually voiced during the course of our discussions. In addition, as Riles has discussed (2001, 68-9, and 116), I am conscious that ‘network diagrams’ can be aesthetically alluring without always being analytically helpful.

Consequently it is to the character of disciplinary relationships more broadly, and the nature of these ‘links’

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Figure 9.2: Interconnections between interviewees over the course of their lives in archaeology

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recommendation from a friend or former colleague. I don’t think that the role of friendships has changed – I think they are as important as they ever were.’ (HLW)

Nevertheless, I found the process of producing this image very helpful as a means of trying to comprehend at a broad level the intensity of interactions which had occurred between interviewees. I also found it useful in that it highlighted to me periods during which such connections had been particularly concentrated. For instance there is a clustering of interconnecting lines during the later 1970s when many interviewees were working together on excavations. Another clustering occurs around 1990; a time at which British archaeology was being substantially reorganised, and when several interviewees (GA, JC, GW, BC, AO) suggested that archaeology’s fragmenting tendencies were especially acute (a point which I will return to later).

With regards to the qualities of these relationships, it is useful to distinguish between ‘personal contacts’ and ‘friendships’, accepting in doing so that these two forms of relationship are undoubtedly closely related. When interviewees discussed ‘personal contacts’ they tended to refer to alliances which they had formed with other archaeologists either within one particular organisation or between working contexts. These alliances were not necessarily strong or stable. However they were generally formed in relation to points of common interest between the parties involved and had often resulted in gains being made by the particular individual concerned or the organisation which they worked for. A number of interviewees (NB, HLW, AO, MPP, AW) described how their good personal contacts had helped them in the process of finding employment:

In order to explore this rather different view of archaeological sociality further, I will examine two particular forms of relations which interviewees commonly discussed and which appeared to have played a vital role over the period in question both in terms of the operation of archaeological practice at a broad level, and as a means of counteracting the discipline’s propensity to fragment. This includes ‘personal relationships’ (including friendship), and ‘networks’, or as Chris Evans put it:

‘And because of the stage that I’d got to in fieldwork and my connections [during the late 1970s] … I knew Peter Fowler … [following the normal interview procedure] I went straight in as a field officer in Bristol.’ (AW) Several interviewees (NB, JC, AO, AW) described how the financial viability (or not) of the fieldwork units they had worked for during the 1980s was linked to a certain extent to the fact that they themselves or others whom they worked with had formed good personal contacts within key funding bodies (such as EH):

‘All kinds of networks, crosscut by friendships.’ (CE) Personal contacts (including friendship) Most interviewees mentioned to me the importance of ‘personal’ or ‘informal’ ‘relationships’ or ‘contacts’ at some point during our discussions. This opinion appeared to apply to the entirety of the period under analysis here and at both a personal and a disciplinary level. Adrian Olivier related how important good personal relationships had been to him, although he acknowledged that not all archaeologists operate in this way:

‘We were always very keen, you know, we made no bones about it – we aligned ourselves with what EH wanted. That’s where we survived. You know, other units started taking poncey attitudes to things and went down the plug … And it’s partly because we had aligned ourselves much more closely [with EH] and we understood the imperatives better than some of the other ones. And we made a better job of it, and we were closer to the guys, you know … we talked to them, and we diversified.’ (AO)

‘I mean for me, that’s how I operate ... Some people work against people but I can’t – I can’t do it myself and I can’t see … I mean that’s not to say I don’t fall out with [people] about various issues – of course we have our differences. But I would like to think … everyone that I deal with … regardless of where we might differ professionally, we have a perfectly good personal relationship. I can’t see any point otherwise. In fact success, as far as I’m concerned, is built on it. People work with you, you know – you move forward. They work against you – it’s a waste of time.’ (AO)

Barry Cunliffe suggested that British archaeology as a whole had benefited significantly from Geoff Wainwright’s strong working relationship with Jocelyn Stevens, Chairman of EH during the late 1980s and early 1990s: ‘Geoff was able to slip a large number of things under the table for the benefit of archaeology, which couldn’t be done nowadays … Might not have been done in those days.’ (BC)

Hugo Lamdin-Whymark implied that this was the case much more generally in archaeology, and indeed is still the case now:

Other interviewees (BC, CE, JT) described how their creative use of personal contacts had helped them in their endeavour to carry out cutting edge research, whether in terms of developing their own ideas, or in terms of access to resources:

‘I think personal contacts are essential to successful projects – getting the right specialists, twisting peoples arms to finish your project before another one and so on. The majority of commercial clients I have worked for have given me work as they have either known me at some point in the past or they have received a personal

‘What we’ve done is developed this very, very good relationship with EH, and they’ve thrown more and more

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described friendships which he had made at a similar stage of his career during the 1990s:

of their smart stuff at it – caesium magnetometers, and now ground probing radar, which I always thought was absolutely rubbish, but they’ve convinced me it’s absolutely brilliant on some sites.’ (BC)

‘It was just me and friends flint knapping … There was a big group of us who’d always sit there. We were digging up lots of flint at Eton and we wanted to find out how it was made. So we’d go out and make it, and make an absolute mess and injure ourselves because we didn’t know what we were doing!’ (HLW)

Closely linked to ‘personal relationships’ although subtly different in character, interviewees described other archaeological relationships which they had formed over the last 30 years in terms of ‘friendship’. In attempting to characterise the properties of these friendships it is worth bearing in mind insights from anthropologists, who have studied this particular mode of relationship in some detail (e.g. papers in Bell and Coleman 1999). At a broad level, Bell and Coleman defined friendship as encompassing ‘social relations that may include but are not reducible to kinship; that are sustained beyond single or short term encounters; that involve the search for some form of sentiment or at least empathy and common ground between persons’ (ibid., 16). They, along with other contributors to their edited volume (e.g. Rezende 1999) also stressed that friendship is a complex and contextspecific phenomenon. Of particular interest to the analysis being undertaken here, several contributors to this volume also commented about the correlation between ‘friendship’ and ‘working relationships’. Carrier (1999) argued that ‘friendship’, whilst combinable with ‘working relationships’, is a purer and freer form of association and should thus be viewed as being distinct from the later. Additionally, based on an investigation into the friendships that British Londoners tried to make through work, Rezende suggested that the (British) ideals of friendship (being oneself) are often in conflict with those of working relationships (self-control), making it very difficult to establish friendships through work, even if this is seen as being desirable (1999, 89).

Other interviewees described the tenacity of the friendships which they had formed during their earlier working lives. Chris Evans described how he was still in touch with some of the Manpower Services Commission employees whom he had worked with during the mid1980s. Mike Parker Pearson outlined how one particularly strong friendship he had made during the 1980s had played an important role in orientating his subsequent research: ‘I’d also worked for Richard Bradley and John Barrett at South Lodge. I suppose that was also an important one for my prehistoric career because a lifelong friendship with Niall Sharples starts at that point. The fact that we both end up working in Scotland decades later – I think that was probably very important from that point of view.’ (MPP) Meanwhile Gill Andrews described how the closeness of the friendships which she had formed while working for the CEU during the 1970s was brought home to her when they had all met up at a recent conference: ‘We all met and it was very bonding actually in quite an emotional way. It was like one of those Radio 4 things, “The Reunion”, you know!’ (GA)

By contrast, interviewees did not appear to have experienced such difficulties in making friends through their work. Rather, in line with broader definitions of this phenomenon, the friendships which they described tended to have been strong, long-lasting affiliations which did not necessarily result in personal gain. There was also a clear temporal patterning to the friendships which interviewees outlined. Typically, interviewees had formed friendships during their early working lives and had subsequently fostered or reignited these connections as they grew older. Indeed it has been observed elsewhere that the intensity of friendship-making can relate closely to the life-cycle, often being heightened during the period of youth (Reed-Danahay 1999, 137). In this light it seems less surprising that some interviewees felt that the strong links which they had experienced in archaeology during the 1970s had weakened over the course of the last 30 years (GA, AW), since they were probably less frequently seeking and making friends themselves as time progressed.

As Reed-Danahay has suggested is the case more widely (1999, 141), many of the friendships which interviewees described had been developed in relation to shared values and interests (archaeological or otherwise e.g. political, musical etc.). However in describing his move from working in a development-related context in London, to working on a Cambridge University-run research excavation at Haddenham, Cambridgeshire in the mid1980s, Chris Evans elucidated how in certain instances archaeological friendships could also act to bridge what might otherwise be viewed as being disciplinary fractures: ‘Well, you knew everybody … because I was spending half my time up here anyway. You know, people like Mike [Parker Pearson], Henrietta [Moore], Paul Lane and so on … And many of them would end up digging on the site at some point. So again, it’s like a lot of things – things can seem like a split but actually they’re not. Friendship, you know, who you’re friends with, can essentially cover over lots. Which if pushed to extremes could be theoretical discrepancies. But they never get to a point of dispute.’ (CE)

Several interviewees described the close friendships which they had established as students (AW, MPP), while working in development-related archaeology (GA, CE, JN, AW, JWR), and within EH (MPP) during the 1970s and 1980s. Meanwhile Hugo Lamdin-Whymark

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relationships have operated at a broad level over the period in question.

In relation to this issue, Rezende discusses how in certain contexts friendship can be employed as a strategy for counteracting potentially separating forces (1999, 92-3).

Firstly it is important to acknowledge that a number of formal networks have been created over the last 30 years in archaeology. In addition to those which I mentioned in Chapter 4 – the National Ice Age Network, and the network of regional research frameworks – interviewees mentioned the network of regional fieldwork units which were established across Britain in the 1970s (GA, JN, AO, JWI). Unsurprisingly, interviewees also discussed several other networks in which they had been involved which extended beyond the confines of British archaeology – a ‘pan-European network of state heritage agencies’ (AO), and a ‘gravels network’ (CE).

Adrian Olivier even elicited how the extent to which friendships are integral to the operation of archaeological practice could also sometimes be problematic in itself. He described to me (while stressing that, had it been necessary, he would have ultimately gone through with making the required job-cuts) how one factor in his decision to leave his position as director of the Lancaster University Archaeological Unit in the 1990s was his fear that economic recession was pending: ‘I could see having to lay off – in a real sense – a fairly large proportion of these 45 people. And bearing in mind that I was the very first person in Lancaster, they’d all come in after me – I’d given them all their jobs. I was friends with them all you know, genuinely, I think it was a very friendly operation. And they’d all started marrying each other and having children and I thought, at a personal level, it would have been very very difficult for me indeed.’ (AO)

However the archaeological networks which interviewees referred to most commonly were not recognised formally. In describing the close relationships which existed between fieldwork unit directors in the late 1970s and early 1980s, Ann Woodward suggested that: ‘Everyone was friends you see – we all talked to each other and knew. It was all a network.’ (AW) Several interviewees (MPP, JN, JWI, JWR) outlined the operation of one very effective and itinerant network during the 1970s and 1980s – the digging circuit – elucidating how this had acted as a medium through which knowledge about new excavation methods had been transferred and also developed:

Creating ‘networks that work’ Finally, as well as discussing the importance of personal relationships of various kinds in archaeology many interviewees suggested that one way in which archaeologists working in different contexts had cohered was through ‘networks’ of interaction:

‘In my experience the diggers’ circuit helped to create the development of field practice. The way to do things evolved from this active practical environment– particularly in the area of excavation.’ (JN)

‘The network thing has always been important in archaeology.’ (GA) In characterising the archaeological networks which interviewees described, it is worth mentioning that I am certainly familiar with the body of valuable work which has been undertaken by social scientists, leading to a widespread acceptance of the idea that networks can be viewed as operating via a combination of human and non-human actants (e.g. Latour 1987b, 2005, Law and Hassard 1999). I am also aware that the analytical use of this vision of networks has also been critiqued (e.g. Strathern 1999). However in the following discussion I will focus primarily on links between archaeologists rather than on those between archaeological actants more broadly. Although it would certainly have been interesting to examine in detail ways in which archaeology’s human and non-human actants – digital technologies, the archaeological materials, analytical systems etc. – have been entwined in its practices over the last 30 years (indeed this issue has already been addressed to a certain extent in earlier chapters), I would argue that life-history interviews are not necessarily the best medium through which to do so. Most importantly, interviewees did not present the networks with which they had engaged in this way. Instead, it is interesting to consider how interviewees themselves envisaged the properties of archaeological networks, since it gives insight into how they perceived that archaeological

Both Gill Andrews and Julian Thomas described to me the importance of the networks of contacts which they themselves had created, while working for EH and as a doctoral researcher respectively, during the 1980s. Indeed Chris Evans suggested that archaeologists, more broadly tended to ‘make their own networks’. In addition, it is interesting to note that one interviewee presented the networks which existed at a ‘personal level’ as operating quite distinctly from those which operated at an ‘institutional level’. Thus in describing how relationships between EH inspectors and university-based academics had functioned during the 1980s on the basis of an ‘old chum network’ Gill Andrews suggested that: ‘You know, that’s the level at which it happened. It was not at an institutional level, it was at a personal level.’ (GA) Interestingly Yarrow (2006a, 97) notes that such an opposition is also often drawn in anthropological analyses. By contrast Chris Evans envisaged that these two networks forms intersected much more fluidly:

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visions of the character of archaeological relationships at a broad level over the last 30 years. I have also raised a number of different ways in which these have operated in research practices. To finish, I will consider why an overriding impression of disciplinary disharmony might have endured for so long in archaeology, particularly given that, at one level, disciplinary relationships are characterised as being both close and tenacious. In doing so I will touch upon the related issue of how these two visions of archaeological relationships are able to exist in tandem and might even be viewed as being interrelated.

‘People operate – they create intellectual communities … networks that work. Units are among them. You know, one shouldn’t underestimate when you look back on the ‘70s and ‘80s that things – things like the Bronze Age Studies Group or the Neolithic Studies Group – were very small, but much more influential. And they would be located easily and you’d be involved in a number of little communities that would be crosscutting in many respects.’ (CE) Summary

Friction as desirable, unity as a game

In summary, alongside their renditions of disciplinary fragmentation, interviewees generated a much more cohesive vision of archaeological sociality, describing to me in various different ways the importance of personal relationships (in particular friendships) and explaining how these often coalesced to form ‘networks’ of interaction ‘which work’.

One possible explanation which several interviewees put forward for the persistence of the notion that archaeology is fragmented is that certain types of disciplinary fracture, particularly ‘intellectual’ ones, are actually viewed by some archaeologists to be desirable, rather than being problematic as commentaries about disciplinary disharmony have tended to suggest (see above).3

In reflecting upon this analysis, it is worth stressing that unsurprisingly, archaeology is not the only arena in which personal relationships and networks are seen to be significant. For instance, anthropologists have analysed in detail the operation of personal relationships within development organisations (Riles 2001, Yarrow 2006a), and even in prisons (Reed 2003). Within archaeology itself, a number of researchers have mentioned previously the significance of personal relationships, and of informal interactive contexts – pubs, tearooms etc. (e.g. Bahn 1989, Wilmore in Bender et al. 2007, Everill 2009, Moser 1995, 2007, Sellars 1973, Smith 2009, Yarrow 2006c). However such observations have typically been made in passing rather than actually being analysed, and have most often been raised specifically in connection with excavation practices. Smith did seek to elicit how the alliances established in one particular forum – the Haddon Museum tea-room – were implicated in research outcomes amongst the British prehistoric research community in Cambridge during the early 20th century, but was ultimately unable to do so using the data available to her (2009, 35). Moreover, as mentioned in Section 2.4, Everill did highlight the importance of friendship, or as he put it ‘camaraderie’, within developer-funded archaeology in much more recent times. However he saw this form of relationship as being a particular product of the adverse working conditions faced by archaeologists in this context (Everill 2009, 204). What my own research shows is that not only have personal relationships been significant much more widely in British archaeology over the last 30 years. They have also taken on quite particular (temporal and spatial) forms and are clearly implicated at various levels in research practices. 9.4. Considering fragmentation

the

role

of

In describing the heated debates between the teams of researchers working around Eric Higgs and David Clarke in Cambridge during the 1970s, Ann Woodward suggested: ‘It was clashing. And that of course is very, very productive. Because if you’ve got two clashing little sets of people, it makes you think. And both sets take off in a big way, which is what happened – it’s exactly what happened.’ (AW) Julian Thomas described how he had found the fragmented and somewhat incoherent nature of research into the British Neolithic during the 1980s very useful in terms of helping him to develop his own approach: ‘Within particular departments there were conversations going on and there were groups of people – whether it’s the staff or postgraduates – who were having this kind of internal conversation. And I was kind of aware that you could listen in on those different conversations and get very different things out of them.’ (JT) In relation to this point it is worth noting that Hamilton does raise the productive potential of the ‘faultlines’ she observes between different groups involved in the interpretative process at Çatalhöyük. However overall, she appears to view these fractures as ‘weaknesses’ which ultimately threaten the research enterprise (2000, 126). Additionally both Julian Thomas and Chris Evans suggested that the recent paucity of ruptures between

disciplinary

3

Indeed this issue is closely related to that which I pursued in Chapter 8 where I considered the extent to which interviewees continued to appreciate ‘informality’ and ‘difference’ in their practices while at the same time acknowledging the value of attempts to standardise archaeological conduct.

Thus far, I have discussed how interviewees presented two quite different (and in some ways contradictory)

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resulted in action being taken (ibid.). Similarly (and closer to home) in examining the relationship between archaeology and anthropology, Yarrow suggests that the sense, held predominantly by archaeologists, that this relationship is asymmetrical in that archaeologists are seen to ‘lack the kinds of theories and insights that anthropologists can provide’ (2010, 14), has actually been very fruitful for archaeologists.5 Thus, he argues, it has acted as ‘a wellspring for theoretical innovation’, and has prompted archaeologists to ‘re-imagine their own discipline in new terms and to critically appraise archaeological practices and assumptions’ (ibid., 25).

different theoretical approaches, relative to the ‘kinds of really very charged arguments going on’ (JT) in the 1980s, was not necessarily a positive development:4 ‘To be frank the thing that has been a little dull … One of the problems of postprocessualism has been that there’s been a huge degree of homogeneity. People talk about that ... Archaeology would be a bit more healthy if there was a bit more intellectual fracture. You know, the sense of different schools. I think that some element of intellectual competition is healthy, and there really hasn’t been any. There’s a huge element of political correctness [today] in what you’re willing to say and talk about … You know, postprocessualism is challenging in the way that New Labour is challenging … There are things we just don’t talk about like warfare, we won’t talk about settlement hierarchy, you know – it’s not a very adult archaeology.’ (CE)

Within the context of my own research into understandings of disciplinary fragmentation over the last 30 years, as noted above, it can be argued that the relationship under scrutiny at a broad level is that between ‘separation’ and ‘unity’ in archaeology. In addition, of course, archaeology is comprised of various more specific relationships, at least some of which were seen by interviewees to have asymmetrical qualities, in particular that between ‘academic’ and ‘professional’ archaeology’. For instance Gill Andrews who, of all interviewees has arguably worked most concertedly to address some of the difficulties involved in this specific relationship, characterised this sense of relational imbalance at a number of different points during her account. During the 1980s she suggested:

Indeed although Adrian Olivier (who at the time of our interview was Head of Strategy for EH and worked closely with a variety of bodies beyond archaeology) felt very strongly that greater disciplinary cohesion was vital to the future survival of the discipline, Chris Evans suggested that working towards creating an impression of disciplinary unity is not necessarily irreconcilable with maintaining a degree of productive disciplinary fracture: ‘I don’t think a holism in terms of archaeology is … you know, I think that’s kind of naïve. I wouldn’t want to see it happening like that. I live to see that what we do is different – I enjoy the fact that it’s different. I don’t want to be in some holistic programme where we’re lying down and working in fabulous co-operation with every other unit around here. This is the game. But it’s also too big – you would never get anything done.’ (CE)

‘There was definitely a feeling [amongst academics and archaeologists working in government bodies] that they [archaeologists working in development-related archaeology] were a lower source of being ... I think. One or two people would be regarded as exceptions and the contracting world were lucky to have them. But otherwise the serious thinking was going on elsewhere.’ (GA) Meanwhile she described a Council for British Archaeology research committee which she had attended more recently (in the 1990s) at which:

A productive sense of fracture Developing this theme, interviewees much more broadly revealed that whatever the benefits, problems, and indeed realities of disciplinary fragmentation, the existence of a persistent sense that archaeology is (increasingly) fractured socially has certainly been extremely productive – it has led to the creation of a wealth of strategies which seek to counteract the forces which are seen to separate various disciplinary factions.

‘I was told that what I was doing was not proper research because it would not be ... I could not expect the academic sector to be interested in it because it would not count for the RAE [Research Assessment Exercise] … And I was outraged – I was really angry! Because I thought “well, so basically you’re telling me that me and my clients, and my contracting units are a second-class of research”.’ (GA)

In presenting this argument I will draw upon ideas developed in recent anthropological studies which have examined various ways in which perceived ‘facts’ elicit ‘action’ (e.g. Riles 2001, 138). For instance Riles described how the opposition which was drawn between ‘insiders’ and ‘outsiders’ in networks of Pacific development organisations, however difficult to sustain once scrutinised, importantly created a need for ‘insiders’ to operate on behalf of ‘outsiders’, which ultimately

Overall, I would suggest that the widely accepted ‘facts’ that archaeology is (increasingly) disunited at a broad level, and that imbalances persist in particular disciplinary relationships, have elicited numerous ‘actions’ which are intended to counter the divides

5

In making this argument Yarrow himself draws on Latour’s notion of ‘symmetrical’ understandings of relationships (e.g. Latour 1987b, 1993), stressing the importance of examining the practices, relationships and ideas that create a sense of asymmetry, rather than assuming that asymmetry exists prior to analysis.

4

This sense that archaeologists have reached broad interpretative consensus in recent years, was also actually apparent in key outcomes of British prehistoric research, as I discussed in Section 5.2.

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narrative accounts of the excavation taking place, and of how our thinking about the site was developing. And I’d be wanting to have conversations with the supervisors about what they thought was happening, and what the students were saying was happening. And I was also starting to worry a lot about, well … I suppose power – social relations.’ (JT)

concerned, as well as generating a considerable amount of disciplinary critique on this topic (see above). With reference to the 1970s and 1980s, Mike Parker Pearson and Geoff Wainwright described how the notion that rescue excavation lacked sufficient research focus was a significant motivating factor behind the setting up of a conference at Southampton University in 1977, entitled Approaches to Our Past.

As noted briefly in Chapter 7, Gill Andrews suggested that consultancy had initially arisen in archaeology, at least in part due to a perceived need for there to be a defined role for archaeologists who facilitated communication between practitioners in different arenas. Indeed she argued that this was still an important aspect of her work:

Adrian Olivier suggested that the perceived incoherence of the previous system for undertaking developmentrelated excavations in northern England had sparked the creation of a formal network of regional fieldwork units in the later 1970s. Ann Woodward outlined how the dispersal of pottery specialists which resulted from the establishing of regional fieldwork units was an issue in the foundation of study groups such as the Prehistoric Ceramics Research Group (PCRG):

‘Actually somebody said to me “Gill – you’re a sort of archaeological social worker aren’t you?”. And that’s probably about right!’ (GA)

‘That was the time when you had a lot of pottery people in units, so it was a way of getting them together and discussing problems and viewing material – that’s the big thing about the PCRG is that there are layouts, or at least there used to be – huge layouts of material and you’d just go and look.’ (AW)

As mentioned briefly in Chapter 4, two interviewees (NB, AO) contended that perhaps the chief rationale behind the creation of a nationwide network of regional research frameworks from the mid-1990s onwards was the notion that archaeology was ‘too polarised’ and ‘too diverse’ at a broad level (AO):

Meanwhile Jamie Wright explained how, in undertaking their ‘flagship’ excavation at Maiden Castle, Dorset in the mid-1980s, EH were keen to create the image that British archaeology was socially united, almost certainly in response to concerns that it was perceived as not being so.6

‘This is where we started talking about the idea of actually having a research forum that actually brought all the different bits together. You know – ALGAO people, local authority people, voluntary societies, county groups, universities ... and got them to actually think about how they might collectively come to some sort of ... So we gradually built that kind of idealised structure of a research framework and the research framework process … For me, the important thing was the process of producing them – it was a mechanism for actually creating or encouraging a bit more cohesion.’ (AO)

‘There was that thing about having a mixture of professionals and volunteers and so on. The year after I was there, there was an MSC scheme working on it as well. So it was showing how British archaeology was, well … the social role that they were playing.’ (JWR)

Jamie Wright described how Wessex Archaeology had recently started distributing an internal bulletin in response to:

With reference to more recent times, Julian Thomas discussed how for him, as for others who have sought recently to develop reflexive excavation methodologies (Andrews et al. 2000, Bender et al. 2007, Chadwick 1998, Hodder 1997), a driving force behind his endeavour to develop reflexive excavation methodologies from the late 1980s onwards was the notion that there was an unproductive fracture between data ‘collection’ and ‘interpretation’ (and also between data ‘collectors’ and ‘interpreters’) in archaeology:

‘The difficulties of communicating in an organisation of c. 200 people some of whom are working miles from an office for months on end.’ (JWR) Additionally several interviewees (JC, HLW, AW) noted that archaeologists have responded particularly enthusiastically to recent funding initiatives generated beyond the discipline – Heritage Lottery, Aggregates Levy, Leverhulme funding etc. – which actively encourage collaborative working, undoubtedly in connection with the notion that these could be employed as a means of addressing certain disciplinary divides. They explained how such initiatives have facilitated joint projects between ‘amateur’ and ‘professional’ archaeologists (HLW, JC, AW), between ‘university’ and ‘museum’ archaeologists (JC), and between specialists (for instance specialists in archaeological science and in various Bronze Age artefacts types) working in different

‘So for instance, by the late ‘80s I was wanting to have all the supervisory staff have a site book in which I’d be asking them to write impressions of what they’re thinking and why they’re thinking it, as well as keeping a single context record so that there’d be a whole series of 6

In his recent account of this excavation, Sharples does not attribute the varied character of the Maiden Castle workforce to the implementation of a socially inclusive strategy by EH (2011, 11). However, he does, somewhat ironically, describe the considerable disciplinary disharmony which arose following the decision to undertake this project (2011, 5-7).

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arenas (AW).7 Indeed many more initiatives designed to unite the people and data from different disciplinary arenas were mentioned in Chapters 2 and 4.

specialists could write their reports without having visited the site from which the material was derived, or at least having received substantial information about it, had become:

Relationships reconfiguring?

‘A piece of mythology if you like – it’s a cliché.’ (MPP)

Finally, interviewees raised a number of ways in which mechanisms such as these, designed to reunite elements of a fractured discipline, as well as a widespread awareness about the potential difficulties involved in certain sets of relationships, had actually succeeded in (re)connecting groups of archaeologists, and in blurring perceived disciplinary boundaries.

Jon Cotton suggested that regardless of widespread concerns which were voiced in the late 1980s about the potentially divisive effects of competitive tendering in archaeology (see Chapter 2), relations between fieldwork units were in some cases closer in 2006 than they were in the 1980s, prior to the implementation of PPG16, when units tended to operate ‘within their own little areas’:

Several interviewees felt that the process of producing regional research frameworks had indeed been a useful starting point for building dialogues between archaeologists working in different arenas (NB, JN, JWI):

‘I think that people are much more willing now to sort of strike collaborative partnerships with other units … You know, we’ve got Framework Archaeology down at Heathrow with Oxford and Wessex, but we’ve also got the work that’s going on in the Lee Valley ahead of the 2012 Olympics with MoLAS [Museum of London Archaeological Services] and PCA [Pre-Construct Archaeology]. So there are people now, there are units that are beginning to realise that there are strengths in collaborative ventures. And I think that’s great.’ (JC)

‘I mean I think it has … brought people from universities together with English Heritage people, and consultants and … ’ (JN) Jacky also reported that dialogues initiated during meetings for the South West Archaeological Research Framework had led to the creation of a further forum for people working on Neolithic material in Southwest Britain, once again involving researchers from different working arenas. However it is also worth highlighting that, as mentioned in Chapter 2, the organisational structure which has been established for producing research frameworks tends typically to place archaeologists from government-funded bodies and universities in leading roles in terms of the authorship of these documents. 8 It is also important to stress that ‘bringing archaeologists together’ cannot necessarily be equated with addressing or subverting existing disciplinary differences and imbalances. Rather it can serve to accentuate these.

Meanwhile despite (or more accurately, almost certainly in relation to) contentions that the separation between ‘academics’ and ‘professionals’ can be equated broadly with that between ‘theory’ and ‘pragmatism’ (e.g. Barker 1987a, see also Section 4.6), 9 interviewees made it quite clear that many ‘professional’ archaeologists, along with those based in universities, had actually worked hard to keep abreast with and even to contribute to the development of new theoretical ideas. This is especially the case during the last 10-15 years. In making this argument it is worth highlighting (as two interviewees (JN, JT) did) that this trend probably connects closely to shifts in the character of theoretical developments themselves, which are seen to have become more relevant to archaeologists working in a variety of different contexts:

Additionally, Chris Evans and Mike Parker Pearson both described how the divorce which is often felt to exist (and which according to them often did exist in the 1970s and 1980s) between the analysis of archaeological features and that of excavated material – artefacts, palaeoenvironmental remains and so on – (e.g. Jones 2002), has spurred attempts to integrate better aspects of the post-excavation process, at least in certain contexts (smaller fieldwork units and universities). Mike even suggested that the idea that palaeoenvironmental

‘I think that as these different debates within postprocessual archaeology – if you want to call it that – have developed, they’ve been drawn into the way that people have been looking at their material more explicitly. So something like debates about personhood, in the past five years or so. That’s happening at a much more explicit kind of level than the way that we’d have been talking about deposition or whatever when those were the issues [in the 1980s]. So I think that people [in archaeology at a broad level] are probably more theoretically literate than they were. And I think that they’re making the connections between the theory that they’re using and the evidence in much more explicit ways.’ (JT)

7

English Heritage’s draft Research Strategy for Prehistory (which will be used as a basis in future for allocating EH funding) stresses similarly the need to ‘promote integration across the sector, for example encouraging commercial organisations to produce high-quality and innovative research in order to inform academic understanding of prehistory, and conversely helping other parts of the discipline to engage more with the results of commercial archaeology’ (EH 2010, 17). 8 Although there are some notable exceptions. For instance the coordinator and lead author of the forthcoming Solent Thames Research Framework, Gill Hey, is employed by Oxford Archaeology North.

9

In the sense that theoretical developments have been viewed by some as being primarily initiated and employed within the realm of academic archaeology, and as being of little relevance to the practicalities of development-related archaeology.

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Interestingly, it was clear that many interviewees enthusiasm for recent theoretical ideas was linked closely to the notion that they could actually use these ideas in their work much more easily than those which were initiated in the 1980s.

As an illustration of this trend Jacky Nowakowski compared the narrow, ‘very academic’ makeup of TAG participants during the 1980s with the situation in 2006, explaining how in recent years archaeologists from across the discipline have increasingly participated in theoretical forums such as this.10 While she suggested that this shift was driven primarily by these archaeologists’ desire to make the most of their data, she also implied that it was linked to a need to address the perception that theory is not important to archaeologists working outside university contexts. Referring to the TAG participants in 2006, she suggested that:

‘I mean I latched onto this phenomenology of landscape. It just seems … I thought “fantastic – I can deal with this!”.’ (NB) Indeed it could be argued that in recent years, archaeologists across the discipline have confounded the distinction which is often made between ‘theory’ and ‘pragmatism’ by seeking to employ theory pragmatically.

‘It’s definitely more mixed … because archaeology, as you know, is done in lots of different arenas today, and it doesn’t mean to say that just because you work in a consultancy or a commercial organisation you’re not interested in theory or research. You know, we’re as much interested as somebody who works within a university context doing their work. And obviously, you want to get the most out of your data as possible if you are given opportunities to do that … There are museum curators here, colleagues who work in development control, cultural resource managers, diggers … there are also people from English Heritage here – people who make policy … So, you know it’s good. Because it’s got to be like that. In order for theory to have any relevance, it’s got to be relevant to all those people working in a variety of contexts.’ (JN)

Finally, one theoretical development about which opinions amongst interviewees were divided (although certainly not along the lines of ‘academics’ and ‘professionals’) was the emergence of reflexive excavation methodologies. While several interviewees (JC, AO, JT, JWI) embraced the ideas involved, and valued the contribution of projects such as that undertaken by Framework Archaeology at Perry Oaks, Heathrow, an equal number were uninspired by the outcomes of such endeavours (BC, CE, HLW, JN). Thus it can be contended that if, as recent critiques of archaeological practice have suggested, archaeologists across the discipline have failed to respond to changing conceptions of the archaeological record (Bradley 2006b, Chadwick 2003, Jones 2002, Lucas 2001b), this is almost certainly, at least in part, because they have not been swayed by the ideas involved rather than because they were unaware of them.

Turning to interviewees themselves, some admitted that they had never really engaged much with theory, while others suggested that their commitment to theory had waned as their working lives had become more pragmatically orientated. Additionally many interviewees from all working contexts (especially those who had been inspired by the ideas of David Clarke) described how they had found it very difficult to engage with early postprocessualist ideas (during the 1980s and early 1990s) mainly because they had not found them applicable to their own work (BC, JC, CE, AO, AW). However, interviewees from all disciplinary arenas mentioned recent theoretical ideas which they had been particularly drawn to and had actually employed in their work, many of which I discussed in Chapter 5 in examining shifts in the use of interpretative approaches in accounts of British prehistory. Several interviewees (JN, HLW, AW) who were closely involved in material (pottery and flint) analysis had become particularly interested in ideas about object biographies, enchainment, and the aesthetics of deposition. Jon Cotton, a museum curator, had appreciated the theoretical endorsement of a certain degree of interpretative open-mindedness as well as attempts to write archaeology in more interesting ways (e.g. Edmonds 1999). Additionally approaches which dealt with past perceptions of landscapes and of time had appealed to interviewees whose interpretations tended to operate at larger temporal and spatial scales (NB, BC).

10

9.5.

Discussion

In this chapter I have explored various ways in which the notion that archaeology is fragmented socially have been generated and perpetuated over the last 30 years. In doing so, I have tried to foreground the temporal qualities of disciplinary relationships, using interview evidence to elucidate how although at a broad level archaeology can be viewed as being perpetually fractured (as it often is, particularly within written disciplinary commentaries), once inspected in detail it is clear that the makeup of these fractures has shifted significantly over this period. I have revealed that in contrast to evidence from wider disciplinary discourse, interviewees generated a very different vision of archaeological sociality alongside their renditions of disciplinary fragmentedness. They stressed the proximity of disciplinary relations at a broad level, highlighted the importance of personal relationships (in particular friendship) in archaeology, and outlined how various social entities (formal bodies and informal links) merged and cohered to form archaeological ‘networks that work’. Throughout this analysis, I have elicited ways in which interviewees contended that disciplinary fractures and alliances have served to shape research practices –

See Gaydarska (2009) for a recent analysis of this trend.

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allowing the creation of archaeological knowledge (in the broadest possible sense) to flourish in certain contexts and to flow in certain directions, while disrupting the processes involved in others. What is perhaps most interesting about the situation I have described is that throughout the period concerned archaeologists have continued to focus their critical attention almost entirely on the fragmentary aspects of disciplinary relationships. Consequently it is easily understandable that, as mentioned above, observers beyond archaeology have concluded repeatedly that the discipline is intrinsically disjointed. It could also be argued that by building a disciplinary discourse which focuses almost entirely on the differences and fractures between certain groups of archaeologists (be they academics, consultants, museum archaeologists, or ‘lower-down-the-order’ archaeologists), the qualities of other forms of relationships which have operated alongside these disharmonious ones have been largely overlooked. It is also worth noting that this situation contrasts markedly with that which has been described in other contexts in which personal relations are widely acknowledged to play an important role. For instance both Riles (2001) in her study of development organisations in the Pacific Islands, and Yarrow (2006a) in his analysis of NGOs in Ghana, have suggested that the significant role played by personal relationships in these contexts is both accepted and explicitly critiqued. Consequently the organisations concerned frequently develop bureaucratic strategies which seek to disrupt the workings of informal networks (Yarrow 2006a, 106). Finally, I have suggested that archaeologists’ enduring sense that the discipline is fragmented need not necessarily be viewed in a negative light, as many written accounts have suggested they should be. Several interviewees stressed the fruitfulness of certain forms of disciplinary disharmony. Meanwhile interviewees made it very clear that the overriding sense that disciplinary relationships are problematic has prompted the creation of a wealth of formal strategies which seek to address the fractures concerned. It has led certain groups of archaeologists to look critically at their working practices, and has generated, in some archaeologists at least, a sense of personal responsibility for creating links which bridge perceived divides. In this light it seems less surprising that, as mentioned above, contact between interviewees heightened in 1990 at around the time that concerns about the future cohesion of the discipline were at a peak. Overall, I hope that by exploring the contours of one particularly stubborn and dominant disciplinary perception, I have shown how such notions can be revealed to be more dynamic, more complex, and more interesting than has previously been recognised. Moreover I have argued that such ‘problems’ can even, to a certain extent, have a positive effect on research practices.

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Chapter 10. Conclusion in British prehistory have impacted upon research practices. Rather through a multi-stranded exploration of the recent history of British prehistoric research and archaeology more broadly and the varied ways in which practitioners have engaged with these developments, this investigation has illuminated a mosaic of ways in which historical developments reside in the practices through which knowledge about British prehistory has been and continues to be produced.

At the very beginning of this study, I set out my intention to produce an integrated critical history of transformations in British prehistoric research (and archaeology more broadly) over the last 30 years, which kept in view both changes in practice, and the people who have been integral to these changes. I also stated my intention to orient this investigation towards contemporary practice, by examining how the various transformations concerned continue to affect research practices. In conclusion, I will begin by reviewing the key insights of my analyses. Following this, I will raise some important methodological implications of this research. To finish, I will outline ways in which I have imagined at different times over the duration of this project that it could be developed in future, thus drawing attention to the untapped potential which I feel inheres in this work.

The history which I presented in Chapter 4, based on the IFA’s newsletter, operated at a broad disciplinary level, and focused on key happenings which have taken place over the last 30 years and the immediate implications of these changes. I highlighted broad shifts in interpretative approaches over this period, and in the organisation and funding of excavation practices, with the rise of competitive tendering for archaeological projects and its subsequent enshrinement with the implementation of PPG16. In relation to the latter, new archaeological roles were created, the remits of key archaeological bodies (EH, the IFA, etc.) changed, new initiatives were born (e.g. regional research frameworks) and relationships between certain groups of archaeologists were reconfigured, as were relationships between British archaeologists and bodies beyond this domain (the government, European archaeologists, developers and so on). I charted how the increased emphasis which PPG16 placed on the ‘preservation’ rather than the ‘destruction’ of archaeological remains engendered shifts in fieldwork practices and in the remit of research more broadly. I also tracked how digital technologies became increasingly embedded in practices across the discipline – from facilitating communication between archaeologists, to the production and manipulation of archaeological data, and the various ways in which investigative results are presented.

Recent transformations in British prehistoric 10.1. research practice Before reviewing the chief insights of my investigation into recent transformations in British prehistoric research practice, it is important to discuss the fact that the account which I have produced is necessarily complex. It draws on evidence from various different sources – a database, written narratives, and oral testimonies. It operates at various different scales – at a disciplinary level, at the level of one particular research arena (British prehistory), and at the level of the lives of individual British prehistorians. It is multi-layered – I have examined specific historical events (for instance the introduction of PPG16), the impacts of these happenings (for instance shifts in the character of prehistoric evidence relating to the introduction of PPG16), and also how British prehistorians have engaged with these changes (for instance whether or not they have chosen or been able to respond to shifts in the evidence base). I have scrutinised a broad historical process – professionalisation – as well as one theme which has persisted throughout the period under consideration – the notion that archaeology is (increasingly) fragmented socially. My account also occupies a complex position temporally – it has an historical basis, yet it keeps in mind ways in which the histories which are uncovered have contemporary resonance. Moreover I would argue that it is often difficult to distinguish between these various components – the multiple scales, layers and temporal orientations of this study are sometimes clearcut, while at other times they interlace closely. However rather than being problematic, I would argue that this is a key strength of this work – the complexity of the account relays the intricacy of the phenomena under examination. It is what makes it interesting.

Alongside these changes I observed how the language of archaeology had transformed – new terms were devised for its practices, organisations, and even for archaeology itself. Moreover I was able to reveal some of the disciplinary preoccupations which have accompanied and were no doubt implicated in many of these developments – concerns about the management and publication of excavation data, about the effects of competitive tendering, about communicative failures within the discipline, about whether or not archaeology was fulfilling its social responsibilities, and about archaeology’s public image more broadly. While aspects of this history might seem fairly familiar, it is important to stress that these elements have rarely (if ever) previously been considered together. By doing so, novel connections between various disciplinary developments became apparent; for instance how fears about archaeology’s public image were almost certainly linked to organisational reshuffles and language-shifts, and how shifts in the organisation of excavation were

It is also worth highlighting that as a consequence of this complexity, this study has necessarily not produced any straightforward answer as to how recent transformations

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manifest widely in these key research outcomes until some 10-15 years after these changes first emerged. Indeed a similar delay was observed with regards to the widespread uptake of new interpretative approaches. Consequently I suggested that there has been a distinctive tempo at which British prehistorians have widely adopted new methods and ideas. I also noted that a relative interpretative consensus has been reached amongst prehistoric researchers since the mid-1990s (with the themes of ‘structured deposition’, ‘past landscape perceptions’ and ‘past social identities’ featuring prominently), which has only very recently come to be challenged. Additionally, I noted several ways in which broader disciplinary developments were barely evident in these particular outcomes of prehistoric research – advances in digital image production, the overall increase in the volume of prehistoric fieldwork being undertaken, and shifts in terms of who carries out British prehistoric research.

closely related to important changes in fieldwork methodologies. Another interesting element of this history was that it suggested that although PPG16 has come to seem very important, at the time it was issued it was apparently viewed as being part of a much broader suite of changes. Consequently I was able to elicit at least one way in which past actions can accumulate meaning following their initial occurrence, much as Latour has suggested (1999, 171). The history which I presented in Chapter 5, based on evidence from the Archaeological Investigations Project database and papers in Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, focused on changes in British prehistory in particular over the last 30 years. This allowed for a consideration of how broader disciplinary developments were implicated in practices in this particular arena, and, more importantly, of how British prehistorians have actually engaged with such changes.

This is important because it emphasises the extent to which the happenings which are recounted in traditional disciplinary histories have not been adopted indiscriminately or uniformly. Rather, some developments have proved to be attractive and relatively easy to engage with, whereas others have proved less tangible, and thus have taken longer to appear in research outcomes.

Using records of prehistoric fieldwork investigations, I outlined several major shifts, many of which can be seen to relate – either directly or indirectly – to the key changes in the organisation and funding of archaeology outlined above. There has been a massive increase in the number of fieldwork investigations producing prehistoric remains, as well as a lesser but still significant shift in the character of evidence being investigated. I suggested that this last transformation probably relates closely to changes in fieldwork methods following the implementation of PPG16. Despite contentions that archaeology has shifted the developer-funded geographical focus of British prehistoric research away from traditional research areas, the evidence examined here suggested that any such shift (in terms of the location of fieldwork, at least) has been subtle rather than being wholesale, primarily involving a slight movement in the focus of investigations mostly within and immediately surrounding southern and eastern England. Meanwhile I noted that the spectrum of archaeologists involved in producing prehistoric data has narrowed considerably – having formerly included archaeologists in a broad range of disciplinary contexts, more recently it has been carried out almost exclusively by archaeologists working in private fieldwork units.

In Chapters 7-9, I drew on evidence from the oral testimonies of 14 British prehistorians, most of whom have lived and worked in archaeology throughout the last 30 years. This allowed me to make connections between the two levels of historical development which I presented in Chapters 4 and 5. It enabled me to explore further the extent to which British prehistorians have engaged with various disciplinary developments, and indeed the immediate impacts of these developments, both in terms of how interviewees have contributed to and drawn upon these changes. It also provided the opportunity to reflect more directly upon ways in which historical actions reside in contemporary practice. Most importantly it brought plainly into view some of the people of British prehistory. The history I presented in Chapter 7 operated at the level of the lives of British prehistorians. It did not focus directly on shifts in knowledge production. However it provided an important background for understanding why British prehistorians might have approached wider shifts in research practices in certain ways. I observed that many interviewees had led extremely changeable working lives, in relation to which most had clung onto certain motivations – their desire to conduct research or to sort out the discipline – at least in part as a way of negotiating this changeability. I argued that these British prehistorians likewise viewed the recent history of the discipline as being both highly changeable and as being characterised by considerable continuity in some areas. Almost certainly in relation to these understandings, interviewees were actively aware of both their capacities

Although elements of this history have been speculated about previously, importantly I have come to my own conclusions via detailed empirical analysis. Indeed by doing so, I have been able to refine certain widely held perceptions (for instance about the changing geographical focus of prehistoric research) and to reach a more nuanced understanding about shifts in the prehistoric evidence base. Using information from articles published in PPS, I was able to look more specifically at how British prehistorians have actually engaged with some of the changes which have taken place, both at a broad disciplinary level and more specifically within British prehistory. I contended that key shifts in the character of prehistoric fieldwork and the evidence base resulting from this work were not

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produced by different bodies. They proposed that the introduction of PPG16 had led (both directly and indirectly) to the creation of new levels of archaeological data (briefer, more pragmatic), new realms of research (with projects claiming to be non-intrusive or socially inclusive featuring heavily), and to a greater mixing of fieldwork expertise (relating to the mobilisation of fieldwork units). Additionally most of the British prehistorians I talked to were quite adamant that one particular recent attempt to standardise archaeological practices – the creation of regional research frameworks – was unlikely to impact significantly on research practices.

to make a mark on broader disciplinary developments, and their capacities to resist change. In Chapters 8 and 9 I presented three key ways in which the British prehistorians I talked to characterised archaeology (and British prehistory) over the last 30 years. Two of these themes represented broad historical processes – the ‘professionalisation of British archaeology’ and the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation. The third was a theme which interviewees suggested had persisted within archaeology throughout this period – the notion that archaeology is (increasingly) fragmented socially. To different extents each of these themes were apparent, if not explicitly mentioned, in the histories I produced using written evidence. This allowed me to explore further a number of topics which arose in these histories. By exploring historical themes rather than tracking sequences of developments (as I did in Chapters 4 and 5), however, I was also able to view these issues in a rather different way, and to make somewhat familiar historical traits seem less familiar, and more interesting.

In Chapter 9, I scrutinised a widely held belief that archaeology is (increasingly) fragmented socially, revealing this phenomenon to be both more dynamic and much more complex than is usually apparent in disciplinary commentaries. Differences in opinion, dislocations between the practices of, and physical separations between, various archaeological entities have certainly featured significantly in archaeology’s recent history, and were seen by interviewees to have been amplified by aspects of the discipline’s recent professionalisation. However many such fractures have often come and gone through time and even the contours of the most persistent ones have been reconfigured considerably. I also stressed the importance of viewing instances of disharmony in the context of disciplinary relationships more broadly. While at one level archaeological relationships were felt by interviewees to be chronically problematic, at another level they were viewed as being incredibly close-knit. Several interviewees also stressed the importance of difference and debate in archaeology. Meanwhile I elucidated that, whatever the realities of this phenomenon, the sense that archaeology is fragmented socially has certainly been a productive source of action in archaeology over the last 30 years.

In Chapter 8, I presented the recent professionalisation of British archaeology as a phenomenon which is associated with a well-known set of traits, many of which were recounted in Chapter 4. Contrary to most disciplinary accounts of this historical process, however, I emphasised that archaeology’s recent professionalisation was itself historically-situated and had penetrated all aspects of archaeological practice, rather than being restricted to one particular realm. I observed ways in which this process was viewed as being closely related to and even in some ways defined by the end of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation. I also highlighted significant shifts in terms of what it has meant to be professional over the last 30 years. By abstracting one aspect of professionalisation – the standardisation of archaeological practices – I revealed ways in which this process had provided a challenge for many of the British prehistorians who I talked to, since it required them to balance their in some ways contradictory desires to achieve consistency, and yet to retain informality and independence. Moreover I suggested that this had generated a sense that professionalisation, rather than being wholly a dynamic process with a neat endpoint, had also reached points of stasis, and had become seemingly unending.

Interviewees raised various ways in which different kinds of (contentious and close) disciplinary relationship had been directly implicated in research practices. The decline (over the course of the 1980s) of a disciplinary culture which cohered around key personalities was viewed to have led to an overall loss of research focus and drive. The increasing physical dispersal and mobility of fieldwork units was seen to have led to interruptions in the interpretative process and to difficulties when it came around to synthesising evidence. The particularly stubborn fracture between practitioners in ‘academic’ and ‘public’ archaeology was contended to have engendered a pooling of redundant data in units and HERs, a lack of impetus for archaeologists working in fieldwork units to make their work academically relevant, and a lack of integration between studies conducted on similar phenomena but in different working contexts. Alternatively, close personal contacts were suggested to have provided a means of gaining access to resources to carry out cutting-edge research. Close friendships were cited as a way of orienting research practices, and informal networks of various sorts – incorporating both formal bodies and personal relationships – were viewed

I also drew attention to numerous ways in which aspects of this historical process were implicated clearly in knowledge production. Interviewees contended that overall, the expansion and diversification of archaeological practice meant that archaeologists in all arenas were better informed, and had made it easier to access specialist expertise. However they also suggested that the standardisation of archaeological practices had curbed creativity at all levels of the research process, one consequence of which was that ephemeral and unusual prehistoric remains were sometimes overlooked in fieldwork excavations. Interviewees revealed various different ways in which attempts to resist standardisation (or otherwise failures to achieve it) had led to a situation in which it is commonly difficult to integrate data

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more broadly) have been implicated in knowledge production throughout the last 30 years – at many different levels, and in all disciplinary arenas. I have also stressed how difficult it is in practice to distinguish clearly between key historical happenings and the impacts of these developments – the two are inevitably related closely. Perhaps the most important point to make with regards to this topic is that many of the historical developments outlined are still very much alive in contemporary practice. As Arendt argued (2003, 270) ‘the world we live in at any moment is the world of the past; it consists of the monuments and relics of what has become’. Developer-funded archaeology continues to alter radically the evidence base available for study. There are numerous ways in which archaeologist still strive to become more professional. Many archaeologists adhere to and act in relation to the belief that archaeology is (increasingly) fragmented socially. Additionally a broad spectrum of archaeologists across Britain remain involved in the creation of regional (and other periodbased, material-based, etc.) research frameworks. Moreover all of these practices are implicated in different ways in the accounts we produces about prehistoric lives. Consequently I argue that it is vital that archaeologists (and others) continue to examine critically their own practices alongside the study of past remains. This applies not only to the practices involved in specific research projects (which many ethnographic studies have focused on recently) but to the practices of archaeologists much more broadly.

widely to have enabled archaeologists to share different forms of knowledge, and to speed up the research process. To finish this review, I will return to the three central themes which I outlined in the introduction of this study and consider the extent to which I have been able to shed light on them. With respect to the somewhat contradictory way in which British archaeology’s recent history has been presented as being characterised both by rapid change, and by relative inertia, the following conclusions can be reached. It is clear and unsurprising that certain aspects of archaeological practice have changed significantly over the last 30 years, while others have remained fairly stable. As previous critiques of archaeological practice (e.g. Bradley 2006, Jones 2002, Lucas 2001a, Chadwick 2003) have suggested, marked changes in one disciplinary arena have not necessarily engendered widespread responses elsewhere. Importantly, however, this is often for very good reasons – because of valid uncertainties about the changes concerned, and due to an appreciation of some of the merits of existing practices. I have argued that in certain cases archaeologists may have actively employed conservative strategies as a means of negotiating the considerable changes taking place elsewhere in their working lives. I also showed how one dynamic process – the recent professionalisation of archaeology – had actually also reached certain points of stasis. Moreover I contended that one seemingly unceasing disciplinary accompaniment – the notion that archaeology is (increasingly) fragmented socially – can actually be viewed as being quite mobile.

10.2.

Some methodological implications

Turning to some methodological implications of this research, at a very basic level I hope that I have demonstrated the value of drawing on varied and sometimes unusual written and oral sources in scrutinising British archaeology’s recent history. By doing so I have been able to traverse different scales of analysis, to consider not only what changes have taken place at an abstract level but also how practitioners have actually engaged with these changes, and to draw out the contemporary resonance of historical phenomena.

Regarding the extent to which the practices of archaeologists working in different disciplinary arenas have been interconnected, I have suggested that despite widespread concerns about the overall dislocation of archaeological practice over the period in question, numerous links between activities in different arenas can be made once the ‘craft’ of archaeology is viewed at a broad level. This is not least because many British prehistorians (and undoubtedly archaeologists more broadly) have themselves switched between disciplinary arenas over the last 30 years. I have showed how shifts in the character of fieldwork investigations are becoming apparent in the outcomes of research into British prehistory much more broadly, even if this transformation is delayed rather than being immediate. Meanwhile rather than residing solely within the confines of universitybased archaeology, interpretative developments – for instance recent theories about past landscape perceptions – have in certain cases coincided quite aptly with developments elsewhere – in local government archaeology and so on. Additionally, certain historical phenomena – for instance archaeology’s recent professionalisation – necessarily connect practitioners in all disciplinary arenas, if to varying degrees.

Additionally, I hope to have elucidated the importance of considering scrupulously the methods which we employ in conducting interdisciplinary research. I have underlined what I feel are the shortcomings of previous interdisciplinary studies of archaeological practice (particularly some ethnographies of archaeology) in which the analysts concerned have assumed rather straightforwardly that by adopting a particular method they will be endowed with certain critical properties as researchers. I have also shown that by considering the particular methods concerned in detail it is possible to use the evidence which results in a more sensitive and nuanced manner. By reflecting upon the insights of lifehistory researchers in various other disciplines I was led to look very carefully at the structuring principles which inhered in the personal histories I was told. Consequently I was able to build my analysis on this basis, and

Finally, I have foregrounded numerous ways in which recent changes in British prehistory (and archaeology

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happenings, and in reconfiguring – in some way at least – understandings of archaeology as a collective practice.

hopefully to make the voices of the people who I talked to more apparent. 10.3.

Imagined futures

I would like to finish on a forward-looking note by highlighting two ways in which I believe this study could be developed further. One of these has become evident to me as the analysis has progressed, the other relates to the initial intentions of this project. Firstly, I could have pursued several other strong themes which emerged over the course of conducting and analysing life-history interviews with British prehistorians. However perhaps the most compelling of these untapped themes was the notion of a ‘Golden Age’ of excavation which I explored briefly in Chapter 8. In order to pursue this topic further it would be necessary to take the analysis back to incorporate the period from the early 1960s to the late 1980s (see Cooper and Yarrow 2012 for the findings of an incipient attempt to investigate this topic further). Interviewees made it clear that this particular archaeological ‘myth’ was both very interesting (in terms of the characters and practices involved) and highly pervasive. They were also very aware that – as indeed others have observed (Schofield 2011) – due in part to the excesses of drugs and alcohol which often accompanied excavations at this time, an increasing number of the people involved in this ‘Golden Age’ are no longer with us. Secondly, it was my original intention to complete this study by analysing at least one contemporary project in British prehistory from its inception (in a planning office) through to some of its final outcomes (monograph, leaflets, website etc.). By doing so I hoped to be able to reflect upon ways in which the histories I have uncovered are (and are not) actually evident in a ‘live’ situation. There are various reasons why it was not possible to undertake such an analysis for the purposes of this investigation. The most important of these was that as my research progressed, it became evident increasingly that the contemporary relevance of the histories I was producing was clear even without conducting further analysis in a ‘live’ context.1 Nonetheless I still believe that it would be illuminating to conduct such an analysis as an interesting study in its own right. For now, however, I hope that I have succeeded in shedding new light on recent transformations in British prehistoric research (and in archaeology more broadly), in emphasising the ongoing resonances of these 1

I also came to realise that there was significantly greater potential than I had initially realised for scrutinising the recent history of British prehistory and archaeology more broadly, even before considering how aspects of this history were implicated specifically in contemporary knowledge production. Moreover a preliminary investigation into potential projects upon which to focus such an analysis suggested that, in many cases, the evidence required would be widely dispersed and often difficult to access. Consequently it was beyond the scope of this particular project to attempt a study of this kind.

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Appendix 1: Common abbreviations The following abbreviations are found within this study: ACT

Archaeologists Communicate Transform

AIP

Archaeological Investigations Project

ALGAO

Association of Local Government Archaeological Officers

AML

Ancient Monuments Laboratory

CBA

Council for British Archaeology

CEU

Central Excavation Unit

CRM

Cultural Resource Management

DCLG

Department for Communities and Local Government

DCMS

Department for Culture Media and Sport

DoE

Department of the Environment

EH

English Heritage

HLC

Historic Landscape Characterisation

HMBC

Historic Monuments and Buildings Commission

HMSO

Her Majesty’s Stationary Office

IFA/IfA

Institute of Field Archaeologists (1980-2008)/Institute for Archaeologists (2008- )

MAP

Management of Archaeological Projects (EH 1991)

NGO

Non Governmental Organisation

NMS

National Museum of Scotland

PPG15

Planning Policy Guidance note 15 (DoE 1994)

PPG16

Planning Policy Guidance note 16 (DoE 1990)

PPS

Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society

PS

Prehistoric Society

PSEA

Prehistoric Society of East Anglia

RAO

Registered Archaeological Organisation.

RCHME

Royal Commission on the Historic Monuments of England

SDD

Scottish Development Department

TFA/TA

The Field Archaeologist (1980-2000)/The Archaeologist (2000- )

TAG

Theoretical Archaeology Group

YAC

Young Archaeologists’ Conference

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APPENDICES

Appendix 2: Broad chronology The following section provides a brief overview of some of the major happenings in British archaeology and prehistoric research over the last 30 or so years. It is not exhaustive. Rather is intended to act as a succinct guide, particularly for the topics raised in Chapters 4 and 5 of this study. 1972

RESCUE, The British Archaeological Trust, is established as a pressure group, campaigning for government funds to permit the excavation of archaeological sites in advance of development.

1970s

A surge in post-war development leads to a significant rise in government funding for archaeological excavations and a massive increase in the volume of archaeology being excavated and the number of people engaged in this work.

1979

The Theoretical Archaeology Group (TAG) is founded with the aim of promoting debate and discussion of issues in theoretical archaeology. The first annual conference in Sheffield gives rise to intense debate, particularly surrounding the early voicing and development of postprocessual ideas.

1982

The Institute for Field Archaeologists (IFA), a professional body for archaeologists in Britain, is established after almost 10 years of negotiation over what its remit should be. The first major volume exploring postprocessual approaches – Structural and Symbolic Archaeology (Hodder 1982) – is published.

1984

The inaugural IFA newsletter, The Field Archaeologist, is published. The concept of ‘ritual’ or ‘structured’ deposition is first raised in relation to prehistoric evidence (Grant 1984; Richards and Thomas 1984).

1985

The first ever management course is held for archaeologists in Britain. Plans to make archaeology a routine consideration in the planning process are first circulated. These include the intention to give local authorities the right to impose planning conditions in order to protect land that is deemed to be of archaeological interest. ‘Archaeologists Communicate Transform’ (ACT) is established; a forum aimed at mediating relations between ‘establishment’ and ‘lower-down-the-order’ archaeologists. EH start a campaign to refuse funding for rescue excavations, giving rise to a proliferation of developerfunded archaeology, and competitive tendering for archaeological projects.

1986

The first exercise in assessing University research in the UK (subsequently – in 1996 – to become the Research Assessment Exercise) is undertaken

1987-90

A period of heated academic debate over the role of post-structuralism in archaeology. The topic was presented to a wide audience in two major theoretical volumes, published in 1987 (Shanks and Tilley 1987a; Shanks and Tilley 1987b), and was the focus of fiery arguments at that years’ annual TAG conference. A landmark conference on the topic was also held in Cambridge in 1988, giving rise to two further publications (Bapty and Yates 1990; Thomas 1990) and more controversy.

1990

PPG16 is introduced, making archaeology a formal consideration in the planning process, and prioritising the preservation over the excavation of archaeological remains.

1991

Two key forward-looking documents are published by EH (1991a, 1991b), outlining how projects that take place through the planning system should be managed (Management of Archaeological Projects), and which topics should provide the major foci for investigation over the coming years (Exploring Our Past). The Final European Act (better known as the Maastricht Treaty) is implemented, following on from the Single European Act established in the late 1980s. The latter aimed to create a common European market, and ultimately led to the creation of the European Union and the Euro currency. Within archaeology, this led to a formalisation of ties between professional archaeologists in Britain and Europe.

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1992

The Valletta Convention, a pan-European agreement on the protection of archaeological remains in Europe, is launched in Valletta, Malta. This sparked controversy, particularly amongst independent archaeologists in Britain who believed this document denied their important contribution to archaeological research. However the Valetta Convention has been hugely influential in Europe where countries are now obliged to base their heritage legislation upon it.

1995-7

The first archaeological online journal Internet Archaeology is launched, with the intention of publishing ‘articles of a high academic standing which utilise the potential of electronic publication’ (http://intarch.ac.uk/). English Heritage commission a survey on the need to develop and implement a nationwide research framework for archaeology in England in response to contentions that developer funded archaeology was compromising the quality of archaeological research. The results are published in a draft document entitled Frameworks for Our Past. This initiates the creation of numerous regional research frameworks across Britain, the earliest of which was completed in 1997 (Glazebrook 1997). Others which were envisioned at this time are yet to be completed.

2000

EH launches a major review of its Historic Environment Strategy, outlining its plans for England’s archaeology in the new millennium.

2001

The IFA’s newsletter, The Archaeologist, is first published on the internet.

2005

A new research project, The Invisible Diggers, is launched, aiming to investigate difficulties being experienced in the sphere of developer-funded archaeology (see Everill 2009 for the outcomes of this research). A major EH funded project, The National Ice Age Network is launched, encouraging collaboration between archaeologists, geologists, quaternary scientists, quarry companies and the public on researching the Ice Age, and highlighting the inclusive and collaborative potential of archaeological work.

2006

The Management of Archaeological Projects (MAP2) document is replaced by MORPHE (Management of Research Projects in the Historic Environment). The latter enshrines similar principles to the former but applies to the broader historic environment (not just to archaeological fieldwork projects), places a greater emphasis on the documentation of the project process, and allows for greater fluidity in terms of how projects are carried out. A major fieldwork investigation into the landscape surrounding Stonehenge begins (directed by universitybased archaeologists from Bournemouth, Bristol, London, Manchester and Sheffield), revolutionising understandings of this landscape.

2010

PPG16 and PPG15 are replaced by PPS5, a more succinct yet also holistic document in that it applies to the historic environment as a whole – archaeology, historic buildings, conservation areas and so on. It also seeks to address some of the perceived problems associated with both earlier documents.

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Appendix 3: Definitions used in analysis of prehistoric fieldwork a separate group rather than in the ‘Unassigned’ class, as they are in the NMR thesaurus. Finally, given that very few features were listed from the NMR classes ‘Transport’ and ‘Industrial’, these features (e.g. trackway, metalworking site) are incorporated in a separate group entitled ‘Other’.

Periods Periods are mostly defined on the database as they are described in the original summaries from which the data is taken (e.g. Palaeolithic, Mesolithic, Neolithic, Bronze Age, Iron Age). However, where evidence is described as being of Late Bronze Age/Early Iron Age or Late Neolithic/Early Bronze Age date, half these sites are assigned to each of the constituent periods (e.g. of the 6 LBA/EIA sites recorded in 1980, 3 were assigned to the Bronze Age and 3 to the Iron Age). The same strategy is also used where the total number of such sites is odd, in order to ensure that the overall number of sites under analysis remains constant (e.g. of the 3 LN/EBA sites recorded in 1980, 1.5 were assigned to the Bronze Age and 1.5 to the Iron Age). Evidence described as being of Late Iron Age/Romano British date is assigned to the Iron Age.

The monument classes used in this analysis were thus defined as follows: Agriculture and Subsistence Includes field system, lynchet, cairn, linear earthwork. Domestic 1 Includes settlement, enclosed settlement, roundhouse, pallisaded enclosure, building, hut circle, hut platform, post-built structure, broch, midden, shell midden, burnt mound. Includes pit, storage pit, post hole, gully, boundary, waterhole, enclosure, in cases where they are clearly associated with other settlement features. Domestic 2 Includes occupation site, rock shelter. Includes pit, pit clusters, waterhole, tree throw in cases where they produced settlement remains but were not associated with other settlement features or described explicitly as being settlements (e.g. a Neolithic pit site which produced pottery, flint etc.).

Site types Archaeological features are listed on the database as they are described in the original summaries from which the data is taken, unless the feature in question is not included in the NMR monument thesaurus (EH 2008). In such cases, the feature is listed using the relevant NMR monument type (for instance ‘log boat’ is listed as ‘watercraft’ and ‘hoard’ is listed as ‘ritual pit’).

Defence Includes defended enclosure, hillfort, oppidum, hilltop enclosure, gatehouse, rampart, promontory fort. Religious, Ritual and Funerary Includes cremation (where not clearly associated with monument), cremation cemetery, animal burial, ritual pit (e.g. hoards), urned cremation, inhumation (isolated e.g. not clearly associated with monument).

Individual feature types are then grouped into broader classes for analysis. This grouping follows broadly the NMR monument classes, except where it was deemed important to distinguish between certain aspects of these classes for analytical reasons. For example, subsurface or isolated ‘Funerary, Ritual and Religious’ sites (e.g. cremation burial) are grouped separately to monumental sites (e.g. round barrow, cursus, temple etc.) of the same NMR class. ‘Defended Enclosure’ is included in the ‘Defence’ class, rather than in the ‘Monument ’ class, as they are in the NMR thesaurus. ‘Storage pits’ are included in the ‘Domestic’ class, rather than in the ‘Agriculture and Subsistence’ class, since although they do provide evidence of agricultural and subsistence activities, they are without exception (in the analysed sample) encountered within settlement contexts. Similarly ‘occupation site’, and ‘rock shelter’ are included in the ‘Domestic’ class, rather than in the ‘Unassigned’ or ‘Monument ’ classes, as they are in the NMR thesaurus. This is because ‘occupation’ and ‘settlement’ are often used interchangeably in fieldwork summaries but only the latter is included in the NMR class ‘Domestic’. ‘Post holes’, ‘boundaries’, ‘enclosures’ ‘post-built structures’, ‘rock shelters’, ‘pits’, and ‘pit clusters’ are also included in the ‘Domestic’ class, rather than in the ‘Unassigned’ class, in cases where they are clearly associated with settlement remains (structural features or a significant volume of material). ‘Artefact scatters’ (including flint scatters) are defined as

Religious, Ritual and Funerary (Monument) Includes round barrow, ring ditch, henge, causewayed enclosure, cursus, stone circle, cist burial, cist grave cemetery, chambered long cairn, timber platform, oval barrow, stone avenue, pit alignment, temple. Artefact Scatter Includes artefact scatter, flint scatter. Other Includes ‘Industrial’ ‘Maritime’ and ‘Transport’ sites (e.g. industrial site, metal working site, watercraft (log boat), trackway, drove road). Unassigned Includes earthwork, boundary, cave deposit, raised shoreline, ditch, marine bed, findspot, post alignment, palaeoenvironmental remains, palaeochannel, buried land surface. Includes enclosure, pit, gully in cases where they are not associated with other settlement features.

On multi-period sites, where several periods of a certain class of evidence (e.g. Domestic 2) were uncovered, this was only counted once when analysing the types of evidence the site had produced (e.g. if insubstantial Neolithic and Iron Age settlements were uncovered during a single investigation, the site was only counted once as having produced ‘Domestic 2’ evidence).

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Appendix 4: Life-history interview methodology focus in particular on the period from 1980 onwards (in line with the remit of this study). In addition, while I tried largely to allow interviewees to control the direction and flow of the discussion, I did encourage them to expand upon topics which I felt were particularly interesting or important. I also tried to maintain a degree of focus at points at which I felt the discussion was diverging unproductively from the main narrative. It is also worth noting that the tone of my interventions undoubtedly shifted over the course of the interviews, as I began to make connections between the different accounts that I had heard, and to identify certain themes which appeared to be particularly pervasive, contentious, or just interesting.

Seeking out interviewees In order to identify potential interviewees, I began by considering people whom I had worked with during my own career as a British prehistorian in a variety of different working contexts over the last 15 years. I also consulted my thesis supervisor, Richard Bradley. As well as being one of the best known and most widely connected British prehistorians, he recently produced a book on The Prehistory of Britain and Ireland (Bradley 2007), which draws on evidence from both fully published literature and from unpublished sites and grey reports. While collecting material for this book he visited a vast number of locations in which British prehistoric research is currently undertaken, and thus met a broad cross-spectrum of people who are currently engaged in this endeavour. In addition, I hoped that during the course of the interviews, other (unfamiliar) interviewees would come to light.

As well as making brief notes during the course of the interview, I jotted down my thoughts immediately prior to and after each interview, in order to articulate and thus raise my awareness of why I was interested in talking to the particular interviewee concerned, and of what my immediate responses were to the interview situation. In the weeks following each interview, I emailed interviewees both to thank them and, on a few occasions, to raise further questions which had occurred to me during my initial review of our discussion. In addition, in at least two instances, interviewees themselves contacted me soon after the interview in order to augment their accounts.

Prospective interviewees were contacted via email. Those who agreed to meet with me (thankfully most of those whom I initially contacted) were sent further details of the way in which I intended to structure our discussion (using the format of a life-history), together with an idea of broad themes which I hoped to cover during the course of it. It is worth acknowledging that the assemblage of 14 interviewees (and thus of 14 life-histories) which I ultimately gathered was undoubtedly shaped by the scope of this project, and, as the interviews progressed, the character of the material being produced: most interviewees talked in-depth and often at length about their lives in archaeology, thus I quickly accumulated what I felt was a considerable volume of material for analysis.1

Transcribing and analysing I transcribed the interviews in full myself, with the exception of a very few sections which were clearly not of immediate relevance to this investigation. While it might have been more expedient either to transcribe the interview material more briefly, or to pay for it to be transcribed in full, I resisted these temptations for two important reasons. Firstly, I did not want to remove sections of the interviews which might subsequently become relevant as the analysis progressed, or to gloss over the subtleties of the conversations we had engaged in. Secondly I found the process of transcription, if arduous, also important analytically in its own right.

The interviews Having gained formal approval from the School of Human and Environmental Science’s Ethics Committee (SHES), University of Reading, I undertook a total of 14 life-history interviews over the course of an eight month period between October 2006 and May 2007. Informed consent was gained from interviewees prior to commencing each interview. The interviews themselves lasted between one-and-a-half and three-and-a-half hours, and thus I accumulated over 32 hours of recorded material (amounting to over 245,000 transcribed words).2 The interviews followed what might be described as a semi-structured format (Bernard 2006, 211-2). I asked interviewees to recount their lives in archaeology, and to

Once the interviews were transcribed, they were returned to interviewees (both via email and in printed form) together with additional questions which had occurred to me during the transcription process. I also asked interviewees to provide me with a photo by which they would be represented in this study. Gratifyingly, most interviewees (ten of the fourteen) not only read through, commented upon and amended the interview transcriptions, but also answered the additional questions I put to them, sometimes at significant length. Of the four interviewees who did not return their transcripts or answer any further questions, three emailed me to tell me that they intended to, even if they were ultimately not able to find the time. Another was too busy to respond in

1

As an aside, it is worth mentioning that the current disciplinary enthusiasm for personal histories and the common association of this genre with ‘significant’ aspects of archaeology (as outlined in Section 6.4.) almost certainly assisted my efforts to garner interviewees, and contributed to people’s largely positive attitudes towards recounting their lives in archaeology (see below). 2 The interviews were recorded on mini-disc and then converted into MP3 files for the purpose of transcription.

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writing but offered to meet with me again if there was anything further that I wanted to discuss. 3 I thus feel heavily indebted to everyone concerned for their cooperation with, and even enthusiasm for, my research process. Interestingly, interviewees were much less forthcoming in providing images of themselves, even in instances where such material was widely available on the internet. Having received the amended transcripts and answers to additional questions, or otherwise having allowed interviewees at least three months in which to respond (meanwhile providing them with gentle reminders), I began to analyse the interview material. In order to assist with this process, I employed the qualitative research software – NVivo8 – which is widely used in the social sciences. This enabled me to coalesce and handle all the interview material – transcripts, notes, photographs, emails etc. – much more easily. Using the transcripts as the primary basis for my analysis, I worked through each of the interviews identifying key topics or themes which had arisen in the discussion, and grouping the relevant sections of the transcript within these themes. I then went on to perform a similar process of indexing the other material relating to the interviews. As the analysis progressed, new themes emerged, while topics which had at first seemed relevant became less so, or began to merge with others. As a result, the content and boundaries of the themes were constantly shifting and transcripts which I had analysed earlier in the process, often had to be revisited. In returning to previously analysed material, where appropriate, I also used the software’s capacity to search for certain terms or sets of terms – for instance it is possible to extract all sections of a transcript in which the topic of ‘professionalisation’ is discussed, together with those which raise related issues such as ‘standardisation’, ‘health and safety’ and so on. Ultimately, a number of strong themes emerged, around which I centre the account presented in Chapters 7-9.

3

Interviewees were invited, once again, to edit or amend their life history transcriptions and the excerpts used from these in the main text, prior to the publication of this book. Once again, I was heartened by the detailed responses I received from all interviewees (including those who had not replied previously), together with their thoughtful and, on the whole, extremely positive comments about the outcomes of this study.

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Appendix 5: Interviewee life-history synopses the Essex County Archaeology Section. Here, Nigel was offered the opportunity to work on prehistoric pottery, and took on the role of analysing substantial early Neolithic and Bronze Age assemblages from North Shoebury. This coincided with a formative period in later Bronze Age settlement and pottery studies and Nigel was particularly influenced by the work of John Barrett and Richard Bradley. Having gained considerable expertise as an excavator, prehistoric pottery specialist and writer, Nigel spent most of the 1980s directing excavations, analysing prehistoric pottery and publishing site reports. Following the implementation of PPG16 in 1990, he was given what was perhaps a unique role – developing Essex County Council’s archaeological research activities. In this role, Nigel was in an ideal position to coordinate the first of England’s network of regional research frameworks (initiated by Adrian Olivier) in the late 1990s. His ability to identify and present research in a manner which is sensitive to both local authority practice and to ‘New’ Labour’s fervour for knowledge-based policy, also enabled him to instigate several major collaborative projects and to help create new research posts in the county council during the 1990s and early 2000s. His interest in landscapes came to the fore during this period, and he has engaged particularly with phenomenological approaches and ideas relating to prehistoric people’s engagement with their past. In 2004 Nigel took charge of Essex County Council’s Historic Environment Management team. He recently helped coordinate a review of the regional research frameworks for the east of England and Greater Thames Estuary. At the time this study was completed, Nigel was working on the publication report of the Late Bronze Age at Springfield Lyons, whist taking part in a major review of Essex County Council’s Historic Environment Service, which resulted in a major reorganisation.

Gill Andrews Gill started excavating as a student at Bristol University, mainly on Roman sites in the north west of England. She took up her first formal job in archaeology in the mid1970s, at which point she was teaching Latin in a convent school in Cambridge as part of her Diploma in Education and had also been offered a permanent post at the convent. Employed by Geoff Wainwright as a finds officer at the newly formed Central Excavation Unit, her remit was to establish a system for processing the data from many of the most significant excavations being undertaken in Britain at that time. Having initially developed a specialism in Roman pottery, as time progressed Gill was keen to expand her role and thus began undertaking synthetic studies of the archaeology of several major urban centres. Following the birth of her daughter in 1983 Gill began to work as a consultant for English Heritage (EH), monitoring and enabling the postexcavation work on unpublished excavations. During the late 1980s Gill established a wide network of contacts in archaeology, attempted to introduce management theory into the archaeological process, and worked hard to facilitate working partnerships, particularly between archaeologists based in universities and in fieldwork units. She also authored what has become a seminal guide for undertaking post-excavation work (Management of Archaeological Projects), a document which was intended to operate alongside PPG16. During the expansion of developer-funded archaeology in the early 1990s, Gill adapted her talents and began working as a freelance consultant offering advice primarily to developers. Her thorough knowledge of the postexcavation process, her strong research-oriented approach, and her undoubted bargaining powers soon gained her an excellent reputation. In the mid-1990s, she found that her own working philosophy tied in closely with that of BAA. Consequently she was employed as a consultant on the largest excavation project ever undertaken in Britain, at Heathrow Terminal 5. Over the course of this project she built a strong relationship with John Barrett, a leading academic at the University of Sheffield. Together they developed an innovative, hightech, and theoretically informed approach to the excavation, recording and writing up of this project, the results of which are still emerging.

Jon Cotton Jon grew up in south London. He was introduced to archaeology by a Latin master at school and began excavating as a teenager with his local history society near Croydon. His attachment to this locality (and to Crystal Palace football team) has remained important to him throughout his career. Jon went to university in Bangor and worked briefly on rescue excavations with Gwynedd Archaeological Trust, before returning to London in the late 1970s to begin a Masters course in The Archaeology of the Roman Provinces. Having decided that it was very important for him to stay in this city, Jon took up the position of area officer at the Museum of London and spent much of the 1980s managing, excavating and preparing talks and exhibitions on large-scale rescue projects on the west London gravels. He described this period as a boom-time for London archaeology, with over 400 archaeologists employed, many deeply-stratified Roman and medieval sites being excavated, and a strong lobby underway to encourage developers to fund archaeology as standard practice. While Jon appreciated the museum’s prominent

Nigel Brown Nigel first became involved in archaeology in 1971 while at secondary school in Southend. He was initially fascinated by the collared urns in the local museum and soon after volunteered as an excavator on the major prehistoric site at North Shoebury. From very early on his interest in archaeology was closely tied to broader interests in landscapes, literature and 17th century history. Having declined a job offer from the Civil Service, Nigel began studying archaeology at Southampton University in 1977 (in the year below Mike Parker Pearson). His earlier excavation experience stood him in good stead as a graduate, and he soon gained stable employment with

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involved archaeology in 1974, as a post-excavation assistant to Charly French and Francis Pryor who were working on the renowned prehistoric excavations at Fengate, Cambridgeshire. While he initially saw archaeology as a ‘healthy diversion’ from studying Art History, over the later 1970s he took part in a number of key excavations in Britain and Scandinavia (including Flag Fen itself where he also met Mike Parker Pearson). His work as a site director for the Museum of London’s fieldwork team in the early 1980s was formative in Chris’s decision to stick with archaeology. Many new sites were being discovered and there was considerable scope for methodological experimentation. He first met Ian Hodder in 1982 and soon after became field director of the Cambridge Archaeology Department’s excavation at Haddenham, Cambridgeshire. Over the following five years, with a team of students, university staff and Manpower Services Commission volunteers, Chris developed pioneering methodological approaches whilst overseeing the excavation of this nationally important Neolithic and Iron Age site. After working briefly for EH he established the Cambridge Archaeological Unit with Ian Hodder in 1990, responding primarily to the significant increase in development-related work following the launch of PPG16. While the unit initially operated on a fairly small-scale it has subsequently grown significantly and has gained a reputation as one of the foremost prehistoric research establishments in Britain. Chris himself has published numerous major monographs and journal articles, and has directed fieldwork projects in Nepal, China and Cape Verde, as well as in the UK.

role in the community at this time (a role which he feels it has only recently reclaimed), he also felt that London’s prehistory was getting a ‘raw deal’. Consequently following the introduction of PPG16, Jon took up the role of curator of prehistory at the Museum of London and set about promoting the city’s prehistory. While he initially had concerns over the potential effects of PPG16, Jon has subsequently come to appreciate the capacity of this legislation to draw archaeologists from elsewhere into London and feels that this has been especially beneficial for the discovery and interpretation of prehistoric archaeology. Over the last 15 years or so he has built strong relationships with the Institute of Archaeology at University College London, has maintained close contact with excavation units working in London, has read broadly on postprocessual interpretative ideas, and has introduced the themes of narrative and personal histories into the museum’s displays. At the time of our interview, he was working on a book about the prehistory of London. Barry Cunliffe Barry discovered his interest in archaeology as a schoolboy, kicking over molehills on the site of a Roman Villa at his uncle’s farm in Somerset. By the age of 14 he was excavating with local amateur groups and he spent many weekends during his teenage years on excavations in Winchester and on the South Downs. One particular site at Muntham Court sparked his initial enthusiasm for the Iron Age, aged 15. Having first opted to study Natural Sciences at the University of Cambridge, Barry switched to studying Archaeology and Anthropology and found himself in a remarkable peer group which also included Colin Renfrew. Throughout his undergraduate degree and first teaching job at Bristol University, Barry continued to excavate. In fact, his already formidable reputation earned him the role of directing the major excavations at Fishbourne in 1961. Having been appointed as professor at the University of Southampton in 1966, he set out to establish his own research projects; first at Porchester, and then at the Iron Age hillfort of Danebury. The Danebury project endured not only the remainder of Barry’s employment in Southampton, but also his entire professorship at Oxford University from 1972 to 2010. Early on, the Danebury team experimented with open area excavation, geophysics and new digital technologies. In the late 1970s and early 1980s the interpretative potential of botanical and faunal remains became increasingly important. Meanwhile in the late 1980s and 1990s the investigation widened to explore the landscape around Danebury as well as the longer-term history of the site and its locale into the Roman period. Alongside this project, Barry has conducted numerous other fieldwork investigations both in Britain and on the near continent. Throughout his working life Barry has contributed to major policy documents and has acted on advisory panels for the CBA and EH. He was also involved in establishing RESCUE and the IFA.

Hugo Lamdin-Whymark Hugo grew up in Liphook, Hampshire. His early interest in archaeology was fuelled by a visit to the massive urban excavations at Winchester in the late 1980s. Hugo subsequently honed his particular interest in archaeological materials (especially flint) both by undertaking field walking exercises with his twin brother and by joining the Farnham and District Metal Detecting Society (where he once won ‘find of the month’ with an early Neolithic leaf-shaped arrowhead!). In his late teens Hugo became increasingly interested in the contexts from which these finds were derived, which led him to participate in his first local society excavation in 1993. At a time when universities were reducing the amount of required fieldwork for students, he deliberately chose a degree course which had a high practical component at the University of Leicester. As a student between 1994 and 1997, Hugo worked at Eton Rowing Lake with Oxford Archaeological Unit (now Oxford Archaeology). On completing his degree Hugo joined Oxford Archaeology on a more permanent basis (he worked there until 2006), analysing flints, directing excavations, and producing substantial grey reports and monographs. Alongside this work became a committee member (and more recently chair) of the Lithic Studies Society, participated in research projects in Jordan (2000) and Syria (2001-3), and acted as Finds Officer (2005-2009) on the high profile Stonehenge Riverside Project, directed by Mike Parker Pearson and Julian Thomas. Hugo also began his doctoral research on the Neolithic of the

Chris Evans Chris was born in Canada and studied for his Masters degree in Art History in Toronto. He first became

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was rapidly promoted to the position of site supervisor and operated in this role on a seasonal basis until the completion of the excavation some eight years later. Alongside this fieldwork, Adrian completed his undergraduate degree at Queens University in Belfast where developed his interest in the Iron Age-RomanoBritish transition. In the early 1970s he began work on his doctoral thesis with Jeffrey May at the University of Nottingham, examining Iron Age brooches and using the ideas of (amongst others) David Clarke and Bruce Trigger. Towards the end of his research he took up a job at Lancaster University with the remit of creating an SMR for Lancashire. Based on his success in achieving this target he was subsequently employed as Assistant Director of the newly-formed Cumbria and Lancashire Archaeological Research Unit, which was set up in 1979 as part of a nationwide network of regional fieldwork units. Together with successive directors Roger Leech and John Williams, Adrian helped to steer this organisation through substantial changes in the funding and organisation of fieldwork in Britain over the course of the 1980s, employing his considerable entrepreneurial and networking skills as a means of ensuring the survival of the unit. In the early 1990s, Adrian was offered the new challenge of working for EH. Here, he completed the modernisation of the Central Archaeology Service (formerly the Central Excavation Unit), as well as assisting Geoff Wainwright in creating new policies for the discipline at a national level. Undoubtedly the best known outcome of this work was the initiation of an England-wide network of regional research frameworks. Adrian has been involved in reshaping the process of publishing and disseminating fieldwork results and exploring ways of ensuring that the needs of archaeological research are accommodated in national planning policy, as well as in building closer links with archaeologists in Europe. At the time of our interview Adrian’s post was Director of Strategy for EH where he led the development and co-ordination of English Heritage’s strategies for historic environment research and standard setting activities.

Thames Valley with Richard Bradley in 2002. He completed this in 2007 and promptly published his thesis in 2008. In 2006, Hugo established himself as a freelance specialist, offering a broad range of services including lithic analysis, consultancy, flint knapping demonstrations, and photographic illustration (www.flintwork.co.uk). Alongside this work Hugo was a part-time Lecturer in Archaeology at Bournemouth University for the 2009/10 academic year. Jacky Nowakowski Jacky grew up in west London. Having become interested in archaeology at school, she took part in her first excavation as a teenager at Fulham pottery with the Fulham and Hammersmith Historical Society. Enthused by this experience and by the people she had met, she participated in weekend excavations throughout the early 1970s, and attended a major rescue archaeology conference at the Guildhall, London. She then took a gap year before starting university specifically in order to gain experience of excavating on a range of research and rescue excavations across Britain. She was especially keen to learn the diverse skills involved in excavations of different sorts, and also enjoyed the close-knit, itinerant lifestyle. As a student at the University of Sheffield in the late 1970s and early 1980s, Jacky became interested in the new interpretative ideas which were emerging from Cambridge, particularly feminist approaches and structuration. She also supervised on research excavations across Europe led by departmental staff and visiting lecturers. During the mid-1980s Jacky took up a position helping to lead a survey team on a Manpower Services Commission funded project at West Penwith in Cornwall. Jacky’s positive experiences of Cornish archaeology (both excavation and survey) encouraged her to stay there. As well to undertaking a number of nationally important excavations such as that at Trethellan Farm, Jacky has been active member of the county archaeological society – helping to edit the journal and participating in society events and activities. She also teaches on extra-mural archaeology courses in Truro and Exeter. Throughout this time she has maintained strong connections with university-based archaeologists, collaborating (during the post excavation process) with Ann Woodward at Trethellan Farm, contributing to a seminal volume on Bronze Age Britain (Brück 2001), and speaking regularly at national conferences. At the time of our interview, Jacky was working on the publications of the 1950s excavations at Gwithian with local archaeologist Charles Thomas, and the West Penwith Survey. She was also playing a key role in the production of the South West Archaeological Research Framework.

Mike Parker Pearson Mike grew up just outside Oxford on the Berkshire Downs. His grandfather was a keen collector of antiquities, and he himself became interested in archaeology from an early age. He remembers searching for fossils on the driveway to his house (aged four), did his first piece of excavation as a schoolboy (aged nine), and was regularly employed on rescue excavations from the age of 16, one of which (at Illchester) was directed by Ann Woodward. Following a brief but influential period working on the digging circuit in the mid-1970s, Mike went to the University of Southampton to study archaeology where he and his fellow students – Tim Darvill, Bob Smith and Roger Thomas – both challenged and admired their young and dynamic teachers. After further sorties into the worlds of German and US archaeology, Mike began his PhD at the University of Cambridge with Ian Hodder in 1979. Here, he formed part of an ambitious group of Hodder’s students who set out to recast the whole of archaeological theory. Mike’s

Adrian Olivier Adrian’s initial interest in archaeology was sparked by his reading of popular magazines about ancient history during the 1950s. He went on his first excavation as a teenager in Colchester in 1965, and soon after became involved in the renowned Nottingham University (Jeffrey May)-run multi-period excavation at Dragonby, Lincolnshire. Having worked initially as a volunteer, he

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research excavation at Durrington Walls, with (amongst others) Mike Parker Pearson. Over this period his work has become increasingly focused upon material derived from his own excavations, and on developing particular theoretical interests. At the time this study was completed Julian was working on a book about the MesolithicNeolithic transition.

own work involved an ethnoarchaeological study of death – a topic about which he remains passionate. He continued to excavate throughout his doctoral research working on both rescue and research projects, including Maiden Castle (where Jamie Wright also worked). In 1984, having completed his PhD, Mike joined EH as an Inspector of Ancient Monuments. During this formative period in government archaeology, under the leadership of (amongst others) Geoff Wainwright, he contributed to several major policy documents and publications including PPG16. In the early 1990s, Mike’s research focus led him to apply for a lectureship at the University of Sheffield, which he duly got and where he has stayed ever since. He has been inspired particularly by the innovative work of scientists in the department, and over the last 15 years has undertaken major collaborative excavation projects in the Outer Hebrides, and as part of the high profile Stonehenge Riverside Project (with, amongst others, Julian Thomas).

Geoffrey Wainwright Geoff’s contribution to archaeology over the last 50 years or so hardly needs introducing. He was described by another interviewee, Mike Parker Pearson, as one of the four ‘greats’ in archaeology over this period (alongside Colin Renfrew, Ian Hodder and Mick Aston). In fact his role within the discipline was noted with affection and admiration by almost everyone that I talked to. He was born in south Pembrokeshire and first became interested in archaeology as a boy, while walking the coastal paths of this area and picking up flints. Following a successful university career in Cardiff, London (where he undertook his doctoral research looking at the Mesolithic of southern Britain) and at the Institute of Baroda, India, Geoff became an assistant inspector for the Ministry of Works in 1963, where his remit was to excavate prehistoric sites in advance of their destruction. Over the next ten years he excavated some of the most important prehistoric sites in Britain and was at the forefront of experimenting with a number of highly influential excavation methodologies including the use of heavy plant machinery, open-area stripping, and recording on context sheets. From 1980 onwards Geoff was in charge of policy; first for the government, then for EH. During this particularly turbulent period in the history of British archaeology, Geoff and his colleagues implemented a number of significant policy documents (most famously PPG16), which together shifted the entire funding structure of government-related archaeology, reinforced the notion that all archaeology should be project/research orientated, and ultimately created a number of new roles for archaeologists (including curators, contractors, consultants) in various different arenas. Since leaving EH in 1999, Geoff has been Chair of Wessex Archaeology and President of the Society of Antiquaries. He has also directed a programme of survey and excavation in north Pembrokeshire and at Stonehenge with Tim Darvill of Bournemouth University.

Julian Thomas Julian grew up in Epsom and in many ways ‘fell into’ archaeology, being influenced by books lying about his family home and TV programmes. As an undergraduate at the University of Bradford in the late 1970s he became particularly motivated after a years’ excavation on the digging-circuit and by the ideas he was introduced to by John Bintliff. During his MA in Environmental Archaeology at the University of Sheffield, Julian became increasingly interested in the new interpretative ideas emerging from Cambridge. He was also inspired by his reading of ethnography, by the emerging social approaches to economic archaeology and by the possibilities allowed by collating evidence from disparate data sources. Julian’s doctoral research on the Neolithic of Wessex and the Thames Valley (1982-6) enabled him to explore these themes in much more detail. He also became involved in several prominent research excavations (including Hambledon Hill, Hazleton North long barrow, the Dorset cursus, Barrow Hills and Langdale). In doing so he built a number of longstanding relationships with other prehistoric researchers including Richard Bradley and Alasdair Whittle. During this time he also co-authored (with another young graduate, Colin Richards) a highly influential paper on ‘structured deposition’ at the Neolithic henge monument of Durrington Walls, and started reading Foucault. After his PhD, Julian took up a teaching post in Lampeter, where he particularly enjoyed weekly seminars on Heidegger in the philosophy department, and developed his doctoral research to form the book Rethinking the Neolithic (Thomas 1991). As he became increasingly confident theoretically, he also got much more involved in broader theoretical debates. After a brief spell lecturing in Southampton, during which he set up his own large-scale excavation at the Scottish site of Dunragit and issued a theoretically reworked version of Rethinking the Neolithic – Understanding the Neolithic (Thomas 1999) – Julian moved to Manchester and took up his current post as professor. Over the last seven years, he has built a young and active research department, has completed his Scottish excavations and has recently begun a prestigious

John Williams John grew up in North Wales, and was interested in archaeology from an early age. As a teenager he studied Greek, Latin and Roman history at A-level, and he still treasures the letter he received from Mortimer Wheeler in response to his enquiry about the possibility of pursuing a career in archaeology. John read Latin from 1963-6 at the University of Manchester, taking Roman Britain as an option. In terms of archaeology he was particularly influenced by Hugh Thompson, through whom he became involved in undertaking excavations for the Ministry of Public Buildings and Works, and by Barri Jones who supervised his Master’s thesis on ‘Stone Building Materials in Roman Britain' and instilled in him the importance of getting things published. After a brief

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for CRAAGS, she was taken on as director of Wessex Archaeology in the late 1970s (in what was a very unusual position for a woman at that time). During this period she wrote an influential research policy for Wessex, many of the proposed projects from which have since been carried out. Following a brief period of freelance research from 1983-1985, Ann was appointed as a Research Fellow at the University of Birmingham, working as a pottery specialist and writing up publications both for the Birmingham University Archaeological Field Unit, and the broader academic department – a role which she particularly enjoys. Ann has been instrumental in the development and operation of the Prehistoric Ceramics Research Group and has authored several important monographs and articles. She has also published a number of books on the ritual archaeology of Britain (e.g. Shrines and Sacrifices), aimed at a wider academic audience.

spell spent gainfully developing management skills in the textiles industry, John returned to archaeology in 1971 when he was employed by Northampton Development Corporation to head excavations in advance of building the new town. In this role John engaged fully with contemporary attempts to develop standardised recording methods in British archaeology, employing a systematic context recording system, and Munsell charts but, for very good reasons, spurning the use of single-context planning. He was developing his enduring beliefs that it is vital to sort things out on site (rather than subsequently), to take account of the spaces in between features as well as the features themselves. Upon publishing St Peter’s Street, Northampton, in 1979, he innovatively presented the stratigraphy in Harris matrices, and incorporated the specialists’ analyses within the main report. Other reports included the site database on microfiche. In the mid-1980s John moved on to become director of Lancaster University Archaeological Unit where he worked alongside Adrian Olivier, leading the unit during a significant period of change in the funding basis of British archaeology. He also lectured in the university and gained a PhD for his work on Northampton. In 1990 John was appointed as Kent’s first county archaeologist, the interview panel including Geoff Wainwright. During his time in Kent, John has built a strong team of archaeologists within the county council. Importantly, he has developed and led the implementation of new investigative approaches through the planning process (strip-map-and-sample), as a result of which small, dispersed forms of evidence (such as Bronze age flat graves), that were being missed elsewhere due to an over reliance on trial trenching evaluation, have come more to the fore. John has also been a leading partner (along with Nigel Brown) in attempts to improve archaeological procedures across Europe through the Planarch project. At the time of our interview he was playing a key role in creating a research framework for south eastern England.

Jamie Wright Jamie was born in Bradford, West Yorkshire. He first became interested in prehistoric archaeology through his aunt, an active member of a local history society which undertook extensive rock art surveys on Ilkley Moor. Having gained a degree in mathematics at the University of Southampton, Jamie got his first job in archaeology through the Manpower Service Commission scheme in 1982. Over the course of the 1980s he excavated on a broad range of rescue and research projects across Britain. Much of his work, including that on the major research project at Maiden Castle (where Mike Parker Pearson also worked briefly), was focused in the south west of England. He started supervising excavations in the late-1980s, and at about the same time discovered his aptitude for site surveying – a skill which he continues to develop. Following periods of work with West Yorkshire Archaeological Services and Lancaster University Archaeological Unit (overlapping with both Adrian Olivier and myself), Jamie returned to Wessex Archaeology in the mid-1990s. At the time of our interview he was working for this organisation as a Project Officer, directing large-scale excavation projects across the country. Over the last ten years, he has developed a particular interest in late glacial archaeology – a topic which still interests him keenly.

Ann Woodward Ann grew up near Didcot, just south of Oxford. Despite being encouraged by her parents to pursue science at school, she was interested in archaeology from an early age. As a schoolgirl, she took part in excavations with a number of eminent archaeologists, and remembers fondly being taught in detail how to dig a pit by Isobel Smith. At university in Cambridge in the late 1960s Ann was supervised and inspired by David Clarke’s rigorous approach, and formed part of a close-knit community of students, many of whom subsequently became renowned archaeologists (including Graeme Barker, Bob Chapman, Robin Dennell and Andrew Sherratt). During her doctoral research into later Bronze Age settlement, she worked on establishing a sound pottery chronology for this period as well as developing what was to be a long-term interest in material patterning in the archaeological record. Ann’s first job in archaeology was in Reading museum, where she met up and collaborated with Richard Bradley on the excavations at Rams Hill. She soon felt inspired to work for one of the newly formed rescue units, and following an exciting and dynamic period excavating and surveying

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