Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge [1st ed. 2022] 303096941X, 9783030969417

Table of contents :
Foreword
References
Preface
Overview
References
Contents
Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge
Cognition, Mnemonics and Ontology
Memory and Materials: Marking, Digital Technology and Canons
Identities and Contemporary Knowledges
References
Part I: Cognition, Mnemonics and Ontology
Culture, Memory and Rock Art
Introduction
Culture, Communication and Collective Memory
Rock Art Sites: Static Text or Dynamic Context?
Collective Memory and Culture Change
Conclusion
References
T oñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia
Introduction
Wametisé, Spirits and Kumuã
Miriãporãwi
Transmissions
The Omedari-Tutuasedari Extended Neural Network
Conclusion
In Memoriam
References
The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge
Introduction
Memorising the Mwambo: The Rock Art of Chinamwali
Rock Art and Media: Webs of Knowledge
Memory, Touch and Sounds
Discussion
Conclusion
References
Part II: Memory and Materials: Scratches, Digital Technology and Canons
The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory
Of Memory and Cultural Transmission
Prehistory, Atlantic Rock Art, and Collective Memories
Prehistory and the Prevalence of Memory
Atlantic Rock Art – A Brief Overview
Memory and Rock Art
Memory and Learning Through Gestures
Carved Landscapes and Re-appropriation
Rock Art, Meaning and Memory
Conclusion
References
Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art Memorialize Heroes?
Introduction
Conflict During the Nordic Bronze Age
Rock Art and Conflict
From Journey to Confrontation
From Cupmarks to a Battle Scene
Fighting and Killing
Theoretical Framework
Could They Be Heroes?
Sex and Violence
The Death of a Fighter, the Birth of a Hero
Telling a Heroic Tale
Those Forgotten, Those Remembered
Conclusion
References
Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia
Introduction
Wandjinas in Kimberley Art
Art, Performance and Memory: Looking After the Wandjinas
Re-painting/Re-freshing Images
Calling Out
Cutting
Performance in Other Southern Kimberley Art
Scratchwork or Light Incision
Black Pigment Art
Pecking
Memory, Painting and Performance in Community Art Centres Today
Discussion
Conclusion
References
The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP)
Social Practices in the Cerro Colorado Area During the Late Pre-Hispanic Period
Conceptual and Methodological Approach
Characteristics of the Cerro Colorado Rock Art
Casa del Sol
Veladero
Colorado
Vaca Errana
Conclusion
References
Part III: Identities and Contemporary Knowledges
Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia
Introduction
Rock Art and the Perception of Time and Space in Rural Communities of North-Western Iberia – Evidence from Ethnography and Social Anthropology
A Land Filled with Spirits – Oral Tradition and Rock Art
Rocha da Hera (Vale Feixe, Odemira, Beja, Portugal), the Home of Enchanted Creatures
Pegada da Moura (Nogueira, Sever do Vouga, Aveiro, Portugal). The Flying Mooress
Outeiro dos Riscos (Gatão, Cepelos, Vale de Cambra, Aveiro, Portugal)
Gião (Arcos de Valdevez, Viana do Castelo, Portugal)
Penedo Gordo or Penedo da Moura (Feilas, Vilardevós, Galicia, Spain)
Penedo da Moura (Boticas, Vila Real, Portugal) and Penedo do Trinco (Lanhelas, Caminha, Viana do Castelo, Portugal)
Penedo do Encanto (Parada, Ponte da Barca, Viana do Castelo, Portugal)
The Moors and Enchanted Moors – Ancestors and Mythical Beings
Worldviews and Social Memory – Recursive and Iterative Processes in Western Iberia Rock Art
Conclusion
References
Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”
Rock Art in the Southern Andes
Contemporary Voices About Rock Art
Who Made and Makes Rock Art?
Notes for an Ontology/Ontologies of Rock Art Images in the Andes
Rock Art and Memories
Which Memories?
Rock Art, Ontologies, and Memories
References
River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa
Introduction
The Materiality of Driekopseiland – Revisiting the Work of G.W. Stow
Marks of Authorship
Re-membering
In Moments of Unforgetting
References
The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest
Introduction
Memory, Archaeology, and Petroglyphs
Collective Memory and Collective Remembering
Petroglyphs as Pieces of Collective Memory
Petroglyphs as Places of Collective Remembering
Painted Rocks
Tutuveni
Remembering While Forgetting?
References
Index

Citation preview

Leslie F. Zubieta   Editor

Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

Leslie F. Zubieta Editor

Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

Editor Leslie F. Zubieta Marie Skłodowska-Curie Postdoctoral Fellow (2018–2020) Department d’Història i Arqueologia (Secció de Prehistòria i Arqueologia) Universitat de Barcelona Barcelona, Spain Honorary Research Fellow, Centre for Rock Art Research + Management, School of Social Sciences The University of Western Australia Perth, Australia Honorary Research Fellow, Rock Art Research Institute School of Geography, Archaeology and Environmental Studies University of the Witwatersrand Johannesburg, South Africa

ISBN 978-3-030-96941-7    ISBN 978-3-030-96942-4 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4 © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Foreword

It’s a truism to say that rock art research is underappreciated in the discipline of archaeology. In the Southwest USA, where I work, some of the most important rock art research has been done by avocational archaeologists or by professionals pushing the boundaries of disciplinary dogma. Until recently (albeit with a few exceptions), scholars tended to view rock art as a communicative medium analogous to other forms of “writing.” At best, they sought to translate the message; at worst, they merely attempted to categorize and date the isolated images. With the rise of interest in sensory archaeology in the 1990s, archaeologists like Richard Bradley, Chris Tilley, Chris Chippindale, and Paul Taçon began to engage with rock art embedded in larger landscapes, and rock art as an active element in the construction of social memories and identities. As the authors in this volume demonstrate, we have now moved well beyond “what did this image mean?” to focus on the lived, embodied practices of rock art creation. Volume editor Leslie F.  Zubieta is helping to lead the way. Zubieta invited me to contribute this “Foreword” because, she says, she was influenced early in her career by the 2003 Van Dyke and Alcock volume, Archaeologies of Memory. I am gratified to see some of those early ideas on archaeology and social memory, in various forms, taken up by a new generation of researchers. Neither I nor any of the authors in our 2003 volume engaged in any deep way with rock art. Although most of our contributions dealt with “landscape,” and although we were all very influenced by the work of Bradley and Tilley, chapters in the 2003 “memory volume” mostly ignored the spatially situated nature of all rock art, focusing instead on monuments and architecture. In our introduction, Sue Alcock and I lumped rock art together with objects into the ill-defined category of “memory as representation”: Representations and objects include such items as paintings, masks, figurines, rock art, and other representational media that often possess commemorative functions. Rock art panels, for example, may depict ancient mythic events while locating them on the landscape… (Van Dyke & Alcock, 2003, p. 5)

v

vi

Foreword

I am a bit embarrassed by that categorical characterization today. At the time, it seems that we envisioned images on stone as simply, passively, carrying inscribed (or incorporated?) meanings forward into the future. But contemporary theory and Zubieta’s book have moved us well past the limited idea of materials as transparent media communicating monolithic messages. In this beautifully illustrated book, which had its genesis in a European Archaeological Association session, Zubieta brings together authors from around the globe—Africa, Europe, Australia, and North and South America. The contributors’ common interest is the creation and interaction with rock art in the facilitation of social memory and the transmission of cultural knowledge across time. Authors in this book do not view rock art as static vehicles for representation, but as active, embodied practice. The contributors take up diverse positions on memory, from macrocognition and neural networks to extended mind and phenomenological or sensory engagement. Laudably, Indigenous rock art creators and cultural specialists participate throughout this book not just as interlocutors, but as authors. It is not surprising that stone cliff faces, caves, and boulders—those apparently “timeless” elements of our physical landscape—become powerful loci for memory work. Stone is a durable material that transcends human experience, with lifespans measured in geologic eras rather than a few short decades. Stones appear to be unchanging, yet their entanglements with human lives shift constantly. Thus, stones become ideal focal points for the territorialization and de-territorialization of memory (sensu Deleuze & Guattari, 1987/2007). As objects that already exist, they influence what can come next … and as objects entangled with humans in the present, their importance rests on what has come before (Lucas, 2005; Olivier, 2011). Once people initiate interaction with stone landscape elements, existing markings become irresistible attractants for future engagement. Repetitive markings like the lines of vertical hash marks on the walls of Chaco Canyon, or the rows of thousands of clan symbols inscribed at the Hopi initiation site of Tutuveni (Bernardini, 2009; Wright, chapter “The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest” this volume), form their own kind of taskscape (sensu Ingold, 1993). Future visitors experience cyclical time as they revisit and repeat the actions of their ancestors. These types of repetitive visits figure prominently in some of the contributions to this volume (see particularly Tenório Tuyuka et al.; O’Connor et al.; Martínez C.; and Recalde & Colqui). For example, Tenório Tuyuka and a consortium of Indigenous Brazilian cultural experts beautifully explain how repeated engagements with the places of rock art are part of an Indigenous philosophy of extended mind, transcending time, through which expert practitioners (kumuā) visit specific places to talk to the human and nonhuman spirit world. Repetitive actions in sacred places can leave simple and enigmatic marks on stones that are important not as images per se, but as the indications of practices, or doings. My colleague Sam Duwe (2016) has explored how Tewa Pueblo people and their ancestors created cupules on stone as they repeatedly hammered on stone to call the spirit world. It is the cupules themselves that have been the focus of study, however—not the ringing resonances of the hammerstones. But archaeological

Foreword

vii

acoustics are a growing area of inquiry (e.g., Scarre & Lawson, 2006, Van Dyke et al., 2021), and sound is clearly intrinsic to memory—think of the role played by music in both individual and social memory work. Although rock art researchers have long been interested in the acoustic properties of stone, they have rarely linked these explicitly with memory (but see Zubieta, this volume). Sound, repetitive action, visuals, stories—all of these may be bundled together with rock art as contributors to social memory. In Zubieta’s work with Cheŵa women, O’Connor et al.’s work in the Kimberley area of northern Australia, and Martínez’s work in the southern Andes, rock art is portrayed as part of an assemblage of practices, including the re-telling of narratives. Paradoxically (and importantly), although rock art involves the durable, apparent permanency of stone, the medium lends itself well to sensory sleights of hand. Light conditions affect perception. Human eyes see petroglyphs and pictographs differently (and sometimes not at all) depending on light conditions. Images appear to shift and change, adding to their otherworldly allure. Supernatural beings appear to enter and leave this world as the light changes; in this volume, Whitley describes how leading Yokuts ritual practitioners literally enter the rock face. Images are repeatedly revealed and submerged according to the rise and swell of a South African river (Morris). These shifting, transitory qualities also make rock art images difficult for researchers to capture. The last decades have seen a burgeoning of technologies that enable rock art scholars to refine their abilities to “see” images, from Adobe Photoshop through Structure for Motion (SfM) photogrammetry, D-Stretch, and Reflectance Transformation Imagery (RTI). These technologies figure particularly prominently in cases from Western Europe (Valdez-Tullett), Scandinavia (Horn), and Australia (O’Connor et al.). Horn, for example, is able to temporally parse elements of Nordic Bronze Age petroglyphs to show how earlier figures were transformed over time into warrior-heroes. In many ways, rock art seems a human attempt to harness the power of stone to overcome the limitations of our transitory existence. Rock art juxtaposes the short spans of human lives (and human memory) against the long lives of stone. Although time passes for humans and stones alike, stones will always last longer, acting as connections to past peoples and events that are fading from view. Thus, an undercurrent of fragility and loss runs through some chapters in the volume. Authors mourn the loss of leading Brazilian Indigenous scholar Poani Higino Tenório Tuyuka in June 2020. In western Iberia, Bacelar Alves laments that ancient connections to sacred places are being lost, with the waning of oral traditions. In South Africa, Morris points out the ruptures in knowledge created by the forced displacement of Indigenous Khoe-San people. In the Southwest USA, Wright describes how rock art can be deployed as a weapon in struggles among Indigenous communities and the state. But people are also remarkably resilient in their interactions with ancient marks on stone. Martínez C. demonstrates that in the Andes, despite the ravages wrought by colonization, Quechua, Aymara, and Spanish speakers revisit and incorporate ancient rock art into vibrant contemporary practices. In Zubieta’s own work with the Cheŵa, as in many other cases covered here, engagements with rock art help to preserve, remember, and teach cultural knowledge.

viii

Foreword

Traversing all of this ground and more, as detailed in Zubieta’s excellent introduction, Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge constitutes a significant advance in our archaeological studies of both rock art and memory. I bid you happy reading. Binghamton University – State University of New York Binghamton, NY, USA December 2021

Ruth M. Van Dyke

References Bernardini, W. (2009). Hopi history in stone: The Tutuveni Petroglyph Site (Arizona State Museum Archaeological Series 200). University of Arizona. Bradley, R. (2002). The past in prehistoric societies. Routledge. Chippindale, C., & Taçon, P. (Eds.). (1998). The archaeology of rock-art. Cambridge University Press. Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (2007 [1980]). A thousand plateaus: Capitalism and schizophrenia. Continuum. Duwe, S. (2016). Cupules and the creation of the Tewa Pueblo World. Journal of Lithic Studies, 3(3), 147–168. Ingold, T. (1993). The temporality of the landscape. World Archaeology, 25(2), 152–174. Lucas, G. (2005). The archaeology of time. Routledge. Olivier, L. (2011). The dark abyss of time: Archaeology and memory (A.  Greenspan, Trans.). Altamira Press. Scarre, C., & Lawson, G. (Eds.). (2006). Archaeoacoustics. Cambridge University Press. Tilley, C. (1994). A phenomenology of landscape. Berg. Tilley, C. (2004). The materiality of stone: Explorations in landscape phenomenology. Berg. Van Dyke, R. M., & Alcock, S. E. (Eds.). (2003). Archaeologies of memory. Blackwell Publishers. Van Dyke, R.  M., de Smet, T., & Bocinsky, R.  K. (2021). Viewscapes and soundscapes. In R. M. Van Dyke & C. Heitman (Eds.), The greater Chaco landscape: Ancestors, scholarship, and advocacy (pp. 195–224). University Press of Colorado.

Preface

My initial idea for a collective volume on the topic of this book first gestated in South Africa many moons ago, while I was finishing my doctoral research in the late 2000s. Serendipitous circumstances, now blurred in the web of my own memory, led me to south-central Africa, where I had the unexpected privilege of being immersed in the study of rock paintings that the Cheŵa women used in the recent past for their female initiations. The confirmation of women being the producers of this no-longer practised art was revelatory to my fieldwork, and discovering the paintings’ connection to a complex mechanism of ways of knowing and memorising rules of behaviour was equally significant. Through this personal experience— where I was transformed and nourished by many people, landscapes, foods, colours, actions and emotions—I developed an awareness of the importance of understanding the role of images in memorising cultural knowledge. My interest in this topic has been cultivated over the years by discussions with many individuals on issues having an intimate relationship to memory, such as landscape, identity, the origins of art, heritage, the body and gender. Although I cannot name all the individuals here, I would like to acknowledge my appreciation of my colleagues David Lewis-Williams, Benjamin W.  Smith, Phil Bonner (†), David Pearce, Catherine Namono, Sam Challis (Rock Art Research Institute, the University of the Witwatersrand); Jean-Michel Geneste, Stéphane Hœrlé, Catherine Cretin (Centre National de Préhistoire); Denis Vialou and Agueda Vilhena Vialou (Institut de Paléontologie Humaine; Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle); Gilles Tosello and Carole Fritz (Travaux et Recherches Archéologiques sur les Cultures, les Espaces et les Sociétés, Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail II); Jo McDonald, Peter Veth, Martin Porr, Sven Ouzman, Jane Balme, Jamie Hampson (Centre for Rock Art Research + Management, the University of Western Australia); and Margarita DíazAndreu, Tommaso Mattioli and the GRAP and GAPP research groups (Universitat de Barcelona). Other sources of inspiration on the topic of memory occurred through stimulating conversations with people I met in various academic stays or contacted over the years (some only via e-mail), like Raymond Apthorpe, Claude Boucher, Christopher Chippindale, Mapopa Mtonga (†), Jean-Loïc Le Quellec, Francis Thackeray, ix

x

Preface

Andrew Meirion Jones, Kelley Hays-Gilpin, Ken Mulvaney, Claire Smith, Christine Watson and Lynn Meskell. Lastly, I owe the most profound insights on issues of memory concerning rock imagery to the Indigenous women and men with whom I have learned to acknowledge my narrow Western perspective, from Africa (Cheŵa, Bemba, Nsenga) to Australia (Marapikurrinya Kariyarra, Wong-gg-tt-oo, Kwini, Balanggarra) and most recently in Mexico (Ayuuk ja’ay) in a project I currently lead with the approval of the National Institute of Anthropology and History of Mexico (INAH). These experiences supported me in 2018 as I proposed and led the MEMORISING project under a Marie Skłodowska-Curie Postdoctoral Fellowship at the Departament d’Història i Arqueologia (Secció Prehistòria i Arqueologia), Universitat de Barcelona, funded by the European Union under the Horizon 2020 program (Grant No. 750706). With the enthusiastic help of Lara Alves Bacelar and Catherine Cretin as co-­ organisers, we held a conference session entitled The Intersections of Memory and Rock Art: Towards a Multidisciplinary Approach at the 24th Annual Meeting of the European Archaeological Association (EAA) in Barcelona, which attracted a good number of attendants. Very interesting papers emerged from this small session, many of which now form part of this book. While inviting colleagues from various countries to attend the EAA, I learned about the economic impediments that kept many from participating. Recognising this frustrating situation and realising the long-existing need for a collective book on this fascinating topic, I encouraged a group of researchers with a consolidated trajectory on studying the intersections of memory and rock art worldwide to contribute to this book, which Springer has wholeheartedly accepted after the positive feedback of two anonymous referees during the book’s proposal review process. Special gratitude goes to Springer staff Christi Jongepier-Lue, Enayathullah M, Balaji Padmanaban and Teresa Krauss for their guidance, and the two external referees who provided helpful feedback and comments to our book draft. I am delighted that Ruth M. Van Dyke has kindly written a Foreword for this book. My most profound appreciation goes to the authors in this volume for sharing their important insights and experiences of their research. I also acknowledge the passing of one of the leading Indigenous contributors during the book’s assembly phase with much respect and sadness. The last memories of Professor Poani Higino Pimentel Tenório Tuyuka are now woven into the materiality and materials of this book to transmit cultural knowledge not only to his peers back in the Amazons but also to the world. Moreover, I feel obliged hereto reflect on the disastrous and exponential passing of senior Indigenous elders globally, who possess highly significant cultural understandings and commitments to rock imagery and related activities in their particular cultural settings. We have the privilege to access some of this traditional and ancestral (yet dynamic) knowledge and their connections in this volume. Further Acknowledgements  Many institutions and funding agencies have supported me enormously in Africa, including the Arquivo do Património Cultural in Mozambique; the National Heritage Conservation Commission in Zambia; the Department of Museums and Monuments in Malawi; the Chongoni Forestry in

Preface

xi

Malawi; the Kungoni Centre of Culture and Art in Malawi; the Moto Moto Museum in Zambia; the various District Commissioners and the Traditional Authorities throughout the African south-central region; the British Institute in Eastern Africa in Kenya and Nissan South Africa. Special gratitude goes to my research assistants (James Chiwaya, Noah Siwida, and Beau Chalendewa) and funding and research institutions in Australia (Australian Research Council, BHPBIO), France (Fondation Maison des Sciences de l’Homme and Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique) and Spain (European Union, Fundación Palarq, and Fundació Bosch i Gimpera), where I have spent some of my nomadic academic years as a researcher and heritage manager, with the loving support of my family. Mexico City, Mexico

Leslie F. Zubieta

Overview

Significant academic literature, extending back at least two decades, reveals the problems of homogenising memory studies in archaeology. In this sense, memory is not a new field of enquiry in archaeological research. Important compilations have addressed crucial questions since the 2000s by looking into the relationships between objects, monuments and memory in a wide range of contexts around the world (Borić, 2010; Harmanşah, 2014; Jones, 2007; Jones et al., 2012; Lillios & Tsamis, 2010; Mills & Walker, 2008; Renfrew & Scarre, 1998; Van Dyke & Alcock, 2003). Nonetheless, despite this recognised effort, the exact nature and mechanisms of these connections are rarely discussed. More importantly for this volume, although rock art is often mentioned as a potential line of enquiry for sensorial and phenomenological studies, its relationship with memory transmission remains under-explored. This volume, consequently, is both timely and needed. Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge is structured in an introduction and eleven chapters that contribute to the study of rock art and its role in memorisation processes, the construction of collective memory and the circulation of knowledge. The set of papers included here is thematically diverse, sometimes with differing views regarding memory production’s dynamism and continuity, though agreement and disagreement are both required to advance knowledge. Thus, this volume both nurtures and brings forward thought-provoking archaeological work by discussing methodological, theoretical and philosophical approaches through varied lenses, such as cognition, landscape, gender, material culture and ontology. A relational view is required to address these approaches’ connections, though maintaining a broader perspective is also necessary if we are to showcase adequately the diversity of memory narratives worldwide. This book, however, does not aim to explain the functioning of the mind or discover the origins of modern humans’ memory capacities. While fascinating and somewhat related to several topics discussed in this volume, such an endeavour would require integrating analytical methods from disciplines like biology, neuropsychology and linguistics, among others. An interdisciplinary compendium of this sort might occur in the future when we have a better understanding of how the mind

xiii

xiv

Overview

and the brain operate in relation to rock images and memory. Instead, and perhaps more excitingly, this volume constitutes a much-anticipated milestone of sharing the methods used and results attained by a group of academics, each of whom encountered particular difficulties while attempting to elucidate the multiple layers of meanings, values and experiences stemming from studying the intersections of memory and rock art. Such an occasion shows the contributors’ intimate involvement with their areas of study; they are people facing similar problems or questions, but with different academic backgrounds. This is the wonderful thing about conversation: we cannot understand everything by ourselves; the whole point of advancing knowledge lies in its collective processing and communication. More specifically, and in relation to this book’s topic, the challenge in sharing our thoughts lies in recalling and rewriting the past’s narratives into our own (sometimes conflicting) present, while also acknowledging and incorporating the voices and memories of those that historically have been left behind. The gender balance of the contributors and the geographical breadth of this book (Australia, Europe, South Africa, South America, North America) is especially welcomed in the prospective visions of research on this topic. Such a diverse background has inevitably influenced the terms the contributors use to refer to the images made on rock. In particular, readers will notice that the words engraving, carving and petroglyph are deployed to refer to the images created by removing the rock’s surface, which reflect the authors’ plural interpretative and methodological stances. In one way or another, all the essays acknowledge the significance of integrating Indigenous knowledge, and many authors have worked closely and collaboratively with those groups. In particular, I celebrate Indigenous1 participants’ involvement as co-authors and also assuming the leading role in some publications. For instance, in chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase  – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”, Indigenous philosopher Professor Poani Higino Pimentel Tenório Tuyuka (†), along with his peers and colleagues, shares ancestral knowledge of Amazonian engravings through an intercultural lens. Such instances account for the equalised and collaborative evolution that is beginning to be seen more and more in archaeological studies. Moreover, they allow for Indigenous narratives of memory to merge with Western versions of past and recent memories, thus jointly constructing novel inter-epistemic understandings of rock art. While all the papers in this book share fundamental concerns—one central concern being the importance of landscape (influenced by Richard Bradley (1997), Christopher Tilley (1994), and others)—the authors also touch on many other aspects that memory studies bring to the table, which I have attempted to cover in

 It is with much respect that I use the generic term ‘Indigenous’ here, even as I recognise its diversity and constant transformation. It is not my intention to perpetuate a distance between different cultural backgrounds, but rather to acknowledge the Colonial impact behind the trajectories of people who have strong ties with their territories. Therefore, I clearly and purposefully acknowledge and respect both their past and present memories and their bonds. 1

Overview

xv

Fig. 1  This Word Cloud shows different aspects of memory frequently mentioned in this volume, created by Leslie F. Zubieta using WordItOut

detail in the introduction that follows, as well as in the Word Cloud (Fig. 1). Memory has various connotations related to the capacity that we humans have for memorising aspects of our public activities in daily life, as well as in the private and restricted areas of our social lives. In this sense, this book employs a multidisciplinary approach to offer new insights about how rock art was used—and is still used in some parts of the world—to memorise and share knowledge. To better organise the related arenas covered by the contributors, the chapters in this volume are divided into three parts: (I) Cognition, Mnemonics and Ontology; (II) Memory and Materials: Marking, Digital Technology and Canons; and (III) Identities and Contemporary Knowledges. Although most of the papers share analytical attributes, this tripartite organisation highlights similar interests in different cultural contexts, instead of following an organisational structure based on geographical regions and temporal frameworks, as is common in the field. The first section of the book, entitled ‘Cognition, Mnemonics and Ontology’, showcases three essays from North America, the Amazons and south-central Africa. Where does knowledge reside, and how is it remembered and passed on? Understanding the mechanisms many cultures have developed to acquire knowledge and to share it collectively are fundamental themes discussed by the authors of this section, with some exploring the mnemonic function of rock art. The examples here focus on case studies deeply related to ritual practices and religion; they reflect the first-hand insights of Indigenous people involved in those studies. Relevant to exploring how memory is constructed is an understanding of the ontological nature of rock art and related arenas, which therefore propels investigations of the entanglement between memory and images to another level of complexity. Interpreting the Coso Mountains’ rock art in California and drawing on philosopher Bryce Huebner’s (Huebner, 2014) theory of macrocognition, David Whitley

xvi

Overview

delves into distributed cognition and memory as key components of culture in his article Culture, Memory and Rock Art. In this chapter, he explores the understudied link between individual and collective memory, expanding upon the nature of shared memories and collective intentions, as well as the structures behind the stability or dynamism of external storage systems (i.e. rock art) in the relationship between collective memory, ritual and culture change. The author argues the importance of addressing cultural and social structure when looking into group phenomena such as collective memory, rather than the exaggerated emphasis on social fluidity found among many contemporary archaeologists. He advocates resolving such a dilemma using a specific component of macrocognition theory, transactive memory sub-­ systems, to bridge collective and individual human action and agency. Individuals share meta-representations of knowledge and memory within a group (collective); thus, Whitley concludes that rock art is a dynamic, yet also permanent, meta-­ representation of religious beliefs and practices. Following the Extended Mind (Clark & Chalmers, 1998) and neural network (Chen et al., 2020; Kandel et al., 2014) theoretical approaches, in the article Toñase Masise Tutuase: Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia, Poani Higino Pimentel Tenório Tuyuka, Kumu Tarcísio Barreto Tukano, Kumu Teodoro Barbosa Makuna, Kumu Mario Campos Desano and Raoni Bernardo Maranhão Valle explore the coupling of Tukoan Indigenous philosophy with Amazonian rock art, where engravings and ‘living places’ (sacred places) are revisited and remembered through mythic narratives and differing types of energies. The authors share with us their intense efforts to translate for Western researchers the intercultural memory traditionally shared between four culturally related languages in the Amazons, a practice known in Tukano language as utamosé, meaning ‘talk to the other’. Utamosé refers to the capacity of learning together (nikaromerã masise), which is a skill deeply embedded in kumuã (healing ritual specialists’) inter-ontological ways of knowing and remembering. Considering the role of rock paintings as a mnemonic device (see Bellezza, 1981) and describing its symbolic articulation within contemporary mediums such as clay figures in the context of Cheŵa female initiation, Leslie F. Zubieta’s chapter The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge argues that rock art should be investigated as part of a broader cultural memorisation technique entangled with material culture, emotions, performances, dances and oral narratives, including storytelling, songs and sounds. Zubieta argues for an integral methodological approach to exploring the mixed use of images and orality in cultural knowledge transmission, thus challenging Eurocentric approaches of rock art and mnemonic devices. Through her participant observation in sacred ceremonies and learning from Indigenous elders in south-central Africa, she explores the association of two-dimensional images and three-dimensional objects’ multiple layers of meanings in integrational memorisation processes. She concludes that there is no real distinction between specific objects/images according to the terms deployed to refer to them in ritual, thus highlighting the ontological nature of mnemonic devices.

Overview

xvii

The second section of this book, entitled ‘Memory and Materials: Marking, Digital Technology and Canons’, comprises four articles from Western Europe, Scandinavia, northwest Australia and central Argentina. While the paper on Australian rock art is the only one directly deploying Indigenous knowledge, analysis of its lithic support, that is, the material aspects of rock art, connects all the chapters. Based on the superimpositions of the imagery and relying on digital techniques, the authors pay attention to distinctive marks on the rocks that are barely perceptible to the naked eye, as they sometimes follow the natural form of the rock itself. The analysis of such connections allows for both the formulation of hypotheses about the artists’ interactions with the materials and a better understanding of the art-­making process. In her article The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory, Joana Valdez-Tullett has developed a multi-scalar analysis through 3D modelling using reflectance transformation imaging (RTI) and structure from motion (SfM) photogrammetry. Thanks to this method, she has identified superimpositions in Atlantic Rock Art (ARA) from various sites in Western Europe that were previously unknown. Through this analysis, she observed a wide distribution of motifs and hypothesised about the role of gestures in their production, as well as the role of collective memory. This relational approach confirms the suggestion that the ARA assemblage’s widespread distribution (e.g. of iconography, techniques and selected landscape locations) was a byproduct of a system of cultural transmission by offering a shared understanding of the ideology behind its creation. The author concludes that the similarity observed across regions results from intentional teaching, following the concept of developmental psychology. Christian Horn, in his article Most Deserve to Be Forgotten: Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art Memorialize Heroes? investigates the artisans’ intentions by identifying the transformation of specific older weaponry’s imagery into anthropomorphic figures related to the memory of heroic deeds, using visualisations derived from laser scans. The author demonstrates how some scenes were modified in later periods to express antagonism, and how battle scenes coinciding with the violence are reflected in the bioarchaeological data. Through careful observation of superimpositions and the identification of depicted material culture in the engravings, he suggests a timeline in the execution of those changes. Horn posits that some engravings might represent heroes based on the manner of depiction (i.e. with exaggerated calves, with phalli, and oversized weaponry). His analysis shows the potential narrative structure of Scandinavian rock art and its link to social memories during the Bronze Age. In their paper Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia, Sue O’Connor, Jane Balme, Mona Oscar, June Oscar, Selina Middleton, Rory Williams, Jimmy Shandley, Robin Dann, Kevin Dann, Ursula K. Frederick and Melissa Marshall deploy D-Stretch and Photoshop digital enhancing programs to analyse the rock art in the region of Kimberley, Western Australia, where repetitive and often overlooked scratching, drawing and pecking on

xviii

Overview

pre-­existing paintings attests to the performative nature of the narratives that served to pass on cultural knowledge. This analysis, along with Aboriginal views today, stresses the significance of the ‘doing’, the action, rather than the imagery itself, thus highlighting the performative aspect of recalling and remembering both during the making of the art and thereafter, during repetitive interactions with the images. The authors also explore the mechanisms in the form of scratched motifs that people in the Kimberley created to learn and remember cultural narratives and responsibilities when access to Country was difficult during European settler-colonialism. In The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP), Andrea Recalde and Erica Colqui deploy the concept of the canon (see Aschero, 2018) and incorporate colours and superimpositions as their methodological tools of enquiry. Through a rigorous examination of the imagery’s variability and the relationship between new motifs and previous ones in the production of rock paintings in the Cerro Colorado (central Argentina), the authors investigate related cultural questions such as the continuity of motifs and the persistence of social memory within a context where ethnographic data is absent. Moreover, they explore the human use of rock art sites in connection to long-term archaeological activities across the landscape, such as food processing, cultivation and funeral rituals. The authors argue that the constant reuse and revisiting of rock art sites allowed many narratives to coexist and sometimes allowed their inhabitants to negotiate social tensions, memory and identity. The last section of this book, entitled ‘Identity and Contemporary Knowledges’, presents four essays from South America, Portugal, South Africa and North America. Ethnographic methods have been deployed to record Indigenous knowledge, which, when critically analysed, has provided a factual basis to suggest the meaning of particular rock images worldwide. However, in addition to having (or not) a strong emic understanding and memory of the original meaning of rock imagery today, some Indigenous and non-Indigenous people have reconnected further with rock art, thus playing a pivotal role in the investigation of memory. The authors of these chapters focus on the contemporary perceptions of rock art, particularly the interpretations of local inhabitants in relation to the imagery’s meaning and wider significance. The inclusion of current knowledge motivates them to discuss further how political agendas might lead to racism and discrimination when memories of rock art are manipulated. In Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia, Lara Bacelar Alves begins this section’s discussion by reflecting on the possibilities of undertaking ethnographic research in some parts of Europe, such as Portugal and Iberia. In this landscape, some rural communities have retained a strong bond with their territories despite the many attempts made to industrialise them. Alves has successfully recorded oral traditions for more than twenty years through local interviews, showcasing the stories of spirits and supernatural beings believed to live inside some rock outcrops, rock art sites and streams, as well as the ancient inhabitants thought to be responsible for some images. Still, local

Overview

xix

inhabitants have modified or added other motifs as part of annual ceremonies to mark the boundaries between the village’s territories, thus acting as symbolic landmarks. The author concludes that the importance of prehistoric imagery for people today resides in the place, which is embedded with social memories and is part of their identity. The fading condition of this knowledge and memory today is of concern to Alves, as these contemporary oral traditions might be the last pathway to understanding archetypal worldviews in which particular locations were believed to be imbued with supernatural beings. In Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: ‘This Was Left to Us by the Incas’, José Luis Martínez C. deploys numerous accounts collected in different Indigenous communities of the south-central Andes, a vast region closely coinciding with the ancient Collasuyo Region of the Inca (i.e. the south of Peru, the highlands of Bolivia and the north of Chile and Argentina), to explore how the imagery’s ontology engages in memory construction. Following the analysis of “mobile memories” (see Savkić, 2019, p. 44), he explains the dynamic practices involved in the constant construction of memories where contemporary Indigenous populations use and reuse paintings and engravings. In this sense, through the continued use of the same sites, Martínez C. observes that while some meanings have been forgotten, some conceptual categories have permitted Andean communities to construct social memories despite both colonial and modern disruptions. The incorporation of new rituals and images at those sites has allowed the author to explore the settings in which continuity and transformation are articulated. Furthermore, he argues for a plurality of memories, where images displaying both Indigenous and European traits attest to the use of both logics and practices concurrently. In his article River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa, David Morris reflects on the undulating and smooth glaciated basement rock at Driekopseiland. On its surface, more than 3500 engravings were crafted and emerge seasonally from the waters of the Riet River. Morris explains that ‘the convergence of different elements—of rain and rock, and the myths and practices alluded to, in a seasonal and generative flux—would be by no means pre-determined or self-evident, but would be emergent in what is argued to be their intra-action, pre-eminently in ritual and rock art making’. The author concludes this convergence might be more relevant to questions of variability in rock art than to ethnicity. Morris also asserts how |xam’s descendants have been marginalised in connection to rock art authorship and decision-making projects due to a wrongly perceived lack of ‘authenticity’.2 Therefore, he suggests that the use of the hyphenated word re-membering provides a clear sense of those re-construction processes needed for articulating anew what is no longer remembered. In The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neo-colonial North American Southwest, Aaron Wright explores the association between rock imagery and other mediums. For example, comparing O’odham’s  A similar situation occurs among the contemporary Piipaash, who lack federal recognition as an independent, sovereign tribe (see Wright, chapter “The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest” this volume). 2

xx

Overview

calendar sticks with the production of engravings, he suggests that the imagery’s meaning is necessarily unknown today because these meanings were specific to the person(s) who made them. Still, these images are reminders of himdag, the body of traditional O’odham practices, or the experiences of Huhugam, O’odham ancestors. Drawing from some social groups of the North American Southwest who have been heavily transformed today by the State’s role in land disputes and obscuring Indigenous identities, Wright investigates how despite rock art production being the result of an individual phenomenon, these images play a role in collective memory in general and serve as a catalyst for collective remembering today. To close this overview, it is in these extreme circumstances during the COVID-19 pandemic, which has brought much distress and many challenges into our personal and academic lives, that I have particularly welcomed those enthusiastic contributors who found the time to pursue this journey together. With good humour, they took on board the external reviews of their chapters, my reviews and editorial comments, and the additional remarks of two book referees, finding the extra time in their busy lives to polish their articles. My most profound appreciation goes to them for showing their interest in advancing new methods and knowledge regarding the intersections between memory and rock art, encompassing the material and immaterial, human and non-human involved in the making, using, perceiving, locating, seeing, listening, touching and feeling the imagery made on rock.

References Aschero, C. (2018). Hunting scenes in Cueva de las Manos: Styles, content, and chronology (Río Pinturas, Santa Cruz- Argentinian Patagonia). In A.  F. Troncoso, F.  Armstrong, & G.  Nash (Eds.), Archaeologies of rock art. South American perspectives (pp. 209–237). Routledge. Bellezza, F. S. (1981). Mnemonic devices: Classification, characteristics, and criteria. Review of Educational Research, 51(2), 247–275. https://doi.org/10.3102/00346543051002247 Borić, D. (Ed.). (2010). Archaeology and memory. Oxbow Books. Bradley, R. (1997). Rock art and the prehistory of Atlantic Europe: Signing the land. Routledge. Chen, J.  E., Lewis, L.  D., Chang, C., Tian, Q., Fultz, N.  E., Ohringer, N.  A., Rosen, B.  R., & Polimeni, J.  R. (2020). Resting-state “physiological networks”. NeuroImage, 213, 116707. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neuroimage.2020.116707 Clark, A., & Chalmers, D. (1998). The extended mind. Analysis, 58(1), 7–19. https://doi. org/10.1093/analys/58.1.7 Harmanşah, Ö. (2014). Place, memory, and healing: An archaeology of Anatolian rock monuments. Taylor and Francis. Huebner, B. (2014). Macrocognition. A theory of distributed minds and collective intentionality. Oxford University Press. Jones, A. (2007). Memory and material culture. Cambridge University Press. https://doi. org/10.1017/CBO9780511619229 Jones, A., Pollard, J., Gardiner, A., & Gardiner, J. (Eds.). (2012). Image, memory & monumentality: Archaeological engagements with the material world: A celebration of the academic achievements of Professor Richard Bradley. Oxbow Books. Kandel, E. R., Schwartz, J. H., Jessell, T. M., Siegelbaum, S. A., & Hudspeth, A. J. (2014). Princípios de neurociências. Mcgraw-Hill Education/AMGH Editora/Grupo Educação S.A.

Overview

xxi

Lillios, K. T., & Tsamis, V. (Eds.). (2010). Material mnemonics. Everyday memory in Prehistoric Europe. Oxbow Books. Mills, B. J., & Walker, W. H. (Eds.). (2008). Memory work: Archaeologies of material practices. School for Advanced Research Press. Renfrew, C., & Scarre, C. (Eds.). (1998). Cognition and material culture: The archaeology of symbolic storage (McDonald Institute monographs). McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, University of Cambridge. https://doi.org/10.1007/s13398-­014-­0173-­7.2 Savkić, S. (2019). Introduction. Amerindian visual manifestations and practices. In S. Savkić (Ed.), Culturas visuales indígenas y las prácticas estéticas en las Américas (Estudios I, pp. 29–48). Ibero-Amerikanisches Institut/Gebr. Mann Verlag. Tilley, C. Y. (1994). A phenomenology of landscape: Places, paths, and monuments. Berg. Van Dyke, R.  M., & Alcock, S.  E. (Eds.). (2003). Archaeologies of memory. Blackwell Publishing Ltd.

Contents

 Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge������������������������������������������������������������������������������������    1 Leslie F. Zubieta Part I Cognition, Mnemonics and Ontology  Culture, Memory and Rock Art���������������������������������������������������������������������   25 David S. Whitley Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia����������������������������������������   47 Poani Higino Pimentel Tenório Tuyuka, Kumu Tarcísio Barreto Tukano, Kumu Teodoro Barbosa Makuna, Kumu Mário Campos Desano, and Raoni Bernardo Maranhão Valle  The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   77 Leslie F. Zubieta Part II Memory and Materials: Scratches, Digital Technology and Canons  The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory������������������������������  101 Joana Valdez-Tullett  Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art Memorialize Heroes?����������������������������������������������������������������������  125 Christian Horn

xxiii

xxiv

Contents

 Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia��������������������������������������������������������������  147 Sue O’Connor, Jane Balme, Mona Oscar, June Oscar, Selina Middleton, Rory Williams, Jimmy Shandley, Robin Dann, Kevin Dann, Ursula K. Frederick, and Melissa Marshall  The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP) ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  171 Andrea Recalde and Erica Colqui Part III Identities and Contemporary Knowledges  Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia��������������������������������������������������������������������������  197 Lara Bacelar Alves  Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas” ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  221 José Luis Martínez C.  River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa ��������������������������������������������������������������  245 David Morris  The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest����������������������������  269 Aaron M. Wright Index������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  295

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge Leslie F. Zubieta

Certain moments remain an intimate part of one’s life through their constant remembrance. However, most of our memories are seared into the deepest corners of our minds and only resurface when we need to access them. Nonetheless, there is no straightforward mechanism through which we can selectively retrieve what we want; on the contrary, without planning it, sometimes a memory spontaneously emerges right in front of us like a vision, albeit fragmented. What triggered that memory to re-emerge: Listening to a piece of music? The touch of a soft fabric? Or perhaps the flavour and smell of a succulent platter? Regardless of the source, a memory of sound, touch, taste, or smell does not return to the present moment on its own. Recollections are activated by emotions, feelings and embodied actions, and are often accompanied by a series of images of a particular event in which we recognise the faces of people present at the time. How are these qualities relevant to rock art research? Though predominantly a visual cultural expression, rock images were (and some still are) entangled with sensorial, embodied and social experiences that take part in cultural transmission’s mechanisms. Thus, these aspects are interconnected: like a mycelium network spreading, integrating its nutrients and growing. Rock art research has evolved over the years, giving birth to a wide array of compelling themes; thus, it is no longer at a solely descriptive stage. Our discipline has become a robust field in which international networks have flourished. The potential lines of research emerging from investigating memory, intergenerational L. F. Zubieta (*) Marie Skłodowska-Curie Postdoctoral Fellow (2018–2020), Department d’Història i Arqueologia (Secció de Prehistòria i Arqueologia), Universitat de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain Honorary Research Fellow, Centre for Rock Art Research + Management, School of Social Sciences, The University of Western Australia, Perth, Australia Honorary Research Fellow, Rock Art Research Institute, School of Geography, Archaeology and Environmental Studies, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_1

1

2

L. F. Zubieta

knowledge transfer and rock images are vast. Given that this is the first joint book (to my knowledge) that highlights the intersections of memory and rock art with such a global scope, I feel motivated to unpack how these essays complement each other within the different thematic sections of this volume, though not necessarily in the sequence of their appearance. Therefore, one of the main objectives of this introduction is to expand on the tripartite structure of this book.

Cognition, Mnemonics and Ontology One of the central questions rock art brings into memory studies is its visual capacity for communicating information. This issue prompts further questions regarding (1) how images allow for such transmission, (2) who is involved in coding and decoding the information, (3) when the communication is established, (4) where those processes are taking place, and (5) in what ways these circumstances impact the creation and persistence of memory; all challenges that archaeologists seek to resolve (see Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”). For cognitive archaeologists, memory is one of the most intriguing aspects pertaining to modern human behaviour; more specifically, the ability to store information in external devices outside of our own minds. Following this line of thought, we could claim that rock images have prompted people to recall memories. But what do we mean by this assertion? Are we implying that rock images had a causal influence on people and were thereby part of various cognitive processes allowing people to remember and pass on knowledge?1 Or that the external process involved in retrieving information from rock paintings and engravings influenced jointly and constitutively the recollection of memories, along with other processes coexisting in the brain?2 Although these are apparently similar reasonings, they are actually two different ways of understanding how external features influence cognitive processes, thus urging us to centre our reflections on the role of rock art in this cognitive enterprise. Cognitive archaeology studies have investigated how memory operates individually and collectively (e.g., Beaune et al., 2009; Renfrew & Zubrow, 1994; Whitley et al., 2020). Although I shall not dwell upon an extensive overview of such studies, it is essential to share some basic cognitive science concepts and the background of these studies, as they influence us up to the present day and are very relevant to the topic of this book. In their foundational essay, The Extended Mind (EM), philosophers Andy Clark and David Chalmers posit the question “Where does the mind stop and the rest of the world begin?” (1998, p. 7). Their conclusion advocates for the proposition that the mind surpasses the boundaries of the skin, therefore  See Adams and Aizawa (2001) for a discussion against external features being part of inner processes. 2  See Clark and Chalmers (1998) for an understanding favouring both inner and external features playing a concurrent role. 1

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

3

encompassing a continuous modulatory system distributed across the brain, the body and the world (Clark, 1997, p. 163, 2005, p. 1). This understanding integrates certain environmental factors and material vehicles, as well as examining how these influence inner cognitive processes.3 The implications of an extended mind on a cultural level rightly point to the clear realisation that, as archaeologists, we have embarked upon the quest of studying individuals and societies not only in terms of human brains, but also through their coupling with various forms of material culture. In this sense, cognitive psychologist John Sutton (2008) argues that cognition is historical, highlighting the need for diachronic and differential analysis. Following this line, we may propose that rock imagery allowed people to recall and pass on knowledge as part of a larger cultural resource. However, in this journey, we also must consider that “the nature and extent of diversity in activities of remembering and reasoning, imagining and decision-­ making, acting and feeling has to be tested across detailed case studies” (Sutton, 2008, p. 38). In this regard, the findings in this volume reveal the need to integrate rock paintings and engravings with objects, performances and other practices pertaining to each area’s unique historical and cultural makeup as part of cognitive systems that unfold over time, with the broader vision of grasping their common and global dimensions also being necessary. Triggered by his early curiosity regarding human cognitive transformations, psychologist Merlin Donald (1991) proposed a hypothetical and meditated evolutionary scheme in the early 1990s in his book Origins of the Modern Mind. His suggestions inspired a critical discussion in archaeology a few years later in the edited volume Cognition and Material Culture: The Archaeology of Symbolic Storage (Renfrew & Scarre, 1998). Drawing on a synthesis of a broad range of archaeological and anthropological evidence, Donald argued that human cognition developed in three transitions from a four-stage representational system, namely episodic [1st transition] mimetic [2nd transition] mythic [3rd transition] and theoretic culture. Each stage emerges and functions by breaking from the previous stage’s cognitive patterns, while also retaining previous cognitive structures (i.e., cognitive succession) (Donald, 1993). Moreover, he claimed these stages corresponded to distinctive types of memory, the latter being the stage in which modern humans gradually developed external memory storages (exograms), allowing limitless capacities for the modern human mind. His approach to cognition broke from traditional ideas on cognition at the time, as he argued for an equal value of internal and external representations, much in accordance with the functional aspect of proponents of the Extended Mind hypothesis. Concerning our discussion of rock art, this four-part proposition places pictorial representations in the last stage of this evolutionary scheme: after language’s appearance, though not necessarily as a result of it. In this sense, theoretic culture claimed to have made a symbolic use of graphic devices (i.e. visuographic invention) in which two and three-dimensional pictorial representations were created,  See Menary (2010) for an excellent compendium of essays by both critics and advocates of this proposition. 3

4

L. F. Zubieta

allegedly due to a need for “ritual images with great religious significance” (Donald, 1991, p. 280). Graphic systems (e.g., pictures, graphs, ideograms and writing), following Donald’s argument, are external devices, including other humans who culturally transmit memories to others. Their appearance is regarded as a shift from auditory to visual representation, and from individual internal memory (biological) to collectivised external memory storage devices (Donald, 1991, pp. 308–311). In this respect, external storage devices are seen to operate only when people have a code to access the contained knowledge and to create collective memory systems operating with common rules. Moreover, following this view, the locus of stored knowledge is not within the individual’s biological limits. Still, individuals’ biological memory relies on external resources to access an enormous amount of information as carriers of the code. Taking French cave art (e.g., Lascaux) as a model in which compositions of images were created in difficult-to-access subterranean landscapes, Donald suggested that the first examples of graphic art also had useful ends. These inventions were ‘congruent’ with the forms of oral-mythic cultures, and the “enhancing and the preservation of myth were evident to the creators and keepers of those myths” (Donald, 1991, p. 282). Nonetheless, it is not clear what is meant by “preservation” and the mechanisms behind this objective.4 Since the discovery of the Chauvet Cave in 1994, our perception of modern human’s capabilities has shifted dramatically. This French site became the location of the earliest known paintings in the world, all from the Aurignacian period between 37,000 and 33,500 years ago (Quiles et al., 2016). Moreover, it afforded a breakthrough in the way we understand modern human representational capabilities (e.g., spatial perspective, the use of stump-­ drawing, and the preparation of the wall; see Clottes, 2013). Beyond the fascination of unearthing evidence of considerably earlier periods than those previously discovered in archaeology, it is equally important to acknowledge the critical academic advancements made in rock art interpretation in the last decades. Rock art’s robust investigations have shifted from considering paintings and engravings as mirrors of simple scenes of survival practices to contemplating a complex array of possibilities as to the roles they play in human cultural expressions. These include counting devices, territorial marks, vision quest representations, mythological stories, and so on; all of these are related to passing on knowledge through intricate mechanisms that are far from being understood solely from an evolutionary approach. An evolutionary explanation model is valuable in many ways if taken as “a guide to some of the important questions that remain to be settled”, as Donald (1993, p. 737) intended. Nevertheless, one of the issues with evolutionary schemes in general is that they tend to investigate the linearity of occurrences and situations across time, thus conditioning us as archaeologists— perhaps unintentionally—to find matching empirical evidence to validate each stage as it becomes academically adopted. Moreover, innovations need to be seen not

 See Dowson (1998) for a critical view regarding the idea of rock art narrowly fitting into this evolutionary scheme. 4

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

5

merely as products or containers of previous cognitive capacities, but rather in a more fluid manner: as processes going back and forth (see Ucko, 1987, pp. 47, 57). Understanding the origins of modern human memory capacity is undoubtedly an exciting field, one that should be explored as a set of simultaneous developments that we are still far from fully comprehending. New chronologies for rock art worldwide are further pushing the benchmark of temporality. For example, rock paintings at the Leang Bulu’ Sipong 4 cave in Sulawesi, Indonesia have been dated to 43.9 ka! More importantly, these show modern humans’ early capacity to tell stories involving therianthropes in a hunting scene (Aubert et  al., 2019). Newly available data continuously challenges our rigid views of the origin and trajectories of art. Another question also comes to mind regarding the emergence of graphic representations in such a succession-driven evolutionary scheme: the plausibility of earlier iconographic systems in other media, such as skin and wood (see Ucko & Rosenfeld, 1967, pp. 75, 78). Many cultures have created graphic systems for passing on knowledge in ephemeral media such as bark and sand. For example, public sand drawings in the Great Sandy Desert of Australia have been the subject of a detailed study by anthropologist Christine Watson (1997). Following gendered knowledge restrictions and cultural protocols with Balgo senior female elders, Watson explains how those knowledge-custodians use their fingers (walkala) and gestures—like beating the ground with a stick (milpapungin)—as fluid practices involved in the creation and use of sand drawings as a device for aiding memory in storytelling (Watson, 1997, p.  109). Therefore, it is possible to imagine other visual systems being used prior to images made on rock. This probability allows us to ponder two related topics: (1) the multi-layered symbolic intersections between different graphic media (e.g., rock, clay, the body, ceramics, textiles, and calendar sticks) (see Martínez C., chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””; Tenório Tuyuka et al., chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”; Wright, chapter “The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest”; Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”, this volume) and modern mediums (e.g. paper, board, canvas, digital) (O’Connor et al., chapter “Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia”, this volume), and (2) the activities and performances (e.g., dance, song, storytelling) related to pictorial knowledge and memory sharing (see Martínez C.; O’Connor et al.; Tenório Tuyuka et al; Wright; Zubieta, this volume).

6

L. F. Zubieta

These topics are investigated in depth throughout this book, drawing on experiences from Amazonia (Tenório Tuyuka et  al.), the North American Southwest (Wright) and south-central Africa (Zubieta), all of which argue for such imagery to function as mnemonic triggers of cultural knowledge. The relationship of mnemonic function to rock art is a subject requiring a deeper archaeological mode of enquiry regarding its connection to a broader range of material culture (see Bellezza, 1981). This, in turn, offers an active notion of memory beyond the static idea of rock images as passive external storage for memory, shifting our attention to processes of production (see Melion & Küchler, 1991 for an excellent introduction to memory and image production). Thinking of external storage systems as repositories of memory and knowledge that are additionally understood as fixed categories retained by the mind has raised fundamental concerns. Archaeologist Andrew M.  Jones (2007, pp.  5–11), has explicitly touched on the absence of the role of the body in such accounts. The body is not an appendix of the mind; individuals experience environments through the body and use objects, thus developing habitual practices that, through repetition, become part of the body’s memory (Bergson, 1896/1991, pp. 90, 91; Connerton, 1989; Jones, 2007). Moreover, bodily memory is activated by sensory engagement with the material world (Hamilakis, 2014, pp. 6–7). Furthermore, in some scenarios, the body might have mirrored the land and acted as a canvas in which scarification recalled ancestral knowledge, such as the incisions and scratches on the rocks in the Kimberley region of northwest Australia (see O’Connor et  al., chapter “Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia”, this volume; Watson, 1997, p. 111 for a similar idea on penetrating the surface of the earth in sand drawings). Two works in this volume explore another exciting aspect of the concept of the body and its relationship to memory and rock art, a theme that is often more difficult for archaeologists to approach. Reflecting on non-Western views of where memory resides and how it is accessed, O’Connor et al. (in northwest Australia) and Tenório Tuyuka et al. (in Amazonia) explain that for the Indigenous peoples of those countries, memory and knowledge do not require the body to be physically present at rock art sites in order to engage with the bodies of different non-human beings. A similar experience has been confirmed in various ethnographic studies where the existence of songs, stories and geographies associated with rock imagery produce mental maps that, when combined, aid people in navigating through the landscape even without having physically visited or seen the place (e.g., McDonald & Veth, 2013). In this respect, according to Amazonian kumuã healing ritual specialists (kumu – singular), there exists an interconnection of the human’s body and mind with other beings through the presence of vital energies that are explained as “a rope of very soft down feathers”, through which memory flows. Spirits’ and places’ bodies become embodied inside the kumu’s body, forming part of a sentient system (Tenório Tuyuka et al., chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”).

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

7

As we have seen, memory and rock art relationships encompass an understanding of the nature of external storage systems, the body and cognitive processes involving tools and devices as interstitial for human action (see Jones, 2007). Nonetheless, this is not all they encompass; we also need to acknowledge other life forms beyond our Western perspectives of non-human and non-living entities. The relational experience between things, spaces, landscapes and other beings has been extensively documented elsewhere (e.g., Fowler, 2016; Gillespie, 2001; Viveiros de Castro, 2004). Therefore, integrating different modes of epistemologies and beings allows us to comprehend how individual/collective experience, belief systems and recollection all shape memory (see Whitley, chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”). Through a Heõpeo Masise, or Culture of Respect, Tenório Tuyuka et al. share here how various beings with different ontological natures coexist symbiotically, resulting in an ‘inter-ontological’ memory and knowledge transmission in Amazonian rock art. Similarly, through a careful analysis of various Colonial texts and contemporary practices, José Luis Martínez C. (chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””) concludes that the paintings and engravings in the south-central Andes in South America need to be understood as animated images that communicate with humans and other beings. In a different latitude, in a discussion of the placement of images in Driekopseiland, South Africa, David Morris (chapter “River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa”) suggests that some features of the landscape and their materiality were also considered to be alive and connected to non-humans (i.e.,!khwa, the Watersnake) and other forces. Clay figures used for female initiation, iconographically and symbolically related to rock paintings, are also mentioned by Zubieta (chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”) as having a “soul” in south-central Africa. Through local interviews, Lara Bacelar Alves (chapter “Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia”) finds that rural communities in Portugal and parts of Iberia believe in supernatural beings (i.e., Enchanted Mooresses) dwelling in outcrops with ancient paintings and engravings. These instances in Africa, Brazil, Chile and Western Europe reflect on the ontological nature of images and places as agents and sentient entities with power and authority who articulate other modes of being (see Gell, 1998; Severi, 2008/2016, p. 141 regarding how images not only communicate but affect their interlocutors). Acknowledging the ontological status of these images and their environs generates a commitment to those that prompt repetitive rituals. Remembering and recognising the entanglement between places, beings, and imagery gives rise to specific responsibilities, a fascinating subject under the ethics of memory. For example, through the voices of Aboriginal elders in the Kimberley, Australia (e.g., Mowaljarlai et al., 1988), who explained the energy life force of the Wandjina paintings’ beings, we realise the need for re-painting those ‘images with energies’ as an act of respect

8

L. F. Zubieta

and recalling (see also Tenório Tuyuka et al., chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia” regarding Culture of Respect; Whitley, chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art” on emotional commitment; Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge” about mwambo). In this same vein, O’Connor et al. (chapter “Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia”) argue for connections between the performance aspect of the art and the renewal of landscapes and cultural activities. These obligations nurture intimate and powerful emotions in the participants and have a crucial impact on memory processes (Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”), consequently influencing the persistence of collective memory (Whitley, chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”). Some prohibitions and social rules, context depending, require placing offerings close to the imagery, such as tobacco and other substances in the Amazons (Tenório Tuyuka et al.), animal sacrifice and spilling their blood in the south-central Andes (Martínez C.), vegetation clearing and boundary maintenance in Portugal (Alves), or behaving in particular manners for ritual occasions in south-central Africa (Morris; Zubieta). The communal nature of rituals touches on the collective aspect of cognition, a central concern for David Whitley (chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”). Although images painted or engraved on the rocks could be perceived as external devices (outside the body), they are not passive storage devices in which beliefs and data are collected. This realisation prompts two crucial questions: (1) Can we affirm that peoples’ beliefs and thoughts are in rock paintings and engravings? Or, (2) That people retrieved the contents of those beliefs from images through embodied and sensorial processes that further allowed them to act in certain ways? For rock art research, I think a more interesting problem seems to be the mechanisms behind the manipulation of rock paintings and engravings which are interconnected with bodily processes (even neuronal ones) to constitute the process of memorising and recalling. One of the most relevant issues at stake in this arena is understanding the components involved in various cultural modes of memory (Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”). In sum, memory is understood here not as a vehicle for deconstructing the past, but rather for understanding how people, through time, have had a dynamic understanding of both their pasts and futures. Rock art, therefore, plays both a static and dynamic role simultaneously, with the former commonly related to the continuity and persistence of collective memory through time. In some contexts, new additions of different motifs on the same panel allude to rock art’s capacity for change and contestation while also retaining core beliefs and practices (Morris, chapter “River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa”; O’Connor et al., chapter “Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia”; Whitley, chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”; Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

9

the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”, this volume), though in others, imagery variation does not allude to change but to the “mutability” of memory (see Recalde & Colqui, chapter “The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-­Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP)”). Elucidating the innumerable variables that coincide in the production of rock imagery—and the later retrieval of information for cognitive purposes—is a challenge for us archaeologists, who most of the time have only a fragmented view of the past’s cultural contexts. Therefore, explaining those mechanisms in detail seems almost impossible. Still, the rich layers of meanings of the rock imagery connect with objects, the body and other senses beyond the visual and oral, as discussed below (see Goldhahn, 2002; Hamilakis, 2014; Ouzman, 2001). In this sense, memory studies in relation to rock art are still in an embryonic state.

 emory and Materials: Marking, Digital Technology M and Canons Discussing the location of memory and related cognitive processes— whether external, internal or both— as a united element in a relational framework inevitably leads us to ponder the role of materiality in memory. That is, to think not only about the materials themselves, but also about the materiality of the practices involved in producing memories. Exploring the actions, the body and the thoughts of individuals as they physically manipulate the properties of objects as cognitive extensions of the self, Lambros Malafouris’ (2013) Material Engagement Theory brings the world of things back into discussions of the boundaries of the mind. Focusing on the materiality of things shifts our attention from the externalization of information back into the processing of that information. The physicality of the rock itself has helped to enhance the images and their meanings for past and present societies. Materials have qualities that affect the practices of working with them, sometimes requiring previous knowledge and other times resulting from experimentation. Jones (Jones & Cochrane, 2018, pp. 23–28) argues that materials are not simply inert substances used in the production of art, or art-making, but rather incite unexpected results, giving rise not only to an interaction between the artist and the materials, but also to an intra-action between them. The latter term follows feminist physicist Karen Barad’s understanding of intra-­ action as “the mutual constitution of entangled agencies” (Barad, 2007, p.  33). These active processes give a sense of a reconfiguration of the world through a dynamic relationship between the maker and material emerging from within (intra); hence they are intra-actively co-constituted. This vision provides a fresh way of thinking about the entanglements between people, nature, materials and memory (see Morris, chapter “River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa”, this volume). According to anthropologist Tim Ingold, materials, in turn, become active participants in the world’s

10

L. F. Zubieta

becoming, “considered in respect of its occurrence in processes of flow and transformation” (Ingold, 2012, p. 439). Regardless of how pigments (or other materials) were applied or extracted from the rock surfaces, either with utensils or using bare hands and fingers, the process of creation was both a haptic and a visual experience when the authors sensed and touched the surface of the rocks and observed their created images (see Clottes, 2013, p. 65). Nonetheless, our Western scholarly interpretations have failed to comprehend the significance of other marks on the walls, thus paying attention only to the final image (see Fowles & Arterberry, 2013). Interestingly, Sue O’Connor et al. (Australia) and Joana Valdez-Tullett (Western Europe) emphasise the gestural importance of specific marks on the panels, despite their almost imperceptible visibility, as evidence of actions pertaining to rock art and memory production. Ethnographically recorded performances and practices concerning rock art production and interaction with the imagery provide compelling evidence about the broader sensorial dimension involved in those processes. Some of these dimensions include: • The auditory and acoustic properties of the careful location of the imagery (e.g., Díaz-Andreu & García Benito, 2012; Mattioli et al., 2017; Ouzman, 2001; Scarre & Lawson, 2006; Waller, 1993) (In this volume, see Alves, chapter “Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia”; Tenório Tuyuka et al., chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”; Whitley, chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”; Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”); • The visibility of rock art in the landscape beyond the restrictive allusions of its private and public access points (see Bradley, 1997; Valdez-Tullett, chapter “The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory”; Whitley, chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”, in this volume); • The intervisibility between sites (Recalde & Colqui, chapter “The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-­Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP)”); and • Their haptic and kinaesthetic qualities (O’Connor et al.; Whitley; Zubieta). A more revelatory notion, following Indigenous knowledge, is that visibility also depends on the imagery’s decision to hide from or appear to others. In this sense, Martínez C. (chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””) argues through ethnographic instances in South America that images are not ‘waiting to be seen’; they are not passive or fixed. A similar scenario, I would argue, but looking further into the ways materiality occurs, is the occasion where engravings become submerged seasonally in Scandinavia or South Africa (see Horn, chapter “Most Deserve to Be Forgotten  – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art Memorialize Heroes?”; Morris, chapter “River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

11

Africa” respectively, this volume) or where paintings seem to come out of crevices or were purposely painted on differently weathered surfaces (see Lewis-Williams & Dowson, 2000, pp. 88, 130; Whitley, chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”). Further practical challenges emerge from exploring the traces of memory practices in the archaeological record. How do we bridge theory and practice? Part of the answer lies in the materiality of rock paintings and engravings. Different settings require particular approaches, and rock art specialists have advanced multiple techniques to integrate the art repertoire (e.g., techniques, stylistic sequences, and modifications) with other available data (e.g., material culture, burial sites, and bioarchaeological material) in their analyses. Some contributors have deployed new digital technologies to observe the making processes, morphology, designs and superpositions of engravings in great detail (see Horn, chapter “Most Deserve to Be Forgotten  – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art Memorialize Heroes?”; O’Connor et al., chapter “Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia”; and Valdez-Tullett, chapter “The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory” this volume). Others, however, have incorporated colours and the concept of canon (see Aschero, 2018) as tools of enquiry into the persistence of memory (see Recalde & Colqui, chapter “The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-­Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP)”). In many scenarios today, people’s perception of rock art suggests that its intended communication obeyed a different time construct, one where past and present meet (see Alves, chapter “Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia”; Martínez C., chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””, this volume). In this sense, material things come from the past and continue to exist in the present; thus, the present has a multitemporal quality. This realisation has significant implications on the way we perceive material evidence (i.e., rock art’s materiality) and its related actions; that is, the immaterial aspects of memory. This view opens up our discussion about time, rock art and memory, which I touch upon only briefly here. Anthropologist Michael Rowlands reminds us that medieval and classical inheritance tie Western constructs of memory to linear concepts of time and, as a by-­ product, an obsession with sequence (Rowlands, 1993, pp.  143, 149). The implications of Western time constructs in archaeology have been explored in detail by archaeologist Olivier Laurent (Olivier, 2004, 2013), who asserts that our discipline deals with memory recorded in matter (i.e., material things) and not past moments. He explains that “the past and the future do not exist as separate categories but are always projections of specific presents” (Tamm & Olivier, 2019, p. 27). Time linearity bounds our Western perception of an assumed narrative that follows a before-and-after logical structure, subsequently leading us to fail to investigate the persistence of memory in rock imagery and how this operates. Enduring rock paintings and engravings from the past, despite their weathered conditions, have become focal points for new meanings and valences to other rock art-making societies as they came into the same landscapes and encountered them

12

L. F. Zubieta

(see Alves, chapter “Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia”; Valdez-Tullett, chapter “The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory”; Martínez C., chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””, this volume). Sometimes the same images trigger different recollections when placed in diverse locations (Wright, chapter “The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest”). On other occasions, culturally divergent imagery has shared the same landscapes through time (Whitley, chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”). Various “readings” of the significance of rock art unfold for different groups of people who have come into contact with paintings and engravings across time, regardless of whether or not their ancestors were the creators. An example of this lies in Western Europe, where Atlantic Rock Art has long served as a landmark for collective myths and legends (see Alves, chapter “Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia”; Valdez-Tullett, chapter “The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory”, this volume). In sum, looking into the material aspects of rock art concerning memory, as well as the activities involved in the production and use of imagery, encourages us to posit the need to integrate images into larger systems of graphic representations in which materials, gestures, metaphors, and verbal and narrative aspects are entangled through cultural transmission and different concepts of time. This is not to say that every image is linked to memory or knowledge. Some might have only an aesthetic purpose (see Jones, 2007; Martínez C., chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””; and Tenório Tuyuka, chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase  – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”, this volume). However, recognising this multifactorial entanglement broadens our possibilities of including new theories and methodologies in the study of rock art and memory, as well as of the material, emotional and other sense mode-­ related experiences, beyond the formal semiotic analysis of these images.

Identities and Contemporary Knowledges Memory has been deployed in archaeology primarily to understand how societies claim their pasts, reinforce the group’s identity, and strengthen social rules. Nonetheless, identity is not a clear-cut category, but rather one where people individually and collectively distinguish themselves from others’ experiences and relationships through gender, sexuality, age, heritage, memories, and so on (e.g., Meskell, 2002). Identity is understood here as situational. A sum of different manifestations within a group (or between groups’ interactions) encompassed in part through a shared cultural framework is potentially observable in rock art

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

13

composition and contact traces with the imagery (see Recalde & Colqui, chapter “The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-­Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP)”; Morris, chapter “River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa”, this volume). Following this perspective, some methodological challenges arise to identifying those multiple identities and their memories through rock art. An interesting and related topic explored in this volume is a reflection on the encoded levels of meanings in rock art, depending on the contexts, gender restrictions, secrecy, authority and knowledge degree of the participants and observers of the imagery, thus prompting us to reflect on the different memory processes related to unequal cultural knowledge and linked to individual perceptions within the same society (see Tenório Tuyuka et al., chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”; Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”, this volume). Identity, however, is also one of the monolithic concepts used to distance people from Western culture. Paradoxically, many of the identities that we work with today have been inspired by descriptions of early explorers and classical anthropologies from the beginning and middle of the last century that were created in response to the agendas of their own times (see Trigger, 1980). In this respect, David Morris at Driekopseiland (Kimberley, South Africa) and Aaron Wright at Painted Rocks (Arizona, North American Southwest) show how archaeologists, in our obsessive quest to define authorship through stylistic constructs, sometimes create fictitious ethnic identities following political thoughts or specific agendas. While memory undoubtedly plays a role in constructing identities, the more decisive question is comprehending how this intersection changes our ways of thinking about culture and society, with interesting theoretical consequences. Despite the pluralistic vision of identities that we can elucidate from such analyses, people share their sense of belonging through collective practices. Thus, exploring the formation of collective memories in rock art research is another shared interest in this volume. Archaeology has developed and utilised the concept of collective memory in contemporary nation-states (Van Dyke, 2019, p. 212). In this book, some authors (see Wright; Zubieta) look at collective memories through a lens influenced by sociologist Maurice Halbwachs (1925, 1950/1980) who argued for the sharing of memories as a collective phenomenon beyond the individual sphere and experience: It is [the individual memory] not completely sealed off and isolated. A man must often appeal to others’ remembrance to evoke his own past. He goes back to reference points determined by society, hence outside himself. Moreover, the individual memory could not function without words and ideas, instruments the individual has not himself invented but appropriated from his milieu (1950/1980, p. 51).

To this end, Whitley asserts in this volume that in recent years there has been a polarization of views in which individual agency has been treated as almost separate from stable cultural structures and collective processes; thus he urges us to

14

L. F. Zubieta

incorporate both individual and collective memory into a cohesive culture and social theory. Historian Pierre Nora’s (1989) lieux de memoire, which was originally deployed to point out specific places as focal points for French nationalistic collective memory (Van Dyke, 2019, p. 212), has also been extended into rock art and memory studies today. In this volume, Valdez-Tullett uses Nora’s thesis to approach the material and immaterial aspects of collective memory and their relation to the landscape in the Atlantic Rock Art tradition of Western Europe, while Horn in Scandinavia emphasises oral traditions rather than canonised historical versions of memory. In this sense, orality plays a major role in human creativity as a significant form of cultural transmission in many societies. Anthropologist Jan Vansina (1961/1985) has brilliantly highlighted the intellectual role of oral traditions beyond the narrative and literary realms, as well as its important role in memory: “Whether memory changes or not, culture is reproduced by remembrance put into words and deeds” (Vansina, 1985, p. xi). Nonetheless, thinking of orality in opposition to writing has also limited us in our efforts to visualise the ample use-perceptions of rock art in so-called oral cultures. Anthropologist Carlo Severi has argued extensively against the West’s narrow views of societies with no writing, labelled as ‘oral’ cultures. This view lacks an appropriate understanding of the articulations between language and iconography. Moreover, it is a simplification that misleads us to think those societies are conferred with a fragile memory when, on the contrary, they have a multifaceted system encompassing ritual gestures, speech and images (Severi, 2015, pp. 14, 47). Such a distinction, he continues, assumes that the absence of something consequently constitutes a type of social memory and society different to us (Severi, 2010, pp. 31–32). The Western concept of ‘oral’ cultures has played therefore a central role in the positioning of ‘other cultures’ in Western thought, cultures whose narratives are often regarded erroneously as inferior and primitive. It has also influenced their placement in evolutionary schemes like the one discussed above (i.e., oral-mythic culture). This dialectic opposition has critical implications for studies on the intersections between rock art and memory. It prevents us from seeing the entanglement between rock imagery and other means of communication, as well as the articulation between the images and the voices (e.g., words, sounds, gestures) of the people who deployed them, some of which resulted in memorisation techniques, context depending (Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”). A more complex and integral picture of a world in which images and orality interacted is needed. The interplays of visual and oral transmission deepen and enrich our current understandings of rock art production and open the field to fresh interpretations. Several essays in this book show that performances, actions, storytelling, dancing, repetition, calling out, rubbing, smoking, incensing and ritual drinking are an integral part of remembering and recalling cultural knowledge in connection to the images (in this volume see O’Connor et  al., chapter “Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia”; Tenório Tuyuka et al., chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase  – Memory, Knowledge and Power between

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

15

Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”; Martínez C., chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””; Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”), as well as highlighting how those actions served as a negotiation between remembering and forgetting (see Horn, chapter “Most Deserve to Be Forgotten  – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art Memorialize Heroes?”, this volume; Jones, 2007; Melion & Küchler, 1991; Recalde & Colqui, chapter “The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-­Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP)”, this volume; Van Dyke & Alcock, 2003). In this regard, collective performances such as ceremonies help activate memory and nurture cultural knowledge (see Tenório Tuyka et al., Zubieta). The construction and deconstruction of memory, consequently, are relational practices in which interconnections are established between the concepts, images (icons) and the tangible and intangible elements of the environment also revealed in the language and semantic structures that people use to define the practices they entail. An examination of the roots of words and specific local terminologies gives key insights into the concepts, meanings, embodied sensations and connections between rock art and other media (see Martínez C.; Tenório Tuyuka et al.; Wright; Zubieta). Those precious and rare examples in which this kind of knowledge is somehow accessible show that it is still possible to record and understand the use of language involved during cultural transmission and memory practices, while also illustrating the challenges behind their translations. For example, Tenório Tuyuka et al. (chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”) share the difficulties behind their endeavour to translate their intercultural research in the Amazons. Some studies of rock art production and function have mobilised available anthropological records of direct relevance in areas where people today have very similar systems of knowledge, speak closely related languages and have almost identical social structures, many with continued associations with present-day Indigenous people. The lack of information about ancient practices related to prehistoric rock art— Europe being a prominent example over the years—has been overcome precisely by ethnography’s critical use of traditional knowledge from around the world. However, focus on the “past in the past” has also given birth to prolific early archaeological studies on memory fascinated with the reuse of sites and monuments (e.g., mounds, architecture) in the past, where past peoples purposely reinterpreted and experienced previously occupied places (Bradley & Williams, 1998; Van Dyke & Alcock, 2003; Yoffee, 2007). Some of this book’s contributions, particularly those set in Europe, pursue this line of inquiry in relation to rock art (see Horn; Valdez-Tullet). There are also instances where no traditional knowledge about rock engravings and paintings exists, but where people might still have developed various levels of connection with rock paintings and engravings—now being studied in novel ways and charged with new values as discussed below. Inevitably, a critical concern

16

L. F. Zubieta

comes to mind as to how to merge traditional and other types of non-direct information in our studies of memory and rock art. Should we attribute directness (and authenticity as a corollary) exclusively to information stemming from instances in which knowledge about specific images has been passed down to other individuals without intermediaries? Following this scenario, may we infer that due to displacement and colonisation, we cannot validate the descendants’ knowledge and views as sources of direct information where cultural practices have been wrecked and descendants live in the shadows of postcolonialism, marginalisation and subsequent resistance? How do we approach knowledge, values and perceptions of the painted and engraved imagery that is imprinted in the collective memory of local descendants’ populations today, when we know these people have been affected by Colonial mentalities and practices? How do we understand contact images and the production of memory? (see Martínez C., chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””; Morris, chapter “Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas””). Incorporating contemporary local communities’ memory and practises with rock imagery seems to be a way forward. Colonialism, although brutal, did not always impede the transmission of ancient knowledge, as some types of knowledge were still passed on, even in a language different from the original (e.g., Australia, Chile, Mexico, South Africa, and others). In some parts of the world, Indigenous descendants still hold traditional knowledge today about images made on rock surfaces (see Morris; O’Connor et al.; Tenório Tuyuka et  al.; Zubieta). Just as in Australia (O’Connor et  al.), some people in Indigenous communities in South America’s southern Andes (Martínez C.) and South Africa’s Kimberley region (Morris) have reincorporated, resignified and transformed imagery across time, despite the disruptive effects of Colonial settling and its ideological impositions. In this sense, and context depending, the imagery links to the past while simultaneously being resignified today, giving rise to new identities and practices (cf. Whitley, Chapter “Culture, Memory and Rock Art”). A related scenario is where people have been culturally dislocated from their ancestral knowledge by Colonial and even current administrations that have tried to erase Indigenous memories and beliefs, some unashamedly genocidal (see Morris chapter “River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa”; Wright, chapter “The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest”, this volume). Reflecting on the impact of external political forces leads us to acknowledge that many social groups, Indigenous and non-Indigenous, have been dramatically affected and transformed. Rural communities in Western Europe are one such example, as they continue practising rituals associated with rock art and specific places in the landscape regardless of the “ideological, political and economic domination of the State’s institutionalised authority”, albeit less often than in the past (Alves, chapter “Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia”). While some contemporary societies in Europe use ancient sites for rituals despite not knowing their original function, new research signals the importance of giving them a voice and of preserving their

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

17

ethnographies regarding the significance of archaeological sites and rock art before their knowledge is lost (Alves, chapter “Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia”; Valdez-Tullett, chapter “The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory”, this volume; see González Álvarez, 2018). This approach bestows rock paintings and engravings with a certain conceptual mobility. Depictions morph throughout time, thus illustrating the difficulty of consolidating a single, monolithic use of rock art in the past and present day, as if people would continue to inhabit a kind of ancient and transcendental cultural sphere. The continuous relationships with rock art sites show the resilience of Indigenous descendants and other contemporary communities using rock art for various and specific purposes, some of which are conferred to a distant past or mythical realm, though overall their related actions, rituals, and constant interactions and intra-­ actions continue to reinforce their present identity. The cultures that we learn from, far from being millenary, stable and continuous—as the canonical version of tradition would lead us to believe—are instead the result of highly contentious modern processes that are far from being resolved (cf. Whitley, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”). Culture, unfolding differently in each particular context, is a theme that reveals itself above all in situations of action, reaction, and complicated socio-political strategies. Why does this matter? Because understanding such dynamics shapes both our cultural perceptions of memory and our Western disposition toward the transmission of knowledge through rock art. The recognition of situated contexts and diverse views is necessary in our contemporary and increasingly global world. However, there is a fine line that we need to avoid when it comes to arguing for presently constructed claims or unethical endorsements of memory that obliterate the past in pursuit of hidden political agendas. In that case, our discipline would be at risk of participating in the legitimation of false memories that validate divisive knowledge and the contestation of authenticity (see Wright, chapter “The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest”). Some authors in this volume, propelled by their research’s social settings, have transcended their academic objectives of searching for meaning and advancing scientific knowledge within the discipline in order to immerse themselves in the politics of what memory studies and rock art bring to the twenty-first century. Issues of identity, racism and discrimination unfold in the social contexts of rock paintings and engravings, as memories and knowledge of these images can be manipulated into land disputes by people whose interests in these ancient territories are merely economic or political (see Morris, chapter “River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa”; Wright, chapter “The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest”, this volume). While it is crucial to appreciate the different cultural processes and memory practices that occurred (and continue to occur), we also need to acknowledge and respect the past and present

18

L. F. Zubieta

knowledge systems of Indigenous peoples as they continue to fulfil their responsibilities to their territories. As we come to the end of the journey unfolding in this introduction, I hope that readers have experienced a small part of the myriad discussions that lie behind the inaugural act of the production of memory aids and their use by modern humans, while also having broader access to narratives deployed in the recent past and, indeed, up to the present—with each form requiring an attentive look into its own structure and logic. The present tendency of memory studies in rock art research reflects the current interest in moving from the past into the present, thus incorporating today’s knowledge, values, significance and perceptions. Moreover, we should not take this active role of archaeology lightly, as this trend reflects how archaeology and ethnographic work can be used as a political action to counterbalance and document social injustices (Hamilakis, 2016; Morris, 2008, pp. 102–105; Van Dyke, 2019, pp. 217–219). For example, in this volume, Aaron Wright uses this lens to reflect on how the construction of collective remembering of the past in the North American Southwest is also a reflection on the “injustices of the present”. While acknowledging these inequalities is imperative, there is also a need to move forward in creative and productive ways. One of the avenues for articulating the numerous and sometimes conflicting memory processes is to interconnect them and foster intercultural and collaborative research programmes between Indigenous and non-Indigenous participants (see O’Connor et  al., chapter “Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia”; Tenório Tuyuka et al., chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”; Zubieta, chapter “The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge”, this volume). This path, in turn, has permitted archaeology more and more leeway in recent years to play a role in societal well-being and to move beyond archaeology’s own Colonial history, which has often marginalised some people’s memories and knowledge. In a nutshell, this book invites readers to immerse themselves in the challenges that have continuously refashioned our analytical categories, resulting in the current efforts to explain the universe behind memory and rock art’s entanglement. Although this book was initially intended mainly for an academic audience working on rock art research, this motivation has been transformed. The book now wishes to seduce colleagues from various disciplines interested in exploring how their fields interweave with archaeology in this journey. The beautiful thing about this interdisciplinary conversation is its potential to embark collectively upon journeys into new territories. It is my hope that this compilation of essays on this subject may attract the attention of a broader group of passionate people in anthropology, archaeology, cultural and heritage management, gender, feminism, music, linguistics, acoustics, psychology, neuroscience, philosophy and other disciplines from varied cultural and academic backgrounds, as well as piquing the curiosity of other young minds to generate further innovative, collaborative study of these important and exciting topics.

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

19

References Adams, F., & Aizawa, K. (2001). The bounds of cognition. Philosophical Psychology, 14(1), 43–64. https://doi.org/10.1080/09515080120033571 Aschero, C. (2018). Hunting scenes in Cueva de las Manos: Styles, content, and chronology (Río Pinturas, Santa Cruz- Argentinian Patagonia). In A.  F. Troncoso, F.  Armstrong, & G.  Nash (Eds.), Archaeologies of rock art. South American perspectives (pp. 209–237). Routledge. Aubert, M., Lebe, R., Oktaviana, A. A., Tang, M., Burhan, B., Hamrullah, J. A., Abdullah, H. B., Zhao, J. -X., Geria, I. M., Sulistyarto, P. H., Sardi, R., & Brumm, A. (2019). Earliest hunting scene in prehistoric art. Nature, 576(7787), 442–445.https://doi.org/10.1038/s41586-­019-­1806-­y Barad, K. (2007). Meeting the universe halfway: Quantum physics and the entanglement of matter and meaning. Duke University Press. Bellezza, F. S. (1981). Mnemonic devices: Classification, characteristics, and criteria. Review of Educational Research, 51(2), 247–275. https://doi.org/10.3102/00346543051002247 Bergson, H. (1991). Matter and memory (N. M. Paul & W. Scott Palmer, Trans.). Zone Books. (Original work published 1896). Bradley, R. (1997). Rock art and the prehistory of Atlantic Europe: Signing the land. Routledge. Bradley, R., & Williams, H. (1998). The past in the past: The reuse of ancient monuments. World Archaeology, 30(1), 1–176. Clark, A. (1997). Being there: Putting brain, body, and world together again. MIT Press. Clark, A. (2005). Intrinsic content, active memory and the extended mind. Analysis, 65(285), 1–11. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-­8284.2005.00514.x Clark, A., & Chalmers, D. (1998). The extended mind. Analysis, 58(1), 7–19. https://doi. org/10.1093/analys/58.1.7 Clottes, J. (2013). Consequences of the discovery and study of the Chauvet cave. In K. Sachs-­ Hombach & J. R. J. Schirra (Eds.), Origins of pictures. Anthropological discourses in image science (pp. 47–72). Köln. Connerton, P. (1989). How societies remember. Cambridge University Press. de Beaune, S. A., Coolidge, F. L., & Wynn, T. G. (Eds.). (2009). Cognitive archaeology and human evolution. Cambridge University Press. Díaz-Andreu, M., & García Benito, C. (2012). Acoustics and Levantine rock art: Auditory perceptions in La Valltorta Gorge (Spain). Journal of Archaeological Science, 39(12), 3591–3599. Donald, M. (1991). Origins of the modern mind: Three stages in the evolution of culture and cognition. Harvard University Press. Donald, M. (1993). Précis of origins of the modern mind: Three stages in the evolution of culture and cognition. Behavioral and Brain Sciences, 16(4), 737–748. Dowson, T. (1998). Rock art: Handmaiden to studies of cognitive evolution. In C.  Renfrew & C.  Scarre (Eds.), Cognition and material culture: The archaeology of symbolic storage (McDonald Institute monographs) (pp.  67–76). McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, University of Cambridge. Fowler, C. (2016). Relational personhood revisited. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 26(3), 397–412. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0959774316000172 Fowles, S., & Arterberry, J. (2013). Gesture and performance in Comanche rock art. World Art: Art Makes Society, 3(1), 67–82. https://doi.org/10.1080/21500894.2013.773937 Gell, A. (1998). Art and agency. An anthropological theory. Claredon Press. Gillespie, S. D. (2001). Personhood, agency, and mortuary ritual: A case study from the ancient Maya. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, 20(1), 73–112. https://doi.org/10.1006/ jaar.2000.0369 Goldhahn, J. (2002). Roaring rocks: An audio-visual perspective on hunter-gatherer engravings in northern Sweden and Scandinavia. Norwegian Archaeological Review, 35(1), 29–61. https:// doi.org/10.1080/002936502760123103

20

L. F. Zubieta

González Álvarez, D. (2018). Interpreting the Atlantic hillforts in NW Spain outside academia: Local rural folklore versus new age pan-European discourses. In J. Leskovar & R. Karl (Eds.), Archaeological sites as space for modern spiritual practice (pp. 54–71). Cambridge Publishing Scholars. Halbwachs, M. (1925). Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire. Félix Alcan. Halbwachs, M. (1980). The collective memory (1st ed.). Harper & Row. (Original work published in 1950). Hamilakis, Y. (2014). Archaeology and the senses: Human experience, memory, and affect. Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9781139024655 Hamilakis, Y. (2016). Decolonial archaeologies: From ethnoarchaeology to archaeological ethnography. World Archaeology, 48(5), 678–682. https://doi.org/10.1080/00438243.2016.1209783 Ingold, T. (2012). Toward an ecology of materials. Annual Review of Anthropology, 41, 427–442. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-­anthro-­081309-­145920 Jones, A. (2007). Memory and material culture. Cambridge University Press. https://doi. org/10.1017/CBO9780511619229 Jones, A.  M., & Cochrane, A. (2018). The archaeology of art. Materials, practices, affects. Routledge. Lewis-Williams, J. D., & Dowson, T. (2000). Images of power. Understanding San rock art. Struik. Malafouris, L. (2013). How things shape the mind: A theory of material engagement. The MIT Press. Mattioli, T., Farina, A., Armelloni, E., Hameau, P., & Díaz-Andreu, M. (2017). Echoing landscapes: Echolocation and the placement of rock art in the Central Mediterranean. Journal of Archaeological Science, 83, 12–25. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jas.2017.04.008 McDonald, J., & Veth, P. (2013). The archaeology of memory: The recursive relationship of Martu rock art and place. Anthropological Forum, 23(4), 367–386. https://doi.org/10.1080/0066467 7.2013.843444 Melion, W., & Küchler, S. (1991). Introduction: Memory, cognition, and image production. In S.  Küchler & W.  Melion (Eds.), Images of memory. On remembering and representation (pp. 1–46). Smithsonian Institution Press. Menary, R. (Ed.). (2010). The extended mind. The MIT Press. Meskell, L. (2002). The intersections of identity and politics in archaeology. Annual Review of Anthropology, 31(1), 279–301. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.anthro.31.040402.085457 Morris, D. (2008). Driekopseiland rock engraving site, South Africa: A precolonial landscape lost and re-membered. In A.  Gazin-Schwartz & A.  Smith (Eds.), Landscapes of clearance: Archaeological and anthropological perspectives (pp. 87–111). Left Coast Press. Mowaljarlai, D., Vinnicombe, P., Ward, G. K., & Chippindale, C. (1988). Repainting of images on rock in Australia and the maintenance of aboriginal culture. Antiquity, 62(237), 690–696. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0003598X00075086 Nora, P. (1989). Between memory and history: Les Lieux de Mémoire. Representations, 26, 7–24. https://doi.org/10.2307/2928520 Olivier, L. (2004). The past of the present. Archaeological memory and time. Archaeological Dialogues, 10(2), 204–213. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1380203804001254 Olivier, L. (2013). Time. In P.  Graves-Brown, R.  Harrison, & A.  Piccini (Eds.), The Oxford handbook of the archaeology of the contemporary world (pp.  167–177). Oxford University Press. Ouzman, S. (2001). Seeing is deceiving: Rock art and the non-visual. World Archaeology, 33, 237–256. Quiles, A., Valladas, H., Bocherens, H., Delqué-Količ, E., Kaltnecker, E., van der Plicht, J., Delannoy, J.-J., Feruglio, V., Fritz, C., Monney, J., Philippe, M., Tosello, G., Clottes, J., & Geneste, J.-M. (2016). A high-precision chronological model for the decorated Upper Paleolithic cave of Chauvet-Pont d’Arc, Ardèche, France. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, 113(17), 4670–4675. https://doi.org/10.1073/ pnas.1523158113 Renfrew, C., & Scarre, C. (Eds.). (1998). Cognition and material culture: The archaeology of symbolic storage (McDonald Institute monographs). McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, University of Cambridge. https://doi.org/10.1007/s13398-­014-­0173-­7.2

Introduction to Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge

21

Renfrew, C., & Zubrow, E. B. W. (Eds.). (1994). The ancient mind. Elements of cognitive archaeology. Cambridge University Press. Rowlands, M. (1993). The role of memory in the transmission of culture. World Archaeology, 25(2), 141–151. https://doi.org/10.1080/00438243.1993.9980234 Scarre, C., & Lawson, G. (Eds.). (2006). Archaeoacoustics. McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research. Severi, C. (2010). El sendero y la voz: Una antropología de la memoria. Editorial SB. Severi, C. (2015). The chimera principle an anthropology of memory and imagination (J. Lloyd, Trans.). HAU Books. Severi, C. (2016). Authorless authority: A proposal on agency and ritual artefacts. Journal of Material Culture, 21(1), 133–150. https://doi.org/10.1177/1359183515622837 Sutton, J. (2008). Material agency, skills and history: Distributed cognition and the archaeology of memory. In C.  Knappet & L.  Malafouris (Eds.), Material agency: Towards a non-­ anthropocentric approach (pp. 37–55). Springer. Tamm, M., & Olivier, L. (2019). Introduction: Rethinking historical time. In M. Tamm & L. Olivier (Eds.), Rethinking historical time. New approaches to presentism (pp.  25–78). Bloomsbury Publishing. Trigger, B. G. (1980). Archaeology and the image of the American Indian. American Antiquity, 45(4), 662–676. https://doi.org/10.2307/280140 Ucko, P. J. (1987). Débuts illusoires dans l’étude de la tradition artistique. Préhistoire ariégeoise. Bulletin de La Société Préhistorique Ariège-Pyrénées, XLII, 15–81. Ucko, P. J., & Rosenfeld, A. (1967). Palaeolithic cave art. Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Van Dyke, R. M. (2019). Archaeology and social memory. Annual Review of Anthropology, 48(1), 207–225. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-­anthro-­102218-­011051 Van Dyke, R.  M., & Alcock, S.  E. (Eds.). (2003). Archaeologies of memory. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Vansina, J. (1985). Oral tradition as history. The University of Wisconsin Press. Viveiros de Castro, E. (2004). The transformation of objects into subjects in Amerindian Ontologies. Common Knowledge, 10(3), 463–485. Waller, S. J. (1993). Sound and rock art. Nature, 363(6429), 501. https://doi.org/10.1038/363501a0 Watson, C. (1997). Re-embodying sand drawing and re-evaluating the status of the camp: The practice and iconography of women’s public sand drawing in Balgo, W. A. Australian Journal of Anthropology, 8(1), 104–124. Whitley, D. S., Loubser, J. H. N., & Whitelaw, G. (Eds.). (2020). Cognitive archaeology: Mind, ethnography, and the past in South Africa and beyond. Routledge. Yoffee, N. (Ed.). (2007). Negotiating the past in the past: Identity, memory, and landscape in archaeological research. The University of Arizona Press. Leslie F. Zubieta is an ethnoarchaeologist investigating the intersections between rock art, material culture, gender and memorisation processes. She has been a Marie Skłodowska-Curie Postdoctoral Fellow (2018−2020), Department d’Història i Arqueologia (Secció de Prehistòria i Arqueologia), Universitat de Barcelona. She is an Honorary Research Fellow at the Centre for Rock Art Research + Management at The University of Western Australia and the Rock Art Research Institute, School of Geography, Archaeology and Environmental Studies, University of the Witwatersrand. She has worked alongside the Cheŵa to study how women used rock art in the intergenerational transmission of cultural knowledge in southcentral Africa (Journal of Anthropological Archaeology). Leslie has focused on the functionality and symbolic connections of rock art and other media in rituals. She has participated in and led various research and cultural management projects in Australia, Malawi, Mexico, Mozambique, South Africa and Zambia, collaborating and learning closely with the Indigenous people of those countries while developing strategies to protect their cultural heritage. Her current collaborative research with the Ayuuk ja’ay of Oaxaca in Mexico (HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory) explores rock art and plastic art concerning the transmission of knowledge, memory and identity.  

Part I

Cognition, Mnemonics and Ontology

These are (hi)stories told by our grandfathers. The exercise of my memory awakened me and then I see, reactivate and resee (seeing and listening repeated times) the ancient teachings kept in our memory. Wametisé are houses of our bodies, of our lives. They are houses of life circulation. Barreto Tukano, personal communication (2017) in Tenório Tuyuka, chapter “Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase  – Memory, Knowledge and Power between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia”

Culture, Memory and Rock Art David S. Whitley

Introduction “Memory is more indelible than ink,” screenwriter Anita Loos once said. But Marcel Proust would have added that the “Remembrance of things past is not necessarily the remembrance of things as they were.” Memory in this sense is a persistent even if constructed phenomenon, one that is created, deployed and sometimes altered, as time passes. And this is true regardless of whether our concern with memory follows that of the neuroscientist, for whom memory only exists in individual human minds, or the psychologist and historian, concerned with collective or social memory. Yet memory is critical. As Alcock (2002) has emphasized, shared remembrance creates identity, providing groups of people both with a past and with a view of their future. As archaeologists studying past societies and cultures, our interests in memory emphasize collective memory, inasmuch as the individual memories of prehistoric peoples are effectively never retrievable. Archaeologists have generally approached the problem of collective memory from one of two perspectives. From the empirical side, they have often viewed collective memory as encoded in, partly recoverable from but also in part promoted by materials, monuments and landscapes. As Basso (1996) and Nabokov (2002) have illustrated for Native America, for example, stories, lessons and histories are attached to physiographic features, creating a landscape of memory within which daily life is conducted, and memories are dialectically constituted. Rock art, permanently affixed as a kind of landscape art, can be partly understood in these terms (Whitley et al., 2004). Viewing memory theoretically, cognitive archaeologists in contrast initially considered it in terms of ‘symbolic storage.’ Donald (1991) was one of the earliest (if not the first) to consider memory and rock art. He emphasized the significance of external symbolic storage (which he labelled exograms) in human cognitive D. S. Whitley (*) ASM Affiliates, Inc., Tehachapi, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_2

25

26

D. S. Whitley

evolution, using Upper Paleolithic rock art as evidence for the development of this new form of memory aid. Importantly, Donald contended that this signaled the appearance of a likewise new visuosymbolic path which connected a biological individual to this “external memory architecture” (ibid., p. 284). External symbolic storage according to Donald in effect involved the creation of a material memory— a monument—making it easily shared even if potentially differentially interpreted. Though researchers today may see this as short-sided, Donald’s general concern with the interaction of external factors and individual memory was a key early advance. Memory, as he understood, was not exclusively siloed in individual minds. Sutton (2008) highlighted the relevance of distributed cognition (or ‘distributed mind’), another significant concept in cognitive archaeology (e.g., Dunbar et  al., 2010), to archaeological concerns with memory. Distributed cognition concerns the fact that the cognitive capabilities and implications of groups of people, including the interactions between individual cognitive processes, our bodies and the physical world, are greater than the sum of the parts. Recent research, in fact, has addressed this topic, especially from the related concern of the extended mind: the interaction of human cognitive processes, our physical bodies and our external environment (e.g., Clark & Chalmers, 1998). Memory and distributed cognition are important and related topics, to be sure, and are key components of culture, understood as a shared cognitive system (Whitley, 1992). I discuss three relevant topics, accordingly, in the following. The first is the significance of culture and its implications with respect to distributed cognition and collective memory. How do personal and collective memory inter-relate? How does personal memory lead or contribute to collective memory? I argue that this results from personal memories operating as components of specialized cognitive sub-­ systems, the sum of which yields both collective memory and culture. The second topic is the inherent dynamism of rock art, with rock art sites representing visibly and affectively-changing rather than exclusively static phenomena. This implies that they are perceptually changeable prompts to personal memories, from which collective memories are created, modified and reinforced. I conclude by considering our ability to analyze rock art as memory storage diachronically, illustrating how rock art localities, sites and panels often accrete imagery over time, allowing for manipulations of the information transmitted. But they simultaneously act as conservative and stabilizing elements, thus highlighting the complexity of memory and its relationship to culture change.

Culture, Communication and Collective Memory Explicit interest in culture is relatively rare for many archaeologists (despite the fact that U.S. archaeologists, at least, are trained in cultural anthropology programs). Culture often is an implicit, and therefore poorly defined and understood, concept, or is rejected as old-fashioned essentialist thinking. As discussed elsewhere (Whitley, 2020a), this last tendency reflects an exaggerated concern with individual

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

27

agency, action and social fluidity to the near-complete exclusion of interest in stable (or roughly stable) cultural and social structures among many contemporary archaeologists. Social life, from this view, is a “web of relationships constantly in a state of becoming” (Skousen & Buchanan, 2015, p. 5), downplaying concern with group phenomena such as society and culture and its related factor, collective memory. Concern with collective memory and distributed cognition explicitly implicates, in contrast, structure. But as the first century of social theorists emphasized, it should also accommodate individual human action and agency. A complete social and culture theory that fully accommodates and incorporates top-down and bottom­up processes is not likely yet attainable, however. This is partly because all the components of such a theory (individual and group behavior, psychology and cognition, network communication, etc.) are themselves not yet fully understood. That said, there is at least one component of such a theory that is applicable to distributed cognition, collective memory and rock art. This is Bryce Huebner’s (2014) theory of macrocognition. It is especially important because it helps resolve the link between individual and collective memory which, as Stroumsa (2016, p. 333) noted, “remains strikingly understudied. Oddly enough, there have been relatively few attempts to deal with the connection between individual and collective memory.” Macrocognition exists when: there is evidence that cognitive specialization facilitates the propagation of representational states between individuals to achieve collective goals; and…[when]…there are collective states and processes that cannot be straightforwardly explained by reference to the mental states and processes of particular individuals. Where this can be shown, the coupling of stable patterns of collective behavior and informational specialization will warrant the appeal to cognitive states of a collectivity, and appealing to collective mental states in such cases will yield predictive and explanatory advantage beyond what could be achieved by an appeal to merely individualistic cognitive science (Huebner, pp. 256–257).

One important component of macrocognition involves transactive memory sub-­ systems. A simple example of such is a set of partners with specialized cognitive roles in their relationship (or, more formally, who represent sub-systems of a larger cognitive architecture). My wife, for example, knows that I know whether there is gas for the lawn mower, and where the gas-can has been stored so that she can cut the grass. I similarly know that she knows where the checkbook has been placed so that I can pay the bills. In both cases we have mental representations, and meta-­ representations, of each other’s knowledge and memories (Kosslyn, 2006; Wegner, 1987; Wegner et al., 1991). “While these memories depend on neurological mechanisms, research on transactive memory suggests that memories and meta-memories can sometimes be possessed by different people” (Huebner, 2014, p. 226). In such cases a group can remember things that an individual cannot, with cognitive specialization propagating mental representations across individuals, promoting the achievement of collective goals. Macrocognition is more than just an aggregate of individual knowledge, then; instead it promotes the development of novel and complex representations. Yet it is ultimately individual cognitive processes that help create, and operate within, this larger cognitive structure. Our cognitive systems, and how we deploy these through communication, tie top-down and bottom-up

28

D. S. Whitley

social processes together, resulting in societies and cultures that may act as collectivities but are influenced by individuals. This is a key relationship between top-down and bottom-up social processes. It is important to emphasize however that, despite the significance of individual cognitive processes, social life is not entirely the result of bottom-up cognitive phenomena. As laboratory results of communication and memory demonstrate, instead: The development of shared memories, beliefs, and norms is a fundamental characteristic of human communities. These emergent outcomes are thought to occur owing to a dynamic system of information sharing and memory updating, which fundamentally depends on communication…[Our laboratory] results show that mnemonic convergence, measured as the degree of overlap among community members’ memories, is influenced by both individual-­level information-processing phenomena and by the conversational social network structure created during conversational recall (Coman et al., 2016, p. 8171).

Mnemonic convergence—collective memory formation—is then co-created by individual cognition operating within an existing communications structure. The role of macrocognition with respect to rock art involves its direct tie, in Native America at least, to religion, ritual and belief which (beyond collective memory alone) are key components of any given culture. Speaking to the significance of religion among small hunter-gatherer groups, Finkel et al. note that: [R]eligious rituals and beliefs are the language and method of many forms of cultural transmission. The transmission of these beliefs mediates the enculturation of younger members into the identities, roles and commitments necessary for functioning in the group (2010, p. 287; emphasis in original).

Religions may then be understood as macrocognitive sub-systems involving information specialists: shamans and priests. Ritual actions, a form of behavior, do not cause beliefs, which are collective representations. Instead rituals encode and reinforce them. Rock art, as a typically enduring kind of landscape monument, documents and in part supports the persistence of such beliefs, and thus is a long-lived and visible expression—a meta-representation—of these beliefs and practices. There are some implications of these conclusions. The nature of what French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs (1950/1997) first termed religious memory can be seen historically as a divide between orality, the emphasis of cultures utilizing oral histories and traditions, versus the later-appearing textuality, practiced by ‘religions of the book’ (Stroumsa, 2016). But rock art, as a kind of external symbolic storage made by many cultures without a true textual system, complicates this distinction. Rock art’s contribution to collective memory is partly based on its visibility and durability, but still involving the hermeneutic interpretation of a kind of preserved text. Because it was subject to interpretation, its meta-representational meaning could vary. Rock art, further, could also be used to modify if not alter beliefs and practices. It is at once a source of continuity and a touchstone for collective memory, promoted by its permanence on the landscape. But it is also a potential site of contestation inasmuch as it could be used equally to support or to object to the status quo in social relations and beliefs, especially through the addition of new motifs or emergent and alternative hermeneutic interpretations (cf. Lewis-Williams, 2011).

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

29

Although I return to this topic subsequently, any discussion of the stability or dynamism of external storage systems like rock art implicates the relationship between collective memory, ritual and culture change. As Rossano (2020) has emphasized, rituals involve an appeal to temporal memory depth, and rituals are effective when they promote an emotional commitment to this collective memory; that is, an affective acceptance as a belief rather than a solely rational reaction to a perceived fact. Indeed, as many social theorists have argued, collective emotional arousal is a key component of most rituals (Summers-Effler, 2006). It is the emotional commitment to a collective memory, inculcated by ritual, that promotes cultural stability. Group rituals, in particular, can be especially effective in creating social capital and goodwill, and leading to solidarity (Rossano, 2020), notwithstanding the fact that they can also be manipulative and supportive of structures of dominance.

Rock Art Sites: Static Text or Dynamic Context? One criticism of Donald’s (1991) claims about Paleolithic rock art is related to these last issues above. This was his contention that these exograms were static and passive (Malafouris, 2004, pp. 56–57). Writing over a quarter-century ago, I noted that: “rock art is the product of prehistoric ritual…it is more than simply an iconographic text, created in a sterile environment by scribes whose primary interest was in the preservation of a message in a permanent form” (Whitley, 1987, p. 184). The performative origin of rock art was certainly dynamic, yet it was sometimes fleeting and momentary, and it also resulted in an image that is (within limits of course) permanent. The difficulty is in discerning how the permanence of rock art and its potential dynamism interplay in the creation of and emotional commitment to collective memory, and thus contribute to cultural processes, especially cultural transmission. Despite the seeming permanence of rock art as a visible landscape monument, the context of the art—the landscape setting, site and/or panel face—is dynamic, contributing to much more than a stable text-like image. The dynamic aspects of rock art fall into two main categories: visibility, and affective impact. I discuss these in turn. The first issue involving visibility is inherent to the motifs and their creation. It concerns the well-known relationship of the images to their lithic support: the interactive connection between the artist, the making of a design on a given panel, and the contribution of the natural panel features to the motif. The best-known examples of this phenomenon are the European Upper Paleolithic paintings where the shapes of cavern walls were employed to complete or fill-out the paintings and engravings. Viewing the art in the flickering light of a torch or lamp, “transforming the given into the created” (Clottes & Lewis-Williams, 1998, p. 16), would further enhance the impact of this relationship. Certain Upper Paleolithic motifs appear to emerge

30

D. S. Whitley

out of the wall thereby being more akin to a moving picture than a static painting or engraving. Physical aspects of a panel face were incorporated into motifs in other ways as well. Figure 1 is a tracing of the main motifs on a panel from CA-INY-134, from the Coso Mountains, California. It is believed to have been painted by the last Coso rain shaman, Bob Rabbit, in the early twentieth century (Whitley, 1987; Whitley et al., 2006). The paintings on this panel are almost entirely restricted to a relatively clean, whitish portion of the granodiorite boulder, created by periodic run-off down the boulder face. Figure 2 shows the left side of the panel in color; note the anthropomorph with a rabbit ear headdress. Figure 3 is the right side of the panel showing an anthropomorph split between the clean run-off area and the darker, otherwise unpainted boulder face. The shamanistic origin of this art provides a context for interpreting the intentional positioning of this motif between these two portions of the panel. It portrays the movement of the shaman between two worlds, from the natural but obscure realm to the supernatural, where his full transformation into a rain shaman could (more visibly) occur. In this example, the variable physical condition of the supporting panel is critical to interpreting this motif, but that condition itself is far from stable and could change over time. Despite the permanence (or impermanence) of the art, its long-term context and visibility were always changeable.

Fig. 1  Tracing of major motifs at CA-INY-134 (Whitley et al., 2006). Figure 2 shows the motifs on the left side of the panel; Fig. 3 the right side. Height of left anthropomorph about 1.15 meters

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

Fig. 2  Left side of panel at CA-INY-134. (Photo by D.S. Whitley) Fig. 3  Right side of panel at CA-INY-134. Note figure straddling the whitish panel area, created by run-off and the darker area to the right. (Photo by D.S. Whitley)

31

32

D. S. Whitley

The visibility of engraved motifs even at open-air sites is itself partly contingent on lighting, furthermore, as all rock art researchers know. Depending upon the time of day, panel aspect and direction of approach, certain motifs may or may not be easily observable, resulting in a kind of temporal dynamism yielding a changing display of images. That this influenced Native American understandings and perceptions of rock art sites is demonstrated by ethnographic commentary. Harrington (1950) recounted the observations of a Shoshone informant who had once counted 26 motifs at a site but observed six more when he subsequently returned. The informant attributed the change to additional motifs, recently made, by a small spirit (a common ontological attribution for the origin of rock art in Native America based on the conflation of shamans and their spirit helpers). Zigmond, similarly, recorded the belief that a diminutive spirit continually makes rock art: [The spirit] never stops working at it. Thus the patterns may change from day to day, and the Indians commonly react to a description of a certain group of pictographs by saying, “It wasn’t like that when I saw it last”…It may be noted here that the cave contours are also regarded as changeable…(1977, p. 72). Since [the spirit] is continually at work on them, one should not be surprised to see them altered with each visit (1986, pp. 406–407).

It is certainly possible that additional engravings were added between visits; the creation of the motifs was a then-ongoing tradition. But it is also possible that the observed changes were due to variable visibility between visits. In either case the comments demonstrate that Native Americans themselves viewed the sites as changing and not static. This fact emphasizes the importance of the sites as landscape monuments: the motifs could change, but they were always at a specific place. Location was then as, if not more, important than motif content.I first suggested that the physical context of sites determined visibility, thus having social implications for the art (Whitley, 1987). I believed, at that time, that a distinction could be made between private versus public sites but it is now clear that such a simplistic categorization camouflages a much more complicated series of relationships involving access to knowledge, the ideology of power, minimal Native American distinction between sacred versus profane spaces, and especially the anthropological concept of avoidance. In much of Native America, for example, a man resides with his wife, children and mother-in-law yet must practice mother-in-law avoidance, requiring that the man never talk directly to his wife’s mother even when living together in a small hut. Behavior around rock art sites also involved avoidance restrictions, especially when the panels were within or adjacent to villages and camps. As Zigmond further noted: [The] pictographs are “out of bounds” for people. The paintings may be looked at without danger, but touching them will lead to quick disaster. One who puts his fingers on them and then rubs his eyes will not sleep again but will die in three days. Some informants said that this would be the consequence even if the eyes were not rubbed. Photographing the pictographs was thought in the 1930s to bring bad luck—the camera would break. By the 1970s, however, this unhappy outcome was forgotten (1977, p. 72; quotation in original).

As expressions of supernatural power, rock art sites, panels and motifs were viewed with reverence and trepidation, and treated with caution. This signaled the second

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

33

dynamic aspect of rock art: its affective impact. As Loubser (2002, 2006) has emphasized, moreover, the bodily position required for the viewer to see a panel has implications with respect to use, visual prominence and affect. Indeed, psychologist V.F. Emerson (1972) and anthropologist F.D. Goodman (1986, 1990) have argued that different meditative traditions employ distinct body postures, and these alter bodily functions like breathing, heart-beat and intestinal motility, yielding different psychological effects. Panels then are sometimes in seemingly odd locations with respect to visibility, requiring special postures, positions or even contortions to see, and these potentially may have impacted emotional reactions to the art, especially among cultures where the art was associated with altered states of consciousness. Important here are both the creation and the subsequent viewing of a panel: although avoidance restrictions existed, rock art sites and panels were commonly used for prayer, meditation, curing and education after they were made, by the population in general. They thus helped inculcate collective memory and group identity (Whitley & Whitley, 2012). Figure 4 is a painted panel at the Late Prehistoric/ethnographic Yokuts site of Rocky Hill in the southern Sierra Nevada, California, which illustrates this last fact. This panel is currently used by contemporary Yokuts in a curing ritual which I participated in during the late 1990s. It was led by a tribal member with traditional knowledge, although he was not a ritual specialist, per se—at the time he was married to a descendant of the painters of another panel at the site (which I believe was

Fig. 4  The “curing tunnel” at Rocky Hill, in Yokuts territory in the southern Sierra Nevada, California. Note the cupules along the left wall and the red and white concentric circle at the apex. (Photo by D.S. Whitley)

34

D. S. Whitley

created in the early twentieth century). The ritual begins with the patient climbing head-first into and reclining within the small tunnel, the roof and ceiling of which are covered in red and white geometric motifs, including spirals and concentric circles. A large red and white concentric circle is painted at the tunnels’ apex. Concentric circles and spirals symbolize whirlwinds in Native California, which are believed to contain ghosts and to transport shamans into the supernatural world. Cupules are also present near the entry. These are typically associated with the girls’ puberty initiation (Whitley, 2006b), partly reflecting the belief that supernatural potency was contained inside the rock. Entry into this tunnel then symbolizes entering the supernatural and accessing its potency (Whitley, 2000). Frequent entry and use have degraded the lower edges of some of the motifs and created a bright polished sheen (possibly an incipient calcium oxalate coating) on the tunnel floor, suggesting substantial time depth for this curing practice. An 1851 historical account states that regional rock art sites were used for curing (Whitley, 2006a). Although this source does not fully describe the healing ceremony, it indicates at least 170 years of continuity in the secondary use of rock art sites for this purpose. Individuals standing outside the tunnel during the ceremony cense the supplicant inside by burning white sage, accompanied by praying and singing. This has two effects. The smoke from the censing wafts into the tunnel and envelops the patient, causing disorientation and enhancing the sense that the patient has entered a form of ritual time. Although individual reactions to this ceremony certainly varied, the result is nonetheless an emotional experience that differs from standing passively in front of a panel and examining the art like reading a text. The group nature of the ritual, furthermore, cultivates mental states such as commitment and goodwill, and social capital in the form of a support network for both the supplicant and the other participants (Rossano, 2020). And that this occurs at a landscape monument, on the periphery of a large village, enhances its importance as an expression of identity and of collective memory. Similarly, as my Yokuts informant clarified for me at this site, the creation of cupules during the girls’ group puberty initiation is intended to connect these new initiates to all the women who had previously completed this ritual in the village. This is demonstrated by the requirement that each girl briefly grind each of the existing cupules, representing a ritual intentionally designed to physically connect the girl to her ancestors (Whitley, 2006b) and reinforcing their collective memory and emotional commitment to it. Another affective aspect of rock art sites involves their auditory/acoustical qualities. As Weninger et  al. (2013, p.  292) have noted: “Without doubt, emotional expressivity in sound is one of the most important methods of human communication. Not only human speech, but also music and ambient sound events carry emotional information.” Kelman, similarly, observed that: “Studying sound offers a way into understanding social processes and relationships differently than, say, vision or textuality alone” (2010, p. 215). Sounds are thus implicated in the social production of meaning and the generation of emotions. As a number of researchers have shown

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

35

(e.g., Díaz-Andreu & García Benito, 2012; Scarre & Lawson, 2006; Waller, 1993, 2017), many sites, including rock art sites, have unusual acoustical qualities. An excellent example of this relationship—excellent because of the convincing way the analysis was conducted to highlight the association between sites and these properties—was provided by Waller’s (2000) study of Horseshoe Canyon, Utah. Figure  5 shows the so-called “Great Gallery,” the best known of the sites in this canyon. This panel is exemplary of the Archaic Barrier Canyon style, dating roughly from 4000 to 2000  years before present. Waller demonstrated that all five sites within this canyon are located at spots with unusually high reflective sound properties: echoes. The implication is that sound was a key component in the selection of locations for rock art, and thus was significant for the rituals conducted at these sites. As Weninger et al. (2013) contend, this was likely for heightened emotional impact, thereby helping to instill the emotional commitment to the collective memory associated with these sites and their related ceremonies. Rock art sites are not then static forms of external memory storage. They are dynamic in different ways and this dynamism was expected, contributing to the belief that they were spiritually significant. This likely helped promote the emotional commitment to the rituals and beliefs associated with their creation and perceived meaning, thereby reinforcing collective memory itself.

Fig. 5  The so-called “Holy Ghost” panel in Barrier Canyon, Utah. (Photo by D.S. Whitley)

36

D. S. Whitley

Collective Memory and Culture Change Sutton (2008) suggested that archaeology was unusually well-suited for the diachronic study of changes in collective memory, and I believe rock art is especially appropriate for this type of analysis. But, as the above discussion emphasizes, rock art is at once stable and permanent, yet also dynamic and changeable. How is this tension reconciled in any attempt to use rock art to study changes in collective memory? The starting point for the study of any such change necessarily is an understanding of culture change in the larger sense. This is discussed elsewhere in more detail (Whitley, 1992, 2011, 2020a), and a few summary points should suffice here. Although archaeologists often conceptualize culture change as an all-or-nothing proposition (i.e., complete replacement of one culture by another), in fact different aspects of a culture change at different rates (Sahlins, 1985). Pottery seriations demonstrate this fact in a simple way, but more is involved than seriation alone might suggest. Technology and subsistence may change rapidly, specifically, whereas religion and belief are commonly very conservative. Aside from occasional examples of complete population and cultural replacement, change in religions, beliefs and rituals commonly involves a core set of persistent beliefs and rituals with periods of elaboration on or retrenchment to the underlying practices and principles (Bloch, 1986, 1992). Western culture and Christian religion demonstrate these tendencies clearly. Christianity itself has persisted for two millennia, during which otherwise unparalleled changes have occurred in technology, subsistence, government and even population distribution. Christianity itself has certainly changed too, first with the schism between Roman Catholicism and the various eastern Orthodox branches and then with the Protestant reformation. But these are all variations on a central theme. Most of the core Christian beliefs (e.g., the crucifixion, Jesus Christ as the savior) and ritual practices (e.g., baptism, Sunday service with communion) have remained intact. Certainly, religions can change dramatically. This often involves a charismatic prophet or prophet-like figure who establishes an emotional commitment to a new collective memory. Jesus Christ and Mohammed are both examples of this kind of religious change-agent. Yet even in their respective cases the religions they founded did not constitute a full break from their Abrahamic heritage. The Old Testament is foundational to the Christian bible; the Quran, from a later split, is not as derivative but still contains ample references to the older source. The same pattern holds for Native American religions. The 1869 and 1889 Ghost Dances were both started by prophets (Hittman, 1973) and, though they were transformative religious movements, they retained substantial traditional elements: among other characteristics, rock art sites as sacred places were often selected as locations for the Ghost Dance (Carroll, 2007). In the Great Basin, at least, religious practices returned to their earlier roots a few years later when the Ghost Dance prophecies failed to occur (Jorgensen, 1986). As Julian Steward observed in the mid-twentieth century, moreover, a century of acculturation: has not wiped out all Indian practices. Acculturation has consisted primarily of modifications of those patterns necessary to adjust to rural white culture…The Shoshoni retain,

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

37

however, many practices and beliefs pertaining to kinship relations, child-rearing, shamanism, supernatural power and magic (1955, p. 58).

A key implication here is that many Native Americans continue to retain traditional religious beliefs and practices despite living within a modern twenty-first century society including, in some cases, also committing to Christian religions. This results, as cognitive psychological research has demonstrated, because of “the capacity of individuals to participate in multiple cultural traditions, even when those traditions contain inconsistent elements” (DiMaggio, 1997, p. 268). Two points then need to be made about rock art. Religion and the rock art traditions that they produce, first, are inherently conservative. Although we should expect modifications, dramatic change such as complete replacement would be unusual, and should be demonstrated by likewise extraordinary evidence. Major change in a rock art tradition, second, should also be evident in the archaeological and/or ethnohistorical record, and we should use these sources to confirm or refute our inferences from the art (Whitley, 2019). Significant alterations in collective memory and, with it, culture in the larger sense are then extreme events, likely the exception rather than the rule. But they are signaled in more than just rock art alone. Two examples demonstrate these points. Figures 6 and 7 are from Counsel Rocks (CA-SBR-291), a small campsite within the Mojave National Preserve, California. Figure 6, in a small cave, shows red and

Fig. 6  Painted panel at Counsel Rocks (CA-SBR-291), Mojave National Preserve, California, including a red and white hourglass-shaped motif characteristic of Mojave rock art in the region. (Photo by D.S. Whitley)

38

D. S. Whitley

Fig. 7  Bighorn sheep engravings at Counsel Rocks (CA-SBR-291), Mojave National Preserve, California. These are typical of Chemehuevi and Paiute rock art in the Mojave Desert. (Photo by D.S. Whitley)

white bichrome paintings, including an “hourglass” motif that is diagnostic of the Yuman-speaking Mojave tribe’s rock art in this region (Christensen & Dickey, 2001, 2009). Figure 7, on an open boulder face, in contrast, is a bighorn sheep engraving, characteristic of Numic-speaking Southern Paiute and Chemehuevi. As discussed elsewhere, Yuman and Numic speakers had distinct religious traditions, the first emphasizing the importance of the mythic past, especially the creation, and the second having no significant connection between ritual and mythology, with ceremonies instead focusing on the importance of spirit helpers and the individual manipulation of power. Both were however shamanic traditions with visionary experiences serving as the sources for the rock art images, though the perceived meanings of the experiences and imagery varied culturally (Whitley, 2000). This variation effectively signaled different collective memories for the two groups: although similar in many respects, they were distinctive cultures, themselves part of different culture areas (see Kroeber, 1939). The presence of both groups’ rock art at this site reflects the historically documented early nineteenth-century movement south of the Desert Chemehuevi, replacing the Desert Mojave in this region (Whitley, 2020b), a change which is further visible in the artifacts at the site (especially pottery types). But it also in part involved the recognition by both groups that this location was a place of revelation and a portal to the supernatural, even while the perceived nature of the supernatural varied between them.

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

39

This circumstance is not unique; different Native American cultures widely recognized and utilized other tribes’ sacred places (e.g., Sundstrom, 1996). The Abrahamic Tradition again provides a parallel. Few locations are more historically significant in this larger tradition than the Wailing, Western or Buraq Wall. And while it is very sacred for both Jews and Muslims, this is for different reasons: it was part of the Second Jewish Temple, built by Herod the Great, to the Jews; for Muslims it was where Mohammed tied his winged horse al-Buraq before ascending to heaven. Different collective memories, including their emotional commitments, could then overlap geographically, and monuments could be created at shared places. For archaeologists, these changes may still be evident in both the rock art and the larger archaeological record. Rock art in fact sometimes allows us to identify distinct collective memory systems even at individual sites. Figures 8 and 9, from Sheep Canyon, Coso Range, California, highlight a second example of the relationship of rock art to collective memory, and how rock art was employed in changing social relations. The Coso Range is the largest rock art locality in North America, with over one million motifs in its basalt canyons. Chronometric dating indicates that the Coso engravings, part of the Great Basin Rock Art Tradition, extend back about 12,000 or more years (Whitley, 2013, 2019). Figure 8 is a revarnished patterned-body anthropomorph shown “killing” a bighorn sheep with an atlatl. The atlatl indicates that this motif is 1500 or more years in age. Figure 9, in

Fig. 8  Revarnished patterned-body anthropomorph figure shown “killing” a bighorn sheep with an atlatl and dart, Sheep Canyon, Coso Range, California. The atlatl indicates that this motif is greater than about 1500 years old. (Photo by D.S. Whitley)

40

D. S. Whitley

Fig. 9  Male anthropomorphic figure shooting a bighorn sheep motif with a bow and arrow, indicating a post-1500 YBP age for this scene, Sheep Canyon, Coso Range, California. (Photo by D.S. Whitley)

contrast, is an unvarnished anthropomorph shooting a sheep with bow and arrow, dating sometime after the introduction of these implements circa 1500 YBP. Three points are important about the Coso engravings and this set of motifs. The first involves long-term continuity, which is demonstrated in multiple ways: repeated use of the same sites from the Terminal Pleistocene into historical times; the same general motif assemblage employed for this lengthy period; key iconographic details in the depictions of the bighorn, specifically upraised tails and side-facing horns, used continuously; and the same ritual tool, quartz hammerstones, utilized to create the engravings (Whitley et al., 1999). Deep temporal depth, not change over time, is one hallmark of the Coso corpus. But this is not to say that these engravings were entirely static and unchanging. Change is also visible, but it is one of degree rather than kind. This is evident in the shifting proportions of and associations between motifs. Although weapons (atlatls and bows and arrows) are present throughout the sequence, their association with anthropomorphs differed markedly. According to Grant’s (1968, p. 120) tabulation of almost 3800 motifs from four Coso canyons, only 10 anthropomorphs hold the earlier atlatl whereas 223 have the later a bow and arrow, while there are 325 isolated atlatl depictions. A large increase in the depiction of anthropomorphs holding bows and arrows occurred after approximately 1500 YBP, signaling the increased importance of directly connecting them to the act of “shooting” by depicted individuals: the interest in engraving weapons did not necessarily change, but their direct association with human motifs accelerated greatly. An increase in the number

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

41

of distinctive patterned-bodied anthropomorphs, each with a unique interior design, and in bighorn sheep also occur at about this same time. My rough chronology, based on relative degree of revarnishing visible in the motifs, suggests that the majority of the sheep and patterned-bodied anthropomorphs were created after about 1500 years ago (Whitley, 1994). Moreover, a study of superimpositions concluded that: Boat-shaped sheep and patterned-body anthropomorphs constitute the most commonly encountered pairs of motifs linked in superimpositions: the high incidence of this particular linkage provides visual support for the postulated occurrence of a late intensification of ritual activities… (Wellman, 1979, p. 546).

This was a critical time during the prehistory of this region. It was marked by the onset of the Medieval Climatic Anomaly, circa 1200 to 800 YBP, and thus a period of drought and climatic instability. This period also exhibited a change in settlement and subsistence patterns: population dropped; the number of winter aggregation phase villages was reduced; numerous dispersal phase upland camps were replaced by fewer small habitations almost exclusively at springs; mobile, generalized subsistence practices, including hunting large game (deer and bighorn), shifted to a more logistically-organized and intensified exploitation of small seeds and pine nuts. These shifts signaled the appearance of band-headmen and band organization. Band-headmen, as the ethnography demonstrates, were themselves also shamans (Whitley, 1994). The earlier engravings, made by shamans to depict their supernatural powers and exploits, had been effectively anonymous: there is nothing unique or distinguishing about stick-figure anthropomorphs, numerous geometric/entoptic patterns, randomly-­placed weapons, or even the individual sheep. The increasing quantitative emphasis on patterned-body anthropomorphs, each with distinctive internal signs of power that were likewise painted on their ritual shirts, represents an emphasis on highly personalized motifs. The depiction of humans “killing” bighorns, similarly, directly linked the actions of the human with the death of the bighorn. This was not a depiction of the hunting of a real bighorn, however; it only involved hunting in the symbolic sense. As the ethnography instead demonstrates, “killing a bighorn” was a shaman’s metaphor for making rain (Whitley, 1994, 2008), an increasingly important ritual activity with the onset of the period of drought. As Kelly recorded: We were thirsty and asked an old weather doctor [rain shaman] to make rain. He held his bow and arrows [said to have been part of his power] in his hand and pointed to a small cloud. He sang…He was asking the clouds to move into the valley. The rain came. Held them in his hands and pointed at clouds to make rain (1939, p. 159).

This shaman was believed able to perform this ritual act because of the widespread association of bighorn sheep with stormy weather, and their place as the spirit helpers for rain shamans. Referring to a metaphor for a shaman’s altered state of consciousness, death and killing, Kelly also noted that “It is said that rain falls when a mountain sheep is killed…Because of this some mountain sheep dreamers thought they were rain doctors [shamans]” (1936, p. 139).

42

D. S. Whitley

The Coso engravings thus document a long-lasting cultural tradition and, in the process, helped promote an enduring collective memory tied to their shamanistic beliefs and rituals, including the symbolic place that the bighorn sheep, associated with rain, held in their religious practices. But seen diachronically, the rock art also documents how these beliefs and collective memory were manipulated over time, not to create a new religion, but instead to alter social relations within an existing socio-cultural system with the heightened importance of new meta-representations. The engravings then document the development of band-headmen-cum-shamans who became increasingly important with the development of climatic instability in the last two thousand years (Whitley, 1994).

Conclusion My discussion in the above may seem, at times, at cross-purposes. I have suggested that collective memory is a key component of macrocognition which culture, as a cognitive system, requires. I have argued at once for the importance of rock art as an external memory storage device and a conservative cultural expression, one that (somewhat) permanently encoded and graphically displayed aspects of collective memories, especially those associated with the landscape that were tied to religious beliefs and practices. By its fixture on the landscape and its visibility, rock art repeatedly promoted the emotional commitment to a particular collective memory, contributing to the time depth of that memory and to the culture that created it. We thus see long-term continuity in some rock art corpora, such as the Great Basin Tradition (of which the Coso Range engravings are a part). The European Upper Paleolithic rock art tradition, which lasted for roughly 25,000 years, again with only minimal change over that lengthy period, provides an even longer example of this continuity. Although it is currently fashionable in archaeology to promote the idea that social worlds and relations have always and everywhere been in a state of flux, it is unlikely that this neoliberal utopian world ever existed or, if it did, it would have been a rarity. Continuity rather than flux and variability is the hallmark of these rock art traditions, and likely most cultures prehistorically. Yet I have also argued that rock art was dynamic and could be used to change a socio-cultural system. Though this may seem contradictory, it is not: culture change is not everywhere (or even typically) catastrophic, sudden and/or revolutionary. As seriations demonstrate, change is more commonly gradual, successive and/or evolutionary. This results because culture is not a series of invariant and proscriptive mental templates that pre-ordain behavior. Culture is instead more like a set of rules within which people act and interact. Like personal and collective memory, culture too is constructed by individual and group thoughts and beliefs, including by intentional manipulation. But it involves a range of variation which includes expectations for both beliefs and their associated behaviors. As in the case of the Coso engravings and the development of headmen-cum-shamans, or the Ghost Dance in the nineteenth century, change occurred partly by mobilizing pre-existing collective

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

43

memories and rituals and modifying these to create new meta-representations, not by starting with entirely new ideas and practices. The Coso case then illustrates how rock art can be employed to alter collective memories and thus culture. But this change is very much rooted in what came before: rock art at once served as a locus of collective memory inculcation and also as a site of contestation, and thus is a useful data source for studying the dynamics of culture change and social relations over time.

References Alcock, S. E. (2002). Archaeologies of the Greek past: Landscape, monuments, and memories. Cambridge University Press. Basso, K. H. (1996). Wisdom sits in places: Landscape and language among the Western Apache. University of New Mexico Press. Bloch, M. E. (1986). From blessing to violence: History and ideology in the circumcision ritual of the Merina. Cambridge University Press. Bloch, M.  E. (1992). Prey into hunter: The politics of religious experience. Cambridge University Press. Carroll, K.  J. (2007). Place, performance and social memory in the 1890s Ghost Dance. Unpublished doctoral dissertation. Department of Anthropology, University of Arizona. Clark, A., & Chalmers, D. J. (1998). The extended mind. Analysis, 58, 7–19. Christensen, D.  D., & Dickey, J. (2001). The Grapevine Style of the eastern Mojave Desert of California and Nevada. American Indian Rock Art, 27, 185–200. Christensen, D. D., & Dickey, J. (2009). The Grapevine Style Revisited: Patayan rock art in the eastern Mojave. In M. C. Slaughter, S. Daron, E. Jensen, & K. A. Sprowl (Eds.), Proceedings of the 2007 three corners conference (pp. 59–78). Nevada Archaeological Association. Clottes, J., & Lewis-Williams, J. D. (1998). The shamans of prehistory: Trance and magic in the painted caves. Harry N. Abrams. Coman, A., Momennejad, I., Drach, R. D. & Geana, A. (2016). Mnemonic convergence in social networks: The emergent properties of cognition at a collective level. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 113(29), 8171–8176. Díaz-Andreu, M., & García Benito, C. (2012). Acoustics and Levantine rock art: Auditory perceptions in La Valltorta Gorge (Spain). Journal of Archaeological Science, 39(12), 3591–3599. DiMaggio, P. (1997). Culture and cognition. Annual Review of Sociology, 23(1), 263–287. Donald, M. (1991). Origins of the modern mind: Three stages in the evolution of culture and cognition. Harvard University Press. Dunbar, R., Gamble, C., & Gowlett, J. (Eds.). (2010). Social brain, distributed mind (Proceedings of the British Academy 158). Oxford University Press. Emerson, V.  F. (1972). Can belief systems influence neurophysiology? Some implications of research on meditation. R.M. Bucke Memorial Society for the Study of Religious Experience, Newsletter Review, 5, 20–32. Finkel, D. N., Swartwout, P., & Sosi, R. (2010). The socio-religious brain: A developmental model. In R. Dunbar, C. Gamble, & J. Gowlett (Eds.), Social brain, distributed mind (Proceedings of the British Academy 158, pp. 283–307). Oxford University Press. Oxford. Goodman, F. D. (1986). Body posture and the religious altered state of consciousness: An experimental investigation. Journal of Humanistic Psychology, 26(3), 81–118. Goodman, F. D. (1990). Where the spirits ride the wind: Trance journeys and other ecstatic experiences. Indiana University Press. Grant, C. (1968). Rock Drawings of the Coso Range, Inyo County, California. Maturango Museum.

44

D. S. Whitley

Halbwachs, M. (1997). La mémoire collective. Albin Michel. (Original work published 1950). Harrington, M. R. (1950). Little devil so high. The Masterkey, 24(5), 170. Hittman, M. (1973). The 1870 Ghost Dance at the Walker River Reservation: A reconstruction. Ethnohistory, 20, 247–278. Huebner, B. (2014). Macrocognition: A theory of distributed minds and collective intentionality. Oxford University Press. Jorgensen, J.  G. (1986). Ghost dance, bear dance, and sun dance. In W.  L. D’Azevedo (Ed.), Handbook of North American Indians. Volume 11: Great Basin (pp. 660–672). Smithsonian Institute. Kelly, I. T. (1936). Chemehuevi shamanism. In R. H. Lowie (Ed.), Essays in anthropology presented to A. L. Kroeber in celebration of his sixtieth birthday, June 11, 1936 (pp. 129–142). University of California Press. Kelly, I. T. (1939). Southern Paiute shamanism. University of California Press. Kelman, A. (2010). Rethinking the soundscape: A critical genealogy of a key term in sound studies. Senses and Society, 5(2), 212–234. Kroeber, A. L. (1939). Cultural and natural areas of native North America (University of California Publications in American Archaeology and Ethnology 38). University of California Press. Kosslyn, S. M. (2006). On the evolution of human motivation: The role of social prosthetic systems. In S. Platek, T. Shackelford, & J. Keenan (Eds.), Evolutionary cognitive neuroscience (pp. 541–554). MIT Press. Lewis-Williams, J. D. (2011). The mind in the cave: Consciousness and the origins of art. Thames & Hudson. Loubser, J. H. N. (2002). Tripping on the snake, or, on a quest for visions forgotten: An assessment of selected rock art sites in the Hells Canyon National Recreation Area. New South Report submitted to the National Forest Service, Enterprise, Oregon. Unpublished manuscript. Loubser, J.  H. N. (2006). Rock art, physical setting, and ethnographic context: A comparative perspective. In J. D. Keyser, G. Poetschat, & M. W. Taylor (Eds.), Talking with the past: The ethnography of rock Art (pp. 225–253). Oregon Archaeological Society Publication. Malafouris, L. (2004). The cognitive basis of material engagement: Where brain, body and culture conflate. In E. DeMarrais, C. Gosden, & C. Renfrew (Eds.), Rethinking materiality: The engagement of mind with the material world (pp. 53–61). McDonald Institute Monographs. Nabokov, P. (2002). A forest of time: American Indian ways of history. Cambridge University Press. Sahlins, M. (1985). Islands of history. University of Chicago Press. Scarre, C., & Lawson, G. (Eds.). (2006). Archaeoacoustics. McDonald Institute for Archeological Research. Skousen, B. J., & Buchanan, M. E. (2015). Advancing an archaeology of movements and relationships. In M. E. Buchanan & B. J. Skousen (Eds.), Tracing the relational: The archaeology of worlds, spirits, and temporalities (pp. 1–19). University of Utah Press. Sundstrom, L. (1996). Mirror of heaven: Cross-cultural transference of the sacred geography of the Black Hills. World Archaeology, 28(2), 177–189. Rossano, M. J. (2020). Ritual as resource management. Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society B, 375(1805), 20190429. https://doi.org/10.1098/rstb.2019.0429 Steward, J. (1955). Theory of culture change: The methodology of multilinear evolution. University of Chicago Press. Stroumsa, G. G. (2016). Religious memory, between orality and writing. Memory Studies, 9(3), 332–340. Summers-Effler, E. (2006). Ritual theory. In J. E. Stets & J. H. Turner (Eds.), Handbook of the sociology of emotions (pp. 135–154). Springer. Sutton, J. (2008). Material agency, skills and history: Distributed cognition and the archaeology of memory. In C.  Knappett & L.  Malafouris (Eds.), Material agency: Towards a non-­ anthropocentric approach (pp. 37–55). Springer. Waller, S. J. (1993). Sound and rock art. Nature, 363(6429), 501. Waller, S. J. (2000). Spatial correlation of rock art and acoustics exemplified in Horseshoe Canyon. American Indian Rock Art, 24, 85–94.

Culture, Memory and Rock Art

45

Waller, S. J. (2017). A theoretical framework for archaeoacoustics and case studies. The Journal of the Acoustical Society of America, 141(5), 4000–4010. Wegner, D.  M. (1987). Transactive memory: A contemporary analysis of the group mind. In D. M. Wegner, B. Mullen, & B. Goethals (Eds.), Theories of group behavior: A contemporary analysis of the group mind (pp. 185–208). Springer. Wegner, D.  M., Erber, R., & Raymond, P. (1991). Transactive memory in close relationships. Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 61(6), 923–929. Wellman, K.  F. (1979). A quantitative analysis of superimpositions in the rock art of the Coso Range, California. American Antiquity, 44, 546–556. Weninger, F., Eyben, F., Schuller, B. W., Mortillaro, M., & Scherer, K. R. (2013). On the acoustics of emotion in audio: What speech, music, and sound have in common. Frontiers in Psychology, 4, 292–311. Whitley, D. S. (1987). Socioreligious context and rock art in east-central California. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, 6(2), 159–188. Whitley, D. S. (1992). Prehistory and post-positivist science: A prolegomenon to cognitive archaeology. Archaeological Method and Theory, 4, 57–100. Whitley, D. S. (1994). By the hunter, for the gatherer: Art, social relations and subsistence change in the Great Basin. World Archaeology, 25, 356–373. Whitley, D. S. (2000). The art of the shaman: Rock art of California. University of Utah Press. Whitley, D.  S. (2006a). Ethnohistory and rock art in south-central California. American Indian Rock Art, 21, 241–259. Whitley, D. S. (2006b). Rock art and rites of passage in far western North America. In J. D. Keyser, G.  Poetschat, & M.  W. Taylor (Eds.), Talking with the past: The ethnography of rock art (pp. 295–326). Oregon Archaeological Society. Whitley, D. S. (2008). Archaeological evidence for conceptual metaphors as enduring knowledge structures. Time and Mind, 1, 7–30. Whitley, D.  S. (2011). Rock art, religion and ritual. In T.  Insoll (Ed.), Oxford handbook of the archaeology of ritual and religion (pp. 307–326). Oxford University Press. Whitley, D. S. (2013). Rock art dating and the peopling of the Americas. Journal of Archaeology, 2013(713159), 1–15. Whitley, D. S. (2019). Early Northern Plains rock art in context. In D. N. Walker (Ed.), Dinwoody dissected: Looking at the interrelationships between central Wyoming petroglyphs (pp. 21–31). Wyoming Archaeological Society. Whitley, D.  S. (2020a). Cognitive archaeology revisited: Agency, structure and the interpreted past. In D. S. Whitley, J. H. N. Loubser, & G. Whitelaw (Eds.), Cognitive archaeology: Mind, ethnography and the past in South Africa and beyond (pp. 19–47). Routledge. Whitley, D. S. (2020b). Counsel rocks. National Register of Historic Places Registration Form. Submitted to Mojave National Preserve. Unpublished manuscript. Whitley, D. S., Dorn, R. I., Simon, J., Whitley, T., & Rechtman, R. (1999). Sally’s rockshelter and the archaeology of the vision quest. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 9, 221–246. Whitley, D. S., Loubser, J. H. N., & Hann, D. (2004). Friends in low places: Rock art and landscape on the Modoc Plateau. In C. Chippindale & G. Nash (Eds.), The figured landscapes of rock art: Looking at pictures in place (pp. 217–238). Cambridge University. Whitley, D. S., Whitley, T. K., & Simon, J. M. (2006). The archaeology of Ayer’s Rock (CA-INY-134), Inyo County, California. Maturango Museum Publication #19. Whitley, D. S., & Whitley, T. K. (2012). A land of visions and dreams. In T. Jones & J. Perry (Eds.), Issues in contemporary California Archaeology (pp. 255–314). Left Coast Press. Zigmond, M. (1977). The supernatural world of the Kawaiisu. In T. C. Blackburn (Ed.), Flowers of the wind: Papers on ritual, myth and symbolism in California and the Southwest (pp. 59–95). Ballena Press. Zigmond, M. (1986). Kawaiisu. In W. L. D’Azevedo (Ed.), Handbook of North American Indians. Volume 11: Great Basin (pp. 398–411). Smithsonian Institution.

46

D. S. Whitley

David S. Whitley digs holes in the ground for a living. He resides in a blue oak forest outside of Tehachapi, California. His latest book is Cognitive Archaeology: Mind, Ethnography and the Past in South Africa and Beyond, edited with J.H.N. Loubser and G. Whitelaw (Routledge, 2020).  

Tᵾoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã and Rock Art Wametisé in the Middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia Poani Higino Pimentel Tenório Tuyuka, Kumu Tarcísio Barreto Tukano, Kumu Teodoro Barbosa Makuna, Kumu Mário Campos Desano, and Raoni Bernardo Maranhão Valle

Introduction Contemporary Indigenous and Intercultural rock art research in the Brazilian Amazonia have begun to flourish. While grounded on ancient Amazonian onto-­epistemologies, these provocative proposals resonate with an anti-colonial rethink of rock art archaeology1 in that region (e.g., Tenório Tuyuka & Valle, 2019). Following that turn, this chapter explores the coupling of Tukanoan Indigenous philosophy with Amazonian rock art. 1  Western-oriented rock art research in the Brazilian Amazonia is still exploratory. The understanding of topics like stylistic variability and distribution, chronology, and archaeological context remains embryonic. However, robust initiatives have already been advanced, opening promising perspectives (e.g., Cavallini, 2014; Pereira, 1996, 2003).

P. H P. T. Tuyuka (Deceased) Tuyuka Kiti MasigɄ, Secretaria Municipal de Educação (Semed), São Gabriel de Cachoeira, Amazonas, Brazil K. T. B. Tukano Makuna Kumu – Ritual Specialist from Upper Tiquié River, NW Amazon, São Gabriel de Cachoeira, Amazonas, Brazil K. T. B. Makuna Tukano Kumu – Ritual Specialist from Upper Tiquié River, NW Amazon, São Gabriel de Cachoeira, Amazonas, Brazil K. M. C. Desano Desano Kumu – Ritual Specialist from Upper Tiquié River, NW Amazon, São Gabriel de Cachoeira, Amazonas, Brazil R. B. M. Valle (*) Visual Anthropology and Archaeology of Image Laboratory (Lavai), Federal University of Western Pará (Ufopa), Santarém, Brazil e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_3

47

48

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

In 2017, a group of Indigenous philosophers (kumuã [kumu – singular]), along with non-Indigenous researchers, undertook an expedition to record the site of Miriãporãwi2 (The House of the Sacred Flutes’ Spirits), in the middle Tiquié River, Northwest Amazonia (Figs.  1 and 2). Integrating a complex of wametisé (sacred places) called Oa – Ʉnᵾ (Serra do Mucura [Opossum Hill]), Miriãporãwi is known to the Tukanoan groups settled in that river since pre-colonial times (e.g., Neves, 2012). Prof. Poani Higino Pimentel Tenório, a kiti masigᵾ (historian) of the Tuyuka people, took part in that expedition as its main interlocutor and translator, together with three kumuã elders from Tukano, Makuna, and Desano ethnic groups Kumu Tarcísio Barreto Tukano, Kumu Teodoro Barbosa Makuna, and Kumu Mário Campos Desano. Guiding and supervising the spiritual logistics, preparing the way, and acting as the safety keepers, kumuã provided both material and spiritual accessibilities and defined the rules of engagement with non-human entities. Wametisé (historically well-known/well-spoken sacred places [wametiró – singular]) are dangerous places to visit. One of the main tasks of the kumuã was to negotiate diplomatic alliances through bahsesé (healing-blessing) rituals with the many types of potentially pathogenic non-human beings across that sacred landscape. These precautions are necessary since some of these spirits, like the waimahsã (literally, fish people, but stands for other zoomorphic spirits), living in those wametisé can bring quite a harmful agency upon everyone without kumuã preparation and protection. Kumuã men (traditionally, a male epistemic domain) from Northwest Amazonia are healing ritual specialists with profound myth-historical and cosmological knowledge. Part of that knowledge comprises ᵾ tã hori (rock art) cognitive life (e.g., Malafouris & Renfrew, 2010) and its integration within sacred landscapes or mythscapes (Santos-Granero, 2004; Wright, 2017). These living places like wametisé and pamᵾ ri wiseri (i.e., houses of transformation in Tenório & Cabalzar, 2012, p. 44) are revisited, remembered and embodied through traditional myth-historical narratives. Kumuã knowledge and memory thoroughly entangle landscape, myth, rock art, history, ecology, and life through the terms of Heõpeo Masise, or Culture of Respect, consisting of the knowledge to ensure a symbiotic state of shared sociality among beings of different ontological natures, as humans, spirits and their houses. Heõpeo Masise expresses a ritual code of ethics and a cosmopolitical diplomacy system (e.g., Stengers, 2018), which is materialized in important places loaded with Bʉkʉra Masise (knowledge of ancestors). Wametisé correlate with diverse Bʉkʉra

2  Miriãporãwi is a small granite shelter bearing heavily weathered petroglyphs, situated on the top of a steep elevation in the forested outskirts of Serra do Mucura Indigenous village. Due to the site’s litho-geomorphology, the observed weathering suggests that a long time of exposure has elapsed since petroglyph creation, otherwise differential weathering. Elsewhere in Amazonia, charcoal samples from archaeological deposits associated with sheltered and eroded petroglyphs in a similar litho-geomorphological context yielded a calibrated AMS dating of 9.485 to 9.410 years BP (e.g., Santos Júnior et al., 2018, p. 87). That seems to indicate a possible early Holocene context for sheltered Amazonian petroglyph creation.

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

49

Fig. 1  Research area map showing the location of Miriãporãwi Rock Shelter. (Map made by Renata Alves, Instituto Socioambiental, on our request)

50

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

Fig. 2 (a) Top: Miriãporãwi site general view with kiti masigᵾ Poani Tuyuka (upright) and kumuã Tarcísio Tukano and Teodoro Makuna (seated) preparing for the Ñihisiose. (b) Bottom: A closer shot of the shelter’s entrance. (Photos: R. Valle)

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

51

Masise types. When ᵾ tã hori are present, they function as mnemonic triggers to wametisé knowledge identities, and as modulators of communication between spirits and humans, acting as synaptic resources in the transmission of memory and knowledge. The Indigenous philosophers leading the expedition spoke four different languages, Tukano, Makuna, Desano, and Tuyuka, although sharing fluency in Tukano (their lingua franca). These languages share a profound cultural background based on a common myth-historical origin enlivened through exogamy and constant alliances (e.g., Cabalzar, 2000; Hugh-Jones, 1979). In effect, interculturality deeply embeds kumuã knowledge apprenticeship, and the learning of intercultural memories is termed as utamosé in Tukano language and wedeapure in Tuyuka, literally meaning “talk to the other.” To the kumuã, interculturality means learning together (nikaromerã masise). Prof. Tenório took the translation task intensely. Two phases were necessary, one during fieldwork, mainly to provide a Portuguese translation for the follow up of the pekasᵾ (literally, shotgun but generally used for Western) researchers, and vice-­ versa. Another phase was in the lab re-accessing the field recordings between January and February of 2020. The resulting material presented here is, thus, a simplification of several translation efforts of contents that originally were thought-­ spoken in four different Indigenous languages. The expression Tᵾ oñase Masise Tutuase means the encounter of memory, knowledge, and power gravitating around sacred rock art sites (ᵾ tã hori wametisé). In such places, kumuã can engage with non-human agencies and mythic ancestors, bringing forth their knowledge to heal the world within bahsesé rituals. To a great extent, the kumuã skills stem from an interontological mode of knowing, attained through the coupling between mindful beings of different natures. In effect, kumuã philosophy is a living process of cohabitation between humans and non-humans in the wametisé extended ecology of mind (Bateson, 1972). Last but not least, the final section of this chapter consists of a tentative approximation between the kumuã philosophy of mind and two theoretical frameworks thought to maintain interesting correspondences: The neural network theory3 (e.g., Chen et al., 2020; Guresen & Kayakutlu, 2011; Jain et al., 1996; Kandel et al., 2014)

3  Neural networks most commonly refer to computational models for information processing applied in cognitive and computational sciences derived from the neuroscientific understanding of how interconnected populations of neurons (nerve cells) couple together in several function-­ specific neural circuits, and electrochemically communicate (exchange information) with each other inside the biological nervous system of most animals. These networking structures behave through massive, sequenced, parallel, and distributed electrochemical firing (controlled electrical impulses), causing the release-reception of specialized molecules called neurotransmitters. These molecules are chemical messengers produced by the neurons and transmitted among them through their multiple interconnections (synapses). In humans, this may comprise between 80 and 90 billion neurons, organized in several specialized populations pulsing in synchronicity. As straightforward definitions for artificial neural networks (ANN) in the literature, one may find: “massively parallel systems with large numbers of interconnected simple processors” (Jain et al., 1996, p. 31).

52

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

and the extended mind hypothesis4 (e.g., Clark, 2008; Clark & Chalmers, 1998; Wheeler, 2010; cf. Gallagher, 2018). These theoretical resources may help understand how kumuã philosophy engenders rock art as part of an extended neural network of embodied places and emplaced minds.

Wametisé, Spirits and Kumuã To the kumuã, wametisé are places with living (hi)stories and knowledge. Besides the presence of petroglyphs, rock outcrops, shelters, waterfalls, mountains, and lakes are all relevant to kumuã thinkers for these landscape features are myth-­ historical mnemonic triggers. These places reactivate kumuã memory nurturing their knowledge practices (i.e., bahsesé). Bahsesé rituals are essentially healing and transformative processes, such as Amõyese (initiation with sacred flutes ceremony), Wibahsese (knowledge house healing ceremony), and Heriporã Bahsesé (nomination ceremony). All of them are the knowledge domain of the kumuã and can take place when and where necessary. While operating in the kumuã memory, bahsesé can also reactivate the sentience of the place itself. Wametisé’s memory and knowledge come from its primary coupling with a sentient spirit, forming a single cognitive system. All wametisé have spirits dwelling inside, which is one reason these places are also considered houses (wiseri). In effect, since the spirit’s consciousness is extended to the wametisé, this results in a non-human emplaced mind. Dwelling implies another level of articulation between place and body for many of the place’s physical structures, including rock art, may become physical constituents of the spirit’s body (e.g., vascular or dermatological structures). Then, as a coextensive consequence of providing the place with a mind (dwelling spirit), spirits receive elements of a physical body in place. In such cases, beings and places constitute a coupled cognitive system where emplacement and embodiment reciprocate (e.g., Lewis, 2013, p. 94). When a kumu connects with this system, his body becomes emplaced, while conversely, the spirit-place ecosystem becomes embodied inside the kumu. Therefore, the system is complete with kumuã, wametisé, and non-human spirits reciprocating mind-bodies. Spirits and wametisé merge into the same neural circuit forming synapses. However, these neural circuits between emplaced bodies and embodied places can 4  The Extended Mind Hypothesis (EMH), proposed by Clark and Chalmers (1998), posits that the external environment actively participates in the cognitive process coupling with the embodied nervous system as an extension of the mind itself. The parity principle (Wheeler, 2010) underlies the fundamental action of coupling between internal (in-the-brain) and external (environmental) processing of any cognitive system, or sense-making system, on an equal basis of contributions. Later, this equality was restated for a more complementary role of the environment on mostly internal processing (Clark, 2008; cf. Wheeler, 2010). However, the key-idea that material and artifactual constituents of the external environment actively participate in the cognitive processing was maintained, thus extending the cognitive system beyond the biological body.

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

53

experience oscillations in energy flow and enter in a sort of hibernation, becoming dormant for long periods. Bahsesé have the potential to awake these places and spirits through resonating energies modulated by kumuã agency when applied over such extended sentient systems. As a result of spiritual coupling with non-human beings, wametisé become sentient places. Therefore, they perceive the presence and communicate with the kumu during bahsesé, even enter in the kumu’s body, circumstantially sharing a symbiotic state. Thus, rendering feasible for a kumu to carry a wametiró inside him. In effect, kumuã, wametisé, and spirits may occasionally share the same body and sentient state. That implies interchangeability between place-body and body-mind articulations. The kumuã learn since initiation how to acquire profound awareness of this interconnected and reciprocal sentience (intersentience). The acquisition of intersentience precludes the physical presence in the place, for the memorization of the wametisé (hi)stories told by experienced kumuã is enough to afford mind traveling and, then, deep learning interactions with wametisé and its non-human dwellers. Kumuã remembering equals traveling across the sacred territory through myth-­ historical time, diplomatically crossing ontological borders, meeting and engaging with different modes of beingness. Wametisé are large houses of knowledge that contain memories and (hi)stories, which can be spiritually acquired through bahsesé and then orally transmitted during initiation and other rites. As sentient places, wametisé feel presences and potencies to which they react. This process depends on the flow of vital energies through a network of sensors and conduits permeating the cosmos. That is the case of omerõ healing-energy resonating through the witõda system situated inside both: wametisé and kumuã. This telemetric circuitry informs resident spirits on the current status of the emplaced well-living,5 eventually sensing disturbances in the balance of the wametiró. However, witõda encompasses more than the function of omerõ transmitter between wametisé and spirits. Witõda means a rope of very soft down feathers that interconnects the body of all beings and allows for the resonance of vital energies throughout the kumu’s body. It also connects the world of kumuã with the ancestral world of the subterranean Lake of Milk (or Lake of Origin  – Opekõditara), the knowledge source and reservoir of all wametisé houses. Through witõda, memory flows from the Lake of Origin to the minds of kumuã during bahsesé. Witõda has a double role inside a kumu or baya (ritual singer), acting as a transmitter-receptor device and an accumulator of tᵾ oñase tutuase (memory power). 5  Well-living (bem-viver in Portuguese) is an expression used by Indigenous people in Brazil and South America to designate a broader and deeper concept than well-being (bem-estar in Portuguese, bearing a more individual and mundane nuance). Although well-being may be used in both senses elsewhere, most Native South Americans and others (e.g., Hosseini, 2018) separate these terms. Thus, well-living refers to a collective, all-encompassing, cosmopolitical, mutual health care system of the land, rivers, human, and non-human beings as a deeply interwoven organism, or symbiotic network. Emplaced well-living deals with the balance status of the spirit-place extended cognitive system situated in the wametisé. Well-living also bears significative correspondence to Heõpeo Masise.

54

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

A variation of the concept of witõda consists of witõ oro (i.e., the flower of down feathers in the ear – amõ pero witõ oro). Wild ducks (possibly Cairina spp.), royal vultures (Sarcoramphus papa), hawks (Accipitridae), and Jabiru birds (Jabiru mycteria) have witõ oro. It expands in contact with fresh air and withers in contact with water or melted fat. Working as a resonance box in the kumuã auditive system witõ oro amplifies their aural skills and the capacity to listen and memorize orally transmitted knowledge. Witõ oro and witõda stem from the same metaphysical substance, which resonates with omerõ energy, channeling and catalyzing it, and other types of tutuase forces like memory, knowledge, and health. Omerõ is healing-knowledge energy circulating through the witõda network. Usually, this is the intersentient network used by non-human spiritual beings within their respective wametisé in their ongoing spirit-place intercommunication. However, sometimes kumuã use this information network as a telemetric and telecommunication system, receiving from afar and participating in this otherwise distantly information exchange. They do so by utilizing the ritual breathing actions of inhaling and blowing during bahsesé, modulating resonance through which they receive and transmit omerõ and other energies. Omerõ relates to a breathable healing power employed by kumuã during bahsesé to counteract pathogenic threats to the well-living of places and beings. Omerõ belongs to memory as its offspring, descending from memory (tᵾ oñase) engendering (see Latour, 2018). Tᵾ oñase is a broader concept encompassing other modes of knowledge and types of forces, like ocarõ, which is also very important regarding memory. These knowledge memories (tᵾ oñase masise) possess energy-like properties (tutuase) flowing along a network of interontological communication oriented towards healing and rebalancing the cosmos, permanently linking spirits, wametisé, and kumuã minds. Kumuã, spirits, and wametisé constitute an integrated system where energy, information, memory, and knowledge are permanently flowing. These three intersentient agents compose a network of memory healing forces conveyed through bahsesé to enhance heõpeo masise (well-living). Kumuã, as intermediaries between humanity and spirits with their living place-bodies, are permanently engaged in Ʉmukori Apose (world regulation bahsese). Waimahsã, which are powerful zoomorphic entities, roughly speaking, constitute one type of wametisé dwelling spirits. Although not evil, they have a pathogenic potential the kumuã define as hostility. During wetitiro bahsesé, to counteract that hostility, and nisiosó bahsese, to set an alliance with waimahsã, the burn of blessed white pitch resin (possibly Protium heptaphyllum) and the smoking of blessed tobacco (Nicotiana sp.) occurs. Kumuã injects omerõ in these substances through his bahsesé resonating blowing, potentiating their effects. Parallel to witõda network, omerõ-enriched effluences of pitch and tobacco also flow through a vascular circuitry of strings of air, the Omedari system. While omedari-borne, these substances travel differently. When tobacco omerõ reaches the waimahsã awareness, it becomes small cigarettes they enjoy smoking, thus, experiencing a fraternal connection with humans. White pitch omerõ works like an incense fragrance that fills up the wametiró atmosphere with a perfumed scent appeasing the

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

55

spirits. Then, the house-body reacts by getting pacified and, coextensively, waimahsã or another spiritual resident harmonize in tandem. Pitch and tobacco omerõ clean the house and appease the dweller providing room for interontological alliances. Omedari and witõda are responsible for omerõ releasing-dispersal and reception-­ accumulation, respectively. But while omedari is specific of omerõ processing applied in bahsese, witõda also has the quality of energetic accumulator (battery or resonance box) inside the kumu’s body, processing a broader spectrum of energy types (e.g., ocarõ). Another marked difference refers to the physiology of the sensor types employed by each telemetric network. Witõda is mainly operational in the aural reception and hearing processing of environmental stimuli-information, while omedari works fundamentally on an inhaling-blowing basis. Both modulatory systems are resonance-based (i.e., controlling sound or air oscillation frequencies or vibrational synchronicity) respective to aural-reception (witõda) and breathing-­ emission (omedari). An essential part of the bahsese process is the mind traveling to the places of living (hi)stories, wametisé. As ᵾ tã hori integrate many wametisé house-bodies, then, bahsese mind traveling to these places may afford remote sensing of rock art on a more regular basis than physically being there. Both processes connect kumuã with ᵾ tã hori places allowing the flourishing of a common-ground of knowledge between them. When a kumu interacts with an ᵾ tã hori wametiró they form a mnemonic convergence zone, perhaps externalizing what happens inside the human brain’s hippocampus (e.g., Backus et al., 2016). While affording memory traveling, intense mnemonic convergence also enroots the kumu in the place, and vice-versa. In that sense, the kumu Tarcísio Barreto said: “Yᵾ tuoña masise yᵾ opᵾ yᵾ wakuse ati wi sanᵾ ka” (my memory makes me incorporate and get rooted in this place with body, spirit, and thought). To the kumuã and other tukanoan deep thinkers like the Yaiwa (literally, jaguars, in reference to shamans), or Bayaroá (masters of ritual singing and fluting), wametisé are large houses of knowledge and memory, as mentioned before. When they penetrate these houses, they acquire forces to reactivate that memory, enabling them to enact their social roles as healers, philosophers, interontological travelers, myth-­ poets, through the resonance of Miriãporã. Wametisé places guard our skeletons, the bones of life, the cigars of life, the epadu 6gourd, the flute of life Miriãporã. These are all elements of our life employed to strengthen the life systems on Earth, that is, well-living with fluidity and circulation of energies and knowledge (Tenório Tuyuka, personal communication, 2020).

Listening and seeing are two very important senses to the kumuã and yaiwa. When traveling to a wametiró, these senses are specially sharpened by memory energy (tᵾ oñase tutuase), which is recharged and reactivated. During the bahsesé in Miriãporãwi, kumu Tarcísio Barreto said:

6  Toasted and powdered Erythroxylum coca leaves with other plant ashes and other additive substances, edible and highly sacred. Epadu or padu in Tukano.

56

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al. These are (hi)stories told by our grandfathers. The exercise of my memory awakened me and then I see, reactivate and resee (seeing and listening repeated times) the ancient ­teachings kept in our memory. Wametisé are houses of our bodies, of our lives. They are houses of life circulation (Barreto Tukano, personal communication, 2017).

Miriãporãwi Miriãporãwi is the house (wi, the singular form of wiseri) of the sacred flutes (miriã) spirits (porã). Miriãporã are ancestral spirits of healing and protective powers dedicated to helping humans in the counteracting of diseases and pathogenic agencies, healing the cosmos. They are also musicians, masters of the musical arts for they possess Miriãporã basa (songs and knowledge of the sacred flutes). Miriãporãmahsã means people of the flute spirits and are the flute spirits incorporated into human ritual specialists. The bayaroá (singers/flute players) acts together with the kumu, but possess prominence and are called Miriãporã Bayaroá, which are the drivers of the miriãporãwi ritual ceremony. They play the flutes conducting the performance because miriãporã is acting upon them. The flute and the player become a unity, being the flute the sung voice of miriãporã. When the flute plays, the spirit sings. When the miriãporãmahsã blow into the flute, they blow omerõ inside of it and awakes the flute cognitive life. When omerõ hits the tongue of the flute (Miriãporã Ñemerõ) inside its mouth structure, it vibrates and resonates, activating the spirit inside the flute resulting in the sound-voice output. Those who play the instruments become miriãporãmahsã while their bodies are the flute spirits’ house. Actually, this replicates what happens in a dormant wametiró with the input of bahsesé omerõ resonance. Miriãporã performances are intended to a specific public of initiates and initiated in the amõyese, through which Tukanoan men have to pass in order to ingress into plain adulthood. During these displays, Miriãporã bayaroá teach initiates how to prepare and play the flutes. The instruments always come in pairs of male and female miriãporã spirits, and all of them are Miriãporãmahsã. Miriãporã bahsese is the process of healing and protection of the flutes. Miriãporãwi is a physical social space and a time for the reactivation of the Origin through the Miriãporã bahsese. During the time of miriãporãwi (amõ yeri numu), the maloca7 where the bahsese takes place, which is a social micro-space, becomes the mythic macro-space of Origin (Tenório Tuyuka, personal communication, 2020).

During amõyese, the kumuã summon the miriãporã spirits to use their powers to protect human life. When Initiation starts and miriãporã arrive, the maloca hosting the ritual becomes miriãporãwi. Therefore, several miriãporãwi coexist and are coextensive to the Oa – Ʉnᵾ where the kumuã group agreed to declare as the official dwelling of Miriãporã, where they keep their flutes securely guarded. 7  Maloca means house in Nheē-gatu dialect from the ancient Tupian língua geral, once widely spoken through Brazilian coast and mainland. It is another way of referring to the concept wi.

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

57

The kumuã Tarcísio Barreto and Teodoro Barbosa performed a miriãporã bahsesé at the Oa – Ʉnᵾ wametiro of Miriãporãwi. It was a Ñihisiose for the softening of hostiles energies seeking alliance and negotiation. The rock shelter with petroglyphs became the place where those kumuã encountered and awakened Miriãporã entangling with their embodied-emplaced minds to become Miriãporãmahsã, the people of the sacred flutes spirits. This interontological symbiosis occurs through synaptic synchronization between two separated neural networks. When this happens, both neural circuits fire together, and the wametiró becomes a synaptic hub or a mnemonic convergence zone. Mnemo-genesis and kinesis happen profusely, followed by intense transmission through omedari and witõda already resonating in place. Miriãporã bahsese reactivates the living colors and sparkling properties of the petroglyphs restoring their beingness quality, only perceived by the kumuã. This process triggers two levels of thought elaboration regarding the lively presence of those petroglyphs. The first level pertains to the idea of aesthetics (mamatisé) of the spirits. The second level corresponds to the materialization of extended synapses (in the sense of exoneural8 interfaces extending beyond the brain-body membrane) connecting different minds, or modes of beingness (e.g., Sheehan, 1978). Petroglyphs do not only communicate the presence/essence/appearance of certain spirits, but they are, in effect, a part of the spirits’ house-body cognitive system. The concept of mamatisé relates to graphic patterns used by the miriã spirits called miriãporã hori, that embellish their coextensive ecosystem of bodies, houses and flutes. The same process happens with kapimahsã spirits and their mamatisé on kapi hori, beautiful shapes seen under kapi aegis. To the kumuã mind, miriãporã hori and kapi hori are not only geometrical shapes but also bearing several color tones and movements, respective to the qualities of such spirits. The articulation between a petroglyph place and a specific spiritual agency derives from the apt observation of forms, colorimetric, luminous and kinetic properties visible to the kumuã. Normal human beings would see only the ‘natural’ colors of the weathered rock (Figs. 3, 4, and 5). Kumuã perceive the vitality of the ᵾ tã hori through the sparkling numirõ energy that emanates from them. The Miriãporã are non-human living spirits protected by the power of wetíro. Wetíro is another bahsese term employed by kumuã to denominate the protective action of the omerõ breath. Wetíro is the miriãporãmahsã omerõ. Wetíro blocks the noise of the human presence that disrupts the silence and concentration of miriãporã. The knowledgeable spirits are always under deep immersion. When they sense any disturbance, they raise their wetíro shield against the presence of something strange around wametisé places. Wetíro is both shield and sensor. So, bahsesé is the proper way to arrive at the house and call for its dwellers without disrupting Wetíro.

 Neural phenomena occurring outside the nervous system. See, for example, “Exoneural Biology,” ...“exo-neural” because it’s neurobiology acting outside the confines of the nervous system.” (Mata-Fink, 2019).

8

58

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

Fig. 3 (a) Top: Miriãporãwi ᵾ tã hori. The main panel of severely weathered petroglyphs. (b) Bottom: A closer shot of panel’s left side. (Photo: R. Valle)

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

59

Fig. 4 (a) Miriãporãwi ᵾtã hori. (b) Details of the secondary panel with kapi hori patterns adorning an anthropomorphous figure. (Photo: R. Valle)

60

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

Fig. 5 (a) Kumuã Teodoro and Tarcísio protractedly analyze an isolated petroglyph at Miriãporãwi during Nihisiosó bahsesé. (b) Bellow, a closer shot of the same motif. (Photos: R. Valle)

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

61

“We cannot disturb this house,” said Teodoro Barbosa referring to Miriãporãwi, and vaticinated: “The power of my softening spell will reach this house and the other houses in its surroundings.” On the same token, Tarcísio Barreto said: “Ʉtãmahsã and Pamᵾ rimahsã are eating epadu and smoking tobacco with us, like brothers of transformation in the same anaconda canoe”. When their houses are softened, these spirits sit quietly on their bench, eating blessed epadu and smoking softened tobacco, because blessed elements have positive effects appeasing the spirit hostilities and aggressiveness against humans at Miriãporãwi. To open the Miriãporãwi bahsesé, the kumu Tarcísio Barreto deposited offerings of epadu and tobacco on the petroglyphs (Fig. 6) in exchange for alliance, protection and permission to conduct the fieldwork. He said: “We are part of the same nature, part of the same body. We will stay a little while here, without too much disturbance. Grandpa, we are Tukano, Makuna, Tuyuka, Desano, Pekasᵾ and others. We are in this land of alliance and peace. We came as brothers. We will stay all together and visit all the rooms of this sacred place, house of life and power.” (Barreto Tukano, personal communication, 2017). Regarding the Nísio9 bahsesé that took place in Miriãporãwi, kumu Teodoro Barbosa said:

Fig. 6  Ñihisiose offerings of epadu (green powder) and tobacco (cigarette cylinder on top) deposited inside the grooves of Miriãporãwi petroglyphs

9  Nísio, nisiosó, nihisiosó, and nisioró are equivalent expressions used by Prof. Tenório Tuyuka to refer to softening the hostility bahsese, sometimes also to the alliance bahsese, both altogether.

62

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al. I have prepared this cigarette and it is our cultural force. The force of life that will return to this sacred place. I have attended this meeting. I have visited holy places, indeed, because my grandparents and ancestors in their initiation ceremonies have always narrated about their memories of the origin of things, the origins of sacred places with distinguished knowledge and wisdom. What I want to say is that this place is not just an indicator that this is my ancestral and traditional territory, for there are more things, above all, this house has life for it has Miriãporã and Pamᵾ rimahsã alive in here, they are with us. We know what these places are and what they are for. These are places that deserve to be respected. They are not of today for they come from the ancestral time. All of you and me form part of this house, of this body. The force of the house is inside of us. If you doubt it that is because you did not experience the process of “Kumuãse” I have been through. When you experienced this process, you will believe. I have made a significative action of protection for all of us, against diseases, against poisonous snake bites (Barbosa Makuna, personal communication, 2017).

Transmissions Transmissive processes happen in two levels or modes: Intercultural (among humans from different cultures, languages and knowledge levels or types) and interontological (among beings of different natures, usually between non-humans and humans). Ʉtã hori acts in both modes as enhanced vehicles for memory and knowledge transmission. Intercultural transmission of memory and knowledge articulates with kinship relations (peñaratise), consisting of interethnic affinities and political alliances constructed among different social groups of the Eastern Tukano language family. Traditionally, exogamic marriages (e.g., Cabalzar, 2000) promotes that social process, creating multicultural and polyglot families. Hence, this mode of transmission of knowledge and memory occurs among humans. Interontological communication occurs between subjects that live in different modes of beingness, for instance, between miriãporã and kumuã. Besides omerõ and ocarõ, a third energy type called numirõ plays an important role. Numirõ enables the visual perception of life and power emanating from ᵾ tã hori. Numirõ is harmful to non-kumuã humans, for it causes madness. It exists everywhere and circulates together with other energy types through tutuasedari that is a cosmic conduit system, encompassing witõda and omedari networks, connecting all beings and places, channeling a continuous flow of energies among them. Numirõ is a sparkling and vibrant force type that modifies the sense of vision, the perception of forms, colors, and movement. All the matter has numirõ, even light, which is perceivable with kapi (see footnote 14) ingestion. During intercultural transmission, selective resignification of ᵾ tã hori may occur. For example, when they are reproduced on the frontispiece or the mainstay of the maloca and become visible to a broad public unfamiliar with the deeper aspects of kumuã philosophy. The overexposure of some graphic forms may lead to less regulated interpretation as content transmission depends on varying knowledge degrees each person may have. This renegotiation of the senses, contexts, and meanings

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

63

conveys a multilayered/multimodal resignified environment to intercultural transmission. When a ceramicist sees a kapi hori, an ontological category of graphic forms commonly found in petroglyphs (Fig. 7), and deeply associated to kapi beverage induced trance (traditionally forbidden to women), she states: “bᵾ kurã hori dareke nii nira tohó darewᵾ ” (our ancestors made these drawings, that is why we remade them [on the pottery surface]). The plain meaningfulness and the cognitive life of the kapi hori, while unknown to the ceramicist, are fully disclosed to the kumu, who have learned with other kumuã and with spirits about bahsesé awakening of such living graphic forms. Non-initiated people may have a basic level of ᵾ tã hori knowledge based on the awareness that indicates the presence and force of spirits and ancestors. When a ceramicist transposes a petroglyph pattern to her pottery surface (Fig. 8), this action precludes any specific knowledge on the ontological nature of that hori (drawing). She is driven by her aesthetic preference for that shape and a general sense of respect for the ancestral connections generally attributed to the petroglyphs. So, rock art knowledge is uneven among the members of Tukanoan social groups. The ceramicist’s mamatisé does not relate with the kapimahsã mamatisé, the aesthetic sense of the kapi spirits, the source for kapi hori formal repertoire, Fig. 7 A kapi hori graphic pattern. Ponta São João site (wᵾ rᵾ wi wametiró), lower Negro River. (Photo: R. Valle)

64

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

Fig. 8  Contemporary Tukanoan pottery with kapi hori-like decoration. Although, somewhat modified with dots, the kapi hori structure is still identifiable. (Photo: R. Valle)

consisting of their embodied knowledge graphically manifested. However, kumuã knowledge on kapi matters does stem from kapimahsã mamatisé and masise (knowledge and aesthetics combined) because of their interconnections through bahsese and heõpeo masise. Mamatisé is an initial level of assessment concerning petroglyphs as the miriãporãmahsã body decoration. The idea of a petroglyph on a rock wall becoming the ornamented skin of the spirit’s body is plausible since wametisé has a coextensive identity as habitat and organism. The same is valid to kahpimasã and ᵾ tãmahsã spirits, while structuring their bodies, ᵾ tã hori also demarcates their houses. What echoes the already mentioned reciprocal relationship between place and being (body), or the sense of emplaced beingness (e.g., Santos-Granero, 200410; Rumsey & Weiner, 2001; on beingness see Sheehan, 1978). Other levels of kumuã knowledge can connect to deeper layers of thoughts and memories articulated among spirits, hori and places. Accessing those levels depend on the kumuã specific capacities and training, which are heterogeneous. This assessment of ᵾ tã hori as elements of the spirits’ aesthetics, or their body ornamentation, is but a superficial layer regarding deeper perceptions. The kumuã distinguish several ontological categories of ᵾ tã hori, such as ᵾ tãmahsã hori, miriãporã hori, kapi hori, and numiãparamerãnumiã hori. These correspond to graphic types associated with specific place contexts, epochs, and coupled beings. In the case of Numiãparamerãnumiã, the mythic women ancestors,  “These narratives are what Rumsey and Weiner […] call »emplaced myths;« namely, myths associated to the landscape, which confer meaning to particular landmarks and are rendered meaningful by the ritual practices surrounding these landmarks.” (Santos-Granero, 2004, p. 94).

10

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

65

they are not primordial spirits like ᵾ tãmahsã and miriãporã because they belonged to the final part of the Transformation Time and were already full humans by then. So, Numiãparamerãnumiã, two demi goddesses, belonged to Pamᵾ rimahsã generation (People of Transformation), and their petroglyphs are distinguished accordingly. The nature of the ᵾ tã hori types also differs according to their causal process and time of emergence. During the Origin Time, the first ᵾ tã hori appeared with the ᵾ tãmahsã (rock people) and other primordial spirits that were skillful geoengineers and terraformation agents over a ductile geosphere. But they did not “produce” ᵾ tã hori for their bodies were designed from the Origin by Yepa Oakᵾ (creator) with such in-built bodily features of their dermatological organ or part of their vascular system. Often, rock art in the mainland shelters, not fluvial-related, is associated with that first-generation, as is the case of Miriãporãwi. The second generation of ᵾ tã hori was engendered along the Transformation Journey by the mythic human ancestors, pamᵾ rimahsã and Numiãparamerãnumiã, which were drawing makers themselves, applying this skill on rock surfaces, still soft by then. Pamᵾ rimahsã followed the way prepared by ᵾ tãmahsã, so their petroglyphs sometimes overlap or juxtapose in the same wametisé, as if harvesting the knowledge planted by the first-generation. The Origin petroglyphs were, in a sense, models for the Transformation ones. The extent a kumu knows about ᵾtã hori depends on both intercultural and interontological learning processes. Through intercultural learning, knowledge is orally transmitted, as a telemetric data traveling process intermediated by other kumuã that connect the deep time with the present. However, bahsesé affords the interontological transmission between spirits and kumuã, which causes their neural networks to resonate synchronically. With their fused minds and epistemologies sharing a deeper common ground (Opekõditará), it is not a data traveling process anymore, for it is the kumu who travels. Then, knowledge transmission happens through direct traveling of kumuã to the Origins’ spacetime, experiencing intense contact with that reality. When traveling, kapimahsã, miriãporã, or other spiritual beings incorporate into kumuã.11 In so doing, they form a symbiotic bond that embraces and expands the human body, merging their embodied-emplaced cognitive apparatus into a single intersentient mode of beingness, turning spacetime travel feasible. “Miriãporãwi is where miriãporã live. Mucura (Didelphidae) mountain is Miriãporãwi.” Said kumu Tarcísio Barreto Tukano ensuring that the Miriãporãwi located at the Mucura mountain is indeed the wametiró of Origin and not a resignified place. Miriãporã hori inside miriãporãwi were created already as hori in the time of Origin. They were not made by the miriãporã as if painting on ceramic, but as parts of their own bodies. Miriãwi (flute house) relates to the amõyese initiation ceremony. That is the material expression of the flute instruments with human players and dancers. On the

 Waimahsã spirits may be excepted, for their incomplete transformative nature renders the body fusion with kumuã unfeasible, very difficult or even dangerous.

11

66

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

other hand, miriãporãwi is the House of Origin of the miriãporã at the Mucura mountain. When a miriãwi takes place at physical malocas in any village, they become the miriãporãwi, while miriã spirits incorporate in the miriã bayá (a flute player) and other kumuã, guiding the ceremony, turning them into miriãporãmahsã (people of the flute spirits). Therefore, places and beings synchronize and reciprocate their natures during myth-ritual ceremonies. When such synchronized reciprocation takes place, interontological and intercultural modes of transmission merge, which leads to the blooming of kinship-like relations and cosmopolitical alliances between humans and non-human spirits, that is, an interontological symbiosis. Synchronized reciprocation is the mnemo-epistemic basis of kumuã philosophy, implying a symbiotic fusion between the kumu and non-human spirits, thus the symbiogenic nature of the kumuã mind. This fusional process not only enables mnemo-epistemic transmission that feeds the kumuã cosmological fine-tuning, but it also allows for the somatosensory integration among living beings of different natures. This interontological symbiosis is the keystone for the intersentient state of well-living, for it intertwines body, spirit, and place, enabling a vital synchronization between kumu and wametiró. In that sense, during fieldwork bahsesé, the kumu Teodoro Barbosa Makuna exclaimed: “I am inside miriãporãwi, and miriãporãwi is inside me.” It follows that Heõpeo Masise is a symbiogenic12 onto-epistemology (e.g., Margulis, 2010). The kumuã mastering of myth-ritual knowledge comes to a great extent from living experiences of close encounters and direct training with the spirits. A kumu lives and learns through sharing theory of mind (e.g., Call & Tomasello, 2008)13 with spirits and places. Through bahsesé, kumuã acquires a profound perception of the mind-states of non-human beings and their sentient houses. They become the cognitive and ontological extensions of each other in a mutually empathic state, rendering possible the constitution of a single and distributed embodied-emplaced cognitive system. Tᵾ oñase Masise Tutuase consists of information/energy flow through this intersentient network of wametisé, spirits, and kumuã. Remembering is traveling and mentally fusing with this plethora of emplaced beings.

12  “‘Symbiosis’ refers to long term, permanent, sometimes cyclical, for example, seasonal, physical association between members of different species or other different taxa in general […] Symbioses are ecological relationships that, over a long period of time, may become symbiogenesis. In cases where new behaviors, structures or taxa, i.e., new tissues, new organs, new species, new genera, or even new phyla emerge (…).” (Margulis, 2010, p. 1527). 13  An acute awareness of the other’s intentions, emotional states, even thoughts, as an extended self-awareness (e.g., Call & Tomasello, 2008).

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

67

The Omedari-Tutuasedari Extended Neural Network The kumuã mind is coupled with external phenomena and vice-versa, which brings the Extended Mind Hypothesis proposed by Clark and Chalmers (1998; see footnote 4) into relief. However, besides parity or complementarity (Gallagher, 2018), external and internal cognitive processing are mirroring reciprocity. In a sense, Tukanoan cosmology conceives reality as a distributed and parallel entanglement of intersentient minds and beings, as an extended version of a neural network (e.g., Chen et al., 2020; Rezaei et al., 2020; Jian et al., 1996). In this section, the feasibility of approaching kumuã memory and knowledge phenomena merging both propositions, extended mind, and neural network, is examined. The idea of an all-encompassing vascular system with veins and arteries, vessels and capillaries transporting memory, knowledge, tobacco smoke, healing energies, and vital saps similarly to carbon dioxide or oxygen-rich blood, is not strange to the kumuã physiological perspective of the cosmos. As memory and knowledge are, to a great extent, neural processes, the authors of this chapter decided to approach the issue in terms of electrochemical activity in neural tissues and circuitry functioning. In other words, neurophysiology: the physicochemical fabric of thoughts, memories, and knowledge. This reasoning’s underlying logic is that matter is ontologically structured as bio-tissue under a living environment pervaded with sentience (conscious awareness of the self and the others [cf. Panpsychism in Chalmers, 2013]). Consequently, interactions and exchanges of matter and energy among environs and organisms (reciprocal cognitive extensions) could be conceived as multi-scalar neurophysiological processes. What is thought to be an internal phenomenon of electro-­ communication among nerve cells becomes a self-similar and scale-free (Johnson et al., 2019) expression of how several types of forces interact with matter. In effect, the kumuã cosmos, resembling the distributed mind of a cephalopod, is “suffused with nervousness” (Godfrey-Smith, 2017). A neural network is “a massively parallel combination of simple processing units which can acquire knowledge from the environment through a learning process and store the knowledge in its connections” (Haykin, 1999, as cited in Guresen & Kayakutlu, 2011, pp. 426–427). Populations of functionally interconnected neurons engender a net structure whose interplay with other neural circuits answers for the functioning of the nervous systems in most animals. Cognition and cultural behavior stem from that. Such net displays an information processing and integration capacity not assessable taking a neuron individually. Relevant aspects of information processing in neural networks are the distributed representation (information is fragmented into combinations of attributes distributed among many neurons), and the parallel processing among interactive neurons (diverse qualities of information are synchronically processed by a neural circuit). As Kandel et al. (2014, p. 1378) point out: “A single neuron, per se, is not intelligent. However, a vast neural network is capable of thinking, feeling, remembering,

68

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

perceiving and producing many notable phenomena, collectively known as ‘the mind.’” Considering the way kumuã couple their minds with wametisé and spirits, it seems that these sentient subjects compose an extended cognitive system (Clark & Chalmers, 1998; Wheeler, 2010). The dichotomy between external (environment) and internal (neural) cognitive processing dissolves because everything is contained, connected, or wired within a macro-cosmological scale organism-like net of composite interactive sentience (cf. Gaia in Lovelock, 1972). In a sense, everything is internal to something else, while mind and cognitive life are fundamental aspects of the material world. So, neural networking processes that engender the subjective experience of consciousness (mind) are not only inside the human brain but diffused, distributed in the environment. Several mind-engendering environmental networks are out there in action. Bahsesé enables the kumuã to couple their neurophysiology within the wametisé-spirits system. But these mutually coextensive minds, each of them, neural circuits per se, coinhabit within a biospheric maloca, itself organized as a supersized neural network ecosystem. Wametisé places and ᵾ tã hori are neurophysiological extensions of miriãporã, kapimahsã and other spirits. They form an extended neural network biophysically characterized by the flowing of omerõ, ocarõ, and numirõ forces in multi-scalar levels. Similarly, to short distance electricity and electromagnetism, unifying and moving matter, and gravitation-like phenomena that bond and traverse the entire galaxy. Like the vascularity of bodily fluids, water, and vegetal saps transporting nutrients and minerals, those energies carry wisdom and interontological sentience. Heõpeo masise allows kumuã to feel the flowing through this extended neurophysiological network. However, it is the praxis of bahsesé that allows the neurophysiological coupling with tutuasedari. The hori, as extended neurophysiological structures, integrate the spirits’ emplaced bodies. For example, the kapi hori petroglyph type contains kapidari, which consists of spiraled ramifications stemming from the Banisteriopsis14 liana while also structuring a vascular system for the knowledge circulation of kapimahsã. That supports the adequacy for a neurophysiological network expressing the bioelectric-like flow among kumuã, non-humans, and their wametisé. Functionally speaking, miriãporã hori, just like kapi hori, act like neural communication dedicated devices (i.e., axons and dendrites) in the borders of the synaptic space. What bahsese does is the enhancement, through resonance, of the synchronization of electric impulses (firing) among kumuã, miriãporã minds, and the miriãporãwi wametiró. Wametisé are thus synaptic spaces where neural populations do encounter and fire together. First-order synaptic connectionism operates among miriãporã (spirit’s identity), miriãporãwi (place), and miriãporã hori (bodily structures), thus forming a primary neural circuit. The place-house-hori system is a cognitive and somatic extension of  Banisteriopsis caapi is the main ingredient of the sacred medicine kapi taken by initiated Tukanoan men and an important source of kumuã knowledge. See, for example, Reichel-­ Dolmatoff (1969).

14

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

69

the spirit’s body. While petroglyphs may function as vascular organs, they are also parts of neural circuits. When the kumuã minds connect with that first-order synaptic system through bahsesé, second-order synaptic connectionism takes place through the coupling of human consciousness into wametisé-spirits energy flow. Therefore, information, knowledge, and memory, behaving like bioelectricity, are transmitted through the same process, the omedari tutuasedari extended network. Diverse energy types are flowing through tutuasedari neurophysiologic network, each with specific properties. The authors approached three categories during their research, as playing significative roles in the synaptic interactions with spirits and ᵾ tã hori wametisé. They are: (a) Ocarõ15 (sound – resonating – windy; potencies of the voice, chanting and crying or mourning) – an ambiguous energy type associated to ritual speech, chant and flute sound, but also with myth-ritual sadness (e.g., numiãparamerãnumiã), this is an energy type commonly related to memory transmission; (b) Omerõ (blowing-sucking-breathing-resonating healing energy type)  – associated to general bahsesé actions performed by kumuã with tobacco and pitch smokes; plays a role in the activation of the flutes when vibrating its tongue – miriãporã ñemerõ, and is much related to bahsesé-related memory transmission; (c) Numirõ (a visual-luminous-sparkling energy type) – associated with kapi beverage effects transforming the shapes, colors and movements of the worldly things, communicating their true living nature, otherwise can cause insanity turning it into a dangerous type of energy. The sum of synaptic entanglements results in broader connectionism, encompassing the territory within a landscape-scale network of sentient places. This broad-­ spectrum connectionism also includes diverse ontological levels of existence down to the subterranean Lake of Origin, Opekõditará, the center of this expanded nervous system, or neurophysiological network implied by the idea of tᵾ oñase masise tutuase. When coupled with the tutuasedari network, kumu and spirit-house become one merging into each other. The spirit becomes humanly embodied, while the kumu bodily consciousness becomes emplaced in the wametisé net. Under this circumstance, the kumu carries the house and the petroglyphs inside his own body for he becomes miriãporãmahsã (people of the sacred flute spirits), reversely taking the route of the Transformation journey through all the pamᵾ ri wiseri (houses of transformation) down to Opekõditará. The more skilled a kumu is, the faster and straight he will travel to Opekõditará.

 Ocarõ is one of the main energy types involved in broad spectrum memory and knowledge transmission, according to Eastern Tukanoan kumuã philosophy, though omerõ is very important particularly in bahsese healing knowledge transmission, which also deals quite a lot with the memory of myth-ritual practices. So, both types are intensely memory-related.

15

70

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

The kumuã cosmos is a panpsychist16 (Chalmers, 2013; Du Toit, 2016) super-­ network constituted by functionally interconnected specific networks. However, spirits and wametisé circuits are manipulating information (memory and knowledge) from the Origin spacetime, that is, the Opekõditara lake, and from the Transformation Journey and the many houses along its route. Therefore, communication potential can become sparse, weak, and selective among them and humans (e.g., hibernating spirit-place synapses). That is where bahsesé counteracts. As an enhancer of specific neural firing activities, bahsesé operates over interontological communication through resonance. Communication through resonance strengthens those otherwise weak and sparse sequences of individual neural impulses, allowing the propagation of synchronic firing potentials to travel farther distances from the sender circuits (Hahn et al., 2014). Bahsesé consists of apt manipulation of omerõ and ocarõ resonating energies to amplify propagation potential, thus optimally receiving, storing, and retrieving interontological information. While modulating oscillations in signal propagation via resonance, vibration frequencies are potentiated to achieve their largest amplitude. That allows the information to be received besides farther, bi-directionally. That is, from the Origin and Transformation to the kumuã witõ oro, via spirits-­ wametisé coupling, and vice-versa, in feedforward and feedback firing (cf. Hedyeh Rezaei et  al., 2020). The kumu mind “travels twice” (Tenório Tuyuka, personal communication, 2016), as it goes to the Lake of Origin and returns to earthly humanness. Inserting ᵾ tã hori phenomenon in a neural network of symbiogenic life implies the proposition that those structures organically constitute neurophysiological processors of spirits, interconnected inside an extended-emplaced nervous system. The network character of extended cognitive operations implies the entanglement of that nervous system with multiple, parallel, and distributed levels of the environment. Then, an assembly of ᵾ tã hori inside a wametiró functions as a neural circuit, a group of functionally specific neurons firing together, retrieving memories, engendering thoughts, putting forward behaviors. The more bahsesé firing enhancement one has, the more synchronically resonant ᵾ tã hori circuits will fire on the wametisé landscape-scale, integrating all the networks of Omedari Tutuasedari.

Conclusion This essay delves into the kumuã philosophy of mind and proposes a coarse approximation with neurocognitive elements. That opens the possibility for pairing bahsesé and ᵾ tã hori as extended neurophysiological phenomena, processing and

 Mind or consciousness is a fundamental thus universal property of matter and reality (e.g., Du Toit, 2016).

16

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

71

enhancing the cognitive symbiogenesis between humans and non-humans. Some approximations regarding ᵾ tã hori neural functioning were advanced: As axon terminals and dendrites, that is, emitters and receptors of interontological information between neural circuits; then as memory-dedicated neural circuits per se, inside the wametisé network; and yet, a third functional assessment seems adequate, as memory-­ related neurotransmitters like acetylcholine or serotonin molecules (Hasselmo, 2006; Meneses, 2015). The tᵾ oñase coupling of bahsesé synaptic enhancer with ᵾ tã hori neurotransmitters extends mnemo-genesis/kinesis to the wametisé landscape network entangled to the emplaced minds of both, spirits and kumuã. Tᵾ oñase refers to memory in the Tukano language. Linguistically, it can be broken in two radicals with three related meanings: tᵾ o means to listen; ñase means to look and to feel. Thus, tᵾ oñase refers to a synesthetic entanglement of the senses, literally listening, looking, and feeling, that produces masise (knowledge). Moreover, masise constitutes what is retained from such sensory actions and given meaning by intercultural and interontological experiences. So, memory in the sense of stored and retrieved knowledge, images, sensations and emotions, becomes masise. The word tutuase means the conductive power, force, or energy of transmission. Tutuase takes place when memory is transmitted from the mind of a kumu to the initiates during amõyese. The sound of the flutes amplifies tutuase, becoming even more intense when the spirits kapimahsã, miriãporã, umᵾ korimahsã, and others are acting upon kumuã embodied-emplaced cognition, extending to them memories, knowledge, and power. It follows that tᵾ oñase masise tutuase consists of three phases of energy transformation: (a) Reception-perception (tᵾ oñase); (b) processing of the senses and contrasting against stored memories-knowledge (masise); (c) the transmission processes of ocarõ and omerõ forces out of the circuitry while into the circuitry again (tutuase). This last phase reinitializes mnemo-epistemic circuitry through constant interontological learning, engendering a new series of sensory stimuli recollected as environmentally coupled cognitive loops17 of tᵾ oñase. Kumuã philosophical memory is a living process characterized by the streaming of omerõ/ocarõ energies among sentient emplaced beings, some of which are embodied with ᵾ tã hori. Most importantly, it is a symbiogenesis-like process coupling and merging spirits, places and humans into an extended neurophysiological network (variously approached, i.e., witõda, omedari, kapidari and tutuasedari), oriented towards an interontological management of the cosmos through bahsesé and heõpeo masise. Figure 9 shows the group of Kumuã authors together with their young apprentices symbiogenically entangling within the Myiriãporãwi rockshelter and expressing the concept of heõpeo masise - Culture of Respect.  “The human organism is linked with an external entity in a two-way interaction, creating a coupled system that can be seen as a cognitive system in its own right.” […] “Perhaps there are other cases where evolution has found it advantageous to exploit the possibility of the environment being in the cognitive loop. If so, then external coupling is part of the truly basic package of cognitive resources that we bring to bear on the world.” (Clark & Chalmers, 1998, p. 04; 09).

17

72

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

Fig. 9  Group of kumuã philosophers and authors. From left to right: Kiti Masigᵾ Higino Tenório Tuyuka, Kumu Tarcísio Barreto Tukano, Kumu Teodoro Barbosa Makuna, Tukano youngsters. (Photo: R. Valle)

In Memoriam The publication of this content occurs in memoriam of Prof. Poani Higino Pimentel Tenório Tuyuka, the first author, who died on June 18th of 2020 from COVID-19. He has dedicated his lasts months of intellectual activity to the elaboration of the essential manuscript on Tukanoan philosophy and rock art that engendered this chapter, although he could not see it finished. He was a prestigious leadership, scholar, and educator of the ᵾ Ʉtãpinõponã people (Stone Snake Offsprings [Tuyuka self-definition]). In 2018, Poani was acclaimed by the Brazilian Rock Art Association (Abar) as the first ᵾ tã wori Indigenous researcher in Brazil. This chapter is a tribute to his memory and a testimony of his prodigious intellectual power and creativity (Fig. 10).

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

73

Fig. 10  Kiti Masigᵾ Poani Higino and archaeologist Raoni Valle inside Miriãporãwi. (Photo: J. Lins) Acknowledgements  We are thankful to the Federação das Organizações Indígenas do Rio Negro (FOIRN) and the Instituto Socioambiental (ISA), organizations that granted the adequate conditions for the fieldwork, and to all Indigenous peoples of Upper Rio Negro for their resistance and immense generosity in sharing part of their knowledge with us. We are grateful to the editor Leslie F. Zubieta for her kind invitation to participate in this amazing and relevant book. We are indebted with the Tukano community of Serra do Mucura for having us openheartedly for so many intense days. Special gratitude is owed to the soil scientist Pieter Van der Weld and biologist Juliana Lins working at ISA (2017–2018), as well as Aloísio Cabalzar (ISA), for they were the main supporters and collaborators of this entire intercultural/interepistemic research. Gratitude goes to Renata Alves (ISA) for providing a top map, and to Marta Cavalline (MAE-USP) for crucial aid with the figures.

References Backus, A. R., Bosch, S. E., Ekman, M., Grabovetsky, A. V., & Doeller, C. F. (2016). Mnemonic convergence in the human hippocampus. Nature Communications, 7(1), 11991. https://doi. org/10.1038/ncomms11991 Bateson, G. (1972). Steps to an ecology of mind: Collected essays in anthropology, psychiatry, evolution, and epistemology. Jason Aronson Inc. Cabalzar, A. (2000). Descendência e aliança no espaço Tuyuka. A noção de nexo regional no Noroeste amazônico. Revista de Antropologia, 43(1), 61–88. https://doi.org/10.1590/ S0034-­77012000000100003

74

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

Call, J., & Tomasello, M. (2008). Does the chimpanzee have a theory of mind? 30 years later. Trends in Cognitive Sciences, 12(5), 187–192. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.tics.2008.02.010 Cavallini, M.  S. (2014). As gravuras rupestres da bacia do baixo rio Urubu: Levantamento e análise gráfica do sítio Caretas, Itacoatiara – Estado do Amazonas. Uma proposta de contextualização. Unpublished master’s thesis. Museu de Arqueologia e Etnologia, Universidade de São Paulo, São Paulo. https://doi.org/10.11606/D.71.2014.tde-­21102014-­161559 Chalmers, D. J. (2013). Panpsychism and panprotopsychism. The Amherst Lecture in Philosophy, 8, 1–35. Retrieved from http://www.amherstlecture.org/chalmers2013/ Chen, J.  E., Lewis, L.  D., Chang, C., Tian, Q., Fultz, N.  E., Ohringer, N.  A., Rosen, B.  R., & Polimeni, J.  R. (2020). Resting-state “physiological networks”. NeuroImage, 213, 116707. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neuroimage.2020.116707 Clark, A. (2008). Pressing the flesh: A tension in the study of the embodied, embedded mind? Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 76(1), 37–59. https://doi. org/10.1111/j.1933-­1592.2007.00114.x Clark, A., & Chalmers, D. (1998). The extended mind. Analysis, 58(1), 7–19. https://doi. org/10.1093/analys/58.1.7 Du Toit, C. (2016). Panpsychism, pan-consciousness and the non-human turn: Rethinking being as conscious matter. HTS Teologiese Studies/Theological Studies, 72(4), a3426. https://doi. org/10.4102/hts.v72i4.3426 Gallagher, S. (2018). The extended mind: State of the question. The Southern Journal of Philosophy, 56, 421–447. https://doi.org/10.1111/sjp.12308 Godfrey-Smith, P. (2017). The mind of an octopus. Scientific American Mind, 28(1), 62–69. https:// doi.org/10.1038/scientificamericanmind0117-­62 Guresen, E., & Kayakutlu, G. (2011). Definition of artificial neural networks with comparison to other networks. Procedia Computer Science, 3, 426–433. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. procs.2010.12.071 Hahn, G., Bujan, A. F., Frégnac, Y., Aertsen, A., & Kumar, A. (2014). Communication through resonance in spiking neuronal networks. PLoS Computational Biology, 10(8), e1003811. https:// doi.org/10.1371/journal.pcbi.1003811 Hasselmo, M. E. (2006). The role of acetylcholine in learning and memory. Current Opinion in Neurobiology, 16(6), 710–715. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.conb.2006.09.002 Hosseini, S. A. H. (2018). From well-being to well-living: Towards a post-capitalist understanding of quality of life. AQ (Balmain, N. S. W.), 89(2), 35–39. Hugh-Jones, S. (1979). The palm and the Pleiades: Initiation and cosmology in Northwest Amazonia. Cambridge University Press. Jain, A. K., Mao, J., & Mohiuddin, K. M. (1996). Artificial neural networks: A tutorial. Computer, 29(3), 31–44. Johnson, J. K., Wright, N. C., Xia, J. (夏霁), & Wessel, R. (2019). Single-cell membrane potential fluctuations evince network scale-freeness and quasi-criticality. Journal of Neuroscience, 39(24), 4738–4759. https://doi.org/10.1523/JNEUROSCI.3163-­18.2019 Kandel, E.  R., Schwartz, J.  H., Jessell, T.  M., Siegelbaum, S.  A., & Hudspeth, A.  J. (2014). Princípios de neurociências. Mcgraw-Hill Education/AMGH Editora/Grupo Educação S.A. Latour, B. (2018). Down to earth: Politics in the new climatic regime. Polity Press. Lewis, J. L. (2013). The anthropology of cultural performance. Palgrave Macmillan. https://doi. org/10.1057/9781137342386 Lovelock, J.  E. (1972). Gaia as seen through the atmosphere. Atmospheric Environment, 6(8), 579–580. https://doi.org/10.1016/0004-­6981(72)90076-­5 Malafouris, L., & Renfrew, C. (2010). The cognitive life of things: Archaeology, material engagement and the extended mind. In L. Malafouris & C. Renfrew (Eds.), The cognitive life of things: Recasting the boundaries of the mind. McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research, University of Cambridge, 1–12. Margulis, L. (2010). Symbiogenesis: A new principle of evolution rediscovery of Boris Mikhaylovich Kozo-Polyansky (1890–1957). Paleontological Journal, 44(12), 1525–1539. https://doi.org/10.1134/s0031030110120087

TɄoñase Masise Tutuase – Memory, Knowledge and Power Between Tukanoan Kumuã…

75

Mata-Fink, J. (2019). Exoneural biology. Retrieved from https://www.flagshippioneering.com/ stories/exoneural-­biology Meneses, A. (2015). Serotonin, neural markers, and memory. Frontiers of Pharmacology  – Neuropharmacology, 6(143), 1–22. https://doi.org/10.3389/fphar.2015.00143 Neves, E. G. (2012). A história dos Tariano vista pela oralidade e pela arqueologia. In G. Andrello (Org.), Rotas de criação e transformação  – Narrativas de origem dos povos indígenas do Rio Negro (pp.  223–246). Instituto Socioambiental/FOIRN  – Federação das Organizações Indígenas do Rio Negro. Pereira, E. (1996). Las pinturas y los grabados rupestres del noroeste de Pará, Amazônia, Brasil. Unpublished doctoral dissertation. Universidad de Valencia, Valencia. Pereira, E. (2003). Arte rupestre na Amazônia  – Pará. Unesp/Museu Paraense Emílio Goeldi (MPEG). Reichel-Dolmatoff, G. (1969). El contexto cultural de un alucinogeno aborígen: Banisteriopsis Caapi. Revista de la Academia de Ciencias Exactas, Físicas y Naturales, 13(51), 327–345. Rezaei, H., Aertsen, A., Kumar, A., & Valizadeh, A. (2020). Facilitating the propagation of spiking activity in feedforward networks by including feedback. PLoS Computational Bioliology, 16(8), e1008033. https://doi.org/10.1371/journal.pcbi.1008033 Rumsey, A., & Weiner, J. F. (Eds.). (2001). Emplaced myth. Space, narrative, and knowledge in Aboriginal Australia and Papua New Guinea. University of Hawaii Press. Santos Júnior, V., Valle, R., Lavalle, H., Oliveira, D., & Bednarik, R. G. (2018). Direct dating of petroglyphs in Rio Grande do Norte, Brazil. Rock Art Research, 35(1), 85–97. Santos-Granero, F. (2004). Arawakan sacred landscapes. Emplaced myths, place rituals, and the production of locality in western Amazonia. In E. Halbmayer & E. Mader (Eds.), Kultur, raum, landschaft. zur bedeutung des raumes in zeiten der globalitat (pp. 93–122). Franfkurt am Main Verlag: Brandes & Apsel. Sheehan, T. J. (1978). Heidegger’s interpretation of Aristotle: Dynamis and ereigni. Philosophy Reasearch Archives, 4, 278–314. https://doi.org/10.5840/pra1978413 Stengers, I. (2018). A proposição cosmopolítica. Revista do Instituto de Estudos Brasileiros, 69, 442–464. https://doi.org/10.11606/issn.2316-­901X.v0i69p442-­464 Tenório, P. H. P., & Cabalzar, A. (2012). No caminho da Cobra de Pedra: Narrativa d transformação e lugares importantes para os Tuyuka do Alto Tiquié. In G. Andrello (Ed.), Rotas de criação e transformação: Narrativas de origem dos povos indígenas do Rio Negro (pp. 42–54). Instituto Socioambiental/FOIRN. Tenório Tuyuka, P. H. P., & Valle, R. B. M. (2019). ɄTÃ WORI – Um diálogo entre conhecimento Tuyuka e arqueologia Rupestre no Baixo Rio Negro, Amazonas, Brasil. Tellus, 19(39), 17–37. https://doi.org/10.20435/tellus.v19i39.576 Wheeler, M. (2010). Minds, things and materiality. In L. Malafouris & C. Renfrew (Eds.), The cognitive life of things: Recasting the boundaries of the mind (McDonald Institute monographs, pp. 29–37). McDonald Institute for Archaeological Research Publications. Wright, R. (2017). As tradições sagradas de Kuwai entre os povos Aruaque Setentrionais: Estruturas, movimentos e variações. MANA, 23(3), 609–652. https://doi. org/10.1590/1678-­49442017v23n3p609 Poani Higino Pimentel Tenório Tuyuka (24 March 1955–18 June 2020). Sharing a deep Ʉtãpinoponã ancestry, he was a son of the stone snake also known as the Tuyuka people from the Tiquié River, an Upper Negro River tributary, Northwest Amazonia. Acknowledged as a Baya (a master of ceremonies) by some Tuyuka wise men, self-defined as a Kihti Masigʉ (historian), also recognised by some of his Indigenous students as a Kumu (philosopher-healer), he was a profoundly respected and internationally renowned Tuyuka educator. In 2017 he was acknowledged in Cusco, Peru, during the Second International Conference of Rock Art and Ethnography, as a relevant Indigenous rock art scholar from the Amazon, delivering a final Honour Lecture.  

76

P. H. P. T. Tuyuka et al.

During the biannual meeting of the Brazilian Rock Art Association (ABAR) in 2018, he was acclaimed as the first Indigenous rock art researcher in Brazil and invited to become an honorary member. Kumu Tarcísio Barreto Tukano is a Tukano ritual specialist from Upper Tiquié River, NW Amazon.  

Kumu Teodoro Barbosa Makuna is a Makuna ritual specialist from Upper Tiquié River, NW Amazon.  

Kumu Mário Campos Desano, is a Desano ritual specialist from Upper Tiquié River, NW Amazon.  

Raoni Bernardo Maranhão Valle is a Rock Art Archaeologist and Assoc. Professor at the Program of Anthropology and Archaeology (PAA); Visual Anthropology and Archaeology of Image Laboratory (LAVAI) − Federal University of Western Pará (UFOPA) − Brazil.  

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge Leslie F. Zubieta

In many cultures, social memory appears to rely only on the spoken word when, in fact, images play a central role in the transmission of knowledge. Carlo Severi, The Arts of Memory

Introduction Memory is an extensive field of study actively investigated through disciplines such as neuroscience, linguistics, anthropology, archaeology, psychology and musicology, among others. It would be a mistake, therefore, to assume that the myriad aspects of memory are easy to capture all at once; the prolific and diverse perspectives on memory studies today speak not only about our sophisticated and fluid human minds and behaviours, but also about the need for such diverse, and complementary, perceptions. In this article, I refer to memory as the processes and actions involved in the memorisation and passing on of knowledge, a key element in the study of social memory. Memorisation techniques have been researched in many corners of the world, such as Oceania (Weiner & Niles, 2015), Africa (Roberts & Roberts, 1996) and the Americas (Severi, 1997), finding that material culture actively assists in the recreation of memory and specific narratives of identity. The intersections of material culture and memory have been thoroughly examined in a wide range of archaeological contexts around the globe (e.g., Jones, 2007; Mills & Walker, 2008; Van Dyke & Alcock, 2003), and the performative use of objects in some ceremonies, such as in rites of passage, have showed their function as L. F. Zubieta (*) Marie Skłodowska-Curie Postdoctoral Fellow (2018–2020), Department d’Història i Arqueologia (Secció de Prehistòria i Arqueologia), Universitat de Barcelona, Barcelona, Spain Honorary Research Fellow, Centre for Rock Art Research + Management, School of Social Sciences, The University of Western Australia, Perth, Australia Honorary Research Fellow, Rock Art Research Institute, School of Geography, Archaeology and Environmental Studies, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_4

77

78

L. F. Zubieta

mnemonic devices aiding in the learning process (see Rasing, 2001; Richards, 1956). Mnemonic devices are those “learning strategies which can often enhance the learning and later recall of information” (Bellezza, 1981, p. 247), thus becoming effective procedures for remembering. But what are the mechanisms behind their operation? The pertinent question here, regarding rock paintings and engravings, is how certain images depicted on rock surfaces might have played a role in the memorisation of cultural knowledge. Rock art around the globe provides an impressive visual record of many spheres of human praxis that perhaps we would not know about otherwise, such as people’s relationships with other human groups, animals, plants, rituals, the spirit world and other phenomena such as astronomical events. Despite rock art being acknowledged to be a major legacy of human creativity worldwide, there is a potential line of research to explore its role in remembering and passing on culture between generations. As rock art researchers are often culturally and temporally detached from the painted and engraved images we study, we have come to understand and study these cultural expressions as static depictions fixed in the landscape. Indeed, the materiality of rock art speaks notably about not only specific location choices and people’s movements (Bradley, 1997; Chippindale & Nash, 2004), but also the qualities and textures of the rock surface that artists deliberately selected for their depictions (Cochrane & Jones, 2018, pp. 139–142; Helskog, 2010/2016). Nonetheless, rock images, as I suggest, are also deeply interrelated with a broad array of material culture and oral narratives, including songs, story-telling, and sounds. Rock images were thus transformed, in the minds of their creators, from something embedded into a fixed support to something flowing in the landscape through people’s knowledge and stories. As archaeologist Christopher Tilley (1994) indicates, particular named places act as mnemonics of specific individual and collective events and actions, thus establishing a link between the past and present. Rock paintings and engravings, in this sense, are deeply rooted in their locales and are thus an active part of collective memories. Rock art has also been investigated as a form of information exchange to analyse the complexity behind stylistic changes and diversity across large territories (McDonald & Veth, 2011; Wobst, 1977). Here, I am concerned with a different, although complementary, enquiry which deals with the function of rock art as a mnemonic device to memorise cultural knowledge. In Europe, it has been argued that rock art panels anchored oral traditions in Bronze Age Denmark (Levy, 2010) and that the recursive making of engravings at older sites in Norway allowed the cultural construction of memory (Wrigglesworth, 2006). The role of rock art as a mnemonic device has been explored in south-central Africa in the context of female initiation ceremonies (Smith, 1995; Zubieta, 2006, 2014), and more widely in Australia to pass on intricate stories of ancestral beings in the contexts of ceremonies (Ross & Davidson, 2006, p.  319), to narrate totemic geographic travels (McDonald & Veth, 2013, p. 375), and to locate permanent water, ochre and food supplies (Flood, 2004, p. 184). Moreover, the didactic role of Aboriginal rock art has been reported in the transmission of religious traditions (Layton, 1992, p. 49).

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

79

Thinking of rock art as a mnemonic device raises fundamental questions, such as what the memorisation processes are behind the transmission of cultural knowledge deployed through paintings and engravings—mechanisms that are rarely explained. To explore fully how rock art could have operated as part of a mnemonic system, it is critical to acknowledge its part in a web of interrelated objects and intangible aspects of culture such as language, dance, song and music. This realisation brings a profound shift in the way we understand how knowledge must have been transmitted in most rock art-producing societies that we refer to, narrowly, as “oral” cultures. To this end, anthropologist Carlo Severi (Severi, 1997, p. 246, 2012, 2015, p. 13), based on his extensive study of Amerindian pictographs, steadfastly argues that the traditions that we have described as “oral” in the West should be better understood as iconographic since social memory is not only constructed through the spoken word, but also through the use of images. Severi stresses the need for “a new definition of tradition—one that is no longer defined in terms of semiotic means of expressing knowledge (oral, written, etc.), but according to the precise nature of the prevailing relationship between words and images” (Severi, 2012, p. 454). It is in this vein that this paper is written, to explore the nature of rock paintings and engravings in the light of their underlying processes and connections. Acknowledging the mixed use of images and orality in the transmission of knowledge has profound implications in rock art research. The most evident of these is that some rock paintings and engravings might have served as a graphic medium to codify social memory, though it is also likely that rock art must have been part of a wider memorisation technique system, context depending, where images were related with words, thus challenging our ethnocentric approach to mnemonic devices and rock art. My concern in this article is not necessarily to unpack the mental operations behind the use of rock art as a mnemonic device, but rather to explore the social arenas stemming from investigating the intersections of memory and rock art. For this latter purpose I delve, as the core of my analysis, into the rock art of Chinamwali from south-central Africa while incorporating examples from elsewhere where appropriate.

Memorising the Mwambo: The Rock Art of Chinamwali The miombo woodlands of south-central Africa where Mozambique, Malawi and Zambia meet is the territory of a rock art tradition that has been associated with Indigenous women in the context of the initiation into womanhood (Lindgren & Schoffeleers, 1978/1985; Phillipson, 1976; Prins & Hall, 1994; Smith, 1995; Zubieta, 2006, 2016) (Fig. 1). This is the land of the Cheŵa matrilineal group (and others) where women still perform their Chinamwali rite of passage after the young girls have their first menstrual cycle. The ceremony today consists of the passing down of cultural knowledge in specific locations: a hut designated within the compound (tsimba) and a particular tree on the outskirts of the village (mtengo) (Zubieta, 2006). During the dry season a group of initiates (anamwali) are taken by their

80

L. F. Zubieta

Fig. 1  Distribution of known Chinamwali rock art sites. (Map created by Thomas Whitley on my request)

tutor(s) ((a)phungu) to those confined spaces where the main instructress (namkungwi) leads the learning process in which the mwambo, the moral code and cultural traditions, are transmitted to the initiates. No men or uninitiated women are allowed nearby. Although the Chinamwali teachings occur in secrecy, public displays at the common plaza (bwalo) allow the initiates to show their newly acquired skills; first accompanied by their tutors and immediately afterward on their own. It is worth mentioning that in the course of her life, a Cheŵa woman will participate in several of these ceremonies. In this landscape, we found granite boulders at the bottom of the hills and up in the mountains housing finger-painted images predominantly in a white colour: depictions of circles, snake-like motifs, rows of dots, star-like motifs, ovals, and arcs. In the composition of every panel, a dominant figure reminds us foreigners of an animal skin viewed from above—known in academic literature as spread-eagled designs (SEDs) (Lindgren & Schoffeleers, 1978/1985, pp.  8, 44; Smith, 1995; Zubieta, 2006, 2016). The latter range in size from a few centimetres to more than a meter in length; they are sometimes outlined with a fine black line or their bodies are covered with black or white dots (Fig.  2). While we can observe dozens of superimposed paintings at some sites, other more modest and smaller shelters might have just one or two paintings. A quick observation reveals that SEDs are far from uniform: some have various limbs and protrusions, and an extension at the bottom appearing to be a tail. Despite having dissimilar attributes they formally look alike,

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

81

Fig. 2  Paintings at Mphunzi 3 site, central Malawi. (Photo: Leslie F. Zubieta)

thus forcing us as researchers to ask whether these are variations of the same symbol or the representation of different things (Lindgren & Schoffeleers, 1978/1985, p. 44). Due to these characteristics some researchers have argued that those images might be reptiles such as chameleons and lizards that relate to origin myths, rain and fertility (Lindgren & Schoffeleers, 1978/1985; Smith, 1995; Zubieta, 2006). Nonetheless, Indigenous knowledge has demonstrated a larger repertoire of animals, such as baboons, elephants and others, as I will explain below. The Cheŵa no longer have a tradition of making rock paintings. Even though their production stopped fairly recently, presumably 70 years ago (c. 1950) (Smith, 1995; Zubieta, 2006), historic and ethnographic accounts do not mention the use of rock paintings for girls’ initiation ceremonies. Instead, from the beginning of the twentieth century some records do refer to the use of special objects such as animals drawn on the floor with sand or flour made in low relief (Werner, 1906; Winterbottom & Lancaster, 1965). Perhaps, there may have been a limitation on investigation into these matters, due to the restricted access of the non-initiated and foreigners into female ceremonies. Thus, regrettably we do not have more information about the size or other attributes of those objects, nor do we have a clear understanding of how they were used in the past for female ceremonies. It was only early in the 1990s that anthropologist Kenji Yoshida (1992) shared the first example of those objects from eastern Zambia, known locally as vilengo, in a scientific journal. In his photo, we can observe a woman kneeling on a cleared patch of ground in the forest next to five clay low-reliefs covered with white, red and black dots. According to the female elder, who made them on his request, these figures were used in the context of Chinamwali and represented a python (nsato), a snake (tunga), a tortoise (fulu) a crocodile (ng’ona) and a hare (kalulu) (Yoshida, 1992, pp. 242–244 Plate 14). The importance of this photograph, besides providing clear identification of the animals represented, lies in the fact that it shows the striking formal similarities between clay reliefs and some of the spread-eagled rock paintings, thus allowing us to posit questions regarding their symbolic associations and their shared functions. While clay reliefs and other clay figures are still deployed today in the region for initiation ceremonies, only a few people remember that rock paintings were used for Chinamwali. One of those memory-keepers is a senior namkungwi highly respected by the people in her village. On several trips since 2003, I have had the opportunity to record her last memories of the paintings at Mwana wa Chentcherere II, a

82

L. F. Zubieta

well-­known site within the Chongoni Rock Art Area World Heritage Site in central Malawi. During my research at the site, we discussed not only the paintings, but also many aspects of contemporary ceremonies. She became my teacher during my personal journey and participation in this sacred female rite of passage, and it is thanks to her that my understanding of the rock art of Chinamwali was shaped and expanded. Although she never used the paintings for the ceremony herself, the namkungwi shared with me her childhood memories of when her grandmother told her that the paintings were used in the context of Chinamwali. Her recollections, however, were fragmented because Cheŵa women no longer use this rock shelter, or the paintings, as an instruction ground. During my semi-structured interviews with the senior namkungwi and her daughter (also a namkungwi) at the site, the former was able to comment on (1) some star-like motifs and concentric semi-circles found in the 50–60 paintings we viewed; these were said to be representations of the moon and the stars, as well as statements on the times that women were taken to the site. They also noted (2) a series of white dots said to be related to Chingondo, the last phase of the ceremony, which I will discuss later on. She also remembered in more detail three further themes portrayed by three SEDs: (3) a dance (gule) that takes place inside the initiation hut (tsimba), (4) a washing ritual within Chinamwali when the initiate is taken to the river, and (5) the representation of a baboon carrying its offspring, indicating the care for children, (Zubieta, 2006, pp. 95–99), which I will also come back to (Fig. 3). The pertinent question here is how can a similar design, such as the SED, convey so many different things? Perhaps there is no single answer to this question. As outsiders, we are the ones who see them as different, while all those apparent variations might have been constructed from one fundamental form passed on in the imaginary of the Cheŵa, and whose origin we might never be able to comprehend. Nonetheless, through the recollection of the senior namkungwi we recognise that this seemingly simple iconographic tradition manages to both represent and conceal complex secret teachings that are only revealed to the women undergoing Chinamwali, and thus initiated into a restricted-knowledge circle. The teachings revolve around culturally proper behaviour according to the mwambo, particularly pertaining sexual teachings and taboos; throughout the literature we appreciate that fluids such as menstrual blood and semen are regarded as highly important for the fertility and continuity of the Cheŵa community (Van Breugel, 1976; Winterbottom & Lancaster, 1965; Yoshida, 1992; Zubieta, 2006). There is not enough space here to explore adequately the Cheŵa myths, proverbs and folktales; however, through my analysis of Cheŵa’s worldview, I have acknowledged the presence and significance of animals in the Cheŵa cosmology. I have suggested that some animals represented in the paintings acted as metaphors for human behaviour and the human body to convey instruction to initiates during Chinamwali, with some taking a particular sexual connotation (Zubieta, 2006, 2012). My analysis of the Cheŵa representations of the body draws largely on the work of a number of anthropologists who have provided us with detailed knowledge about the Cheŵa perceptions of the animal world (Morris, 2000; Schoffeleers & Roscoe, 1985; Yoshida, 1992). Furthermore, the narratives of my teacher, the senior

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

83

Fig. 3  Below, Mwana wa Chentcherere II, central Malawi. Above, redrawing of images discussed in the text. (Photo and redrawing: Leslie F. Zubieta)

namkungwi, became the pillar not just to explore the figures on the panel at Mwana wa Chentcherere II site, but also to think about the issues conveyed across the region through this rock art tradition (Fig. 4).

Rock Art and Media: Webs of Knowledge Fascinated by this understanding of the ways in which memory and rock art intersected in the context of Chinamwali, in my doctoral research (2005–2009) I wanted to reflect on the nature of rock art as a mnemonic device and the implications of this statement. Having spent some time with Cheŵa women in Malawi, and having briefly looked into the contemporary use of objects in 2003, I realised the necessity of weaving into my argument a better understanding of such modern media deployed during female initiations where the role of women was central to their production and use. The topic prompted a heated discussion among my colleagues, with some

84

L. F. Zubieta

Fig. 4 Senior namkungwi and relatives looking at Chentcherere hill on the horizon from her village. (Photo: Leslie F. Zubieta)

even questioning the need to study objects in order to explain this rock art tradition of south-central Africa. During our formative years we are inescapably educated within the conventions of the Western world and are, thus, trained to separate the things that we study (e.g., lithics, shells, ochre, ceramics, rock paintings). We rarely reflect on their entanglements, mainly because we do not have enough evidence to comprehend their cultural and temporal articulations, though also because we are so specialised in our own fields that we get to see only a fragment of the particular worldview that we are so eager to comprehend. Such a limitation exists also when we establish associations between two-dimensional images and three-dimensional objects. Through my conversations with the senior namkungwi at Mwana wa Chentcherere II, I realised the complexities inherent in deciphering the multiple layers of meaning of individual images and objects. I decided thus to focus on the contemporary production and use of objects during Chinamwali to explore their role in the intergenerational memorisation and transmission of cultural knowledge, as well as the actions underlying this process and the people involved in those actions—which I have discussed in detail elsewhere (Zubieta, 2016). While reviewing the literature I encountered a few succinct descriptions of clay reliefs used in the context of Chinamwali in Eastern Zambia. Ornithologist John Miall Winterbottom and anthropologist D.  Gordon Lancaster described that during Chinamwali women danced

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

85

around images drawn on the floor in low-relief that represented a crocodile and a snake, referring to folktales in which a disobedient girl marries such animals (Winterbottom & Lancaster, 1965, p. 348). Yoshida (1992) recorded that the tutors of the girls sang a song and performed a dance specific to each clay relief that initiates had to imitate. Moreover, I later realised that his only photo of those objects reveals a woman kneeling, eyes downcast and both hands close to the ground, next to the representation of the python—she was showing Yoshida how these were used in the context of initiation! Those objects were covered with black, red and white dots, and the body of the young girl was also decorated with dots at the end of the ceremony—both the objects and the girl’s body were said to imitate the body of the python in connection to rain ceremonies and fertility (Yoshida, 1992, p.  249). Throughout the scant literature on this topic there is a constant assertion that all objects were made with unfired clay and destroyed at the end of the ceremony and the residues thrown in a secret place. But how can we understand the iconographic associations between different media? I will now attempt to explain. During my doctoral fieldwork I was fortunate enough to observe and to record the production, use and disposal of clay reliefs (vilengo) in three villages in eastern Zambia, made on my request and with permission. Those objects, different in shape and size (i.e. elephant, spiral, lion, snake, and others), were all covered with red, black and white dots (Zubieta, 2016). Moreover, I had the opportunity to ask senior women, all namkungwi, responsible for making those objects, how they were revealed to the initiates, and the mechanisms behind the instruction and destruction. I realised not only that knowledge is conveyed through dances and songs in which secret terms and language are entwined, but also that the production and disposal of those vilengo are likewise accompanied by songs and dances (Fig. 5). Clay reliefs have not been recorded in Malawi, but we know of clay headdresses modelled on the top of the initiate’s head called chingondo/timbwidza. The latter, whose production I also recorded closely in central Malawi, take the shape of antelopes, elephants, and other wild animals closely associated with the nyau masks,1 and are covered with red, black and white spots. Girls display these figurines in public while dancing along with their tutors, and sometimes with the Chief, in the main plaza of the village (Fig. 6). We shall recall here that the senior namkungwi also identified the white dots in the panel at Mwana wa Chentcherere II as chingondo. The term ‘chingondo’ adequately shows the emic understanding of iconographic and symbolic parallels across media. The same word is used to refer to the headdress, the spots painted on the bodies of the girls, to the white dots at a rock art site, and to the last phase of the ceremony. I argue that in the minds of the Cheŵa people there is no real distinction between an object/image, a person and the actions that take place in the final part of Chinamwali. As outsiders it is extremely hard to elucidate the underlying logic between objects’ and rock paintings’ entanglements. The interchangeable use of the  Nyau is a highly important association of men sometimes joined by senior female namkungwi or female chiefs. Masks portray ancestors and wild animals, and nyau masks perform dances at funerals and Chinamwali (Birch de Aguilar, 1996; Boucher, 2012; Yoshida, 1992). 1

86

L. F. Zubieta

Fig. 5  Women singing while disposing of mnemonic device, eastern Zambia. (Photo: Leslie F. Zubieta)

Fig. 6  Anamwali public dancing with their aphungu and wearing chingondo. (Photo: Leslie F. Zubieta)

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

87

chingondo word, however, inevitably shows not only that the conceptualization of those “objects” is more complex in the minds of the women creators, but also that some images, and their multiple symbolic layers, are interconnected in the Cheŵa’s knowledge system across media. This made me realise that the descriptive categories I had been using to structure my analysis were inadequate and that, in light of my findings, it was appropriate to propose that rock paintings could have served in the recent past as a memorisation technique as much as chingondo and vilengo are still in use today. The late choreographer and musician Mapopa Mtonga, whom I met in 2007 in Zambia, shared with me an additional, potent insight: according to him, the word vilengo denotes something that is created and which has a “soul” energy and life—thus broadening our understanding of the profound meaning behind these apparently lifeless “objects” used during the memorisation of cultural knowledge. In other words, the term vilengo (plural of chilengo) sheds light into the ontological nature of these mnemonic devices as things with animacy and power. Destroying those ephemeral material forms offers an opportunity to remember, through their repeated production, the teachings of the mwambo (see Küchler, 1988 for similar memory production through the destruction of Malangan art of Papa New Guinea). In order to compare my findings on the Cheŵa with other matrilineal groups, I turned to the neighbouring Bemba, Yao and Nsenga who share linguistic and cultural affinities with the Cheŵa, and also deploy similar objects and wall paintings for their own initiation ceremonies. In her pivotal study on initiation rituals, anthropologist Jean  Sybil La Fontaine (1986) found a similarity in instruction through songs, dances and mimes—combined with the showing of sacred objects among matrilineal groups—in Zambia, Malawi, Congo and Tanzania, the “matrilineal belt of Africa”, thus providing a wider geography to explore such memorisation techniques. I also delved into anthropologist Audrey Richards’s (1956) comprehensive study of clay figurines and wall paintings, again both under an overarching term: mbusa, used in the context of the Chisungu girls’ rite of passage of the Bemba. Richards’ detailed work showed that figurines and wall-paintings worked as mnemonic devices associated with specific teachings, and each was accompanied by a particular song. For these reasons, I visited the Moto Moto Museum in Mbala in northern Zambia and had the opportunity to ask the Bemba instructress, the nacimbusa, about their ceremonies and objects in the same terms I did with the Cheŵa. Through my own engagement in both Cheŵa and Bemba female initiations, I was in a better position to comprehend the descriptions of those devices available in the ethnographic literature. My participant observation allowed me to embody both the creation process and the use of such material culture, and to memorise certain songs myself. I was highly motivated by the Bemba’s use of songs during the production of wall paintings—particularly due to their similarity to rock paintings (i.e. two-dimensional)—as they suggested to me that perhaps rock paintings were not created in silence. Singing and dancing are two of the most important mechanisms today of a successful creation process, as well as passing on important instructions to the initiates among both the Cheŵa and the Bemba. It is possible that women in the past also had special songs they sang while creating and using their rock

88

L. F. Zubieta

paintings to memorise the instructions that, as teachers, they had to remember in order to pass them on to the initiates. During my interviews with seventy-one women (12 in Bemba initiations) in seven districts across central Malawi, central western Mozambique and eastern Zambia (Zubieta, 2009, p. 128), fewer than five women remembered being told that songs were sung to the images painted in the rock shelters and, unfortunately, the exact songs that correspond with each painted image are no longer retained. However, from Cheŵa and Bemba instructresses, I learned about the various symbolic layers of meaning in which the same symbol can be used as a reminder of a secret teaching, though in such a way (sometimes highly convoluted) that it will not expose the lesson and knowledge outright. Since Bemba women still use a combination of three-dimensional and two-dimensional devices, I was able to further enquire about the symbolic associations across media. These women showed me that some of the things represented in the wall-paintings had a counterpart as objects, while also sharing the same meaning (Fig.  7). The difference, as the nacimbusa explained, resided in the way those objects and wall-paintings were manipulated. Moreover, the memorisation process does not conclude after a woman attends her first rite of passage during her first menstruation; both Cheŵa and Bemba women attend another phase of initiation at pregnancy. Senior Bemba female elders mentioned using the same set of images and objects on both occasions, the only difference being the addition of more meanings and instructions to the basic knowledge contained in the first stage.

Fig. 7  Bemba three-dimensional and two-dimensional devices sharing symbolic meaning. (Photo: Leslie F. Zubieta)

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

89

It is important to note that extra layers of meaning are also attached to the red, black and white colours that cover the mnemonic devices, thus serving more than a decorative purpose. A senior namkungwi in eastern Zambia revealed to me that the secret teachings were embedded in the dots and needed to be kept in secrecy. The secret knowledge exposed during the initiation is recalled and repeated again and again through the embodied participation of women in the ceremonies of their peers. Therefore, women learn the deeper associations of the symbols deployed by collaborating in subsequent female ceremonies, which remind them, at the same time, of their own personal experiences. In this sense, following philosopher and sociologist Maurice Halbwachs’ (Halbwachs, 1950/1980) pioneering work on the decisive role of society in collective memory, each individual woman who participates in Chinamwali memorises and recalls the secret knowledge and thus co-­ creates a collective memory that binds people together not only during the ceremony but also as a part of everyday life. Based on ethnographic accounts and Indigenous knowledge, it is possible to suggest that images in the painted repertoire were cognitive cuing structures (Bellezza, 1981, p. 252) and relational markers (Severi, 2012, p. 462) associated not only with certain animals and their corresponding behaviours, but also with actions that occurred during the ceremony whose remembrance was activated by memorising secret songs—using repetitive key words and rhythms—in combination with dances and performances. Metaphors deeply rooted in animal and human behaviour were the mental operations that Cheŵa used to remember central themes through a limited repertoire of images. The analysis of this use of iconography among the Cheŵa and other matrilineal societies such as the Bemba today, shows that there are no particular or strict sequences in which lessons are conveyed; however, this is not to say that knowledge is not organised. Rather, I posit, based on my participation in those ceremonies, that the namkungwi and tutors decide the order in which lessons will be conveyed, thus showing some of the flexibility of ritual life. Moreover, as others have noted (Van Breugel, 1976; Winterbottom & Lancaster, 1965; Yoshida, 1992), special attention is paid to individual girls in need of corrective behaviour, thus influencing the need for specific lessons. Within the context of female initiation among the Cheŵa, several levels of relationships are created between iconic representations in four visual media of representation (rock, clay, masks, and female bodies) and orality (words, songs, riddles). This graphic system is further enclosed in a web of related people, emotions and feelings between the initiates, tutors, and teachers, as well as those playing their role as non-initiates, who are still aware of the importance of this knowledge to the perpetuation of their collective identity and well-being due to its connection to the mwambo societal rules of behaviour. If the community does not follow the mwambo the Cheŵa believe that they will die of sickness (mdulo) and will not have the necessary fertility for their society to survive (Van Breugel, 1976). As previously mentioned, the rock art of Chinamwali is no longer produced in contemporary initiations. I argue that Cheŵa women adapted their memorisation techniques according to their historical circumstances, a fact which is most evident to us in records from the nineteenth century. In addition to the slave trade occurring

90

L. F. Zubieta

on the east coast, the Ngoni and the Yao raided Cheŵa land almost simultaneously with when Christian teachings started to be introduced by early missionaries from the 1870s in central Malawi (Hodgson, 1933; Phiri, 1983). As a result, Cheŵa society experienced a dramatic transformation on many levels; women could no longer conduct their rituals at the rock shelters within their sacred woodlands (Zubieta, 2014), but instead placed more emphasis on objects and spaces closer to their villages, as well as on the continued use of songs. This makes us realise that memorisation techniques are not static, but rather reconditioned over time depending on their social and political settings. However, in the context of initiation among the Cheŵa, I contend that even though social concerns have changed and songs have been modified through time, some of the most essential teachings, especially those anchored to the female body, have remained constant as these are embedded in the mwambo, the moral codes and social rules that allow for the buttressing of Cheŵa identity.

Memory, Touch and Sounds In the context of Chinamwali, visual (two-dimensional) and tangible (three-­ dimensional) mnemonic devices have specific characteristics pertaining to their own materiality; both media potentially evoke smell, taste, touch, sound and sight (Zubieta, 2016). Cheŵa women today have certain restrictions as to who can make and touch these powerful devices, as well as rules regarding how they are destroyed. Based on the media correspondence that I have discussed throughout this paper, it is possible to suggest that only specialised women were allowed to touch the panels to paint or repaint similar images that had been placed there by their ancestors beforehand. A woman capable of creating sacred objects is seen today as someone holding special knowledge, and for that she gains special recognition among her peers participating in the initiation. I observed that the teacher created the objects using her own skills and creativity when deciding the best materials and quality of mixtures, though in making them she followed the principles that women have learnt through generations. In this sense, psychologist Francis S. Bellezza notes that mnemonic devices are complicated procedures that require individuals not only to practice them, but also to be taught how to use them effectively (Bellezza, 1981, p. 248). Thus, memory resides, in this case, not intrinsically in rock paintings or other devices; instead, these media are part of a complex memorisation process for both teachers and learners, entailing continuity and the practise of people coming together. In addition, assuming that objects and other visual devices such as rock art were often associated with words and sounds (including voice, rhythm and vibration) that depended on context and purpose, it becomes clear that these could have evoked auditory perceptions, too. The role of sound in the construction of memory has been suggested briefly in rock art research by archaeologist Paul Rainbird. He posits that the noise made during the creation of engravings (i.e. cups and rings) could have acted as “mnemonic soundmarks for periodic events” (Rainbird, 2002, p. 100) at

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

91

locales where people might have hammered the rocks collectively, thus reinforcing community ties. In the rock art of Chinamwali, perhaps the songs made during the creation of the paintings acted as those soundmarks. We shall also take note that the more vivid the experience is when using mnemonic devices, including the general emotional impact and the feelings of all participants, the more effectively the instructions are conveyed and recalled (Rogers, 1983). For example, the noises and screams around the tsimba produced by the participation of the nyau masks and spirits create such a tense atmosphere that the girls recall this moment as an important memory of the initiation that “will remain with them for the rest of their lives” (Van Breugel, 1976, p. 251). It is possible that not only the production of sound, music and dance, but also the acoustic properties of certain spaces selected to create rock paintings and engravings could also have had an emotional impact on the memorisation of cultural knowledge. Some landscapes identified as focal locales for past San rituals and painting activities connected to the spirit world, such as Didima Gorge in South Africa, have been named after echoes produced by thunder crashing into the sandstone cliffs of the gorge. Ndedema, a word in Isizulu language meaning “reverberation and upheaval”, derives from the /Xam word  !gum “to roar”; thus, for archaeologist Aron Mazel it is likely that the Didima Gorge became “an acoustic powerhouse strongly resonant with spirits for the uKhahlamba-Drakensberg hunter-­ gatherers” (Mazel, 2011, p. 293). Prolific research has suggested that most elements of San rock art—in the words of linguist Wilhem Bleek “a truly artistic conception of the ideas which most deeply moved the Bushman mind, and filled it with religious feeling” (Bleek, 1874, p. 13)—are associated with the shaman’s (!gi:xa – /Xam language; N/om k”au – Ju/‘hoan language) experiences during the sacred “trance” healing dance (Lewis-­ Williams, 1981). After returning to the world of the living, the ritual specialist conveyed on the rocks, either by painting or engraving, what they experienced during their journey to the spirit realm (Lewis-Williams, 2004, p.  149). It is in this sense that those images could be explored as cues to remember what the shamans saw, felt and learned. Moreover, those depictions helped other shamans learn how they would feel during the trance experience. Rock art specialist David Lewis-­ Williams suggests that there was “probably a recursivity between rock art images and [trance] visions: visions were painted on the rock walls, and then these paintings prompted people to see similar visions” (2004, p. 158). One cannot help but wonder, nonetheless, how these narratives were passed on beyond the visual. Perhaps some of these accounts were transmitted through sound, storytelling, or songs. Archaeologist Sven Ouzman recorded gong rocks co-­ occurring with engravings at a few sites in central southern Africa and suggested that hammering marks were a “visual residue of aurality”, whose repetitive percussions and metallic sound probably contributed to inducing an altered state of reality (Ouzman, 2001, p. 241). Ethnographic accounts provide compelling evidence that clapping, the movements of dance, the percussive sound of feet, and musical instruments (e.g., the musical bow) were a fundamental part of many societal and ceremonial occasions amongst the San (Guenther, 1999, pp. 138–139), the most well-known

92

L. F. Zubieta

example of this being the healing dance where medicine songs themselves are carriers of powerful potency: n/um (Marshall, 1969, p. 350). Sound and music are cultural components whose evidence is ephemeral in the archaeological record most of the time. To this end, archaeoacoustic studies have developed new methods in the last decade to explore the role of sound in past societies. The attention paid to echoes, reverberations, resonance, and monaural (i.e. strength, speech clarity) and binaural properties (i.e. envelopment, apparent source width), among others, suggests that the production of rock paintings and engravings also followed the aural traits of certain places in the landscape. Research conducted, for example, in Cañón de Santa Teresa in Baja California Sur, Mexico (Díaz-Andreu et al., 2020), provides preliminary evidence that the authors of the Great Mural rock art tradition selected places with the best sonority. Echo properties studied in Finland have been complemented by compelling ethnographic data which provides further information about the role of sound at rock art sites such as Värikallio and offering sites (sieidi) in north-eastern Finland placed on cliffs. Despite the temporal gap between the rock art and the use of offering sites, Sámi ethnography and iconography suggests that shamans (noiadi) chanted sacred prayers at certain cliffs with a prominent echo. Moreover, the acoustic experiments revealed that those cliffs also reflect soft conversation, footsteps and laughter that would give the impression of sound coming from the rock paintings, producing powerful auditory illusions (Rainio et  al., 2018). I suggest that those echoes perhaps acted not only for the noiadi to connect to entities of the spirit world, but also as a mnemonic reminder of the places where the spirits could be found. In the context of the rock art of Chinwamali, however, something different than acoustics seems to have pushed women to select certain spaces to paint and to employ as instruction grounds. I have argued elsewhere that women in the past selected shelters at some distance from the village, but also with enough vegetation coverage to keep the secrecy of the teachings and the rituals out of reach of the curiosity of outsiders and noninitiates (Zubieta, 2016) (Fig. 8). We know that the sounds of Chinamwali today comprise singing accompanied by clapping and drumming, while dancing also adds the sound of feet stamping on the ground. Other noises include the namkungwi ululating with joy (nthungululu) when the namwali receives praise after she has demonstrated her skills and good performance. A vegetation-­covered secluded site might have also, to a certain degree, filtered some of these sounds coming from within the shelters. According to psychologists Robert Mitchell and Matthew Gallaher (2001), music is an intersensory experience allowing auditory images in memory to relate to kinaesthetic and visual images. In this sense, it is possible to suggest that people involved in watching certain performances like dances or any other actions performed during the production phase and use of rock art images, could have formed a combined set of representations in their mind—whether visual, auditory or kinaesthetic—that they could recall when remembering the various levels of meaning of specific motifs on a panel. The combined use of objects, rock art, dances, body painting and sounds during the transmission of knowledge allowed not only for individual identities to be shaped, but also for the construction of a collective

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

93

Fig. 8  Rock art granite-boulder site within the miombio woodland sacred landscape, Chongoni Mountain, central Malawi. (Photo: Leslie F. Zubieta)

memory through the repetitive conveyance of ancestral teachings on particular occasions.

Discussion Without relevant ethnographic information many complexities regarding the memorisation processes will continue to remain unintelligible to us. Thinking of rock art as a mnemonic device, however, opens up an umbrella of new research possibilities and methodological approaches dealing, for example, with (i) the entanglements between rock art and other material and non-material aspects of culture, (ii) the actions behind the production and uses of rock art, and (iii) the relationships created and reinforced between the people involved in the production and usage of those mnemonic devices. There are a number of challenges that we need to be aware of regarding the breadth of research that we can achieve when trying to elucidate the underlying processes of memorisation techniques. The most telling of these challenges is understanding the notion of memory in the past; this may be nearly impossible, especially in contexts where no ancestral traditions are at hand, either historically, ethnographically or from contemporary Indigenous knowledge. Fully

94

L. F. Zubieta

understanding the associations between various symbolic references and media might become difficult, even though we have first-hand access to Indigenous knowledge. Rigorous and long-lasting fieldwork—through interviews or participant observation—is required to articulate local knowledge and contemporary notions of memory, with ceremonial behaviour and other related cultural aspects of daily life. Moreover, working collaboratively with Indigenous populations requires time. Not only for us as outsiders to comprehend their worldview (in the best of cases), but also to build a robust collaborative relationship that will allow both to access those cultural aspects and to grasp the mechanisms behind the memorisation techniques in a particular setting, as well as to disseminate those respectfully later on. Much of this knowledge might be of a restrictive nature, thus adding another layer of difficulty to the work of investigating fully the intersections between memory and rock art. The questions that we can posit regarding attribute analysis of rock images might also be limited, considering the history of change and continuity in the rock art traditions and their layers of superimposed images. Perhaps it will be difficult to address the meanings behind specific scenes, or behind different artistic and stylistic sequences. However, there is a latent potential to utilise, as I have discussed, what we in the West have defined as myths, proverbs, riddles, story-telling, songs, performances, Indigenous knowledge and personal memories to explore how these images might have intertwined with oral narratives and other media. As we have seen in the scenario of the Chinamwali rock art, investigating the contemporary use of objects might provide us with additional clues to aid in exploring the societal and historic use of mnemonic devices to transmit knowledge, further shaping today’s repertoire of memorisation techniques. This kind of data would connect us with contemporary information about iconography and context that might speak to the social production of rock art in the past. Exploring the various levels of cultural transmission is a task beyond archaeology, thus requiring working alongside other disciplines such as linguistics, anthropology, and psychology, among others. However, as I mentioned at the beginning of this paper, memory studies require those diverse, but complementary, perspectives if we are to continue advancing our understanding of such complex memorisation processes.

Conclusion Rock paintings and engravings are not static depictions placed on a rock’s surface, but rather are profoundly interconnected to things, people, landscape, knowledge, words and sound. Material (and immaterial) knowledge are both implicit and embodied within the process of the memorisation of cultural knowledge. Based on ethnographic sources and the Indigenous knowledge discussed here, it is likely that people in the past used rock art as visual prompts to recall, preserve and teach cultural knowledge, and that these visual cues propelled auditory and kinaesthetic mental images during the memorisation process. Deploying Severi’s analysis, it is

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

95

possible to suggest that the study of rock art as a mnemonic device and as part of wider memorisation techniques will allow us to make comparisons amongst “historically and culturally situated practices of thought” (Severi, 2012, p. 453). Acknowledgements  The ideas conveyed in this text are the product of many years of research, since I first landed in Malawi and South Africa in 2003. After I finished my doctoral research in 2009 at the University of the Witwatersrand, I have been supported by other institutions, (including the support of their funding bodies and cultural settings) where I have undertaken research and heritage management, and whose environments and people have nurtured my ideas about mnemonics (Australia, France, Mexico and Spain). Recently I have been granted a Marie Skłodowska-­ Curie Postdoctoral Fellowship (2018-2020) at the Department d’Història i Arqueologia (Secció de Prehistòria i Arqueologia), Universitat de Barcelona, funded by the European Union’s Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme (Grant No. 750706). This grant has allowed me to further advance work on some previous hypotheses related to the research in this book, though the writing of this work (and the introduction) occurred mostly after the grant’s end and during the COVID-19 pandemic, which has dramatically impacted all of our lives.

References Bellezza, F. S. (1981). Mnemonic devices: Classification, characteristics, and criteria. Review of Educational Research, 51(2), 247–275. https://doi.org/10.3102/00346543051002247 Birch de Aguilar, L. (1996). Inscribing the mask: Interpretation of Nyau masks and ritual performing among the Chewa of Central Malawi (Studia Ins). University Press. Bleek, W.  H. I. (1874). Remarks on JM Orpen’s “A glimpse into the mythology of the Maluti Bushmen”. Cape Monthly Magazine, 9, 10–13. Boucher, C. (2012). When animals sing and spirit dance. Gule wamkulu: The great dance of the Chewa people of Malawi. Kungoni Centre of Culture and Art. Bradley, R. (1997). Rock art and the prehistory of Atlantic Europe: Signing the land. Routledge. Chippindale, C., & Nash, G. (Eds.). (2004). The figured landscapes of rock-art. Looking at pictures in place. Cambridge University Press. Cochrane, A., & Jones, A. M. (2018). Materials, process, image. The art of Neolithic Britain and Ireland. In A. M. Jones & A. Cochrane (Eds.), The archaeology of art. Materials, practices, affects (pp. 137–172). Routledge. Díaz-Andreu, M., de la Gutiérrez Martínez, M.  L., Mattioli, T., Picas, M., Villalobos, C., & Zubieta, L. F. (2020). The soundscapes of Baja California Sur: Preliminary results from the Cañón de Santa Teresa rock art landscape. Quaternary International. https://doi.org/10.1016/j. quaint.2020.02.026 Flood, J. (2004). Linkage between rock-art and landscape in aboriginal Australia. In C. Chippindale & G. Nash (Eds.), The figured landscapes of rock-art. Looking at pictures in place (pp. 182–200). Cambridge University Press. Guenther, M. G. (1999). Tricksters and trancers: Bushman religion and society. Indiana Univ. Press. Halbwachs, M. (1980). The collective memory (1st ed.). Harper & Row. (Original work published in 1950). Helskog, K. (2016). From the tyranny of the figures to the interrelationsihp between myths, rock art and their surfaces. In G. Blundell, C. Chippindale, & B. Smith (Eds.), Seeing and knowing. Understanding rock art with and without ethnography (pp.  169–188). Routledge. (Original work published 2010). Hodgson, A. G. O. (1933). Notes on the Achewa and Angoni of the Dowa District of the Nyasaland Protectorate. The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, 63, 123–164. https://doi.org/10.2307/2843914

96

L. F. Zubieta

Jones, A. M. (2007). Memory and material culture. Cambridge University Press. Küchler, S. (1988). Malangan: Objects, sacrifice and the production of memory. American Ethnologist, 15(4), 625–637. https://doi.org/10.1525/ae.1988.15.4.02a00020 La Fontaine, J. S. (1986). Initiation. Manchester University Press. Layton, R. (1992). Australian rock art: A new synthesis. Cambridge University Press. Levy, J.  E. (2010). Memory, landscape, and body in Bronze Age Denmark. In K.  T. Lillios & V. Tsamis (Eds.), Material mnemonics: Everyday memory in prehistoric Europe (pp. 123–146). Oxbow Books. Lewis-Williams, J.  D. (1981). Beliveing and seeing: Symbolic meanings in southern San rock paintings. Academic. Lewis-Williams, J. D. (2004). The mind in the cave. Thames & Hudson. Lindgren, N. E., & Schoffeleers, J. M. (1985). Rock art and Nyau symbolism in Malawi (Publication No. 18, Malaŵi Government, Ministry of Education and Culture, Department of Anitquities). Montfort Press. (Original work published 1978). Marshall, L. (1969). The medicine dance of the !Kung Bushmen. Africa, 39(4), 347–381. Mazel, A. (2011). Time, color, and sound: Revisiting the rock art of Didima Gorge, South Africa. Time and Mind, 4(3), 283–296. https://doi.org/10.2752/175169711X13046099195474 McDonald, J., & Veth, P. (2011). Information exchange amongst hunter-gatherers of the Western Desert of Australia. In R. Whallon, W. A. Lovis, & R. K. Hitchcock (Eds.), Infromation and its role in hunter-gatherer bands (Ideas, Deb) (pp. 221–234). Cotsen Institute of Archaeology Press. McDonald, J., & Veth, P. (2013). The archaeology of memory: The recursive relationship of Martu rock art and place. Anthropological Forum, 23(4), 367–386. https://doi.org/10.1080/0066467 7.2013.843444 Mills, B. J., & Walker, W. H. (Eds.). (2008). Memory work: Archaeologies of material practices (1st ed.). School for Advanced Research Press. Mitchell, R.  W., & Gallaher, M.  C. (2001). Embodying music: Matching music and dance in memory. Music Perception, 19(1), 65–85. Morris, B. (2000). The power of animals. An ethnography. Berg. Ouzman, S. (2001). Seeing is deceiving: Rock art and the non-visual. World Archaeology, 33, 237–256. Phillipson, D. W. (1976). The prehistory of Eastern Zambia (Memoir Num). British Institute in Eastern Africa. Phiri, K. M. (1983). Some changes in the matrilineal family system among the Chewa of Malawi since the nineteenth century. The Journal of African History, 24(2), 257–274. https://doi. org/10.1017/S0021853700021976 Prins, F. E., & Hall, S. (1994). Expressions of fertility in the rock art of Bantu-speaking agriculturalists. African Archaeological Review, 12, 171–203. Rainbird, P. (2002). The sound of rock-art. In B. David & M. Wilson (Eds.), Inscribed landscapes. Marking and making place (pp. 93–103). University of Hawai’i Press. Rainio, R., Lahelma, A., Äikäs, T., Lassfolk, K., & Okkonen, J. (2018). Acoustic measurements and digital image processing suggest a link between sound rituals and sacred sites in northern Finland. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 25(2), 453–474. https://doi. org/10.1007/s10816-­017-­9343-­1 Rasing, T. (2001). The bush burnt, the stones remain: Female initiation rites in urban Zambia. African Studies Centre. Richards, A.  I. (1956). Chisungu: A girl’s initiation ceremony in Northern Rhodesia. Faber and Faber. Roberts, M. N., & Roberts, A. F. (Eds.). (1996). Memory: Luba art and the making of history. The Museum for African Art. Rogers, T. B. (1983). Emotion, imagery, and verbal codes: A closer look at an increasingly complex interaction. In J. C. Yuille (Ed.), Imagery, memory and cognition: Essays in honor of Allan Paivio (pp. 285–306). Lawrence Erlbaum Assocaites, Publishers.

The Role of Rock Art as a Mnemonic Device in the Memorisation of Cultural Knowledge

97

Ross, J., & Davidson, I. (2006). Rock art and ritual: An archaeological analysis of rock art in arid Central Australia. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 13(4), 305–341. Schoffeleers, J. M., & Roscoe, A. A. (1985). Land of fire: Oral literature from Malawi. Popular Publications. Severi, C. (1997). The Kuna picture-writing. A study in iconography and memory. In M. L. Salvador (Ed.), The art of being Kuna. Layers of meaning among the Kuna of Panama: Catalogue de l’Exposition (pp. 245–273). Fowler Museum of the University of California at Los Angeles. Severi, C. (2012). The arts of memory: Comparative perspectives on a mental artifact. HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory, 2(2), 451–485. https://doi.org/10.14318/hau2.2.025 Severi, C. (2015). The chimera principle an anthropology of memory and imagination (J. Lloyd, Trans.). HAU Books. Smith, B. W. (1995). Rock art in South-Central Africa: A study based on the pictographs of Dedza District, Malawi and Kasama District, Zambia. University of Cambridge. Tilley, C. Y. (1994). A phenomenology of landscape: Places, paths, and monuments. Berg. Van Breugel, J. W. M. (1976). Traditional Chewa religious beliefs and practices. A study in the explanation of evil and suffering, and ways of dealing with them (Unpublished doctoral thesis). University of London. Van Dyke, R.  M., & Alcock, S.  E. (Eds.). (2003). Archaeologies of memory. Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Weiner, F. J., & Niles, D. (2015). Songs of the empty place: The memorial poetry of the Foi of the Southern Highlands Province of Papua New Guinea. Australian National University Press. https://doi.org/10.26530/oapen_574051 Werner, A. (1906). The natives of British Central Africa. Archibald Constable and Company. Winterbottom, J. M., & Lancaster, D. G. (1965). The Chewa female initiation ceremony. Northern Rhodesia Journal, 6(1), 347–350. Wobst, H. M. (1977). Stylistic behaviour and information exchange. In C. E. Cleland (Ed.), For the director: Research essays in honour of James B.  Griffen (Anthropological Papers 61) (pp. 317–342). Museum of Anthropology, University of Michigan. Wrigglesworth, M. (2006). Explorations in social memory – Rock art, landscape and the reuse of place. In R. Barndon, S. Innselset, K. K. Kristoffersen, & T. Lødøen (Eds.), UBAS Nordisk 3. Samfunn, symboler og identitet. Festskrift til Gro Mandt på 70-årsdagen (pp.  147–162). Universitetet i Bergen. Yoshida, K. (1992). Masks and transformation among the Chewa of eastern Zambia. In Senri ethnological studies (Vol. 31). National Museum of Ethnology. Zubieta, L. F. (2006). The rock art of Mwana wa Chentcherere II rock shelter, Malaŵi (Research report 83/2006). African Studies Centre. Zubieta, L. F. (2009). The Rock Art of Chinamwali: Material culture and girl’s initiation in SouthCentral Africa. Unpublished doctoral thesis. University of the Witwatersrand. Zubieta, L. F. (2012). Animals and humans: Metaphors of representation in south-central African rock art. In B. W. Smith, K. Helskog, & D. Morris (Eds.), Working with rock art: Recording, presenting and understanding rock art using indigenous knowledge (pp.  169–178). Wits University Press. Zubieta, L.  F. (2014). The rock art of Chinamwali and its sacred landscape. In D.  L. Gillete, M. Greer, M. Helene Hayward, & W. B. Murray (Eds.), Rock art and sacred landscapes (One World) (pp. 49–66). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-­1-­4614-­8406-­6_4 Zubieta, L. F. (2016). Learning through practise: Cheŵa women’s roles and the use of rock art in passing on cultural knowledge. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, 43, 13–28. https://doi. org/10.1016/j.jaa.2016.05.002

98

L. F. Zubieta

Leslie F. Zubieta is an ethnoarchaeologist investigating the intersections between rock art, material culture, gender and memorisation processes. She has been a Marie Skłodowska-Curie Postdoctoral Fellow (2018−2020), Department d’Història i Arqueologia (Secció de Prehistòria i Arqueologia), Universitat de Barcelona. She is an Honorary Research Fellow at the Centre for Rock Art Research + Management at The University of Western Australia and the Rock Art Research Institute, School of Geography, Archaeology and Environmental Studies, University of the Witwatersrand. She has worked alongside the Cheŵa to study how women used rock art in the intergenerational transmission of cultural knowledge in southcentral Africa (Journal of Anthropological Archaeology). Leslie has focused on the functionality and symbolic connections of rock art and other media in rituals. She has participated in and led various research and cultural management projects in Australia, Malawi, Mexico, Mozambique, South Africa and Zambia, collaborating and learning closely with the Indigenous people of those countries while developing strategies to protect their cultural heritage. Her current collaborative research with the Ayuuk ja’ay of Oaxaca in Mexico (HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory) explores rock art and plastic art concerning the transmission of knowledge, memory and identity.  

Part II

Memory and Materials: Scratches, Digital Technology and Canons

We have never thought of our rock-paintings as ‘Art’. To us they are IMAGES. IMAGES with ENERGIES that keep us ALIVE — EVERY PERSON, EVERYTHING WE STAND ON, ARE MADE FROM, EAT AND LIVE ON. Those IMAGES were put down for us by our Creator, Wandjina, so that we would know how to STAY ALIVE, make everything grow and CONTINUE what he gave to us in the first place. We should dance those images back into the ground in corroborees. That would make us learn the story, to put new life into those IMAGES. The message we read in our rock-paintings is like a bible written all over our country. In those images we read HOW THE CREATOR MADE NATURE FOR US and how he put us in charge TO LOOK AFTER IT ON HIS BEHALF. Banggal (David) Mowaljarlai (deceased) in Mowaljarlai et al. (1988, p. 691)

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission and the Prevalence of Collective Memory Joana Valdez-Tullett

Of Memory and Cultural Transmission Modern memory is, above all, archival. It relies entirely on the materiality of the trace, the immediacy of the recording, the visibility of the image. (Nora, 1989, p. 13)

Memory is fundamental to our human essence, and it is central to almost everything we do—even when unaware of our daily engagement with it. As a biological mechanism, memory records our experiences of the environment, storing, encoding and retrieving essential information, providing the basis of our adaptation to the world and complementing our survival skills. It also serves as a work-space in which one carries out many cognitive activities, such as keeping track of a conversation or thinking about a past that no longer exists (Blackburn, 2008; Whitehead, 2009). Aristotle’s essay On Memory and Reminiscence is essential to the discussion of memory from an archaeological point of view. He provided the concept of temporal distance by distinguishing what comes before and after and event, considering that memory is of the past since one does not tend to remember the present (Borić, 2010, p. 6; Whitehead, 2009, p. 23). Interestingly, Aristotle also associated memory with images and perception through the senses as vehicles to acquire knowledge (Whitehead, 2009, p. 23), meeting some of the recent paradigms of phenomenological archaeological theory (e.g., Tilley, 1994) and the role of the senses in understanding the past. These paradigms are critical of some approaches that have overlooked the contribution of sensorial experiences and sensorial memory to archaeological interpretations (Hamilakis, 2010, 2014). From the different types of memory often mentioned in the literature (e.g., individual memory, collective memory, cultural memory, communicative memory), J. Valdez-Tullett (*) Centro de Estudos em Arqueologia, Artes e Ciências do Património, Coimbra, Portugal e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_5

101

102

J. Valdez-Tullett

‘collective memory’ is the most useful for social and historical sciences (Hamilakis, 2010, p. 189). The latter can be defined as the collectiveness created between groups of individuals by sharing features and behaviours that are remembered and passed on through generations, therefore creating a sense of identity (Whitehead, 2009, pp. 129–130). Historical and ethnographic sources demonstrate the importance of oral history in this process, in which collective knowledge of societies without writing systems, crucial for the maintenance of their identity, is contained in the form of ‘epic cycles, religious lore, rhymes and genealogy’ (e.g., Irish bards). Many of these stories can also be traced in literature sources still relevant today, such as the Old Testament, Beowulf or Indian Vedic texts (Sommer, 2017, p. 34). The effectiveness of cultural transmission through oral history can sometimes be accompanied by additional mechanisms such as gestures, chants, prayers, and slow marches, which have the potential to facilitate and enhance memory (Meskell, 2003, pp. 46–47). Bergson’s concept of habit memory has affinities to phenomenology and is fundamental in the translation of the relationship between perception/body and memory/mind. It privileges action and the idea that we observe the latter from a recollection of that perception. Memory is, therefore, not stored in our brains but the product of verbal repetitions, such as the learning of poems through chanting (Bergson, 1896/1990). Taking Bergson’s proposal further, Connerton argues for the importance of the human body as a site for collective memory processes (1989). For this author, in addition to verbal repetitions, the body has an important role in the accumulation of memory through forms of repetitive behaviour. The past would then be relied on or reenacted but simultaneously transmitted as collective memory (Connerton, 1989). This idea of the body as a means to construct memory was also approached by Nora (1989), who also considered “gestures and habits, unspoken craft traditions, intimate physical knowledge, ingrained reminiscences and spontaneous reflexes” (Whitehead, 2009, p. 149). Memory is therefore embodied by communities and an active entity in constant evolution, being susceptible to be forgotten, manipulated and appropriated (Nora, 1989, p. 8). Nora’s concept of Lieux de Mémoire is particularly interesting, since it comprises any material or immaterial entity, with a symbolic or functional sense, that has become part of a community’s memorial heritage (Nora, 1989; Whitehead, 2009). The association of memory and space provides social groups with a sense of permanence and immutability, allowing them to embody their surrounding physical backgrounds. Whilst Connerton’s emphasis on the body is highly relevant to archaeology, particularly in prioritising the senses (Hamilakis, 2010, 2014), Nora’s approach to collective memory is more comprehensive. It includes material, immaterial and geographic aspects of memory, pertinent for discussions of social memory and its construction on the landscape. (Gosden & Lock, 1998, pp.  3–4). Archaeologists are in a privileged position to discuss memory, engaging in frameworks that comprise the exploration of ‘embodied, sensuous and sensory experience, materiality and collective-social rituals and interactions’, to which material culture is essential (Hamilakis, 2010, p. 189). This paper reflects on the notions mentioned above and how prehistory, and particularly rock art, can inform us about cultural transmission and remembrance. It will be mostly illustrated with examples of a carving tradition commonly known as

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

103

Atlantic Rock Art (ARA henceforth) widely distributed across Western Europe. Other examples will also be examined to stress specific points. Rock art is then conceived here as an active element of cultural transmission, bringing together people, gestures, materiality and landscape, which in turn give place to well established long-lasting traditions.

Prehistory, Atlantic Rock Art, and Collective Memories Prehistory and the Prevalence of Memory Archaeology has an advantageous insight into Humanity, this being, of course, the main focus of the discipline. In most cases, archaeologists delve into the study of materialities to approach the past, collected through different research methods and techniques—excavation being the most recognised. As the discipline evolved, other avenues of inquiry were developed beyond the classic approaches to artefacts. Particularly since the advent of post-processualism, archaeologists brought into the field the knowledge and experience from other areas such as anthropology and ethnography, which have contributed with deep insights into people’s minds and intentions. In this sense, the study of modern non-western societies has been pivotal to open new lines of investigation regarding certain aspects of our past. Nevertheless, we should also bear in mind that direct analogies are unhelpful to archaeological interpretations (e.g., Binford, 1967; Wylie, 1985). Within the wide variety of frameworks and concepts with which archaeology engages, memory is indeed an interesting one, and has been the focus of extensive research applied to the landscape, rock art, funerary practices and monuments, artefacts and identity (e.g. Barrett, 1999; Bradley 1997, 2002; Joyce, 2000; Lillios, 1999; Van Dyke, 2008). Despite the various methods deployed in these approaches, they all recognise the importance of materiality in assigning meaning to the past (Van Dyke, 2008, p. 280). Prehistoric memory seems to have stretched through time and occasionally can be detected in later periods, including our own. While many archaeological sites are discovered anew, others are introduced to archaeologists by local individuals who have engaged with prehistoric sites their whole lives. These places act as landmarks and have an important role in people’s perception of their surroundings. Although sometimes local communities may have a limited historical and chronological understanding of the archaeological significance of a site, particularly prehistoric ones, they are nevertheless entangled in their worldviews. Often these locations are part of the local collective memory, passed on by elderly family members or the wider community in the form of legends and myths or simple curiosities, nurturing affections and attachments. Undoubtedly, many prehistoric funerary monuments, rock art sites and even settlements, such as the Iberian Iron Age hillforts, would impress and astound many who came after their creation, leading to processes of

104

J. Valdez-Tullett

re-use, re-interpretation or appropriation (e.g., Van Dyke, 2008). Such is, for example, the case of the Neolithic chambered long barrow, a type of megalithic burial common to Britain and Ireland, which would typically comprise a mound containing a passage and associated chambers, mentioned in the epic poem Beowulf (c. tenth/eleventh century AD). This barrow is described in this poem as a dragon’s home, despite the author’s understanding of the funerary function of those mounds in the past (Semple, 1998, p. 110). Similarly, a prehistoric barrow–another type of funerary monument—was mentioned in The Wife’s Lament poem (part of the early English poetic Exeter book, c. 900–1000 AD) as a place where a woman lived as an outcast whilst mourning her loss and isolation (Semple, 1998, p. 112). It has been argued that long continuities can be identified in oral traditions that have prevailed through time, until the present day, in the form of folktales (Tehrani, 2013). While this idea may be debatable, it is interesting to note that rock art is very often associated with legends of mythical entities such as the Moorish princesses in Iberia, or fairies and giants in Britain and Ireland, perhaps a reminiscence of very old traditions, as I discuss later on. These legends may well be a mechanism developed at the hands of, for example, Christianity, who often tried to overwrite and erase prehistoric beliefs through the defacing of sites. In many places, churches were built on or next to prehistoric barrows, on the crown of hillforts, or religious crosses and other symbols were carved alongside and over rock art motifs. This effort, however, was not always enough to erase old traditions and places from people’s collective memories. In addition to references in epic documents and oral traditions, the find of artefacts in ‘wrong’ chronological contexts, such as Roman coins in prehistoric burial sites (e.g., Uffington Castle, Oxfordshire, England) or Viking runes carved in prehistoric tombs (e.g., Maeshowe, Orkney, Scotland), suggests a cross-temporal importance of such monuments. The re-use of these sites would probably entail a sense of re-interpretation, also known to other artefacts and described as ‘curation of memorabilia’ regarding the transformation of Neolithic jet and amber necklaces into heirlooms or relics during the British Bronze Age (Frieman, 2012; Sheridan et al., 2002; Sommer, 2017, p. 40; Woodward, 2002). These examples demonstrate the complexity of behaviours and relationships that people create with things of the past. Rock art sites are attached to the landscape but also suffer from transformations like those described above. The remaining sections of this article discuss the concepts of re-interpretation and appropriation through gesture, meaning and landscape, illustrated with examples of ARA and other rock art traditions of Western Europe, Scandinavia and North America.

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

105

Atlantic Rock Art – A Brief Overview Atlantic Rock Art is an overarching expression used to describe a prehistoric carving tradition widespread across modern countries in western Europe, including Scotland, England, Ireland, Portugal and Spain (e.g., Valdez-Tullett, 2019). The iconography is mostly abstract and geometric. The cup-and-ring (composed of a cupmark—a central circular hollow—surrounded by a single or various concentric circles) is its most iconic motif. Other designs comprise spirals, penannulars, rosettes, keyholes and variations of circular shapes. Animals and weapons are also included in the Iberian strand of ARA, to which they are exclusive (Fig. 1). One of the main characteristics of ARA is its connection to the landscape. The majority of motifs were carved on horizontal and often flush with the ground outcrops and boulders in open-air contexts during the 4th millennium BC (Valdez-­ Tullett, 2019). Nevertheless, there are several examples of carved blocks with ARA motifs placed within funerary monuments. This is the case of Cairnholy I (Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland), a Neolithic chambered cairn dated to the 4th millennium BC, inside which a stone with a carving of a cup and six concentric circles was found associated with other artefacts, such as a jadeite axe and pottery (Piggott & Powell, 1949; Valdez-Tullett, 2019; Fig. 2). However, the use of carvings in burial contexts tends to be an Early Bronze Age practice (EBA hereafter), dating to the end of the 3rd/beginning of the 2nd millennium BC. The Clava Cairns in Inverness-shire (Scotland) are a good example of this. Whilst some of these blocks were seemingly carved purposefully to feature in funerary monuments, others were clearly quarried from outcrops and boulders in the landscape and used within the tombs.

Fig. 1  Extract of a wider classification system (see Valdez-Tullett, 2019 for the complete version) illustrating the main categories of motifs used in ARA iconography. Animals, weapons, idols and miscellaneous are exclusive to Portugal and Spain

106

J. Valdez-Tullett

Fig. 2  Cairnholy I (Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland) is a Neolithic chambered tomb excavated in the 1950s. Despite its disturbed context, several phases of occupation were identified. In one of these moments of use, a block carved with one cup and multiple concentric rings was placed in the inner chamber. (Photograph copyright: Joana Valdez-Tullett)

Fundamentally, this change of context and placement implies a transformation in the perception of rock art and how communities related to it, whilst the images were still clearly significant. ARA was equally re-used in much later contexts, with examples showing the incorporation of motifs in domestic settings such as 1st millennium BC Iron Age settlements of Traprain Law (East Lothian, Scotland), Citânia de Briteiros (Guimarães, Portugal), the Tealing Iron Age souterrains (Angus, Scotland) or even inbuilt into Medieval and Post-Medieval dry-stone boundary walls. Often, in these circumstances, the decorated surfaces of the stones faced outward. Although the original meaning of the rock art may be locked in time, its continuous re-use suggests that the motifs were relevant enough to be re-purposed and displayed. ARA was the object of an extensive research project that I developed and that sought to compare its differences and similarities in the various regions where the tradition can be found, across Western Europe (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). For this, I investigated five different study areas: Machars Peninsula in southwest Scotland, Rombalds Moor in northeast England, Iveragh Peninsula in southwest Ireland, Barbanza Peninsula in Galicia (Spain) and Monte Faro in northern Portugal (Fig. 3). I devised an interdisciplinary and multi-scalar methodology, focusing on different components of the rock art. A small and detailed scale of analysis assessed the motifs, their characteristics and designs, groove types and morphology. The use of 3D modelling—Reflectance Transformation Imaging (RTI) and Structure from Motion (SfM) photogrammetry—was crucial in this appraisal. An intermediate

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

107

Fig. 3  The five case studies featuring the Atlantic Rock Art project described in the article

scale of analysis focused on the chosen type of rock media on which the motifs were created (i.e., outcrop, boulder, exceptionally in shelters or overhangs), shapes, textures and other physical characteristics. The arrangements of designs on the rock surfaces, their relationships with the micro-topography of the rock surface and other natural features (e.g., fissures, crevices, irregularities of the surface, solution holes, the rock edges, etc.) were also considered. These geological elements were frequently incorporated into the compositions by being transformed into motifs, enhanced, encircled or connected to the imagery. The study confirmed suggestions

108

J. Valdez-Tullett

by other authors (e.g., Jones et al., 2011) that the incorporation of natural features into rock art arrangements is effectively a central component of ARA and part of its identity (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). Finally, the larger scale of analysis looked at the rock art’s environment. Landscapes are living entities in people’s lives, providing subsistence, orientation, landmarks, and a sense of identity, memory and thought (Knapp & Ashmore, 1999; Russka, 2016; Valdez-Tullett, 2019). The importance of the landscape in rock art research has long been recognised, and the introduction of Landscape Archaeology (e.g., Bradley, 1997) represented a long-term shift in theoretical and methodological approaches. A number of environmental variables were analysed in this third scale of analysis, and explored with a combination of quantitative methods, Geographic Information Systems (GIS), fieldwork, and in situ observations, to assess the relationship between ARA and its natural and cultural contexts. This way, the more static computational outcomes were balanced with a more humane, although subjective, and unpredictable perspective innate to human behaviour (Valdez-Tullett, 2019, 2021). One of the novelties of this project was to portray ARA in light of Assemblage Theory, an emerging theoretical approach in Archaeology (e.g., Fowler, 2017; Hamilakis & Jones, 2016; Harris & Cipolla, 2017; Lucas, 2012). The methodological and theoretical processes, therefore, guided the dynamic and relational character of the research. In practical terms, the motifs, rock type, landscape location, decision-­making, behaviours and other features were studied through an extensive classification scheme composed of hundreds of attributes that characterise ARA, thus enabling inter-regional comparisons between the five aforementioned case studies without imposing artificial geographical restrictions (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). The relationships between these variants were then assessed through a Social Network Analysis (SNA) (for details on SNA, see Brughmans, 2013; Coward, 2013; Knappett, 2011). This formal method of enquiry effectively related and connected all variables, exploring their relationships, and successfully teasing out regional patterns (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). This relational approach confirmed the hypothesis that the ARA assemblage, comprising the iconography, rock media, carving techniques, landscape location and a shared understanding of the ideology behind its creation, was a by-product of a system of cultural transmission. ARA’s wide distribution in Western Europe resulted from a concerted network of contacts established by the Neolithic communities that lived far apart across the Atlantic fringe and a system of intentional teaching. The latter was supported by deploying concepts of developmental psychology, whose application in archaeology have demonstrated that imitation and intentional teaching result in less copy error in cultural transmission processes (Stade, 2017). In particular, the consistency of the shapes and the very fine details in the elaboration of ARA motifs, co-present and repeated across the many regions where the tradition is found, suggests that the similarities are not arbitrary. The differences, however, probably reflect the diverse cultural and social characteristics of the many societies sharing the use of this rock art tradition (Valdez-­ Tullett, 2019).

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

109

Memory and Rock Art The overwhelming presence of rock art in most parts of the world, created in all chronological periods, demonstrates a human desire to engage with the environment by marking natural features. This desire may be motivated by functional reasons in which rock art is created to carry out a specific purpose, such as planning battle strategies in the case of the Comanche (Fowles & Arterberry, 2013) or overlook routeways to deflect enemies or evil (e.g., Layton, 2007). Yet, it may also meet symbolic purposes when designs convey specific ideologies and beliefs, memories, events or messages. Regardless of the underlying reasons, several ethnographic examples of rock art-making communities have enlightened researchers on the many roles this practice can hold and its potential to “foster a sense of community and continuity with ancient places, social memories, ritual practices, and worldviews” (Ruuska, 2016, p. 658). Although rock art’s most notorious component is its iconography, its intimate relationship with place and the landscape has also a significant impact on communities’ collective memory (Nora, 1989). In this context, rock art becomes a central device for the materialisation of memory and a vehicle of cultural transmission. In addition, other elements of the assemblage are equally relevant for the maintenance of memory, including the rock media, carving techniques, the gestures and making processes, as well as intangible features behind its creation. Some of these elements were prone to be copied for their aesthetics because they were part of broader narratives or intrinsically connected to memory and remembrance.

Memory and Learning Through Gestures It has been argued that gestures can enhance memory (Meskell, 2003, pp. 46–47). Based on ethnographic and anthropological evidence, one can speculate about the type of mechanisms that accompanied the creation of prehistoric art, such as chants, prayers, processions, dances, and other performances (e.g., Fowles & Arterberry, 2013; Gell, 1998; Lewis-Williams, 2019; Ruuska, 2016). Nonetheless, due to its nature, rock art research has limited analytical variables. For this reason, a number of studies on prehistoric art have recently emphasised the importance of creation processes, engagement with materials and gestures, providing successful insights into the making of art (e.g., Jones & Díaz-Guardamino, 2019; Thomas, 2016; Valdez-Tullett, 2019). In this respect, novel digital recording methods (mainly RTI and SfM photogrammetry) have provided unprecedented detail into prehistoric art, enabling us to trace gestures, decoration phases and techniques pivotal for a better understanding of the context and the material culture itself (e.g., Jones & Díaz-­ Guardamino, 2019). As described above, gesture was approached in the small scale of analysis in the study of ARA. The methodology deployed and the high-resolution 3D modelling of

110

J. Valdez-Tullett

the motifs, enabled a detailed assessment of the carvings, the relationship between the designs and the rock surfaces, contributing to a better understanding of rock art’s morphological details, execution techniques and carving phases, bringing us closer to their creation performances (Fig. 4). Notwithstanding the important contribution of new technologies, in situ inspections are equally valuable. Particularly engaging with other senses beyond vision may also reveal important details. Indeed, with Fig. 4  The documentation of rock art with digital technologies facilitates detailed observations of the motifs and the carving techniques used to create them. This figure shows a specific motif from a large outcrop decorated with ARA in Kealduff Upper (Co. Kerry, Ireland). It was recorded with RTI. (a) shows the original capture, whilst (b) a Diffuse Grain rendering and (c) a Specular Enhancement Rendering. The two last images display clear traces of the act of pecking used to create the designs

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

111

carvings, the motifs are often very weathered and almost invisible to the naked eye, but still perceived through touch (Valdez-Tullett, 2016). In this sense, “tracing the outline of an image with the hands may be as significant as seeing it” (Tilley, 2008, p. 45). The small-scale assessment provided various levels of information, many of which had never been studied for this type of rock art, and others that were unknown. Such is the case of the superimpositions of motifs considered to be virtually absent in ARA until recently. Since the confirmation of superimposed motifs in many case studies mentioned here, others continue to be found. Furthermore, the identification of ‘erased motifs’ previously only known and discussed in the context of Megalithic Art in Ireland was indeed a new and interesting find (O’Sullivan, 1986; Valdez-­ Tullett, 2019). Notably, the small-scale analysis enabled the identification of very fine details in the structural design of the motifs replicated in the various case studies. These occurrences resulted from a process of cultural transmission involving the specialised knowledge not only of the designs and how they should be used in the landscape, but also of the techniques and gestures implied in the production of the rock art and its special features. The analysis of the iconic cup-and-rings was particularly revealing in this regard, given the range of variations identified within the design of this central motif, going well beyond the number of concentric rings. In fact, circular motifs can be continuous or interrupted, open on one side, have converging ends, extended ends, one or two sides closing in themselves, etc. (see Valdez-Tullett, 2019 for details on the complete categorical scheme). Subtleties such as these were found across the whole repertoire of ARA and repeated in two or more study areas simultaneously. This level of insight and detail suggests that ARA travelled across the sea and was intentionally taught and passed on amongst communities who lived far apart instead of resulting from random copies of motifs which would undoubtedly produce different results. In fact, there are known carvings with copies of the Neolithic cup-and-rings, whose design and application on the rocks look quite different. This is the case of some of the carved rocks in Knock (Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland), where some strange cup-and-ring motifs were created on nearby surfaces to classic ARA compositions, with striking differences (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). Although access to gesture in prehistory is limited, its importance in rock art production is clear. The Comanche rock art in the American Southwest is an excellent example of the significance of gesture. Created with an array of different techniques applied for a specific purpose, the images were accompanied by narrations and performances and seen as an extension of the Plains Signs Language (PSL) tradition (Fowles & Arterberry, 2013, pp.  73–79). Fine lines were used to create motifs as they moved “in [a] very horse-like way across the rock surface” as opposed to pecking, since this technique with its “repeated staccato impact, does not have any quality of horse about it” (Fowles & Arterberry, 2013, p. 74). The creation of Comanche rock art had the functional purpose of representing tipis and planning for battle strategies. When combined with performances and narratives, it also celebrated military feats and honoured warriors (Fowles & Arterberry, 2013), accounts that were, this way, perpetuated in the Comanche’s collective memory.

112

J. Valdez-Tullett

The open-air character of many prehistoric rock art traditions, in comparison, suggests that these sites could have been part of public acts to which gesture was perhaps important. Given their open nature, they may have also enjoyed a public status since they could be available to all passers-by. There is an open debate about the audiences to whom the designs were created for. The symbols could have been carved by a few who held the knowledge of the techniques, meaning and underpinning ideology, whilst the interpretation could have been tailored depending on the audience’s characteristics and only accessible to specific groups of people (Bradley, 2002). The differences in the audience may have originated various types of memories, some more available or comprehensive than others. Restrictions in the accessibility of the message could be imposed through the knowledge shared with individuals. Still, they could also be physical in the sense that the motifs or the whole site could be secluded, even when located in the open landscape. In practice, however, this was not necessarily the case. Modern experiences with carvings reveal that a natural patina would form over the rock surface in a matter of years, thus disguising the grooves against their rocky background and making them less perceptible and visible. In addition, their landscape location does not guarantee public exposure and easy access. Whilst there are many examples of large boulders or outcrops carved with ARA motifs, most panels are of small size and flush with the ground, susceptible to being overgrown by seasonal vegetation. If we also consider other elements, such as atmospheric conditions, which in north-western Europe can be quite grey, rainy and foggy at times, ‘hiding’ the carvings even when they are right in front of us, then we necessarily have to question the idea of rock art being public simply judging by its location in the open landscape (Valdez-Tullett, 2019; Fig. 5). Exposed rocks have the potential to promote interactions between the rock art and people from the carving’s own time as well as of subsequent periods. This process prompts inter-generational sharing, facilitated through the maintenance of memory. In some cases, several moments of interaction can be identified, for instance, through the sequential addition of motifs throughout time. Interesting examples of this interface come from Bronze Age Scandinavia, where rock art is extensively figurative, depicting humans, animals, ships, wheels, and weapons. One of the largest concentrations of decorated rocks in this region is

Fig. 5  A small boulder carved in Ilkley Moor (Yorkshire, England). The small size and the vegetation keep this small rock mostly covered and unnoticeable in the landscape unless one knows where to find it. (Photographs copyright and 3D model by: Joana Valdez-Tullett)

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

113

located in Bohuslän (Sweden). A recent study involving rock art documentation with RTI concluded that many of these panels resulted from a continuous action of consecutive carving. The research offered novel insights into the chronological phasing of the carvings, demonstrating its development over time and the involvement of multiple individuals in its creation. The digital models enabled a micro-­ analysis of the motifs and the tracing of temporal carving sequences, implying that the cultural backgrounds of those individuals involved in the transformation of the rock surfaces were different. Each practitioner would then “update what was most important [to them], or brought about change in their own socio-environmental setting” (Horn & Potter, 2017, p. 19). The authors of this study analysed a number of specific motifs from the Finntorp (Tanum, Böhuslan) panel, all depicting anthropomorphs (e.g., the big spearman, the axe bearer, warrior with bent legs). They concluded that none of the figures were initially conceived as humans. An initial stage of carving during the Neolithic and EBA would have seen a number of cupmarks and objects such as halberds being pecked onto the rock, to which additions were made in later periods resulting in the final images that we observe today. For example, considerable re-working was identified on the spearhead and the axe of the ‘axe bearer’. Furthermore, the authors argued that all the sword sheaths on the panel are believed to have been added during period III of the Nordic Bronze Age (1300–1100 BC) (Horn & Potter, 2017, p. 18). In Scandinavia, figurative imagery similar to that of rock art is also featured in bronze razors. These artefacts originally appeared during 1500–1300 BC, but most decorated examples date to 1100–700  BC.  They display “representations of sun symbols, ships, horses, axe symbols, fish, birds and snakes”, which would have been transposed from the rock art repertoires into the razors alongside some aspects of the original narratives, now portrayed onto a new context (Sköglund, 2016, pp.  88–89). Significant for our discussion of ARA is the idea that the motifs in Scandinavia, once carved on outcrops in open landscapes were then susceptible to interpretations and transformations of passers-by, and potentially applied to small objects of personal use. Not only the medium and the raw material were different, but also the execution techniques changed significantly, since rock art motifs were carved on hard rock surfaces, and the decorations of the razors were mainly made on wax models. This would presuppose the importance of the narrative, possibly related to solar symbolism, and the continuity of its relevance to societies of Bronze Age Scania, notwithstanding the shift of context or interpretation that led to the use of that iconography on personal and intimate items, as opposed to the potentially public nature of the rock art (Sköglund, 2016). In the Scandinavian examples described above, events of re-interpretation and re-work happened within a relatively short period of time, and it is possible that the meaning of the motifs remained relatively intact. However, long temporal distances may result in a loss of accuracy in the perception of the imagery, and situations of re-interpretation or even appropriations may occur. This is possibly the case of ARA in the later stages of its use during the EBA. As mentioned earlier, whilst typically created in open-air contexts during the Neolithic, ARA was often used in funerary monuments towards the end of its currency. There is a clear and striking shift

114

J. Valdez-Tullett

between the context of the rock art from open, light spaces, into secluded, dark and confined burial chambers a few centuries later. Nevertheless, the social process underpinning this change is not yet understood and there may be a number of reasons explaining it. To a certain extent, this behaviour fits with the wider Bronze Age trend of appropriation and transformation of Neolithic features, which could perpetuate memories or make new statements, but that most likely led to the re-­ interpretation of the symbols. The cases described in this section from North America, Scandinavia and Western Europe demonstrate that rock art was/is therefore not an end product but an interface between past and present through which several generations interacted and continue to interact. Although, in many occasions, the original meaning of the rock art may have been lost, each actor would have their own perception of it, re-­ interpreting it and on occasion appropriating the sites and claiming them through the addition of new elements that were relevant to them. The following section will focus on the relationship of rock art and landscape in more detail and the role of the latter in the construction of collective memories.

Carved Landscapes and Re-appropriation So far, the rock art traditions featured in this paper have in common their relationship with the landscape. In all examples, the carved natural outcrops and boulders are fixed to a specific place and therefore are greatly immutable, unlike their surroundings that most certainly changed over time. Unless rocks were broken, quarried, or eventually suffered from natural geomorphological impacts, they are likely to have stayed in one place over time. Landscape is a relational entity, managing the articulation of human groups with their environs. There are several layers to this interaction: from the obvious natural and material to worldviews and time. These relationships often leave physical marks that become the objects of archaeological studies. Such is the case of roads, funerary monuments, domestic dwellings, etc., and rock art. What distinguishes rock art from most other types of archaeological evidence is the lack of a clear context. The panels are rarely related to sealed stratigraphic layers and in direct association with other sites and/or artefacts. This is one of the main reasons why dating rock art is so complicated, particularly when dealing with open-air engravings, given the absence of pigments or other associated elements that may enable the use of direct dating methods. The introduction of Landscape Archaeology by the hand of Richard Bradley in the 1990s revolutionised rock art research. The focus of investigation shifted irreversibly, from approaches based on the description of motifs in extensive typological tables—that added little to the knowledge of rock art—towards studies that looked into its wider context, with particular emphasis on its social and cultural roles and relationships with past communities (e.g., Bradley, 1997). The new emphasis demonstrated that landscape played an active role in creating and using

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

115

rock art, offering great potential to contextualising it. In addition to its physical significance, landscapes are also important mnemonic mechanisms often associated with narratives, myths and oral history (Sommer, 2017, p.  35). As Nora (1989) pointed out, the landscape is an active entity ingrained in the process of cultural transmission and construction of collective memory. Given rock art’s intimate relationship to its surroundings, the landscape encases crucial information about the societies that created and used it, as well as those who followed. Selecting a place to carve may have involved multiple reasons, ranging from the landscape’s natural and topographic features or the proximity to other monuments and sites. The specificities of the rock media itself certainly played an essential role for rock art traditions such as ARA, which, as pointed out, often incorporated natural features into the compositions (e.g., fissures, cracks, solution holes, concavities and convexities, the edges of the medium, the presence of quartz veins, etc.). These physical characteristics could have been accompanied by other important intangible features, such as myths and legends, directly related to people’s ontologies (Valdez-­ Tullett, 2019; Fig. 6). As stated, rock art did not necessarily need to have an active public role. However, its location in the landscape resulted in certain degrees of exposure, making them liable to be found deliberately or by chance, and therefore available to those traversing the land during the periods in which it was created and in use (even in current days). Rock art has consequently the ability to promote continuity, but its material

Fig. 6  A boulder carved with ARA motifs in Derrynablaha (Co. Kerry, Ireland). The relationship between the panel and the landscape is quite obvious: the rock is located in a unique position, commanding extensive views towards the east and maintaining visual contact with the lake ahead and routes of movement in the valley. (Photograph by Joana Valdez-Tullett)

116

J. Valdez-Tullett

nature often outlives the original meaning of the symbols (Alves, 2001, p. 71). The fact that many passers-by, with differing worldviews, have access to the same panels makes them also susceptible to re-interpretations, and in many cases, transformations, re-appropriations and adaptations to other cultural backgrounds. Another example of such re-appropriation, can be found in Monte de Góios (Caminha) in northwest Portugal, where many cruciforms were found carved across a natural amphitheatre. These motifs are typically included in the Schematic Rock Art tradition, found carved and painted in most parts of Iberia (Alves & Comendador-­ Rey, 2017; Baptista, 1983–84; Martins, 2013; Fig.  7). The iconography includes cruciform and ‘phi’ shapes (for their resemblance with the Greek letter), usually interpreted as anthropomorphs. The rock art found in Monte de Góios falls in this category of prehistoric cross-­ shaped motifs. Whilst traces of re-carving were identified in some motifs, Medieval and Modern crosses were added to other panels, alongside the prehistoric imagery (Valdez, 2010). It is likely that passers-by of historical periods, possibly unaware of their chronological depth, interpreted the prehistoric crosses in light of their own Christian beliefs, taking ownership of them and testifying the continuous importance of this site. The cosmogony of the place was adopted, re-interpreted and adapted to new conventions, illustrating well the changing nature of the symbolism ascribed to the cruciform motifs. The significance of those representations was maintained in the local memory and even transposed to the landscape since the local toponym today is Mata das Cruzes (Forrest of Crosses). Interesting to note is that

Fig. 7  Example of a cross-like prehistoric Schematic motif (enhanced), often interpreted as human figures. This was found in Monte de Góios (Portugal), where it appears to have been quarried and placed next to a Christian cross. (Photograph copyright: Joana Valdez-Tullett)

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

117

the memory of the carved rocks disappeared with time, and only the place-name remained in the communities’ collective memory. The archaeological sites in Monte de Góios resurfaced after wildfires in 2004, and we were able to carry out short inquiries to elderly members of the local community during our fieldwork (Valdez, 2010). In general, there was some reminiscence of an old pathway in Mata das Cruzes that they had heard about from their ancestors. Most interviewees were surprised to confirm that the place existed as they thought it to be a legend. They were unaware of the carved crosses on the rocks and not sure about the origin of the toponym, suggesting that the memory was lost in time. The relationship between rock art and landscape is crucial for its maintenance in a community’s collective memory. The loss of contact between people and their landscapes can cause damage to shared memories, as the landmarks and other visual references dissipate. For example, the displacement of many native American tribes, such as the Lakota (North Dakota) and their forced settlement in reservations, located in completely different parts of the country, meant that the descendants of these communities do not have current knowledge of the rock art produced by their ancestors (Van Elst, 2019). Whether due to migration, forced relocation, premature loss of the elders caused by epidemics or hunger, a change of territory affects the transmission of memories associated with specific landscapes and places. Without the visual clues, people lose context and vividness of their ontologies (Sommer, 2017, p.  36). This is why some stories hold strict connections to landmarks. For example, the Eastern African Luapula story-tellers only tell certain narratives when passing by the specific points of the landscape with which they are associated (Gordon, 2006). These examples illustrate how the landscape is effectively a crucial element of rock art and why it should be considered in its research, even when dealing with prehistoric evidence.

Rock Art, Meaning and Memory As demonstrated throughout this paper, rock art is part of a set of relationships between time, the carved panels, other archaeological sites and topographical features that enhance the landscape’s significance. Meanings, memories and beliefs become ingrained in this network of interactions carried out by individuals. The properties of the materials, the forms and shapes, and intangible features weigh on the decision to decorate specific places, exerting agency and influencing the outcome of human action (Sköglund, 2016, p. 91). Ethnographic studies indicate that the dialogue between social, cultural and natural are essential in this process and that the act of marking the landscape is rarely random (Clottes, 2002). The durability of the media, whose motifs are painted and/or carved, guarantees their prevalence through a lifetime of generations. However, as seen, whilst the materiality of the rock art promotes its durability, in comparison, the original meanings would be short-lived, often changed and even forgotten over time (e.g., Monte de Góios). This

118

J. Valdez-Tullett

can be precipitated by the lack of contact with visual elements or the materiality of rock art, or losing connection with the landscape. Fraga Escrevida in the Sabor Valley, a tributary of the Douro River in Portugal, is another interesting site illustrating the re-appropriation of imagery. This large vertical wall was initially discovered in the 1930s and described as featuring a number of carved crosses, an identification that prevailed for decades. When reassessed in the early 2000s, ahead of a national development plan for the construction of several dams in the region, archaeologists were surprised to find much older images in Fraga Escrevida, carved in the background of the Medieval and Modern crosses (Baptista, 2009). The first carving phase of this panel consisted of a nearly full-scale Palaeolithic aurochs, morphologically similar to those found in the neighbouring Côa Valley, well known for its Ice Age open-air rock art. Prehistoric (probably Neolithic) schematic cruciforms were added over and alongside this animal millennia later. Finally, these cruciform were re-interpreted in Medieval and Modern periods as religious symbols, and Christian crosses were then added. Carvings of crossings in Modern periods were often used as boundary marks and apotropaic signs (e.g. Baptista, 2009, p. 197). They were too acts of Christianization and reactions to the ban of pagan cults by the Christian church in the fifth century AD, which included the worship of natural places (Alves, 2001). On the other hand, these appropriations were sometimes mechanisms that communities used to circumnavigate these prohibitions and continue to practice their old ways, albeit using Christian symbology. Since then, many prehistoric sites in Iberia, and natural places such as outcrops, waterfalls and caves, often became associated with miracles or sightings of Christian saints and martyrs, sometimes accompanied by cults and processions. The prevalence of these practices shows that ancient sites were still clearly important to the local communities who continued to worship the pagan ways but camouflaged with Christian beliefs, sometimes lasting until today (e.g. Lemos et al., 2013). Oral history has a pivotal role in cultural transmission processes, and as collective memory is frequently passed on through a range of devices, including storytelling, linked to modern beliefs and superstitions. As seen before, there are many links between prehistoric monuments and mythological creatures and ancient peoples. In Northern Europe tales of Vikings, Saxons, giants, fairies and the Little Folk are commonly associated with prehistoric landscapes  and funerary monuments (e.g. Sommer, 2017). In Iberia, the ‘Enchanted Moors’, usually referring to beautiful northern African women or princesses with magical powers, populate local folklore and are a symbol of ancestry, even if African peoples only settled in the peninsula from 711 AD. These magical beings often live in tombs, carved outcrops or other natural features and conflate western ideas of fairies with Arab influences (Paula, 2011, p. 332). Enchanted Moors, fairies and giants represent a time beyond living memory and, therefore, provide the necessary time depth in people’s perception to make sense of their landscapes. Not only do these stories confer a dynamic and continuous narrative to the surroundings, but they contribute to the preservation of sites, either because of affect or fear of the evil residing within them and the consequences in

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

119

case of destruction. In many cases across Western Europe, prehistoric sites are often associated with superstitions and believed to be haunted or cursed (e.g., Alves, 2001; Paula, 2011; Semple, 1998). Finally, whilst some of the transformations that occurred on the rock surfaces were unintentional, resulting from the action of layers of time, others were deliberate. Instead of providing continuity, they intended to break connections with the past (Sommer, 2017, p. 41). Written sources such as the Old Testament show us that narratives could be manipulated, exerting an element of control over collective memories. The same could be true for rock art.

Conclusion ARA, widespread across Western Europe, has been the main prehistoric carving tradition explored in this paper. The geographic regions where ARA can be found share more similarities than the designs of the motifs, which are geometric in nature. An in-depth study revealed that during the Neolithic there was a universal understanding of this practice (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). Not only were the motifs repeated in thousands of rock surfaces across parts of Atlantic Europe—that in prehistory were indeed very far apart—, but the way the practice was replicated was similar, with very fine details being repeated across these regions. ARA comprised a complex skill set that included a specific type of iconography and carving techniques. Most importantly, a defining element was the incorporation of natural features and the micro-topography of the rock surfaces in the compositions and arrangements of motifs. Fissures and cracks were used to organise the location of the carvings on the rock face and were often enhanced through pecking, or solution holes transformed into cupmarks. This is a very distinctive practice of ARA repeated across the mentioned study areas (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). But ARA is not only composed of its physical aspects. The novel relational approach and inter-regional analyses used in its study enabled the entanglement of other features, thus moving beyond the sole study of motifs or their landscape location. It is now clear that ARA is an assemblage comprising an important material component and a very significant shared ideology and belief, crucial to its production and widespread during the 4th and the end of the 3rd millennia BC. The suggestion is that there was an initial contact between the communities living across the Atlantic façade resulting in the spread of key characteristics through a “quintessential package”. This included a specific range of motifs (simple cupmarks, cup-and-­ ring motifs, wavy and linear grooves), and the know-how to create the rock art, which was intentionally taught from individuals to individuals and re-produced in a regular fashion (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). ARA certainly gained tremendous importance, and the tradition remained in the collective memory of the communities of practice involved for many centuries. Continuous contacts throughout the Neolithic and EBA lead to the introduction of new motifs. Regional preferences emerged, reflecting the social and cultural differences of these societies and their relationship

120

J. Valdez-Tullett

with ARA. These variations can be observed in the preferences of motifs, tendencies in landscape locations or privileged relationships with specific types of monuments (Valdez-Tullett, 2019). In prehistoric studies, we are unable to incorporate intangible features in our archaeological interpretations. However, we can infer their role in the production of rock art through detailed multi-scalar analysis and deploying a comparative approach with other rock art traditions, as shown in this paper. In addition to the ARA tradition, this paper explored other types of prehistoric rock art and sites that have long diachronies and that have been the object of interactions in different chronological periods. In these cases motifs were changed, added to, adapted to other types of media, demonstrating acts of reinterpretation. The physical character and durability of rock art contrasts with the short-lived prevalence of its original meaning; many giving rise, as seen above, to situations of reinterpretation, re-invention, and appropriation of the rock art’s materiality along with associated beliefs and ideologies of consecutive societies. Even if the initial emphasis of the rock art’s creation is the making process and the gesture, rather than the final product, the motifs maintain an active afterlife often incorporated in the ontologies and memories of the generations to come. Rock art is a complex subject offering many possibilities to the understanding of past communities. However, it should be approached carefully as a phenomenon that cross-cuts temporal, spatial, cultural and cognitive contexts, placing itself in a permanent intersection between past and present. Acknowledgements  I would like to thank Lara B. Alves for inviting me to participate in the EAA 2018 session on Rock Art and Memory. I am also grateful for the insightful comments and suggestions of the reviewers, which contributed much to the improvement of this text. Finally, a very big thank you to Leslie F. Zubieta for working with me on this paper, while we navigated the obstacles that 2020 offered.

References Alves, L.  B. (2001). Rock art and enchanted Moors: The significance of rock carvings in the folklore of north-West Iberia. In R.  J. Wallis & K.  Lymer (Eds.), A permeability of boundaries? New approaches to the archaeology of art, religion and folklore (pp. 71–78). British Archaeological Reports/Archaeopress. Alves, L. B., & Comendador-Rey, B. (2017). Arte esquemático pintado en el noroeste peninsular: Una visión integrada transfronteriza. Gallaecia, 36, 11–52. Baptista, A.  M. (1983–84). Arte Rupestre do norte de Portugal: Uma perspectiva. Portugália, IV–V, 71–82. Baptista, A. M. (2009). O paradigma perdido. O Vale do Côa e a Arte Paleolítica de ar livre em Portugal. Edições Afrontamento. Barrett, J. C. (1999). The mythical landscapes of the British iron age. In W. Ashmore & A. B. Knapp (Eds.), Archaeologies of landscape: Contemporary perspectives (pp. 253–265). Blackwell. Bergson, H. (1990). Matter and memory. Zone Books. (Original work published 1896). Binford, L. (1967). Smudge pits and hide smoking: The use of analogy in archaeological reasoning. American Antiquity, 32(1), 1–12.

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

121

Blackburn, S. (2008). The Oxford dictionary of philosophy. Oxford University Press. Borić, D. (2010). Introduction: Memory, archaeology and the historical condition. In D.  Borić (Ed.), Archaeology and memory (pp. 1–34). Oxbow Books. Bradley, R. (1997). Rock art and the prehistory of Atlantic Europe: Signing the land. Routledge. Bradley, R. (2002). Access, style and imagery: The audience for prehistoric rock art in Atlantic Spain and Portugal, 4000 – 2000 BC. Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 21(3), 231–247. Brughmans, T. (2013). Thinking through networks: A review of formal network methods in Archaeology. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 20(4), 623–662. https://doi. org/10.1007/s10816-­012-­9133-­8 Clottes, J. (2002). World rock art. Getty Publications. Connerton, P. (1989). How societies remember. Cambridge University Press. Coward, F. (2013). Grounding the net: Social networks, material culture and geography in the Epipaleolithic and Early Neolithic of the Near East (~21,000-6,000 cal BCE). In C. Knappett (Ed.), Network analysis in archaeology: New approaches to regional interaction (pp. 247–280). Oxford University Press. Fowler, C. (2017). Relational typologies, assemblage theory and Early Bronze Burials. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 27(1), 95–109. Fowles, S., & Arterberry, J. (2013). Gesture and performance in Comanche rock art. World Art: Art Makes Society, 3(1), 67–82. Frieman, C. (2012). Going to pieces at the funeral: Completeness and complexity in Early Bronze Age Jet ‘necklace’ assemblages. Journal of Social Archaeology, 12(3), 334–355. Gell, A. (1998). Art and agency: Towards an anthropological theory. Clarendon Press. Gordon, D.  M. (2006). History on the Luapula retold: Landscape, memory and identity in the Kazembe Kingdom. The Journal of African History, 47(1), 21–42. Gosden, C., & Lock, G. (1998). Prehistoric histories. World Archaeology, 30(1), 2–12. Hamilakis, Y. (2010). Re-collecting the fragments: Archaeology as mnemonic practice. In K. Lillios & V. Tsamis (Eds.), Material mnemonics: Everyday memory in Prehistoric Europe (pp. 188–189). Oxbow Books. Hamilakis, Y. (2014). Archaeology and the senses. Human experience, memory and affect. Cambridge University Press. Hamilakis, Y., & Jones, A. M. (2016). Archaeology and assemblage. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 27(1), 77–84. Harris, O., & Cipolla, C. (2017). Archaeological theory in the new millennium. Routledge. Horn, C., & Potter, R. (2017). Transforming the rocks – Time and rock art in Bohuslän, Sweden. European Journal of Archaeology, 21(3), 1–24. Jones, A. M., & Díaz-Guardamino, M. (2019). Marking a mark: Image and process in Neolithic Britain and Ireland. Oxbow Books. Jones, A.  M., Freedman, D., O’Connor, B., Lamdin-Whymark, H., Tipping, R., & Watson, A. (Eds.). (2011). An animate landscape: Rock art and the prehistory of Kilmartin, Argyll, Scotland. Windgather Press. Joyce, R. (2000). Heirlooms and houses: Materiality and social memory. In R.  A. Joyce & S.  D. Gillespie (Eds.), Beyond kinship: Social and material reproduction in house societies (pp. 189–212). University of Pennsylvania Press. Knapp, B., & Ashmore, W. (1999). Archaeologies of landscape: Contemporary perspectives. Blackwell Publishers. Knappett, C. (2011). An archaeology of interaction. Network perspectives on material culture and society. Oxford University Press. Layton, R. (2007). Art, language and the evolution of spirituality. In C.  Renfrew & I.  Morley (Eds.), Image and imagination (pp. 49–56). McDonald Institute Monographs. Lemos, F. S., Fonte, J., Cruz, G., & Valdez, J. (2013). Landscape in the late iron age of Northwest Portugal. In T.  Moore & X.-L.  Armada (Eds.), Atlantic Europe in the first millennium BC. Crossing the divide (pp. 187–204). Oxford University Press.

122

J. Valdez-Tullett

Lewis-Williams, D. (2019). Image-makers. The social context of a hunter-gatherer ritual. Cambridge University Press. Lillios, K. (1999). Objects of memory: The ethnography and archaeology of heirlooms. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 6, 235–262. Lucas, G. (2012). Understanding the archaeological record. Cambridge Archaeological Press. Martins, A. (2013). Arte esquemático en Portugal: Los abrigos con pinturas del macizo calcáreo Extremeño. In J. Martinez-Garcia & M. S. Hernandez-Pérez (Eds.), Arte rupestre esquemático en la Península Ibérica (pp. 317–323). Ayuntamento de Vélez-Blanco. Meskell, L. (2003). Memory’s materiality: Ancestral presence, commemorative practice and disjunctive locales. In R.  M. Van Dyke & S.  E. Alcock (Eds.), Archaeologies of memory (pp. 34–55). Blackwell Publishing. O’Sullivan, M. (1986). Approaches to passage tomb art. Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 116, 68–83. Piggott, S., & Powell, T.  G. E. (1949). The excavation of three Neolithic chambered tombs in Galloway. Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 83, 103–161. Nora, P. (1989). Between memory and history: Les Lieux de Mémoire. Representations, 26(Special Issue: Memory and Counter-Memory, Spring 1989), 7–24. Paula, E.  A. Z. (2011). As Mouras Encantadas: Um panorama das lendas Ibéricas à Teiniaguá Simoniana. Revista Litteris, 8, 331–347. Ruuska, A. (2016). Memory, materiality and place in Ojibwa rock art performances. In B. David & I.  J. McNiven (Eds.), The Oxford handbook of archaeology and anthropology of art (pp. 655–670). Oxford. https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780190607357.013.54 Semple, S. (1998). A fear of the past: The place of the prehistoric burial mound in the ideology of middle and later Anglo–Saxon England. World Archaeology, 30(1), 109–126. Sheridan, A., Davis, M., Clark, I., & Redvers-Jones, H. (2002). Investigating jet and jet-like artefacts from Prehistoric Scotland: The National Museum of Scotland Project. Antiquity, 76(293), 812–825. Sköglund, P. (2016). Images and materials: The making of narrative imagery in rock art and on metalwork. In H. Chittock & J. Valdez-Tullett (Eds.), Archaeology with art (pp. 79–96). Archaeopress. Sommer, U. (2017). The appropriation or the destruction of memory? Bell beaker ‘re-use’ of older sites. In K. P. Hofmann, R. Bernbeck, & U. Sommer (Eds.), Between memory sites and memory networks. New archaeological and historical perspectives (Berlin Studies of the Ancient World) (pp. 33–70). Edition Topoi. Stade, C. M. (2017). Lithic morphological variability as a proxy for Palaeolithic linguistic ability: A knapping training study exploring cultural transmission, theory of mind and language (Unpublished doctoral thesis). University of Southampton. Tehrani, J. (2013). The phylogeni of little red riding Hood. PLoS One, 8(11), e78871. https://doi. org/10.1371/journal.pone.0078871 Thomas, A. (2016). Art and architecture in Neolithic Orkney. In Process, temporality and context. Archaeopress. Tilley, C. (1994). The phenomenology of landscape: Places, paths and monuments. Berg. Tilley, C. (2008). Body and image: Explorations in landscape phenomenology. Left Coast Press. Valdez, J. (2010). A gravura na Arte Rupestre Esquemática do Noroeste Peninsular: O caso do Monte de Góios (Lanhelas, Caminha) (Unpublished master’s thesis), University of Porto. Valdez-Tullett, J. (2016). Art, materiality and creativity: Understanding Atlantic Rock Art. In H. Chittock & J. Valdez-Tullett (Eds.), Archaeology with art (pp. 53–77). Archaeopress. Valdez-Tullett, J. (2019). Design and connectivity: The case of Atlantic Rock Art (Archaeology of Prehistoric Art, 1). British Archaeological Reports. Valdez-Tullett, J. (2021). An integrated methodology for the study of Atlantic Rock Art. Quaternary International, 572, 139–150.

The Role of Landscape and Prehistoric Rock Art in Cultural Transmission…

123

Van Elst, E. (2019, June 10). Rockin’ and Rollin’ – Ep 3 [Audio podcast episode]. In A life in ruins podcast. Archaeology Podcast Network. https://www.archaeologypodcastnetwork.com/ruins/3 Van Dyke, R. M. (2008). Memory, place and the memorialization of landscape. In B. David & J. Thomas (Eds.), Handbook of landscape archaeology (pp. 277–284). Left Coast Press. Whitehead, A. (2009). Memory. Routledge. Wylie, A. (1985). The reaction against analogy. Advances in Archaeological Method and Theory, 8, 63–111. Woodward, A. (2002). Beads and beakers: Heirlooms and relics in the British Early Bronze Age. Antiquity, 76(294), 1040–1047. Joana Valdez-Tullett has been working with rock art since 2003, studying and investigating sites from a number of western European countries and periods, including the Palaeolithic and the Iron Age. Her specialism and focus of current research is Atlantic Rock Art. She has published the volume Desing and connectivity: the case of Atlantic Rock Art in 2019, based on her PhD thesis. She is interested in rock art’s distribution, making processes, relationships between the people and the landscape, and rock art’s role in prehistoric connectivity. Other interests include computer applications to archaeology, archaeological theory and the intersection between archaeology and contemporary art.  

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art Memorialize Heroes? Christian Horn

Introduction That humans chose to make engraved images on bedrock panels is one of the many fascinating aspects of the Nordic Bronze Age (NBA) (1800/1700–550  BC). The NBA rock art provides a window into the ideals, stereotypes, ideologies, and beliefs of their makers. Some of those were widely shared across Europe, such as the warrior ideal and a focus on mobility (A.  F. Harding, 2007, 2018; Harrison, 2004; Kristiansen & Larsson, 2005). The making of petroglyphs, as open-air monuments, was inherently difficult to control by any authority, and additions, changes, and transformations have been observed on images and scenes (Bengtsson, 2004; Bertilsson, 2015; Horn, 2018b; Horn & Potter, 2018, 2019; Ling, 2008; Ling & Bertilsson, 2017). Thus, rock art was imbued with intentions, biases and subjected to competing interpretations, making it a multivocal collection of ideas of subsequent generations separated by decades, centuries, and sometimes even millennia. This study mainly investigates the human figures in the rock art of the Scandinavian Bronze Age at sites primarily located in Bohuslän (Fig. 1). Many of these figures were associated with boats, swords, spears, axes, animals and other objects. In particular, humans with weaponry, including antagonistic scenes, have been often interpreted as warriors. Certain features of their body, such as phalli, calves, hands, or feet, were frequently enlarged. Human depictions exist from detailed to abstract figures, such as boat crew members often depicted as simple lines. The more complex petroglyphs of humans allow the opportunity to research memory practices. In particular the memory of heroes and heroic stories will be explored. Jaime Lannister, the tragic hero and sometimes villain in George R.R. Martin’s novel A Feast of Crows said: “Most have been forgotten. Most deserve to be C. Horn (*) Historical Studies, University of Gothenburg, Gothenburg, Sweden e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_6

125

126

C. Horn

Fig. 1  Map showing the distribution intensity of figurative rock art in southern Scandinavia. (After Goldhahn & Ling, 2013; Nimura, 2015). The rock art sites discussed in this article are located within the area marked in green

forgotten. The heroes will always be remembered. The best. The best and the worst.” This assertion captures several aspects that modern “hero science” sees as cross-­ culturally relevant (see below). Memory practices are tightly linked to the process of becoming a hero in the post-factum elevation of remembered deeds of few individuals that stood out among their peers. This possibility will be explored based on 3738 human figures associated with objects and specific body features. Because the NBA consists of non-literate societies, the analysis will cautiously use analogies, such as ancient epic poetry.

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

127

Conflict During the Nordic Bronze Age Before delving into how images evoke the memory of heroes and heroic tales, it is imperative to consider the realities of warfare during the NBA and explain why fighters and warriors were such important characters. This reflection provides a cultural context to the images from which to judge whether individuals engaged in ritualised duels—without victims—or larger groups battled in bloody conflicts (or perhaps both scenarios occurred). A minimum of 160 people died violently and left archaeologically visible remains, all dating to the Early NBA. Other than under extraordinary preservation circumstances, finding reliable material is unlikely for the Late Bronze Age due to the prevalent cremation tradition. A c. 50 years-old man buried without grave goods was discovered inside a stone cist at Over-Vindinge, Denmark; a spear tip, possibly of the earliest period of the NBA, was lodged in his pelvis (Kjær, 1912; Vandkilde, 2011). A c. 30-year-old man from Wiligrad in NW Germany had a large sword cut on his skull, which presumably killed him c. 1475 ± 77 BC (Lidke & Piek, 1999, pp. 82–83). At least 22 individuals of both sexes and all ages have been found in a gravel pit close to Sund, Norway, and it was suspected that initially there were more. Seven had traumata induced by violence, of which three showed no signs of healing. These individuals had various illnesses and suffered starvation which led to interpret them as victims of a massacre. This suggestion was supported by the presence of defensive injuries that might have occurred while the individuals were fleeing (Fyllingen, 2003, 2006). Another male from Norway with violent trauma was found in Kråkerøy without a burial context dating to the latest phase of the Early Bronze Age. The sword cuts to his cranium and a thoracic vertebra were interpreted as a homicide or an execution (Fyllingen, 2003; Holck, 1987) —but it could have also happened during a violent confrontation. Our best bioanthropological evidence to date comes from the battlefield in the Tollense Valley (Germany). This place also provides a cautionary note to archaeologists wishing to address the scale of violence. Only 14% of all injuries affected the skull, and overall injuries can only be seen in 7% of the deceased, including healed traumata (Brinker et al., 2014, 2016). However, we know that everyone on the battlefield died a violent death, whether we see it or not. It also means that healed traumata are no reliable signs of less violent times. Other indicators of violent conflict are marks on weaponry. For the earliest weapons of the NBA, combat marks were present on over 80% of the spears and over 50% of the swords (Horn, 2013). Swords of the following periods also show combat-­ related wear (Horn & Karck, 2019; Kristiansen, 1984, 2002), including daggers and perhaps spears (Horn & Karck, 2019). Variations in the wear patterns indicate changing use in combat rather than an ebb and flow of violence (Horn, 2018a). Various forms of violent conflicts may have existed during the Bronze Age ranging from raids and feuds to warfare. While that cannot have been a permanent state, it was potentially a reality for many or even most people. Many took part in the fighting and had the chance to distinguish themselves. This scenario would have

128

C. Horn

provided a rich substrate for grave danger, daring bravery, tragic moments of self-­ sacrifice, unexpected turnarounds, and so on, which could have been spun into heroic tales. Thus, allowing some of those individuals to become heroes.

Rock Art and Conflict From Journey to Confrontation On a panel in Finntorp (RAÄ Tanum 184:1), there are clusters of cupmarks, canoes, animals, and human figures (Fig.  2). Two boats in the lower right corner form a scene by being placed on either side of a natural channel, where they appear to ride on the water when the channel fills with water after rainfall (Fig. 3). Judging by their typology, the boats are not contemporary (Kaul, 1998; Ling, 2008). Based on the comparison of boats depicted on rock and dated metalwork, the lower of the two could date to the Earliest Bronze Age (1700–1500 BC), while the other dates to the end of the Early Bronze Age (1300–1100  BC). The superimposed lines on the

Fig. 2  Panel in Finntorp (RAÄ 184:1) with the two boats under discussion (red circle). Visualisation from a photogrammetric model (prepared by Rich Potter, Gothenburg University (GU); method see Horn et al., 2019). The documented area is ca. 4x3 m

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

129

Fig. 3 (a) Detail of the panel in Finntorp (RAÄ 184:1). Visualisation from a photogrammetric model (prepared by Rich Potter, GU; method see Horn et al., 2019). The lower boat dates to the Earliest Bronze Age (1700–1500  BC), while the upper boat was carved and modified between 1300 and 900 BC; (b) Photo of the two boats taken after heavy rains during fieldwork in autumn 2019 (photo by the author). A natural channel is filled with water. While the upper boat is on the water’s edge, the lower boat is slightly submerged

younger boat suggest that it was updated,1 at least once, perhaps during the beginning Late Bronze Age (1100–900 BC; see Horn et al., 2019). The armed warriors intersect this update, indicating that they are contemporary or later. According to the rhombic ending observable on one of the lines at the ends of their raised right arms could be spears. Both figures’ left arm appears to be oval or rhombic in shape, perhaps indicating a sword, similar to other recent discoveries (Ling & Bertilsson, 2017; Toreld, 2012). This analysis suggests that the warriors were carved at least  Updating in this context means that images of objects were worked over to give them the appearance of contemporary types of the same objects. 1

130

C. Horn

400 years after the original application of the earlier boat on the opposite side of the stream. The earlier boat has a different shape which may have been unfamiliar to later carvers. Early Bronze Age prows are turned inward, while Late Bronze Age prows are turned outward (Kaul, 1998; Ling, 2008). Based on the threatening pose of the warriors with their raised spears, it is possible to interpret the scene as a group of warriors threatening the vessel of another group across a body of water that may have been a natural boundary. Thus, a scene originally depicting a boat journey along a stream or fjord was subsequently transformed into an antagonistic scene. Later carvers may have, therefore, used it to represent “the other”, i.e., a local competing group.

From Cupmarks to a Battle Scene About 350 m to the south of Tanum 184:1 is panel Tanum 89:1 which is structured by long fissures in NW-SE direction (Fig. 4). There is a boat cluster to the left of the most prominent central fissure, while human figures dominate the right side. Four human figures have been modified several times. The central and most actively engaged image was a c. 40 cm long warrior with an 82.5 cm long spear. Based on a

Fig. 4  Panel in Finntorp (RAÄ 89:1). Visualisation from a laser scan (prepared by Oskar Ivarsson, Chalmers University and Centre for Digital Humanities, GU; original scan by the County Administrative Board of Västra Götaland). Indicated are the intercourse scene (upper left) and three figures that were modified over extended periods of time: an axeman (lower left), two warriors with protruding knees (centre left), and a spearman (centre right). The spearman is the most prominent figure dominating the panel. The documented area is ca. 5 × 4.5 m

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

131

thorough analysis of the superimpositions, style and technique of the lines, and typological comparisons, we reconstructed a potential timeline of the modifications (cf. Horn & Potter, 2018; see also Bertilsson, 2018). This was possible because metalwork was depicted detailed enough in some cases to suggest comparisons to actual metalwork from datable contexts (see Badou, 1960; Oldeberg, 1976). In its earliest phase, there were two cupmarks to which a spear was added around 1600–1500 BC. Later a shield was carved using one of the cupmarks as shield boss. At a later stage, the motif was transformed into a human figure by adding a neck, legs, feet, and a sword. Throughout these activities the spear tip was updated 2–3 times (Horn & Potter, 2018). Another image started as an individual axe that was transformed by adding a warrior figure. Most warriors on the panel look stylistically similar and share the same sword chapes, indicating that the final transformations may have occurred during the same event. Below the spear’s shaft seems to run a compositional border, roughly NE-SW (Fig. 5). All the figures with spears are above that line, while all the figures with axes are below. Thus, the panel was transformed from cupmarks and some weapons to a fully articulated battle scene. If the large spearman was “completed” as a human between the carving of the shield and the application of the sword, then the battle scene may have been engraved at the earliest between 1350 and 1100 BC (Horn & Potter, 2018). This was a period of large-scale social transformation for the communities of the NBA coinciding with the Tollense valley’s battle in Germany and the massacre in Sund in Norway.

Fig. 5  Panel in Finntorp (RAÄ 89:1). Visualisation from a laser scan (prepared by Oskar Ivarsson, Chalmers University and Centre for Digital Humanities, GU). Green dots indicate warriors with spears, and blue dots mark warriors with axes. The red line marks the compositional boundary between carvings of axes and spears on the panel

132

C. Horn

Fighting and Killing Lively debates in Scandinavian archaeology revolve around fighting and killing scenes in rock art (see Horn, 2019; Ling & Cornell, 2017; Nordbladh, 1989) (Fig. 6). A killing scene is defined by a fighter whose weapon penetrates another individual’s body and is often viewed as portraying real-life combat, mostly in duels. In contrast, fighting scenes that do not show the final act of killing are assumed to be symbolic and ritual acts (Harding, 2007, pp.  116–117; Ling & Toreld, 2018; Nordbladh, 1989). Interestingly, the act of killing in such latter scenes is exclusively carried out with spears rather than swords, clubs or axes. The reason may be practical because rock art condenses three-dimensional objects and settings into a two-dimensional plane. Therefore, there is often a compromise between richness in detail and clarity of expression. If rock art was about conveying messages or telling a narrative, perhaps to multiple recipients, a clear readability needed to be maintained. The length of the spears allowed the various elements of the fight (i.e. the warriors, their weapons, and their limbs) to be kept visually at a greater distance, thus enhancing the clarity of the depiction. Therefore, spears may have been a convention for people carving a killing to preserve the clarity and readability of the scene. Conversely, shorter weapons may not have depicted killings by convention because they would have made the scenes difficult to read. The suggested dichotomy between killing and non-killing scenes, however, might be erroneous. Most NBA rock art is mono-scenic, “a moment frozen in time” (Fredell, 2006; Ranta, 2016). It is undoubtedly possible to object with Speidel (2013) that a single image cannot tell a story on its own. However, rock art is thought to support narratives (see below) and does not contain the entire story (Ranta, 2016). While such moments may appear frozen, they imply a before and an after narrative. For example, a killing scene suggests that one of the warriors is killed or injured after the depicted action was concluded. Since there are usually actions preceding a fight, a ‘before the killing’ is also implied. Conversely, a scene depicting a fight without physical contact of a weapon with another warrior’s body may have been enough to imply to the audience that a blow landed by showing the moment shortly before the action was completed. Thus, showing a deadly fight while keeping the scene readable (see the section “Telling a heroic tale”).

Theoretical Framework This study will outline three theoretical strands, centring on the following topics: memory, narratives, and heroes. Pierre Nora (1989, 1996) developed the concept of lieux de memoire (sites of memory) as a means to preserve “memory” (oral histories and traditions) as opposed to “history” (canonised national history). Such sites were places in the landscape holding significant memories people intended to preserve and at which individuals

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

133

Fig. 6 (a) Fighting scene on a Panel in Brastad (RAÄ 617) between a spearman and a fighter (both ca. 20–25 cm tall) with a club, sword, or an axe. The spear does not penetrate and stops just a millimetre in front of the body; (b) Interpretation of the fighting scene in Brastad by the author; (c) A killing scene on a panel in Tanum (RAÄ 319:1). The spear penetrates deep into the back of a warrior with an axe. The victim of the backstab is phallic and larger (ca. 45 cm) than the perpetrator (ca. 25 cm). Additionally, the larger warrior was updated with a sword during the Late Bronze Age. Both visualisations from laser scans. (Prepared by Oskar Ivarsson, Chalmers University and Centre for Digital Humanities, GU; original scans by the County Administrative Board of Västra Götaland)

could create meaning and identity out of the past. However, while lieux de memoire gives us a particular direction, Paul Connerton (2010) has shown that memories also depend on daily routines and activities, i.e. memories are embodied and not stored in these places, but re-interpreted. That means memories, activities, and the kinds of identities created through them are in a complex relational network, shaping and

134

C. Horn

influencing each other. Michael Rowlands describes another central process as ‘inscribing memory’, a practice relying on “frequent repetition and the extensive logical integration of verbalized ritual discourse” (1993, p. 142). Based on those ideas of embodied and inscribed memory, the frequent re-engagement of rock art, and the depiction of real-world activities (like fighting and seafaring) it can be suggested that rock art localities during the Bronze Age in Scandinavia have been deliberately used as lieux de memoire to engage with the past (Horn & Potter, 2018; Horn & Wollentz, 2019). As such, rock art was both subject to change following social ideologies but also helped to shape social ideals and institutions, i.e. the so-called warrior ideal, by reinforcing the social expectations of the time (Horn & Potter, 2018; Horn & Wollentz, 2019; see also Ling et al., 2018a; Ling & Cornell, 2017). Michael Ranta and colleagues (2016, 2019) set out a narratological, cognitive, and semiotic approach to studying the narrative potential of hunting scenes in Scandinavian rock art. They suggest that the content and shape of the images are the basic building blocks for understanding the narratives. Thus, they were able to establish that Scandinavian rock art has a narrative structure on multiple levels. Given that the primary form of narratives is often informed by social memories (Zerubavel, 1996), this could mean that memories of the past, stories of the past, and images formed a trinity during the NBA. The framework for studying narrativity and the link to social memories provides a powerful tool for studying local stories and social memories in non-literate societies. The pertinent question then is, could the narrative about human figures, their relationships, and activities be a memory? Could the human figures be reflecting named ancestors considered heroes? Many studies of ancient heroes and hero cults rely on written records, funerary evidence, and specific localities in the landscape (Antonaccio, 1995; Kohen, 2013; Whitley, 1994). Gilgamesh, for example, was likely a king of Uruk in modern Iraq and known through epic poetry. While Gilgamesh’s reign took place in the early 3rd millennium BC, the written epic is dated to the late 3rd millennium BC meaning that his stories remain a part of a long oral tradition (Dalley, 2008; Renger, 2006). Between the ancient Near East and the Nordic Bronze Age existed some differences (e.g., urban societies, early statehood) and similarities (e.g., warrior ideologies, pre-­ modern). For this reason, analogies are used here as an inspiration, not as definite evidence. Some researchers have also suggested that burials and hoards might help identify heroes archaeologically in scenarios without written evidence. Contexts that are “over-equipped” with weaponry have been seen as solid indicators for the presence of worshipped heroes (Hansen, 2014a, b). In addition, other evidence, such as images, landscape settings, distribution patterns and so on, may support such interpretations. Modern research on heroes may also help to identify cross-culturally relevant features of the worship of heroes. In the following, contemporary “hero science” current concepts and results following Allison (2015) will be confronted with the rock art evidence to investigate whether petroglyphs could have depicted heroes. Heroes are related to memory and memory practices as they are remembered in stories often for a long time after their deeds and their deaths. The stature of heroes

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

135

and stories can grow and change over time (cf. Allison & Goethals, 2016), as indicated in the Gilgamesh epic. Therefore, studying the linkage between rock art, burials, and sacrificial deposits to memory practices (Levy, 2010) may reveal the presence of heroic tales and hero worship. However, it is important to remember that the worship of heroes does not exist everywhere to the same degree (Burton, 1993). Another aspect to consider is that ideas about heroic characteristics change over time. For example, the pro-social elements of heroes today, i.e. selflessness and helpfulness, are more venerated in the Western World than the prototypical characteristics such as bravery, self-sacrifice, or violent behaviour (Keczer et al., 2016). However, other heroic ideals remain stable.

Could They Be Heroes? Sex and Violence One aspect of ancient heroes that finds less admiration in modern times is their link to combat, war, and bloodshed. Gardner and Maier (1985) argue that heroes made their name in battle when, for example, the killing of the demon Humbaba by ancient Mesopotamian hero Enkidu became a celebrated deed. Popa-Blanariu (2016) recently said that the Iliad described the effect of war on Achilles’ soul as ‘a bloody trail of death, sadness and fatalism’ which, however futile, led to posthumous glory. Classical heroes may have even engaged in sexualised violence, such as Enkidu’s description on tablet I, column IV as ‘attack[ing], fucking (sic) the priestess’ (Gardner & Maier, 1985, 77), a quote often tempered down in more recent translations. Sex and violence can also be traced in rock art, where swords and phalli were tightly connected. This was visible on the panel in Finntorp 89, where at least thirteen of the 20 complete warriors were phallic (Fig. 4). Phalli, canoes, exaggerated calves, and swords were the most prominent features of human figures (Fig. 7a). The association to swords was even stronger than to canoes on phallic human depictions, which were otherwise the dominant feature on the panels (Fig. 7b). Among the ten most evident linked features were all major close-range weapons of the NBA, i.e. swords, spears, axes, and shields. As discussed elsewhere, there are even solid indications for sexualised violence in the intercourse scenes in Scandinavian rock art (Horn, 2018b). In those scenes, weaponised warriors mainly penetrated female figures, but also males and animals. In one of such scenes in Finntorp 89, the warrior had not only a sword but also a shield (Fig. 4). Furthermore, the female figure seems to show some resistance by punching the warrior. The romantic interpretation sees these scenes as “heavenly marriages” (hieros gamos; Fari, 2003); however, the presence of weapons and the resistance shown by one of the participants seems to indicate violence.

136

C. Horn

Fig. 7  Network analysis (UCInet6, by the author) based on 3738 figures showing the ten strongest links visualised (Graph Theoretic Layout based on a prior Gower visualisation) (a) Features most strongly associated with anthropomorphic rock art include canoes, phalli, exaggerated body parts (calves, hands), and weaponry (swords, shields); (b) Most compelling features associated with phallic figures are weaponry (swords, shields, spears, axes), canoes, and exaggerated body parts (calves). Other features such as beaks could be exaggerated noses, masks, helmets, or indicators of hybrid entities (bird-humans)

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

137

The warrior’s superior strength was emphasized by depicting them with exaggerated calves (Fig. 7), with phalli, and oversized weaponry (Malmer, 1981). Thus, the warriors on the rocks expressed strength, sex, violence, and sexualised violence which are hallmarks of prototypical male heroes (Clarke, 2004). Such depictions are rare in other media, but one example can be found on the “Wismar horn”, where the bronze application shows a warrior with a spear and shield dating to period II/ III of the NBA (1400–1200 BC) (Kristiansen, 2001).

The Death of a Fighter, the Birth of a Hero Since struggle was an integral part of a hero’s story, it would make sense that such stories were supplemented with images where an image-making tradition existed— such as the depictions used for Homeric stories in Greek art (Snodgrass, 1997). Stories of heroes emerged and grew cross-culturally after fictional or real heroes’ demise (Goethals & Allison, 2012). Telling narratives about heroes’ exploits was and still is carried out for various political and ideological purposes. As such, these stories were a form of cultural and social memory (Wertsch, 2002). The long-term survival of tales and memories in oral traditions is well documented, for example, in the aboriginal rock art of Australia (McDonald & Veth, 2013). However, it is doubtful that any memory survives in its unaltered, original form. Instead, the conveyed memories become corrupted and unstable within c. 200 years (Bradley, 2002; Henige, 1974; Vansina, 1985). Heroic tales expand and amplify the exploits of their protagonist by incorporating additional details; the different versions of the Gilgamesh epic are an example (Gardner & Maier, 1985). A similar process may have occurred with the changing, expanding, and updating of rock art images and scenes, e.g., Finntorp. Tentatively, it is possible that the spear of the large warrior in Finntorp 89 was updated every 150–200  years (Horn & Potter, 2018) like the spear in Litsleby (Bertilsson, 2015). The timeframe of the modification of the images at Finntorp 184 could even exceed the 200-year frame, which means that the original story’s content may have changed even more significantly. Parallel to heroic tales in oral traditions, these scenes seem to have been expanded and amplified. Therefore, what may have started as a story about a renowned fighter’s journey, perhaps became the heroic tale of an epic struggle across a stream (Finntorp 184; Fig. 3). Depictions of new forms of weaponry may have transformed into heroic exploits during a large battle (Finntorp 89; Fig. 5).

138

C. Horn

Telling a Heroic Tale Tellability is a characteristic that makes stories more exciting, memorable, and meaningful. For example, suspense is an effective feature of stories to increase their tellability (Ochs & Capps, 2001; Wolf, 2003). Tellers of heroic epics in the western Mediterranean made them into dramatic performances to excite their audiences, thus making the tale more impactful (Scodel, 2004). Following this reflection, we shall look back to the rock art fighting scenes showing the moment before a strike was landed (Fig. 6). This is the moment of highest suspense because the outcome of the action is uncertain. Will the strike land? Will the protagonist win? Or will the protagonist be killed, injured, or incapacitated? The so-called killing scenes, where it is often expected that the person killing is the protagonist, may have served a similar purpose. However, there is no method of telling which figure represents the protagonist. In Brastad 319, a phallic warrior was stabbed in the back by a smaller non-phallic warrior (Fig. 6). Although it may not have been above a cunning protagonist to employ such underhanded tactics and defeat an antagonist, the victim of the violent act was larger and phallic, and therefore, could have been the main character. Thus, this scene could be interpreted the other way around. Furthermore, receiving a spear blow to the back does not necessarily mean death as the man from Over Vindinge shows (Kjær, 1912). There are enough stories where the hero overcomes severe injuries or is miraculously saved (See for example Neal, 2006). It is also important to remember that classical antiquity heroes were not self-made men but favoured by various gods. Deus ex Machina moments or godly interventions on behalf of the heroes were quite common in situations where they seemed lost (Kearns, 2004). The very point of these depictions on the Scandinavian bedrock panels may have been to preserve an element of surprise by not giving the entire story away. The possibilities are endless before the tale is finished, thus heightening the suspense and increasing the tellability of a story. Although the listeners knew the oral narrative, the images may have reminded them of the most breath-taking moments or, upon hearing the story repeatedly, inspired the suspension of disbelief, i.e. ignoring their knowledge of the outcome to be surprised by it again. If rock art indeed served to tell stories, then images illustrating moments of uncertainty would increase their tellability. In that case, the frequent focus on few humans may indicate that these were outstanding individuals. In this scenario, it seems unlikely that the protagonists were unnamed ancestors or anonymous props. Rock art may have helped keep stories fresh in the audience’s memory and pass them on by illustrating the most exciting moments. Thus, it may be possible that some rock art images depicted heroes (and villains).

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

139

Those Forgotten, Those Remembered It is a truism that not everyone can be a hero. Heroic tales tend to focus on very few people while most of those taking part in wars tend to fade into the background. Homeric epics, for example, focused on specific individuals, while contemporary societies were engaged in warfare that included larger groups (Osborne, 2004). Warfare, conflict, combat, and violence were perhaps regular occurrences during the NBA and maybe even seasonal activities (Horn, 2013, 2016b). If this is the case, then it is possible that tens of thousands of people took part in fighting and raiding throughout the entire Bronze Age (Horn, 2016b; Ling et al., 2018b). This means that being part of a raid was not extraordinary, nor was dying or surviving such ventures. It has been estimated that during the Early Bronze Age in Denmark (between c. 1500 and 1100 BC), approximately 50,000 barrows were built (Bunnefeld, 2018; Horn & Kristiansen, 2018; Kristiansen, 2018). These demographic reconstructions indicate that not everyone was adequately buried, as is confirmed by the massacre in Sund, Norway (Bunnefeld, 2018; Fyllingen, 2003). The hundreds dying in the Tollense valley in north-eastern Germany did not receive a burial, suggesting that they had no special status before or after the battle. Furthermore, this seems to indicate that a percentage of those missing in the graves could have died on battlefields, where they remained. From the Danish barrows c. 2000 swords have been recovered (Bunnefeld, 2018). Male and female gender were differentiated in burials through material expressions but not as an absolute dichotomy (Horn, 2018b; Ille, 1991; Steffgen, 1997/98; Felding et al., 2020), the presence of swords could indicate their focal role in the construction of maleness or male warriors. However, it also means that not all males received a sword even when buried. For example, the man from Over Vindinge received a regular burial but was not marked out as a warrior by an accompanying weapon. This suggests two things: Firstly, not everyone was worthy of being buried, and secondly, not everyone was elevated to the warrior status even though having participated in combat. In contrast, it means that those buried as warriors were seen as very special. As battle occurred on a regular basis the persons celebrated as warriors most likely had some relationship with violent conflict. Whether the posthumous elevation to warrior status was bestowed through the participation in actual combat or the organisation of violent endeavours is secondary in this case. As we have seen, rock art also shows some figures that were “elevated”, by their larger size, over-emphasised bodily features, the presence of a phallus, and their weaponry which is sometimes oversized (Malmer, 1981; Nordbladh, 1989). Such images have been interpreted occasionally as gods (cf. Goldhahn & Ling, 2013; Kaul, 2004; Kristiansen, 2014). It is possible that some recurring normative features, like swords or exaggerated calves, represent godly attributes. However, feature combinations are too divers to signify specific deities. Furthermore, rock art as a medium being out in the open in Scandinavia would have been inherently hard to control by any religious authority, and depictions’ access and production could not be regulated, which an organised religious belief in a god would require (Earle,

140

C. Horn

2013). The frequent physical re-engagements and modifications may also speak against canonised deities because humanoids, boats, animals, and other objects were treated alike (Bengtsson, 2004; Hauptman Wahlgren, 2002, 2004; Horn, 2016a). In contrast to the highly detailed warrior images, most figures were not phallic (76%) and not depicted with weaponry (66%) (Horn, 2017). Most human figures were reduced to a simple line as part of the crew aboard the many boat carvings2 (Ling, 2008). These simpler figures occur alongside more articulated warriors, for example, in Finntorp (89), Fossum (255), Vitlycke (1), and many other places. Perhaps these reduced humans reflect those unburied or buried without grave goods, i.e. without special status, representing the Bronze Age average population. These observations would further support the notion that rock art depicts heroic tales. Like in the classic heroic epics, the imagery emphasises elevated characters while occasionally referencing the faceless masses. This is important because heroes can only be perceived as extraordinary compared to the average person (Allison & Goethals, 2016; Franco et al., 2011; Goethals & Allison, 2012). Thus, the relatively simple human representations in rock art may have served as the contemporary background for those considered heroes by Bronze Age society. Therefore, it is suggested that the unarticulated figures, especially boat crews, were the forgotten masses at places that memorialised the deeds of heroes.

Conclusion Evidence that images in Scandinavian rock art embodied the memory of heroes and helped to illustrate heroic tales may require further proof, however they certainly could have done so. Therefore, some suggestions about the social functioning of the memories of heroes and heroic tales can be made. Jamie Lannister’s words that give this article its title may point to a deeper truth about heroes: To excel, heroes require masses deserving to be forgotten. The crew strokes perhaps represented these forgotten masses; people with mediocre characteristics and skills that formed the backdrop against which heroes’ outstanding characteristics and abilities were contrasted. Heroes rarely made themselves; instead, they are often elevated posthumously by a society that emphasises gestures and characteristics reflecting its own social ideals. Herein lies a function of recalling heroes and their tales—and perhaps of rock art—, as these show desirable characteristics; something that members of society who share some aspects of the hero’s identity (i.e. being male, being a warrior, or being a seafarer) should emulate to heighten their own status to achieve the same kind of veneration. Thus, the memory of heroes, their stories, and images reinforce social ideals. The largely unrestricted access to rock art sites discussed here would have ensured that the images served the reiteration of heroic tales and the memory of

 These were not included in the database.

2

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

141

heroes even without formalised gatherings or rituals. Nonetheless, social ideals transform over time, and thus, inevitably, the memory of heroes may have also changed, ranging from subtle amendments to vilification or damnation to oblivion (Allison & Goethals, 2016; Goethals & Allison, 2012). These social transformations could have led to retroactively changing images. If that is the case, then the re-engagements with rock art during the NBA may hint at subtle changes rather than large-scale alterations. Excelling at violence, bloodshed, warfare, and seafaring remained characteristics through which high status and prestige could be gained throughout the entire Bronze Age of Scandinavia. Acknowledgements  This work is partially funded by Riksbankens Jubileumsfund (IN18-0557:1) and the Swedish Research Council (2018-01387 and 2020-01097). I am indebted to the Swedish Rock Art Research Archives and the County Administrative Board for Västra Götaland for supplying material to this study. I thank Johan Ling, Richard Bradley, Marta Guardamino-Díaz, Ulf Bertilsson, Rich Potter, and Gustav Wollentz for their help and discussions that shaped this contribution. Furthermore, I extend my thanks to Leslie F. Zubieta Calvert for the invitation to share my thoughts in this volume and the anonymous reviewers for their helpful comments. All errors are my sole responsibility.

References Allison, S. T. (2015). The initiation of heroism science. Heroism Science, 1, 1–8. Allison, S. T., & Goethals, G. R. (2016). Hero worship: The elevation of the human spirit. Journal for the Theory of Social Behaviour, 46(2), 187–210. https://doi.org/10.1111/jtsb.12094 Antonaccio, C. M. (1995). An archaeology of ancestors: Tomb cult and hero cult in early Greece. Rowman & Littlefield. Badou, E. (1960). Die regionale und chronologische Einteilung der jüngeren Bronzezeit im Nordischen Kreis. Almqvist & Wiksell. Bengtsson, L. (2004). Bilder vid vatten (GOTARC.  Serie C, Arkeologiska skrifter: Vol. 51). Gothenburg, Institutionen för arkeologi, universitet. Bertilsson, U. (2015). Examples of application of modern digital techniques and methods: Structure for motion (SfM) and multi-view stereo (MvS) for three-dimensional documentation of rock carvings in Tanum creating new opportunities for interpretation and dating. In F. Troletti (Ed.), Prospects for prehistoric rock art research: XXVI Valcamonica symposium (pp. 57–62). Centro Camuno di Studi Preistorici. Bertilsson, U. (2018). “In the beginning there was the spear”: Digital documentation sheds new light on early bronze age spear carvings from Sweden. In A. Dolfini, R. J. Crellin, C. Horn, & M.  Uckelmann (Eds.), Prehistoric warfare and violence: Quantitative and qualitative approaches (pp. 129–148). Springer. Bradley, R. (2002). The past in prehistoric societies. Routledge. Brinker, U., Flohr, S., Hauenstein, K., Piek, J., Mittlmeier, T., & Orschiedt, J. (2014). Die menschlichen Skelettreste aus dem Tollensetal: Ein Vorbericht. In D. Jantzen, J. Orschiedt, J. Piek, & T.  Terberger (Eds.), Beiträge zur Ur- und Frühgeschichte Mecklenburg-Vorpommerns: Vol. 50. Tod im Tollensetal: Forschungen zu den Hinterlassenschaften eines bronzezeitlichen Gewaltkonfliktes in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern (pp.  191–208). Landesamt für Kultur und Denkmalpflege Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. Brinker, U., Schramm, A., Jantzen, D., Piek, J., Hauenstein, K., & Orschiedt, J. (2016). The Bronze Age battlefield in the Tollense Valley, Mecklenburg-Western Pomerania, Northeast Germany:

142

C. Horn

Combat marks on human bones as evidence of early warrior societies in northern Middle Europe? In F. Coimbra, D. Delfino, V. Sîrbu, & C. Schuster (Eds.), Late prehistory and protohistory: Bronze Age and Iron Age: Proceedings of the XVII UISPP world congress (1–7 September 2014, Burgos, Spain). Volume 9, Sessions A3c and A16a (pp. 39–56). Archaeopress. Bunnefeld, J.-H. (2018). The chief and his sword? Some thoughts on the swordbearer’s rank in the Early Nordic Bronze Age. In C. Horn & K. Kristiansen (Eds.), Warfare in Bronze Age society (pp. 198–212). Cambridge University Press. Burton, J. (1993). Why the ancient Greeks were obsessed with heroes and the ancient Egyptians were not. The Classical Bulletin, 69(1), 21–34. Clarke, M. (2004). Manhood and heroism. In R. L. Fowler (Ed.), Cambridge companions to literature. The Cambridge companion to Homer (pp. 74–90). Cambridge University Press. Connerton, P. (2010). How societies remember (Themes in the social sciences) (18th ed.). Cambridge University Press. Dalley, S. (2008). Myths from Mesopotamia: Creation, the flood, Gilgamesh, and others (Oxford world’s classics) (Revised ed.). Oxford University Press. Earle, T. (2013). The 3M: Materiality, materialism and materialization. In S.  Sabatini & S. Bergerbrant (Eds.), Counterpoint. Essays in archaeology and heritage studies in honour of Professor Kristian Kristiansen. BAR International Series 2508 (pp. 353–360). Archaeopress. Fari, C. H. (2003). Hieros-Gamos: Helleristningstradisjon og myteverdenen i det østlige middelhavsområdet. Oslo Arkeologiske Serie, 5, 195–353. Felding, L., Reiter, S. S., Frei, K. M., & Vandkilde, H. (2020). Male social roles and mobility in the Early Nordic Bronze Age: A perspective from SE Jutland. Danish Journal of Archaeology, 9, 1–16. Franco, Z. E., Blau, K., & Zimbardo, P. G. (2011). Heroism: A conceptual analysis and differentiation between heroic action and altruism. Review of General Psychology, 15(2), 99–113. Fredell, Å. (2006). The Pangs in Askum? An example of storytelling by rock pictures and their possible link to a known story. In M. V. García Quintela, F. J. González García, & F. Criado Boado (Eds.), Archaeolingua: Vol. 20. Anthropology of the Indo-European world and material culture: Proceedings of the 5th international colloquium of anthropology of the Indo-European world and comparative mythology (pp. 121–138). Archaeolingua. Fyllingen, H. (2003). Society and violence in the Early Bronze Age: An analysis of human skeletons from Nord-Trøndelag, Norway. Norwegian Archaeological Review, 36(1), 27–43. https:// doi.org/10.1080/00293650307297 Fyllingen, H. (2006). Society and the structure of violence: A story told by Middle Bronze Age human remains from central Norway. In T. Otto, H. Thrane, & H. Vandkilde (Eds.), Warfare and society: Archaeological and social anthropological perspectives (pp.  319–329). Aarhus University Press. Gardner, J., & Maier, J.  R. (1985). Gilgamesh: Translated from the Sīn-leqi-unninnī version. Vintage Books. Goethals, G. R., & Allison, S. T. (2012). Making heroes: The construction of courage, competence, and virtue. Advances in Experimental Social Psychology, 46, 183. Goldhahn, J., & Ling, J. (2013). Bronze age rock art in northern Europe: Contexts and interpretations. In H. Fokkens & A. F. Harding (Eds.), Oxford handbooks. The Oxford handbook of the European Bronze Age (pp. 270–290). Oxford University Press. Hansen, S. (2014a). Der Held in historischer Perspektive. In T. Link & H. Peter-Röcher (Eds.), Universitätsforschungen zur Prähistorischen Archäologie: Vol. 259. Gewalt und Gesellschaft: Dimensionen der Gewalt in ur- und frühgeschichtlicher Zeit; internationale Tagung an der Julius-Maximilians-Universität Würzburg 14.  – 16. März 2013 = Violence and society (pp. 159–167). Bonn. Hansen, S. (2014b). Traditionen des Helden. Archäologie in Niedersachsen, 17, 30–34. Harding, A. F. (2007). Warriors and weapons in Bronze Age Europe. Archaeolingua. Harding, A. (2018). Bronze Age encounters: Peaceful or violent? In C.  Horn & K.  Kristiansen (Eds.), Warfare in Bronze Age society (pp. 16–22). Cambridge University Press.

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

143

Harrison, R.  J. (2004). Symbols and warriors: Images of the European Bronze Age. Western Academic & Specialist Press. Hauptman Wahlgren, K. (2002). Bilder av betydelse: Hällristningar och bronsålderslandskap i nordöstra Östergötland (Stockholm studies in archaeology: Vol. 23). Bricoleur Press. Hauptman Wahlgren, K. (2004). Switching images on and off: Rock carving practices and meaning in Bronze Age life-world. In G.  Milstreu & L.  Bengtsson (Eds.), Prehistoric pictures as archaeological source: [symposium … at Tanums Hällristningsmuseum in 2002] = Förhistoriska bilder som arkeologisk källa (GOTARC Serie C, Arkeologiska skrifter: Vol. 50) (pp. 149–165). Tanums Hällristningsmuseum. Henige, D. P. (1974). The chronology of oral tradition: Quest for a chimera. Greenwood Press. Holck, P. (1987). Kråkerøy  – Et gammelt kriminalmysterium? Borgarsyssel Museums Årbok, 2, 31–42. Horn, C. (2013). Weapons, fighters and combat: Spears and swords in Early Bronze Age Scandinavia. Danish Journal of Archaeology, 2(1), 20–44. https://doi.org/10.1080/2166228 2.2013.838832 Horn, C. (2016a). Cupmarks. Adoranten, 2015, 29–43. Horn, C. (2016b). Nothing to lose: Waterborne raiding in southern Scandinavia. In H. Glørstad, A. Z. Tsigaridas Glørstad, & L. Melheim (Eds.), Interdisciplinary perspectives on past colonisation, maritime interaction and cultural integration (pp. 109–127). Equinox. Horn, C. (2017). ‘It’s a man’s world’? Sex and gender in Scandinavian Bronze Age rock art. In S. Bergerbrant & A. Wessman (Eds.), New perspectives on the Bronze Age: Proceedings of the 13th Nordic Bronze Age Symposium held in Gothenburg 9th to 13th June 2015 (pp. 237–252). Archaeopress. Horn, C. (2018a). Die by the sword… or the spear? Early bronze weapons in Scandinavia. In M.  Fernández-Götz & N.  Roymans (Eds.), Themes in contemporary archaeology. Conflict archaeology: Materials of collective violence from prehistory to late antiquity (pp.  51–60). Routledge. Horn, C. (2018b). Fast like a war canoe: Pragmamorphism in Scandinavian rock art. In A. Dolfini, R. J. Crellin, C. Horn, & M. Uckelmann (Eds.), Prehistoric warfare and violence: Quantitative and qualitative approaches (pp. 109–127). Springer. Horn, C. (2019). Showmen and fighters: Bronze Age rock art and weaponry in Scandinavia. In S.  Hansen & R.  Krause (Eds.), Universitätsforschungen zur Prähistorischen Archäologie: Vol. 346. Materialisierung von Konflikten/Materialisation of Conflicts: Beiträge der Dritten Internationalen LOEWE-Konferenz vom 24. bis 27. September 2018 in Fulda/Proceedings of the Third International LOEWE Conference, 24–27 September 2018 in Fulda (pp. 45–65). Bonn. Horn, C., & Karck, T. (2019). Weapon and tool use during the Nordic Bronze Age. Danish Journal of Archaeology, 8, 1–20. https://doi.org/10.7146/dja.v8i0.111834 Horn, C., & Kristiansen, K. (2018). Introducing Bronze Age warfare. In C. Horn & K. Kristiansen (Eds.), Warfare in Bronze Age society (pp. 1–15). Cambridge University Press. Horn, C., & Potter, R. (2018). Transforming the rocks – Time and rock art in Bohuslän, Sweden. European Journal of Archaeology, 21(03), 361–384. https://doi.org/10.1017/eaa.2017.38 Horn, C., & Potter, R. (2019). A new documentation of “Runohällen” (Gerum, Tanum). Fornvännen, 114(3), 129–141. Horn, C., & Wollentz, G. (2019). Who is in charge here? Material culture, landscapes, and symmetry. In A. Haug, L. Käppel, & J. Müller (Eds.), Human development in landscapes. Past landscapes: The dynamics of interaction between society, landscape, and culture (pp. 107–129). Sidestone Press. Horn, C., Pitman, D., & Potter, R. (2019). An evaluation of the visualisation and interpretive potential of applying GIS data processing techniques to 3D rock art data. Journal of Archaeological Science: Reports, 27, 101971. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jasrep.2019.101971 Ille, P. (1991). Totenbrauchtum in der älteren Bronzezeit auf den dänischen Inseln (Internationale Archäologie: Vol. 2). Leidorf. Kaul, F. (1998). Ships on bronzes: A study in Bronze Age religion and iconography (Publications from the National Museum. Studies in archaeology & history: Vol. 3). National Museum of Denmark.

144

C. Horn

Kaul, F. (2004). Bronzealderens religion: Studier af den nordiske bronzealders ikonografi. Det Kongelige Nordiske Oldskriftselskab. Kearns, E. (2004). The gods in the Homeric epics. In R. L. Fowler (Ed.), Cambridge companions to literature. The Cambridge companion to Homer (pp. 59–73). Cambridge University Press. Keczer, Z., File, B., Orosz, G., & Zimbardo, P. G. (2016). Social representations of hero and everyday hero: A network study from representative samples. PLoS One, 11(8), e0159354. https:// doi.org/10.1371/journal.pone.0159354 Kjær, H. (1912). Et mærkeligt arkæologisk-antropologisk Fund fra Stenalderen. Aarbøger for Nordisk Oldkyndighed Og Historie, 2, 58–72. Kohen, A. (2013). Untangling heroism: Classical philosophy and the concept of the hero. Routledge innovations in political theory. Routledge. Kristiansen, K. (1984). Krieger und Häuptlinge in der Bronzezeit Dänemarks. Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des bronzezeitlichen Schwertes. Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz, 31, 187–208. Kristiansen, K. (2001). Rulers and warriors: Symbolic transmission and social transformation in Bronze Age Europe. In J. Haas (Ed.), Fundamental issues in archaeology. From leaders to rulers (pp. 85–104). Springer. Kristiansen, K. (2002). The tale of the sword–swords and swordfighters in Bronze Age Europe. Oxford Journal of Archeology, 21(4), 319–332. Kristiansen, K. (2014). Religion and society in the Bronze Age. In L. B. Christensen, O. Hammer, & D. A. Warburton (Eds.), European history of religions. The handbook of religions in ancient Europe (pp. 77–92). Routledge. Kristiansen, K. (2018). Warfare and the political economy: Europe 1500-1100 BC. In C. Horn & K. Kristiansen (Eds.), Warfare in Bronze Age society (pp. 23–46). Cambridge University Press. Kristiansen, K., & Larsson, T. B. (2005). The rise of Bronze Age society: Travels, transmissions and transformations. In Cambridge. Press. Levy, J.  E. (2010). Memory, landscape and body in Bronze Age Denmark. In K.  T. Lillios & V. Tsamis (Eds.), Material mnemonics: Everyday memory in prehistoric Europe (pp. 123–146). Oxbow Books. Lidke, G., & Piek, J. (1999). Manipulationsspuren an menschlichen Schädelresten des Neolithikums in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. Jahrbuch der Bodendenkmalpflege in Mecklenburg-­ Vorpommern, 46, 45–91. Ling, J. (2008). Elevated rock art. Towards a maritime understanding of Bronze Age rock art in northern Bohuslän, Sweden. SOLANA. Ling, J., & Bertilsson, U. (2017). Biography of the Fossum Panel. Adoranten, 2016, 58–72. Ling, J., & Cornell, P. (2017). Violence, warriors, and rock art in Bronze Age Scandinavia. In R. J. Chacon & R. G. Mendoza (Eds.), Studies in human ecology and adaptation. Feast, famine or fighting? (Vol. 8, pp. 15–33). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-­3-­319-­48402-­0_2 Ling, J., & Toreld, A. (2018). Maritime warfare in Scandinavian rock art. In C.  Horn & K. Kristiansen (Eds.), Warfare in Bronze Age society (pp. 61–80). Cambridge University Press. Ling, J., Chacon, R. J., & Chacon, Y. (2018a). Rock art, secret societies, long-distance exchange, and warfare in Bronze Age Scandinavia. In A. Dolfini, R. J. Crellin, C. Horn, & M. Uckelmann (Eds.), Prehistoric warfare and violence: Quantitative and qualitative approaches (pp. 149–174). Springer. Ling, J., Earle, T., & Kristiansen, K. (2018b). Maritime mode of production: Raiding and trading in seafaring chiefdoms. Current Anthropology, 59(5), 488–524. https://doi.org/10.1086/699613 Malmer, M.  P. (1981). A chorological study of North European rock art. Kungl, vitterhets historie och antikvitetsakademiens handlingar (Antikvariska serien 32). Almqvist & Wiksell International. McDonald, J., & Veth, P. (2013). The archaeology of memory: The recursive relationship of Martu rock art and place. Anthropological Forum, 23(4), 367–386. https://doi.org/10.1080/0066467 7.2013.843444

Most Deserve to Be Forgotten – Could the Southern Scandinavian Rock Art…

145

Neal, T. (2006). The wounded hero: Non-fatal injury in Homer’s Iliad (Sapheneia: Vol. 11). Peter Lang. Nimura, C. (2015). Prehistoric rock art in Scandinavia: Agency and environmental change. (Swedish rock art series: Vol. 4). Oxbow Books. Nora, P. (1989). Between memory and history: Les lieux de mémoire. Representations, 26, 7–24. Nora, P. (1996). Realms of memory: Rethinking the French past. (L. Kritzman, Ed., A. Goldhammer, Trans.; European perspectives, Vol. 1–3). Columbia University Press. Nordbladh, J. (1989). Armour and fighting in the south Scandinavian Bronze Age, especially in view of rock art representations. In T. B. Larsson & H. Lundmark (Eds.), Approaches to Swedish prehistory: A spectrum of problems and perspectives in contemporary research (BAR international series: Vol. 500) (pp. 323–333). Archaeopress. Ochs, E., & Capps, L. (2001). Living narrative: Creating lives in everyday storytelling. Harvard Univ. Press. Oldeberg, A. (1976). Die ältere Metallzeit in Schweden II. Almqvist & Wiksell. Osborne, R. (2004). Homer’s society. In R. L. Fowler (Ed.), Cambridge companions to literature. The Cambridge companion to Homer (pp. 206–219). Cambridge University Press. Popa-Blanariu, N. (2016). The heroic epic, a case of literary inheritance: (Inter)cultural intermediation and Eurasian continuity. Philologica Jassyensia, 12(2), 147–158. Ranta, M. (2016). Do rock carvings tell stories? Aspects of narrativity in Scandinavian Bronze Age petroglyphs. In Proceedings of ICA 2016: Aesthetics and mass culture: [20th international congress of aesthetics, Seoul National University, Seoul, Korea, 24-26 July, 2016] (pp. 523–531). Seoul National University. Ranta, M., Skoglund, P., Rédei, A. C., & Persson, T. (2019). Levels of narrativity in Scandinavian bronze age petroglyphs. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 65, 1–20. https://doi.org/10.1017/ S0959774319000118 Renger, J. (2006). Gilgamesch, Gilgamesch-Epos. In H.  Cancik, H.  Schneider, & M.  Landfester (Eds.), Der Neue Pauly (pp.  5:852–5:853). Brill. https://doi. org/10.1163/1574-­9347_dnp_e42448002 Rowlands, M. (1993). The role of memory in the transmission of culture. World Archaeology, 25(2), 141–151. Scodel, R. (2004). The story-teller and his audience. In R. L. Fowler (Ed.), Cambridge companions to literature. The Cambridge companion to Homer (pp. 45–55). Cambridge University Press. Snodgrass, A. (1997). Homer and Greek art. In I. Morris & B. B. Powell (Eds.), A new companion to Homer (pp. 560–597). Brill. Speidel, K. (2013). Can a single still picture tell a story? Definitions of narrative and the alleged problem of time with single still pictures. Diegesis, 2(1), 173–194. Steffgen, U. (1997/98). Die Gräber der frühen und älteren Bronzezeit in Schleswig-Holstein und Dänemark: Studien zu Grabbau und Grabeinrichtung. Offa, 54/55, 97–219. Toreld, A. (2012). Svärd och mord: Nyupptäckta hällristningsmotiv vid Medbo i Brastad socken, Bohuslän. Fornvännen, 107, 241–252. Vandkilde, H. (2011). Bronze Age warfare in temperate Europe. Archäologie in Eurasien, 24, 365–380. Vansina, J. (1985). Oral tradition as history. University of Wisconsin Press. Wertsch, J. V. (2002). Voices of collective remembering. Cambridge University Press. Whitley, J. (1994). The monuments that stood before marathon: Tomb cult and hero cult in archaic Attica. American Journal of Archaeology, 98(2), 213–230. https://doi.org/10.2307/506636 Wolf, W. (2003). Narrative and narrativity: A narratological reconceptualization and its applicability to the visual arts. Word & Image, 19(3), 180–197. https://doi.org/10.1080/02666286.200 3.10406232 Zerubavel, E. (1996). Social memories: Steps to a sociology of the past. Qualitative Sociology, 19(3), 283–299.

146

C. Horn

Christian Horn is Associate Professor at the Department for Historical Studies at the University of Gothenburg. His scholarship focuses on Scandinavian rock art and prehistoric conflict. He is the current research coordinator of the Swedish Rock Art Research Archives as well as an advisory board member. Currently, he develops Artificial Intelligence approaches to rock art and models local Nordic Bronze Age societies in projects funded by Riksbankens Jubileumsfond (Sweden) and the Swedish Research Council. This project conducts fieldwork at UNESCO world heritage site Tanum documenting rock art in 3D.  He recently co-edited the volume Places of Memory. Spatialised Practices of Remembrance from Prehistory to Today published by Archaeopress, which explores the entanglement of landscapes and memory through case studies from Neolithic ritual depositions to the archaeology of reclaiming memories in our own time.  

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia Sue O’Connor, Jane Balme, Mona Oscar, June Oscar, Selina Middleton, Rory Williams, Jimmy Shandley, Robin Dann, Kevin Dann, Ursula K. Frederick, and Melissa Marshall

Introduction The rock art of Australia is widespread and extremely diverse in style, technique and in the motifs used. Some of the most visually powerful art is found painted on the walls of caves and shelters in the region of northwest Australia known as the Kimberley (Fig. 1). Wandjina (or Wanjina) figures are perhaps the most iconic art of this area and, because they are regarded as prepossessing in an aesthetic sense, they are widely reproduced in both scholarly and non-academic publications (Akerman, 2016; Donaldson, 2012a, b, 2013; Doring, 2000; Mangolamara et  al., 2018; Morwood et al., 2010, p. 5; Mowaljarlai & Malnic, 2001). To date, most research on Kimberley rock art has been concerned with answering the question “how did this The authors wish to advise that this chapter contains the names of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people now deceased. S. O’Connor (*) Department of Archaeology and Natural History, College of Asia and the Pacific, The Australian National University, New Acton, ACT, Australia ARC Centre of Excellence for Australian Biodiversity and Heritage, The Australian National University, New Acton, ACT, Australia e-mail: [email protected] J. Balme Archaeology M257, School of Social Sciences, University of Western Australia, Crawley, WA, Australia M. Oscar · J. Oscar · S. Middleton · R. Williams Bunuba Dawangarri Aboriginal Corporation, Fitzroy Crossing, WA, Australia J. Shandley Gooniyandi Aboriginal Corporation, Fitzroy Crossing, WA, Australia R. Dann · K. Dann Wilinggin Aboriginal Corporation, Derby, WA, Australia © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_7

147

148

S. O’Connor et al.

Fig. 1  Map of the Kimberley region of Western Australia showing the area of Wandjina distribution

thing get to be here” (Gell, 1998, p.  67), through the documentation of ‘styles’, range and distribution of motifs, sequences and relative chronology, and absolute chronology, in much the same way as stone artefacts or other items of material culture are studied. However, in recent years, there has been an attempt to move away from these approaches to embrace one that attempts to explore the sociality of the rock art and engage with the views of the Traditional Owners of the Kimberley who see the art very differently. Here we concentrate on an aspect of Wandjina art, the role of re-marking of existing images, and how this connects the participants to a broader ontology in which the images form parts of interconnected narratives describing the actions of the Wandjinas and other creative Beings which shaped the landscape. We link this through discussion and illustration to a number of other types of Kimberley rock ‘art’, such as images and marks made by drawing, scratching and pecking, in which

U. K. Frederick ARC Centre of Excellence for Australian Biodiversity and Heritage, The Australian National University, New Acton, ACT, Australia Centre for Creative and Cultural Research, University of Canberra, Canberra, Australia M. Marshall Nulungu Research Institute, University of Notre Dame Australia, Broome, WA, Australia

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

149

the act of doing the marking is also likely to have been important. These forms of Kimberley rock art have been largely overlooked in rock art studies of this region. This may be because, unlike the Wandjina figures, they are not visually engaging, easy to categorise or even easy to identify in the first place. In the case of the fine scratchwork, for example, form and line are extremely difficult to discern without the use of enhancement techniques such as D-stretch and Photoshop. In other parts of Australia, similar modes of gestural marking have been noted, but rarely discussed in detail, and on the whole, researchers have found it difficult to integrate such practices into regional rock art discussions. Perhaps this is a result of an ocular bias within rock art studies (e.g., Ouzman, 2001) or the innate tendency for archaeology to concentrate on the artefact or trace of activity, rather than the behaviour itself. While these unobtrusive images may appear cursory, incidental or subtle in their presence, we suggest this may be because what was important was the act of image marking, rather than the visual end-product. Through the action of marking the narrative was remembered and revitalised.

Wandjinas in Kimberley Art Wandjinas are represented in rock art across a large area of the Kimberley region (Fig. 1). They are often found in prominent places in the landscape indicating that their images are public and for all to see. Wandjinas are central to many Kimberley groups’ contemporary beliefs and practices, and their images in rock art are still re-­ painted or re-marked in caves in some parts of the Kimberley (Blundell & Woolagoodja, 2005). As well as painted images, Wandjinas occur as drawn, scratched and incised images, and as raised figures made through the application of beeswax (Akerman, 2016; Doring, 2000; Frederick & O’Connor, 2009; Morwood et  al., 2010; Mowaljarlai & Malnic, 2001; O’Connor et al., 2013). They have also been recorded on other media such as incised onto boab trees, painted and drawn on bark and, more recently, by present-day Kimberley artists on a variety of media including canvas, board, paper, emu eggs, boab nuts and in digital forms. The oldest known direct date for a rock art Wandjina representation derives from a beeswax image which produced a radiocarbon date of about 4000  cal BP (3780  ±  60 OZC434) (Morwood et al., 2010). Wandjinas are cultural hero Beings whose travels, battles and interaction with various other ancestral Beings ‘formed the country’, in the sense of the natural landscape and all that it contains. Wandjinas gave people an ordered social life with different clan and skin groups and the laws and customs that connect them (Blundell & Woolagoodja, 2005, p.  32; Vigilante et  al., 2013). Wandjinas have their own names, and different Wandjinas are linked to different clans, activities and creation narratives, for which there is a voluminous literature (e.g., Akerman, 2016, and references therein; Blundell & Woolagoodja, 2005; Crawford, 1968; Lommel, 1952; Love, 1936/2009; Mowaljarlai & Malnic, 2001; Porr, 2018; Utemara &

150

S. O’Connor et al.

Vinnicombe, 1992; Vigilante et  al., 2013). Mowaljarlai (Mowaljarlai & Malnic, 2001) describes the complex cultural narratives associated with the varying depictions of Wandjinas throughout the Kimberley. Wandjinas also manifest as features of the landscape and seascape and appear in the sky in the shape of the Milky Way (Vigilante et al., 2013). In parts of the coastal Kimberley, Kaiara are regarded as amongst the suite of Beings which include sea Wandjinas, that originated from the sea (Crawford, 1968; Vigilante et al., 2013). Wandjinas in art may be male or female, and small Wandjinas associated with larger ones have been interpreted as Wandjina children (Akerman, 2016) (Fig. 2a). Wandjinas vary in their detail but are always depicted front on, and are recognizable by their large eyes and lack of a mouth. They often have noses that may be bulbous, rectangular or a simple marked line. They usually have halo-like headdresses, often with radiating lines (Fig. 2a–d). Akerman (2016, p. 2) describes three main forms of

Fig. 2 (a): Wandjina and other spirit Beings in Ngumbri Cave 1975 (Photo Kim Akerman, 2016; p. 70, Fig. 45, reproduced courtesy of Hesperian Press). The large Being at the top of the panel was identified to Kim as Mututpata, while the Wandjina at the far left was identified as Namarali, the son of Mututpata. The fish were identified as individual named groper and barramundi Beings who feature in a creative narrative; (b): Barralama (also known as Carpenter’s Gap 1) (Photo Jane Fyfe). This male Wandjina has been re-marked using charcoal drawn lines to outline the figure and emphasise the breastplate, genitals and some internal features; (c) Detail of small Wandjina faces at Saddlers Springs, Iminji (photo by Kim Akerman, Akerman, 2016; p. 24, Fig. 20, reproduced courtesy of Hesperian Press); (d) Wandjinas with black cockatoo feathers painted in Otilyiyalyangngarri Cave, Mount Barnett. (Photo by Kim Akerman, Akerman, 2016; p. 1, Fig. 1, reproduced courtesy of Hesperian Press)

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

151

representation; as a face held within a simple arced or horseshoe-form head; head and shoulders with a breastbone/heart/pearl shell indicated, and a third form showing a complete Being with the torso, arms, legs, fingers and toes delineated (Fig. 2b). When the body is depicted, it often has an infill of stippling or stripes (Fig. 2b, d). Perhaps the most visually striking Wandjinas are those that are painted in thick coloured deep-hued pigments on a brilliant white background. Animals and plants painted in a similar manner are often referred to by researchers as being painted in the ‘Wandjina style’. Like the Wandjinas themselves, they are central to local groups’ contemporary cosmology and reference particular creation narratives or events. Unguud (aka Woongudd or Wunggurr) the Rainbow Serpent is frequently depicted in Wandjina style and like Wandjinas is associated with water and rain. Unguud have also been recorded as being the makers of Wandjina, or a different physical manifestation of Wandjina and are thought to transform from one form to another (Akerman, 2016, Appendix 4). Akerman (2016) defines the main ‘Wandjina Belt’ as encompassing the territories of the three largest language groups in the central and northern Kimberley, groups who describe themselves as the Wandjina Wunggurr people—the Worrorra, Wunambal and Ngarinyin (Ungarinyin)—although he notes that they extend in part into the territories of adjacent language groups (Akerman, 2016, p. 2, Map 1). Based on our own survey, we would say that Wandjina images also occur in Bunuba country in the Oscar and Napier Range of the south-central Kimberley (Fig. 1). In Gooniyandi country, which extends well east of Fitzroy Crossing, large anthropomorphs with rayed head-dresses also occur (Fig. 3a); and these types of creative Beings are also represented on Nyikina country further to the west (Marshall, 2020, p. 380). Playford describes those in Gooniyandi country as typical ‘old-style Wandjina’ (Playford, 2007, pp. 147–148, Fig. 8.35). As well as a prominent head-dress with radiating lines, these Wandjina-like figures often have two head adornments that look very similar to the red and black cockatoo feathers commonly shown as part of the Wandjina head-dress (e.g., Fig. 2d), and which are associated with the coming of the wet season and lightning (Akerman, 2009, p.  15; Elkin, 1948, p.  14; Mowaljarlai & Malnic, 2001, p.  181). Such figures may be regarded as at one end of the continuum in a west to east cline depicting large anthropomorphic forms. In his book, Yorro Yorro, Mowaljarlai explains in detail the interconnected representations of the Wandjina Wunggur people and the responsibility of people to look after the Wandjinas by looking after the land (Mowaljarlai & Malnic, 2001, p. 184–185). One of the major roles of Wandjinas is associated with the continuation of life by ensuring the seasonal monsoon rainfall. The Kimberley region has a tropical monsoon climate divided into a dry season (May to October) and a wet season (November to April). Rainfall across the region varies markedly from northwest to southeast and is between ~1500–800 mm per annum (Bureau of Meteorology, 2016a). About 90% of the annual rainfall occurs during the wet season as cycles of heavy rain associated with thunder and lightning and is highly dependent on the northwest monsoon’s arrival. Temperatures are hottest in November just before the monsoon arrives, often

152 Fig. 3 (a) Large Wandjina-­like figures in Home Range east of Fitzroy Crossing. The darker red Wandjina has parallel scratchwork going across the body, and the right eye of this figure is partly formed by scratchwork; (b) the internal area of the Wandjina body showing intense meandering scratchwork into the pigment; (c) egg-shaped scratching, which may indicate the pearl shell breastplate of this Wandjina. Images b & c are enhanced using the DStretch plugin v. 8.41 (Harman, 2008) with the YRE colour enhancement. (Photos A, B and C Jimmy Shandley)

S. O’Connor et al.

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

153

climbing to over 40 °C in inland regions. During the dry season, daytime temperatures are in the high 20s to low 30s (Bureau of Meteorology, 2016b). In these climate conditions, the arrival of the monsoon is critical for the regeneration of plant and animal life. The highly seasonal rainfall drives the availability of resources for Aboriginal people and a late, or low, rainfall wet season can dramatically affect this pattern. The role that Wandjinas play in the monsoons is evident in the features of their image representations. Many of these are summarised in Akerman (2016, Appendices 1 & 2). Their rayed head-dresses and haloed heads represent the thunderbolts, lightning and rain-bearing clouds, and the stipples and lines on the body represent rain. Mowaljarlai (Mowaljarlai & Malnic, 2001) also explained in cultural terms, the relationship between Wandjinas and rain, and how as punishment for their cruel treatment of Dumby, the owl, the Wandjinas brought about unceasing rain that caused a catastrophic flood drowning his tormentors, the people: …all those Wandjinas rallied to the summons of the Big Burrawanda Wandjina, to whom the tortured Dumby had flown high into the heavens to complain. ‘You growl them,’ Dumby had told the illustrious gathering. Then the Wandjinas growled at Wanalirri, and it rained and rained, there was a great flood, and the mindless Wanalirri people tried to escape but they couldn’t, and they drowned (Mowaljarlai & Malnic, 2001, p. 101).

Art, Performance and Memory: Looking After the Wandjinas By ensuring the timely arrival of rain, Wandjinas are responsible for the continuation of life. However, in order to do this, they must be looked after. In Indigenous belief systems, the images of Wandjina on rock were not painted by humans. Instead, the Wandjinas transformed themselves into rock paintings when they died, and their spirit or power still resides in the images in the caves (Blundell & Woolagoodja, 2005; Crawford, 1968). Continuing interaction with the images serves as a reminder of their centrality and continuing presence in people’s spiritual lives (Blundell & Woolagoodja, 2005, p. 141). These interactions include physical actions, including re-painting, re-marking, talking and singing to the images and by other performative actions, such as dance. Re-painting/Re-freshing Images Re-painting or re-freshing Wandjina images is important to ensure that their presence is sustained and that the world remains fertile and animals and plants are abundant (Blundell & Woolagoodja, 2005, p. 32). Re-painting or re-marking may involve complete refreshment of a portion or whole image with new paint or varying the image somewhat by disregarding aspects of the original (Crawford, 1968).

154

S. O’Connor et al.

Historic records and the oral accounts of Indigenous peoples reveal further details about the motivations for such re-painting or re-marking practices, such as their role as mnemonics in the retelling of the creative narratives and in ensuring the arrival of the monsoon and regeneration of life. For example, Lommel (1952, p. 14) reports that in the 1930s, during re-painting, Unambal (Wunambal) men thought of themselves as Wandjinas, recounting that one man said that he was “going to refresh and re-invigorate myself, I am now repainting my self so that there will be rain” (M.  Porr, Trans.). Hence, the practices of re-painting and image-making may be regarded as important forms of both cultural and landscape maintenance. They are also a process in which inter-generational knowledge transmission is undertaken, what Morphy (1999, p. 13) refers to more generally as one of the ways “in which individuals are socialised into the Dreaming”. Keeping the Wandjinas happy is another often quoted reason for re-painting. For example, Yorna (Donny Woolagoodja), a Ngarinyin Elder, explains that re-painting is done out of mutual respect: “If you do not have respect, then the country will not give to the people and the Wandjina and Woongudd (Unguud) might send a bad cyclone” (Mangolamara et al., 2018, p. 48). Refreshing Wandjina images is a performative engagement with these Beings, and Indigenous people emphasise the importance of action rather than the resulting image. Banggal (David Mowaljarli (deceased)), a Ngarinyin Elder and a key figure in encouraging painting in the community explains the need to ‘learn the story’ told by the paintings and, through engagement with the images—in this case, dance— remember the responsibility to ‘look after’ country (Mowaljarlai et  al., 1988, p. 691). We have never thought of our rock-paintings as ‘Art’. To us they are IMAGES. IMAGES with ENERGIES that keep us ALIVE — EVERY PERSON, EVERYTHING WE STAND ON, ARE MADE FROM, EAT AND LIVE ON. Those IMAGES were put down for us by our Creator, Wandjina, so that we would know how to STAY ALIVE, make everything grow and CONTINUE what he gave to us in the first place. We should dance those images back into the ground in corroborees. That would make us learn the story, to put new life into those IMAGES. The message we read in our rock-paintings is like a bible written all over our country. In those images we read HOW THE CREATOR MADE NATURE FOR US and how he put us in charge TO LOOK AFTER IT ON HIS BEHALF.

Calling Out Akerman (2016, p. 36, summarising Crawford, 1973, p. 108–117) describes other responsibilities of humans to Wandjinas and the importance of remembering the name and creative events associated with particular Wandjinas. On approaching a cave, a warning is called out to the Wandjina that people are approaching, and introductions are made (e.g., Blundell & Woolagoodja, 2005, p.  136). For language groups across this extensive cultural landscape, this protocol is extremely important for the cultural safety of visitors in the presence of the Wandjinas (Marshall, 2020), as illustrated by Banggal when visiting the Wanalirri site in the 1980s film Milli

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

155

Milli (Barker & Roberts, 1993). Two of the authors (SO and JB) had direct experience of this type of interaction at a Wandjina cave in the Napier Range, known as Barralama (Carpenter’s Gap 3), with Bunuba elder, Dillon Andrews, who was taking a group of Yiramalay Wesley school children to see the paintings. Before we climbed up to the gallery, Dillon made a fire of special wood and using a sprig of eucalypt leaves he carefully wafted the smoke from the fire over each child in turn. Once in the cave, Dillon spoke to the Wandjina saying that he was bringing the children to see him and that we would do no harm. Dillon then drew the smoked eucalypt leaves across the face of the art. Wandjinas may also be placated or calmed by ‘singing rain songs and narrating appropriate Wandjina mythology at the beginning of the monsoon season’ (Blundell & Woolagoodja 2005, p.  136). Akerman (2016, p.  36) also recounts an occasion when a Wandjina was invoked to help humans which included ‘rubbing stones, on the walls of a Wandjina cave with another rock’. As such, re-painting and re-­marking Wandjina paintings, calling out, performing smoking ceremonies, performing junba (Marshall & Bunuba Dawangarri Aboriginal Corporation, 2020) and recounting the creative events associated with the Wandjina narratives, are all key to the memory and maintenance of social, cultural and cosmological connections, rather than ‘Art’. Cutting The action of cutting is one way in which people in the Kimberley physically interact with their surroundings. One of the most common markings on rock walls in the Kimberley region are series of incisions-sometimes grouped in pairs or other patterns (Fig. 4). This practice does not seem to occur today, and there are no records of their manufacture. Sometimes Aboriginal people suggest that the incisions might be used to ‘sharpen spears’ but, as they occur on both horizontal and vertical rock surfaces, and in patterned groupings, while plausible, this explanation may also be part of a larger cultural narrative of underlying meaning. An equally possible explanation that will be explored further here is that this is one form of interaction with their environment as a part of a broader ontology. These deep incisions are emulated in cicatrices or cuts to the body made with sharp stone flakes, which were done to create patterns of raised scars. This was a widespread cultural practice amongst Aboriginal societies. Love (1936/2009, pp. 154–158) recorded this process in the northwest Kimberley with the Worrora people. The cutting of cicatrices is also indicated on Wandjina images in the Kimberley. Yorna describes how the Wandjinas in the caves were sometimes scarified with sharp stone flakes by cutting into the chest area of the painting. The scratching is done with quartz crystals over and over. They are over painted and then scratched again. They do that when they paint over and over the image so that the Wandjina knows the people are looking after him. They have been doing this since the Wandjina put himself in country (Yorna in Mangolamara et al., 2018, p. 124).

156

S. O’Connor et al.

Fig. 4  Example of deep incisions in the rock which are sometimes parallel and sometimes arranged in patterned groups and which may reference the cicatrices made to the body of both men and women to mark particular passages of life. (Photo Jane Balme)

This action of cutting the Wandjina is usually done with a jaddngang or ‘glass stone’ which archaeologists would identify as crystal quartz. This is the stone they use when they want the Wandjina to wake up and work with the people to freshen the country and make rain for things to grow (Yorna in Mangolamara et al., 2018, p. 124).

Cicatrizing of the Wandjinas can thus be seen as another type of performative action mirroring and evoking the body modifications on humans and vice versa. Yorna’s explanation may cast light on the Wandjinas in Goonyandi country mentioned above (Fig. 3), and which were recorded by on a trip with author and elder Jimmy Shandley in 2013 to Home Range, east of Fitzroy Crossing. They are painted on the underside of a high, narrow rock ledge overlooking a waterhole fed by a freshwater spring. The roof is too low to stand under, and the painting and marking must have been done while lying down. For that reason, the images were also very difficult to photograph. The two figures are identified as Wandjinas by their large, round eyes, noses, lack of a mouth and rayed headdress (Fig. 3a). They are painted in different shades of red ochre and so may or may not have been painted at the same time. However, on both images, there is evidence of repeated interaction in the form of both re-painting and scratching. The scratchwork includes parallel lines, gridlines, circles, as well as curved and meandering lines within the painted body (Fig. 3). Figure 3b, c show areas of intense egg-shaped scratching, possibly indicating the breastplate or pearl shell of this Wandjina. In the same image it is possible

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

157

to see older scratchwork that has been later painted over, with newer scratch work incised into the surface of the fresh paint.

Performance in Other Southern Kimberley Art In addition to the painted Wandjina with body scratching described above, the south central Kimberley region has a range of motifs made using this scratchwork technique as well images made using dry application charcoal (O’Connor et al., 2013), and light pecking. They are contemporary with some Wandjina art but, lacking the visual command and apparent stylistic unity of Wandjina art, have received little attention from scholars. Yet as Figs.  3a–c clearly illustrate, these techniques are sometimes also used to engage with or re-mark Wandjina imagery. On other occasions they are used to outline or emphasise features of other painted motifs, or to show performative action such as the dances or corroborees to ‘learn’ the stories, as explained by Mowaljarlai (Mowaljarlai et al., 1988, p. 691). Scratchwork or Light Incision We have defined scratchwork, in the context of the Kimberley region, as marks and imagery made by the motion of scratching the surface of the limestone (O’Connor et al., 2013). Although fine, the incisions have been effective in removing the weathered grey surface of the limestone walls to expose the underlying white stone. Individually, scratches are exceptionally fine and shallow, suggesting that they were created by drawing a hard, sharp object, such as the edge of a stone flake, metal knife blade or piece of fencing wire, across the rock surface. The use of metal tools to create at least some of these images is consistent with information provided to one of the authors in 1993 (SO) by senior Bunuba Traditional Owners for this country Billy Oscar and William Leopold (now deceased) who worked as stockmen in the area (O’Connor et al., 2013). They described how images were made and re-­ marked in this manner when the demands of looking after and moving cattle precluded trips to acquire ochre. A similar explanation for the presence of scratching and dry pigment has been made in other parts of Australia (Frederick, 1997) and researchers have observed that many such markings appear to correspond to the colonial contact period (Frederick, 1999; Smith & Rosenfeld, 1992; Taçon, 2008). Thus scratchwork may also reveal the kind of innovative strategies and mechanisms Aboriginal people used as reminders of the creative narratives and to maintain cultural responsibilities in response to the changing realities of access to land and resources brought about by European settler-colonialism. In some cases, the scratchwork appears as simply a single fluid line tracing a shape or an existing painting while in other cases the surface has been repeatedly scratched to create a solid area of exposed surface. Examples of scratchwork art were identified at cave and shelter sites by SO and JB during successive field

158

S. O’Connor et al.

Fig. 5 (a) Stumpy’s Soak 1, Fine scratchwork anthropomorphs with conical head-dresses in a narrow cave on Brooking Springs Station (Photo Sue O’Connor); (b) The same image enhanced using Photoshop Adobe software to show the details of the figures more clearly (enhancement by Jane Fyfe)

seasons from 2011–2015  in the Oscar Napier Range. One example is Stumpy’s Soak 1 on Brooking Springs Station, where there is a small, narrow cave that contains many scratched motifs (Fig. 5). The senior Bunuba elders (MO and JO) who visited the site suggested that it was not a place of habitation, but rather a cool crevice used to escape the heat of the day while engaged in ‘cattle work’ on the pastoral station from the late nineteenth century. The scratchwork images are lightly scored on a vertical surface facing the cave entrance. The panel also includes painted motifs and, where these images overlap, the scratch work is executed over the painted art and, as with the Wandjina paintings, may similarly have been made in the context of re-marking and remembering the stories for these places. The scratched motifs include three anthropomorphs shown with long conical headdresses or dressed-hair arrangements and holding implements or weapons, suggesting that they are dressed for ritual or ceremony (Fig. 5a, b). The two smaller complete images mirror and face one another. They both have conical headdresses and outstretched arms that appear to be holding spears or ritual paraphernalia. The headdresses are very similar to those worn in a photo taken in the Kimberley by the Frobenius expedition in 1937–1938 which depicts men dressed for ceremony and holding spearthrowers (Welch, 2007, pp. 82, 89). The left of the two figures has an arced line extending upwards from the end of the outer arm. Ten centimetres to the left of this pair is a larger scratchwork figure with similar characteristics, including the conical headdress. Only 20 cm to the left of the larger abraded anthropomorph is a small red painted anthropomorph (Fig. 6). Partially superimposed on the painted image, are scratched birds which resemble emus, and to their right are numerous lightly scratched vertical and horizontal lines that are substantially deteriorated as the rock surface has flaked away. Scratchwork does not always overlie painted art as is evident in Fig. 7, which shows a snake painted in yellow pigment overlying a scratchworked anthropomorph, but certain features of the painted  snake have also been elaborated in scratchwork, including an outline of the body and the addition of scratchwork eyes,

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

159

Fig. 6  Stumpy’s Soak 1, Small dark red painted anthropomorph with scratchwork emu-like bird over right (viewer’s) leg. (Photo Jane Fyfe)

thus showing the successive interactions of painting and scratchwork. The interaction of these two techniques, and the way in which scratchwork is used both independently, and to mark or re-mark painted Wandjina and other associated images, and the indistinct nature of the scratched images, perhaps indicates that it was the reiterative motion of scratching in evoking the creative narratives that was important, rather than the visual quality of the image. A further observation is that the scratchwork technique is also used to make parallel lines (Fig. 8) in the rock surface, and which might reference both the deeper incisions in the rock and the cicatrices made on the human body, mentioned above. There is support for such an interpretation in other parts of Australia. Amongst the Wardaman, for example, Merlan (1989, p. 17) reports that the language word for straight-line grooves—maburn—“is also the term used for body (chest, shoulder, leg) cicatrices”. She also recalls an Indigenous colleague commenting as they looked at abraded grooves on a rock, “that people copied the dreaming and that is why they cicatrize themselves” (Merlan, 1989, p. 17). While we are not suggesting a direct equivalence, as Wardaman country is some 1000 km northeast of the south central Kimberley, in the Northern Territory, Merlan’s account points to the kind of parallels that may be made between the body of the land and body of the individual in acts of marking or cutting.

160

S. O’Connor et al.

Fig. 7  Snake painted in yellow pigment overlying a scratchworked anthropomorph (Photo Jane Balme). Scratchwork has also been used to add and accentuate certain features of the snake including the outline of the body and the addition of scratchwork eyes.

Fig. 8  Groups of parallel incisions found in association with other scratchwork in the Oscar Napier Range, (a) photo (Jane Balme), (b) enhancement using the DStretch plugin v. 8.41 (Harman, 2008) with the LRD colour enhancement

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

161

Black Pigment Art The technique of drawing in black pigment has a similar aesthetic effect to that observed in scratchwork, in that drawn pigment images are diminutive and often indistinct. Unlike the Wandjina art, they are not applied to a prepared white background, and thus they tend to vanish into the weathered grey surface of the limestone. The body of black drawn motifs is as diverse as scratchwork and painting and includes scored lines, meanders and simple geometric shapes, as well as animals and anthropomorphs; including some with head-dresses which look like sketchily drawn renderings of Wandjinas (see O’Connor et al., 2013, Fig. 8c). Hand stencils made using blown wet pigment in red, yellow and white, commonly associated with Wandjina painted art, are referenced in the drawing assemblages as outlines that trace the shape of the hand. Charcoal is also sometimes used for re-marking or emphasising features of the large painted Wandjinas. Some, such as the one at Barralama (Carpenter’s Gap 1), have clearly been re-marked using charcoal drawn lines to outline the figure and emphasise the breastplate, genitals and some internal features (Fig.  2b). Other painted motifs have also been augmented with the later addition of new features in dry black pigment. Thus, charcoal drawing seems to have been used for re-marking in the same way as scratchwork and likely fulfilled the same role. Pecking To date, lightly pecked motifs are only recorded in the Brooking Springs region of the south central Kimberley on Bunuba country. They are quite distinct from scratchwork motifs in that they are made by percussion. The weathered surface of the rock has been removed by hitting it with another rock until the entire internal area of the motif is exfoliated. The pecking does not form deep scars and in some places the motifs are quite faint. One of the main features of the pecked motifs is that they are often linked with other motifs by pecked meandering lines. Figure 9a at Brooking Springs shows small quadrupeds with raised tails, perhaps marsupials or dogs, which are part of a composition of animals and meandering lines, pecked on the lower walls of the main chamber in the cave. The meandering lines intercept rounded pecked forms (viewer’s right) which may represent strings of yams (see Veth et al., 2018, p. 36, Fig. 9). Boulders outside the cave also have pecked motifs. Fig. 9B shows meandering lines linking multiple pecked anthropomorphs. Pecking occurs both over and under paintings. In Fig. 10, one can see a large red painted anthropomorph shown with wide thighs and muscled arms and shoulders. This painted figure has pecked eyes and mouth and pecking across the torso. To the left (viewer’s) is a pecked meandering figure with tentacle-like extensions, one of which crosses the lower body of the large red anthropomorph. Painted over the pecked meandering figure is a small bulbous anthropomorph in a darker red/black pigment which is one of a group, one of which also has pecked eyes. This panel clearly shows that painting and pecking were concurrently used techniques.

162

S. O’Connor et al.

Fig. 9 (a) Pecked quadrupeds and possible yams and meandering lines in a cave on Brooking Springs Station (Photo Jane Balme), created by lightly pecking away the outer rock patina over the entire surface of the figure to create colour contrast. (b) Shows pecked boulders outside the cave with meandering lines linking multiple pecked anthropomorphs (Photo Sue O’Connor). (c) and (d) show enhanced versions of the photos above using the DStretch plugin v. 8.41 (Harman, 2008) with the YBK and YWE colour enhancements (respectively)

Although we have no oral testimony to support this idea, we suggest that the action of pecking to connect the figures may have been performative. This linking of motifs establishes a relationship between different instantiations of image-making, as though connections are being reiterated, or different elements in a narrative are being played out, through the action of pecking.

 emory, Painting and Performance in Community Art M Centres Today Just as the Wandjina is a symbol of cyclical regeneration, signalling the arrival of the monsoon rains, thus refreshing the country and causing the renewal of all life forms, so Wandjinas and associated ancestral Beings are symbols for the continuing connection of Kimberley people to their land. Hiatt and Jones (1988) have made the case that there are two main forms of ‘knowing country’ and that these represent a merging of the objective experience or knowledge of the natural world and subjective revelation. The first way of ‘knowing’ derives from the physical experience of being in country and living on the land.

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

163

Fig. 10  Large red anthropomorph and pecked figures in a high cave on Brooking Springs Station. The eyes and mouth of the anthropomorph are created by pecking and may have been added to the figure later. Meandering pecked lines are executed over the body of the red anthropomorph. Other anthropomorphs are in turn painted over pecked motifs. (Photo Jane Balme)

The second derives from the spiritual base and need not involve physical connectedness to country, but “results from being taught by one’s elders to ‘see’ the transformations in the landscape achieved by the creative beings of the Dreaming. Also derived from the exposure of males and females to the Dreaming is a body of knowledge, transmitted principally via mythology, songlines, stories, and ritual, about places not directly seen and experienced but dramatised in religious speech and performance. Adults may thus vicariously experience the travels of major creative beings…This kind of knowledge enables people to talk authoritatively about places and events unseen directly, but nonetheless apprehended—‘known’ through story and song” (Tonkinson & Tonkinson, 2001, p. 135). Morphy (1991, 1999) and others have discussed the role that image-making plays in Aboriginal Australian processes of knowledge transfer and how the practices of image-making are an act of engagement with the ancestral world in the present. In a Kimberley context, Porr (2018) has discussed this specifically in considering country and relational ontology for Wandjina Wunggurr people. What is clear from these accounts and the statements made by the Kimberley elders previously noted, is that the performative engagement and gestures of image-making are just as important, and maybe more so, as the resulting images which we perceive today.

164

S. O’Connor et al.

Today the Wandjinas and other ancestral creative Beings are reproduced on paper, canvas, board, boab nuts, bark and other modern mediums, within the Kimberley communities (see for example O’Connor et al., 2008; Ryan & Akerman, 1993; Woolagoodja, 2007). Through this process the stories about Wandjina, country, landscape features and the creative events that made them are recounted and passed across the generations, not all of whom may have the opportunity to make the long journey back to their country due to the demands of contemporary life (O’Connor et al., 2008). Those too old or unwell to travel can still participate by sharing their memories of trips made on previous occasions. The process of creating the artworks and exhibiting them in art centres within the communities allows the artists to remember and tell, and the viewer to learn and ‘know’, the journeys of the major creative Beings at particular places in their traditional lands. Thus knowledge about country and its creation is remembered and passed on in the communities today in the same way as through the action of re-marking using scratchwork, pecking, drawing and painting in the caves and shelters.

Discussion Our recording of south central Kimberley ‘art’ shows that multiple techniques were used to make or maintain a range of imagery on the walls of caves and rockshelters. The fact that scratchwork is superimposed over painted motifs which were then outlined or over-marked with scratchwork indicates that, despite the very different visual effects of these techniques, they were often used in combination and interact with each other in a single motif, such as in the groups containing the painted snake with scratchwork outline and eyes and the large anthropomorph with pecking (Figs. 7 and 10). In some cases, scratchwork, meanders or cuts are found within the body cavity of the large painted Wandjinas, as well as within other figures. As described by Yorna (Mangolamara et al., 2018, p. 124), and based on information from Traditional Owners we work with, this was sometimes done into fresh paint and represented cicatrizing. It may also mimic the body decoration and painted infill in dashed lines or dots seen in some of the Wandjina. Sometimes the scratchwork seems to have been done subsequent to the application of the paint and may be another form of remarking or renewal (Fig. 3a–c). Other motifs such as the mirrored anthropomorph pair with headdresses discussed above (Fig. 5a, b) appear to reference a dance or ceremonial performance. As Mowaljarlai et al. (1988) make clear these dances and songs serve as mnemonic aids to learn and remember the narratives of creation, that must be known to look after country and ensure human survival. As such, whether they were done in charcoal, scratchwork or paint may have been incidental, if not entirely irrelevant to those engaged in this process. The exceedingly fine lines which form the scratchwork images are unlikely to have been created for visual effect, and perhaps were not even intended to be viewed by an observer. They are difficult to see today without image-enhancement

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

165

software, and although when originally incised the contrast may have been greater between the weathered and freshly exposed limestone, unlike the Wandjina paintings, they are small and would have only been visible at very close range. Elsewhere Fowles and Arterberry (2013) describe a body of lightly scratched Comanche art which they argue was created for the performance of marking, rather than the visual impact of the finished product. In doing so, they call out a key assumption “that ancient art or art like objects—then, as now— were created in order to be viewed as finished products by an audience, after the fact” and how this “emphasis on visual consumption and post facto interpretation…” “seems to universalize a Western sensibility” (Fowles & Arterberry, 2013, p.  70). Like others calling for a multisensorial approach to archaeology (Hamilakis, 2014), they draw attention to the optical bias in rock art research (Ouzman, 2001). Indeed, there is a tendency in rock art research to view motifs as representational forms to be interpreted or decoded. In this paper, we have emphasised examples of Kimberley rock art imagery that suggest a performative motivation. In the broader Australian context, Andrée Rosenfeld (1999, p. 28) has previously drawn attention to the presence of a category of “visual marks” which she distinguished as a “different facet of expressive behaviour” to that normally understood as rock art. Within this grouping of rock markings, she included finger fluting, abraded lines, incised grooves and pounded rock surfaces. Noting that they had been largely ignored, she argued that they deserved more attention—as deliberate and repeated marks—a “gestural system of expression” (Rosenfeld, 1999, p. 30). Whereas Rosenfeld argued that such participatory expressions are “a distinct cultural category” (Rosenfeld, 1999, p. 28) and draws a firm distinction between these and referential image-forming practices, we propose that in the Kimberley at least, they may constitute different aspects in a continuum of performative image-making activity. Our suggestion is shaped by the information conveyed by Indigenous people in the Kimberley, and the importance placed on image-making as a mnemonic, narrative device enacted in a whole of senses framework. Information from Traditional Owners in the Kimberley suggests that with scratchwork and drawn charcoal art at least within parts of Bunuba country, the importance lay in the making more than the mark left behind. While the pecked images are more visible, they are joined by meandering lines, perhaps suggesting that they were also created in a performative context, such as song or storytelling.

Conclusion There has been a tendency for art historians and archaeologists to divide the Kimberley markings into ‘types’ or classificatory categories and attempt to subdivide, demarcate and order, and interpret these categories both spatially and temporally. The scholarly deconstruction of Indigenous imagery is, however, deeply problematic, not least because it fails to engage with the perspective of the Indigenous landowners who do not see the images as art, in the Western sense of the

166

S. O’Connor et al.

term. New recording undertaken with Traditional Owners is beginning to reveal the diversity and fluidity in styles of marking, incorporating painting, scratchwork, pecking and drawing, more consistent with Indigenous knowledge systems—which see the action or performance of marking as more important than the type of marking in remembering, recounting and revitalising the narratives of creative Beings. Acknowledgements  SO and JB with Bunuba and Gooniyandi Traditional Owners including the authors JO, MO and JS carried out fieldwork for this paper between 2011 and 2015 with funding from an Australian Research Council Linkage Grant LP100200415 with contributions from Kimberley Foundation Australia and the Department of Sustainability, Water, Populations and Communities. UF was funded by an Australian Research Council Discovery Early Career Award (DE170101351) during the development of this chapter. MM’s fieldwork working with authors RD and KD from the Wandjina Wunggurr Wilinggin Native Title groups for her PhD was assisted by funding from an Australian Postgraduate Award as a candidate within the School of Archaeology and Anthropology and Research School of Humanities and the Arts at the Australian National University. Her fieldwork with authors SM and RW from the Bunuba Native Title Group was assisted with funding from the WA Department of Planning Lands and Heritage. Mary Aitken and the Galamanda community are thanked for their support of the project. We would also like to thank Kim Akerman and Jane Fyfe for permission to use their photographs.

References Akerman, K. (2009). Wandjinas – A synopsis of knowledge to date. A Kimberley Foundation scoping paper. Unpublished manuscript. Report for the Kimberley Foundation of Australia. Akerman, K. (2016). Wanjina. Notes on some iconic ancestral beings of the Northern Kimberley. Hesperian Press. Barker, W., & Roberts, P. (Producers) & Barker, W. (Director). (1993). Milli Milli. [Short film]. Ronin Films. Blundell, V., & Woolagoodja, D. (2005). Keeping the Wandjinas fresh: Sam Woolagoodja and the enduring power of Lalai. Fremantle Western Australia Arts Centre Press. Bureau of Meteorology. (2016a). Rainfall percentiles. Retrieved from http://www.bom.gov.au/jsp/ ncc/climate_averages/rainfall-­percentiles/index.jsp. Accessed 19 Mar 2020. Bureau of Meteorology. (2016b). Temperature percentiles. Retrieved from http://www.bom.gov. au/jsp/ncc/climate_averages/temperature-­percentiles/index.jsp. Accessed 19 Mar 2020. Crawford, I. M. (1968). The art of the Wandjina. Aboriginal cave paintings in Kimberley, Western Australia. Oxford University Press. Crawford, I. M. (1973). Wandjina paintings. In R. M. Berndt & E. S. Phillips (Eds.), The Australian Aboriginal heritage: An introduction through the arts (pp. 108–117). Ure Smith. Donaldson, M. (2012a). Kimberley rock art. Volume one: Mitchell Plateau area. Wildrocks Publications. Donaldson, M. (2012b). Kimberley rock art. Volume two: North Kimberley. Wildrocks Publications. Donaldson, M. (2013). Kimberley rock art. Volume three: Rivers and ranges. Wildrocks Publications. Doring, J. (2000). Gwion Gwion Dulwan Mamaa: Secret and sacred pathways of the Ngarinyin Aboriginal people of Australia. Könemann Verlagsgesellschaft mbH. Elkin, A. P. (1948). Grey’s northern Kimberley cave-paintings re-found. Oceania, 19(1), 1–15. Fowles, S., & Arterberry, J. (2013). Gesture and performance in Comanche rock art. World Art: Art Makes Society, 3(1), 67–82. https://doi.org/10.1080/21500894.2013.773937

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

167

Frederick, U. K. (1997). Drawing in differences: Changing social contexts of rock art production in Watarrka (Kings Canyon) National Park, Central Australia. Unpublished master’s thesis. The Australian National University, Canberra. Retrieved from https://openresearch-­repository. anu.edu.au/handle/1885/150334 Frederick, U. (1999). At the centre of it all: Constructing contact through the rock art of Watarrka National Park, central Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 34(3), 132–144. https://doi. org/10.1002/j.1834-­4453.1999.tb00443.x Frederick, U., & O’Connor, S. (2009). Wandjina, graffiti and heritage: The power and politics of enduring imagery. Humanities Research, XV(2), 153–183. https://doi.org/10.22459/ HR.XV.02.2009.10 Gell, A. (1998). Art and agency: An anthropological theory. Oxford University Press. Hamilakis, Y. (2014). Archaeology and the senses: Human experience, memory and affect. Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9781139024655 Harman, J. (2008). Using decorrelation stretch to enhance rock art images. Online Paper: http:// www.dstretch.com/AlgorithmDescription.html Hiatt, L. R., & Jones, R. (1988). Aboriginal conceptions of the workings of nature. In R. W. Home (Ed.), Australian science in the making (pp. 1–22). Cambridge University Press. Lommel, A. (1952). Die Unambal. Ein Stamm in Nordwest- Australien. Hamburgisches Museum für Völkerkunde. Love, J.  R. B. (2009). Kimberley people: Stone age bushmen of today (D.  W. Welch, Comp.). Virginia, Northern Territory: David M.  Welch. (Original work published 1936 with different title). Mangolamara, S., Karadada, L., Oobagooma, J., Woolagoodja, D., & Karadada, J. (2018). Nyara pari kala niragu (Gaambera), gadawara ngyaran-gada (Wunambal), inganinja gubadjoongana (Woddordda) We are coming to see you (K. Doohan, Comp). Dambimangari Aboriginal Corporation and Wunambal Gaambera Aboriginal Corporation. Marshall, M. (2020). Rock art conservation and management: 21st Century perspectives in northern Australia. Unpublished doctoral thesis. The Australian National University, Canberra. Marshall, M., & Bunuba Dawangarri Aboriginal Corporation. (2020). Bunuba cultural caretakers project. Unpublished report to WA Department of Planning Lands and Heritage. Broome: University of Notre Dame Australia. Merlan, F. (1989). The interpretive framework of Wardaman rock art: A preliminary report. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 2, 14–24. Morphy, H. (1991). Ancestral connections: Art and an Aboriginal system of knowledge. University of Chicago Press. Morphy, H. (1999). Encoding the Dreaming – A theoretical framework for the analysis of representational processes in Australian Aboriginal art. Australian Archaeology, 49(1), 13–22. https://doi.org/10.1080/03122417.1999.11681648 Morwood, M. J., Walsh, G. L., & Watchman, A. L. (2010). AMS radiocarbon ages for beeswax and charcoal pigments in north Kimberley rock art. Rock Art Research, 27(1), 3–8. Mowaljarlai, D., & Malnic, J. (2001). Yorro Yorro: Everything standing up alive. Magabala Books Aboriginal Corporation. Mowaljarlai, D., Vinnicombe, P., Ward, G. K., & Chippindale, C. (1988). Repainting of images on rock in Australia and the maintenance of Aboriginal culture. Antiquity, 62(237), 690–696. https://doi.org/10.1017/S0003598X00075086 O’Connor, S., Balme, J., Fyfe, J., Oscar, J., Oscar, M., Davis, J., Malo, H., Nuggett, R., & Surprise, D. (2013). Marking resistance? Change and continuity in the recent rock art of the southern Kimberley, Australia. Antiquity, 87(336), 539–554. https://doi.org/10.1017/ S0003598X00049115 O’Connor, S., Barham, A., & Woolagoodja, D. (2008). Painting and repainting in the west Kimberley. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 1, 22–38. Ouzman, S. (2001). Seeing is deceiving: rock art and the non-visual. World Archaeology, 33(2), 237–256. https://doi.org/10.1080/00438240120079271

168

S. O’Connor et al.

Playford, P.  E. (2007). Aboriginal rock art in the limestone ranges of the west Kimberley. In M. J. Donaldson & K. F. Kenneally (Eds.), Rock art of the Kimberley (pp. 127–158). Kimberley Society. Porr, M. (2018). Country and relational ontology in the Kimberley, northwest Australia: Implications for understanding and representing archaeological evidence. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 28(3), 395–409. https://doi.org/10.1017/S095977431800018 Rosenfeld, A. (1999). Rock art and rock markings. Australian Archaeology, 49, 28–33. https://doi. org/10.1080/03122417.1999.11681653 Ryan, J., & Akerman, K. (Eds.). (1993). Images of power: Aboriginal art of the Kimberley. National Gallery of Victoria. Smith, M. A., & Rosenfeld, A. (1992). Archaeological sites in Watarrka National Park: The northern sector of the Plateau. Unpublished manuscript. Report to the Conservation Commission of the Northern Territory on fieldwork in 1991. Taçon, P. S. C. (2008). Doodles, rock art and arousal: An alternative to the entoptic explanation. Rock Art Research, 25(1), 52–53. Tonkinson, R., & Tonkinson, M. (2001). ‘Knowing’ and ‘being’ in place in the Western Desert. In A. Anderson, I. Lilley, & S. O’Connor (Eds.), Histories of old ages: Essays in honour of Rhys Jones (pp. 133–139). Pandanus Books. Utemara, D., & Vinnicombe, P. (1992). North-western Kimberley belief systems. In M. J. Morwood & D. R. Hobbs (Eds.), Rock art and ethnography. Proceedings of the Ethnography Symposium (H), Australian Rock Art Research Association Congress, Darwin 1988 (Occasional AURA Publication 5) (pp. 25–26). Archaeological Publications. Veth, P., Myers, C., Heaney, P., & Ouzman, S. (2018). Plants before farming: The deep history of plant-use and representation in the rock art of Australia’s Kimberley region. Quaternary International, 489, 26–45. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.quaint.2016.08.036 Vigilante, T., Toohey, J., Gorring, A., Blundell, V., Saunders, T., Mangolamara, S., Oobagooma, K. G. J., Waina, M., Morgan, K., & Doohan, K. (2013). Island country: Aboriginal connections, values and knowledge of the Western Australian Kimberley islands in the context of an island biological survey. Records of the Western Australian Museum Supplement, 81, 145–182. https://doi.org/10.18195/issn.0313-­122x.81.2013.14-­182 Welch, D. (2007). Bradshaw art of the Kimberley. In M. Donaldson & K. F. Kenneally (Eds.), Rock art of the Kimberley (pp. 81–100). Kimberley Society. Woolagoodja, D. (2007). Rock art as inspiration for contemporary Aboriginal painting. In M. Donaldson & K. F. Kenneally (Eds.), Rock art of the Kimberley (pp. 25–38). Kimberley Society. Sue O’Connor  is a Distinguished Professor in the College of Asia Pacific at The Australian National University. Her research interests encompass most facets of the archaeology of the IndoPacific, including rock art. She has undertaken numerous research projects in the Kimberley region over the past 30 years in partnership with Indigenous landowners, and for the last decade has collaborated on these with Professor Jane Balme (The University of Western Australia). She is a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities and has authored over 150 scholarly articles. Her books and co-edited volumes include 30,000 years of Aboriginal Occupation, Kimberley, Northwest Australia (1999), East of Wallace’s line: Studies of Past and Present Maritime Cultures of the Indo-Pacific Region (2000), Transcending the Culture–Nature Divide in Cultural Heritage: Views from the Asia–Pacific Region (2013) and Forts and fortification in Wallacea, Archaeological and Ethnohistoric Investigations (2020). Jane Balme is a Professor Emerita in the School of Social Sciences at the University of Western Australia and a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities. Her research interests and publications are largely in the area of the archaeology of Indigenous Australia and, in particular, people’s subsistence, technology and symbolic adaptations in different geographic regions  

Memory and Performance: The Role of Rock Art in the Kimberley, Western Australia

169

following their arrival in the Pleistocene continent of Sahul. Over the last 25 years she has concentrated her work in the Kimberley in partnership with Indigenous landowners, and for the last decade, has collaborated on these with Professor Sue O’Connor (The Australian National University). She has a special interest in the relationship between people and the Australian dog (dingo), especially the use of dingoes as a living technology following its arrival into Australia in the late Holocene. ‘Nganyimiya’ nagarra guru Mona Oscar  is a strong proud Bunuba woman. Growing up on Bunuba Country (Leopold Downs and Brooking Springs) she later worked on Glenroy Station. Part of the Warringarri muwayi, she has strong Ngarinyin connections through her father to Winyuduwa. Her first language is Bunuba; her world view and understanding is from being raised within the Bunuba world. Her knowledge and understanding comes from only speaking Bunuba; living on Bunuba Country; learning Bunuba culture, custom and knowledge. Nganyimiya grew up knowing, learning and understanding the depth of who she is as a Bunuba woman, shaped by the teachings of her mother and women kin. It is these teachings she has shared with all of us. A brilliant language teacher, she taught linguists and her Bunuba family alike. She is generous in her sharing and teaching so that Bunuba people learn properly. ‘Thalbagbiya’ nyanyjili guru Dr June Oscar AO  is the daughter of Nganyimiya and also a strong proud Bunuba woman from the remote town of Fitzroy Crossing in Western Australia’s Kimberley region. She has dedicated her life to working tirelessly for her community, Thalbagbiya is a staunch advocate for her people particularly in relation to learning Indigenous Australian languages, social justice, women’s issues and research into Foetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD). Supportive also of cultural heritage and archaeological research, she has been instrumental in numerous community-based and academic research projects alike. Simultaneously, she has held numerous influential positions including Deputy Director of the Kimberley Land Council, Chair of the Kimberley Language Resource Centre and the Kimberley Interpreting Service, as well as a Chief Investigator with WA’s Lililwan Project addressing FASD. Currently, Thalbagbiya is the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner (https://humanrights.gov.au/ our-­w ork/commission-­g eneral/june-­o scar-­a o-­a boriginal-­a nd-­t orres-­s trait-islandersocial-­justice). Nyaurru guru Selina Middleton is a mother of five and a grandmother of five. A Bunuba woman, her muwayi is Malanggu up on Mornington Station. A Bunuba leader, she has been a board member for the Bunuba Dawangarri Aboriginal Corporation (BDAC) for more than 20 years. She also works with the Bunuba Rangers, giving cultural advice and knowledge. Her passion is to support Bunuba people to be strong now and into the future. Yaninja.  

Rory Williams belongs to the Galamanda muwayi on Bunuba Country to the north of Fitzroy Crossing. He has been a Bunuba Ranger for about 9 years. This is important for him as this role means that he can look after the Galamanda area and all of Bunuba lands. The artefacts, the heritage sites which are all now part of the new National Park, he is proud to have a responsibility to look after it all. This includes all of the other Bunuba areas as well, the rangers work to protect these important places every day. Most of the time this means spending time out in the bush, spending a week to 10 days in remote locations to do the work. This is important to Rory, his Galamanda community and people.  

In kartiya way, may name is Jimmy Shandley. Ngarringi ingi langi jurru, Gooniyandi jungandi from ngarragininyi ngabu. From his dad and mum, he is Gooniyandi and his mum’s dad was Bunuba from the Mawanban muwayi. Jimmy recalled the time that co-authors Balme and O’Connor came to Gooniyandi country:  

They was looking for this Wanjina painting on Gooniyandi Country. There was a place on Gogo Station and I knew that place from when I was young. There wasn’t any vehicles back

170

S. O’Connor et al.

then, just horseback. My dad was head stockman on Gogo at that time—Jock Shandley (Narragi ngabu yunu ingi jagarra guru. Ngarrinyi ngabuyu narranyi him proper Gooniyandi tharangi Noanyi (Melba Wajella). Her Country was Gogo itself). He showed me and some other sites too but I kept it to myself till them two lady came and worked with the Mimbi mob. That Mimbi mob told them about me. With no motorcar track to follow, it’s hard to get there. Akerman recorded it in the 1970s and they wanted to relocate it. So I took them to Ngalalai and showed them with some of our old people who have now passed away. Getting my grandkids out there, having a chance to show them, it’s really important so that we can protect them paintings in the future. Robin Dann  and his older brother Kevin Dann are strong Ngarinyin leaders with equally strong Bunuba connections. With connections to the Napier Range in the west Kimberley region of Western Australia, their country includes the Arawarri clan estate within the Wanjina Wunggurr Wilinggin Native Title area and the Mawanban muwayi on Bunuba Country. With their ‘wunggurr’ (spirit) associated with this Country, Robin and Kevin have a long history looking after rock art on their Country. Collaborating, leading and driving community-based and academic research endeavours in and around their community of Windjingayr, they are both Wunggurr Rangers who look after both the tangible and intangible, the physical and spiritual landscapes maintaining their community’s cultural wellbeing. As Robin stated in 2017 at a presentation in Austria: My people and I see rock art as a connection to the past, present and the future; with storylines and songlines, it also teaches us respect for each other and the land itself. Ursula K. Frederick  is an Australian Research Council Discovery Early Career Fellow and Research Fellow at the University of Canberra, Australia. She has an interdisciplinary background, with degrees in fine arts (UWA), archaeology (ANU) and visual arts (ANU). Ursula’s rock art research focusses on the recent and contemporary past, and cross-cultural negotiation and exchange. She has published on the subjects of rock art, graffiti, mark-making and inscription practices. In addition to traditional publishing channels, Ursula has produced exhibitions, films, and websites. She has been the recipient of awards for her photography, writing and curation and regularly exhibits her artwork. Melissa Marshall  is a Research Fellow with the Nulungu Research Institute at the University of Notre Dame Australia (Broome Campus) since 2015. For the past 20 years, Mel has gained extensive experience working in remote Australia, in the area of Indigenous archaeology (rock art documentation and conservation specifically), management of heritage within living cultural landscapes, and Aboriginal community-driven culturally-based research programs. Based in the Kimberley region itself since 2004, she has worked primarily with the Kimberley Aboriginal Law and Culture Centre (KALACC), as well as a number of Traditional Owners groups, Indigenous rangers and Aboriginal communities across the regions. Simultaneous to this, Mel has also worked extensively in Kakadu National Park and western Arnhem Land on various projects, particularly Gunbalanya.

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina) During the Late Pre-Hispanic Period (ca. 1500–450 BP) Andrea Recalde and Erica Colqui

 ocial Practices in the Cerro Colorado Area During the Late S Pre-Hispanic Period The archaeological area of Cerro Colorado is located in the Sierras del Norte, on the eastern side of the southern Sierras Pampeanas (central area of Argentina). It is characterized by longitudinal, subparallel and low-altitude hills (barely reaching 800 masl), separated by narrow valleys and cross faults. The Cerro Colorado archaeological area is located on the eastern slope of the Sierras del Norte (Fig. 1). It is composed of metamorphic rock, with two outcrops of red sandstone abundant in this area (Boretto et al., 2021). Phytogeographically it includes the Chaqueña province-District Serrano Chaqueño or Chaco Seco eco-region, Chaco Serrano subregion (Hoyos et al., 2013). The Los Tártagos basins are made up of several hills and streams, such as La Quebrada, Los Molles, and Pozancón, which give rise to the formation of an oasis. Thus, during the Late Pre-Hispanic Period (ca. 400–1550 AD), farming in Cerro Colorado was constrained to slopes circumscribed by well-­ irrigated and organic-rich soils. In this small area of some 40 km2, 60 rock art sites have been identified (Colqui, 2016, Gardner, 1931; González, 1940, 1963; Pedersen, 1953–1954; Recalde, 2015, 2018). There are also 42 grinding areas scattered along the banks of the river and streams, and four multi-purpose residential occupations or settlements in potentially cultivable sedimentary lands (Recalde, 2015; Recalde & López, 2017). Finally, there are some burial areas, containing from two to 79 individuals (Fig. 1). The archaeological record of two open-air residential sites (QN7 and Poz1; see Fig.  1) supports the intensive construction of the landscape during the Late A. Recalde (*) · E. Colqui Consejo de Investigaciones Científicas (CONICET). Instituto de Estudios Históricos/Centro de Estudios Históricos (IEH/CEH). Área de Arqueología. Universidad Nacional de Córdoba, Córdoba, Argentina e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_8

171

172

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

Fig. 1  Map of the study area showing the rock art sites and other archaeological sites of Cerro Colorado

Pre-Hispanic Period (ca. 1400–450 BP). This has been confirmed by two dates of occupation between 1250  ±  80 BP (LP  - 3212) and 405  ±  21 BP (AA 107245) recovered from one of these multi-purpose sites (Fig. 1). The variability and quantity of features indicate the presence of a locus of food processing and consumption. Zooarchaeological analysis shows access not only to species from Chaco environments (Cavia sp., Chaetrophractus villosus) but also to more distant species such as guanacos (Lama guanicoe) or cervids (Ozotocerus bezoarticus), which were located in the grasslands approximately 30 km to the east and over 40 km to the west of Cerro Colorado. Finally, archaeological evidence indicates intensive exploitation of the landscape and of wild resources such as chañar fruit, mistol (Sarcomphalus mistol), and aguaribay (Schinus molle), as well as cultivated plant resources such as quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa), corn (Zea corn) and possibly potato (Solanum tuberosum) (López & Recalde, 2016; Recalde & López, 2017). The productive space included not only the domesticated environment associated with the farm but also the wild landscape. The articulation between the domestic and wild spheres contributes to the temporal organization of social practices, giving rise to different

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

173

regular or habitual social practices that help the reproduction of society by structuring social behaviors and identities (Lucas, 2005, p.  80; Wilson, 2010, p.  5); we believe this is the case for Cerro Colorado. Different burial areas have indications of intense occupation of the landscape, where a variety of social practices—painting, grinding, inhabiting and funerary— were articulated. This situation is recognized in burial areas composed of two or three individuals, and even in large funeral spaces made up of 79 individuals (Díaz & Recalde, 2019; Fabra et  al., 2008). Although this last site is still under study, previous chronological information suggests that the conformation of the burial place was the result of successive interventions after 1500 BP (Díaz & Recalde, 2019; Fabra et al., 2008). Finally, in Cerro Colorado, 61 rock art sites and a total of 4264 figurative (zoomorphic, anthropomorphic and Hispanic) and nonfigurative (geometric) motifs were documented. More than 70% of the rock art sites are dispersed around the main middle slope of hills, such as Casa del Sol, Veladero, Bola, Colorado and Vaca Errana. This location offered visibility from the rock art sites to the environment where practices related to housing, production and grinding took place, and also enabled intervisibility (sensu Criado Boado, 1996), understood as the visual relationship between the rock art sites located on different hills. The density and kind of evidence recovered from the excavation at five rock art sites of the Casa del Sol (CS), Vaca Errana (VE) and Bola (CB) hills (e.g., pottery fragments, faunal remains, macro-botanical remains such as crops and wild species, and lithic artifacts) indicate that they were occupied by a small number of individuals, probably for a short time, during different moments of the year. One radiocarbon dating at 1181 ± 23 BP (D-AMS 026995) has been obtained for the CS8 site (see Fig. 1) related to the Late Pre-Hispanic Period. Although this date does not allow us to relate the panels directly to this period, we propose a post quem instance for its execution, supported by both local and regional evidence. The absence of stratigraphic dates for hunting occupations in Cerro Colorado earlier than 1500 BP reinforces this chronological proposal. The regional information on Sierras Centrales indicates that rock art was mainly incorporated into everyday practices after 1200 BP (Recalde & González Navarro, 2014). The formation of politically autonomous groups was a characteristic visible from ca. 1900 BP. The indirect archaeological evidence (i.e. osteological analyses, the larger number and type of settlements, the designs of some projectile points) and the written colonial sources indicate an increase in conflict around this time (Díaz et al., 2015; Fabra et al., 2015; Medina et al., 2014; Rivero & Recalde, 2011). Population growth enhanced the competition and tension between these groups and also within the same social and political units with different degrees of social organization (communities, lineages, and extended families) (González Navarro, 2012). In this context of conflict, the indigenous communities built up social strategies that allowed them to ensure their cohesion and reproduction and strengthen cooperation and social integration between politically autonomous groups. We suggest that rock art was one of the mediums used to negotiate and mitigate social conflict, and was,

174

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

therefore, one of the cultural features that could have served to promote social cohesion and integration (Pastor, 2012; Recalde, 2009; Recalde & Pastor, 2011). The starting point for this proposal is that through the interaction between individuals and objects, the groups were able to recognize and negotiate their belonging and strengthen ties with their kin (Díaz-Andreu, 2005; Hastorf, 2003; Jones, 2007). This materiality thus constituted a space for negotiating memory and identity (Bauman, 2005; Kuijt, 2008), since it would have articulated both expressions of community-wide recognition and narrower identities, such as families and even individuals, without entering into apparent contradictions. The landscape of Cerro Colorado stands out in Argentina for the quantity and design of motifs of the Hispanic conquerors (Fig.  2). The Spanish conquest and colonization in the second half of the sixteenth century (1540 AD) is one of the most important moments when it is possible to see the role of rock art in the negotiation processes between the reduction of social tension and the construction of different identities (see Recalde & González Navarro, 2015). The incorporation of Spanish references (Spaniards on horseback and on foot) into a long-standing rock art repertoire is an implicit mechanism for integrating otherness into Pre-Hispanic narratives. The fundamental role of rock art in the social reproduction of Cerro Colorado groups can be seen in the fact that their panels were not the product of a unique and exceptional moment in the historical process; on the contrary, they were the product of a sequential action which was carried out all along the Late Pre-Hispanic Period (from 1200 to 450 BP).

Fig. 2  Cerro Colorado panel with Spanish-complex compositions

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

175

Conceptual and Methodological Approach Memory is a social construct, and we cannot simply suppose the existence of a single or holistic memory that is fully accepted and which fully identifies a society. There is not just ‘one’ memory: instead, there are multiple memories, so we must focus on one that is close to the universality of a group since this would imply a certain consensus of values through different negotiation mechanisms considered socially legitimate by its members (Connerton, 1989; Hendon, 2010; Jones, 2007; Levin, 2012; Meskell, 2008). As proposed by Candeau, collective memory is strengthened when individual memories have a common goal (or objective) and a horizon of action (2008, p. 43); this horizon is the social context and its particular historical circumstances which determine how and why certain memories are considered important or, on the contrary, why they are forgotten. The act of remembering and forgetting is in a state of permanent tension (Jones, 2007, p. 40) since a society or an individual cannot expect to remember and forget everything (Augé, 1998, p. 11). Remembering thus becomes an act of recovering what is considered relevant or socially significant, and both remembering and forgetting require meaningful and selective treatment (Ingold, 2000). There are different forms of forgetting. The destruction and replacement of objects, their transformation, and even the re-signification of social meanings in acts of remembrance, in which they intervene, constitute expressions of forgetting (Augé, 1998; Meskell, 2008; Mills, 2008). As a result of deferred intervention over time, the panels are the product of a constant negotiation process between those who interact with them.1 Thus, the analysis of the representations involved in superimpositions and the designs that persist and circulate throughout the Cerro Colorado hills is a way of accessing the forms of forgetting objectified in the panels. An active collective memory helps sustain links to the past and the reproduction of communal identity (Lucas, 2005 p. 81). Collective memory, like the identity it fuels, exists only within the ever-dynamic relationship with other people (Candeau, 2008, p. 45); this interaction happens amongst people, and between them, objects and the landscape. Material culture is thus one of the meeting points of communities with their past, since it is their repeated interaction at specific places that activates reference to a shared history (Jones, 2007, p. 39; Kuijt, 2008; Lucas, 2005, p. 78; Meskell, 2008). In this way, the externalization of memory, for example, through objects, monuments, and rituals, allows memory transmission (Candeau, 2008, p. 105). Artifacts connect with the past through their physical durability, causing the temporal limits of history to be transcended. Like any other monument or social expression, rock art generates a definite cultural presence or becomes a place where signs of certain practices create specific loci of social meaning in the landscape (Wilson & David, 2002, p. 3). In this way, the correlation between the present and a  It is important to note that the process of memory negotiation through rock art in Cerro Colorado, Argentina, was interrupted with the instauration of the Spanish colonial regime in 1573. As a result, we do not count on oral traditions or descendants to interpret rock art in this area. 1

176

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

common past is materialized, interpreted and experienced from the assessment and repetition of past events and actions. Rock art materiality persists over time and is a reference to the past and future experiences of those communities that produced it. The execution of art and its landscape localization lead us to consider its role as a memorization strategy resulting from a collective practice where both remembering and forgetting comes into play. Thus, memory construction in Cerro Colorado (Córdoba, Argentina) involves its embodiment in landscapes, places—understood as specific realms of history and identity (Augé, 1993, p. 58)—and rock art that has been collectively created, rebuilt, abandoned, forgotten, rediscovered, reclaimed and modified over time (Jones, 2007; Wilson, 2010, p. 4; Yofee, 2007). In this context, it is also essential to incorporate the relationships between rock art and landscape, since the location of the panels— particularly their visibility or access to them—may be symbolically as important as the rock art itself. The identification of visual preferences in the repetitive motifs (understood as the repetition and circulation of an iconographic repertoire in time and space) is fundamental for any analysis since they negotiate and express a shared way of imagining, thinking and experiencing the social diversity of the surrounding world (Armstrong, 2012, p. 20; Aschero, 2007; Gallardo & Souza, 2008). As Jones (2007, p. 21) proposes, the “objects are physical traces of past action”, and so the reference, in this case, to a motif or a previous scene objectifies memory. In this way, the continuation of practice over time is sustained through social memory (Lucas, 2005, p. 81). Consequently, the selection and repetition of a repertoire, and the particular ways of making specific motifs, give us information about a common social framework. The methodological tool used to study the design variability of each of these motifs is the concept of canon, coined by Aschero (1988), which refers to “the procedure followed for the design of human or animal figures, in order to construct motifs” (Aschero, 2018, p. 218). In this constructive model of rock representations, different patterns can coexist in which the figure is resolved. This allowed us to demonstrate variability in the designs of the rock figures and their circulation in the environment. The shape of the body, the position and extension of the legs, and the neck’s position are considered for the different camelid canons. The relationship between all these anatomical features marks the dynamism or static design of the animal. In the case of formal anthropomorphic features, the presence of anatomical traits (legs, head, arms) and the body’s position (front and profile) are key to formal definitions. Aspects such as clothes, types of ornaments (cephalic, dorsal) and variations between these (shapes, sizes) are also considered. The construction of the new, while respecting or integrating the old, indicates a continuity with the past (Lucas, 2005, p. 88) and, as a consequence, it becomes a process through which people bring the past into the present. In this sense, another methodological resource is the analysis of superposition, defined in the IFRAO Rock Art Glossary as “an instance of one rock art motif having been placed over another, earlier motif.” Consequently, ‘the superimpositions of an image would reflect the producer’s attitudes, which involved the choice to interact with the

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

177

pre-existing image and the same area of the panels (Aschero, 1988; Gallardo, 2001; Nash, 2012; Re, 2016, p.  17). Thus, the different relationships with pre-existing motifs involve different attitudes, which may either objectify continuity––when the motifs coexist––or signify a break when the new image covers the old one. Finally, technological choices are social choices (Dobres, 2010; Lemonnier, 1992), and the selection of painting or engraving is part of these belief systems. The rock art at Cerro Colorado is mostly painted in white, black, red, orange and yellow (in that order of predominance). Although the study of color as the objective materiality of social practices has been considered to be a subjective and rather limited analysis (see Busatta, 2014; Young, 2006), we argue that color brings a particular significance to objects, which is crucial for understanding their role within a particular social context (Young, 2006). Therefore, understanding why specific colors are chosen over others allows us to investigate the role of color in the selection of ways of making and expressing a common repertoire. In particular, it is understood here that colors encompass multiple practices and encounters with material engagements, involving people, objects, actions, moments and places (Ávila, 2011, p. 89).

Characteristics of the Cerro Colorado Rock Art Between the shelters and cliffs of the hills that make up the Cerro Colorado archaeological landscape, there are 61 sites with rock paintings (Bolle, 1987; Colqui, 2018; Gardner, 1931; González, 1963; Recalde, 2015, 2018). Among the 4264 motifs, only 0.69% (N: 29) are engravings. A typological characterization of those motifs allows us to organize them into seven groups: (1) figurative, among which are anthropomorphic or human figures; (2) zoomorphic or animal figures; (3) objects, such as dorsal ornaments; (4) phytomorphic or plant motifs; (5) Hispanic, which brings together different Conqueror motifs (e.g., equestrian figures, horses); (6) non-figurative, including geometric images; and (7) undefined, due either to the impossibility of establishing a real reference or to the design and/or motif preservation’s conditions. The present study focuses on the zoomorphic and anthropomorphic typologies, which make up 35.5% (N: 1491) and 11.7% (N: 495), respectively. Camelids (Lama sp.) are the most analyzed motifs in the zoomorphic typology since they make up 84.3% (N: 1257) of the total. Furthermore, the wide distribution of these motifs (camelids and human beings) in Cerro Colorado makes them particularly useful for comparing the four hills and their rock art sites. However, the quantitative redundancy of camelids in the repertoire does not translate into design homogeneity, since seven canons (sensu Aschero, 1996, 2018) or formal resolutions have been identified in the Cerro Colorado hills (Table  1). Canons H, I and J are locality specific, because they are only documented in the Cerro Colorado panels. These canons represent 16.1% (N: 204) of the total (see Table 1). Canon A is dominant, with 51.2%, and both canon A and canon C have been documented in several other rock art landscapes 200  km south of Cerro

178

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

Table 1  Type of camelids canon of Cerro Colorado % total 51.2

Canon Figure A

Description Proportional figure with an elliptical shape from which the neck, head, legs and tail extend outwards.

C

Body with a quadrangular or sub-quadrangular shape. It has a neck, head, tail and legs. This type of camelid canon is associated with domestic species.

7.7

H

Quadrangular-shaped body. Its limbs and neck are short in relation to the dimensions of the body.

1

I

Open U-shaped figure. The animal’s extremities are randomly added.

1.9

J

The animal is only represented by a head and neck.

6.1

Colorado (i.e. Guasapampa and Traslasierra Valley) (Recalde & Pastor, 2011). Design differences between canons A and C (Table 1) allow us to relate the designs to wild (Lama guanicoe) or domestic (Lama glama) animals, respectively.2 The degree of dynamism intended in the references to wild or domesticated species is ambiguous, except for some clear examples in which camelids are associated with anthropomorphic figures (e.g., shooting scenes) (Fig. 3a). The anthropomorphic motifs (N: 495) display significant internal variability, thus leading to the identification of five canons or designs, differentiated by the presence or absence of anatomical traits, clothing or adornments (dorsal and cephalic). However, the lack of facial features or the limited attention devoted to representing anatomical traits (hands, feet, heads) is a common feature in all five canons. Moreover, there is no explicit depiction of sex that allows gender to be differentiated. Canons A and C are the most documented (N: 464) in Cerro Colorado. Canon A makes up 29% (N: 144) and is characterized by a front-facing static body. Some design variables oscillate between an almost schematic figure, as a minimum expression of the human body (head and limbs are barely shown), to another in

 Osteometric analyses on different Camelidae samples are inconclusive with respect to the presence of Lama glama in the Sierras Centrales since they show a single taxon in the archaeological ensembles (Lama cf. L. guanicoe). Added to this is the lack of applicability of other indicators used for the identification of L. glama (e.g., fibers are not preserved in the archaeological record) (Medina et al., 2014). 2

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

179

Fig. 3  Canon A. (a) Detail of scenes with wild or (b) domesticated species

which the head, trunk and limbs are indicated. Cephalic ornaments in a U or V shapes can also be distinguished (Fig. 4). Canon C is dominant, with 64.6% (N: 320), and has the peculiarity of being unique to Cerro Colorado, since it has not been documented on other rock art sites in the Sierras Centrales region (González, 1977; Recalde, 2015). It stands out because the human figure’s head and legs face forwards, while the torso is in profile. Different dorsal ornaments are either radiated or semicircular and perpendicular, depending on their position with respect to the human figure. The feature that both types of dorsal ornaments share is the presence of weapons (bow and arrow) arranged in front of the figure (Fig. 4). The panels were not the work of a single act since the execution was not finished in an individual event; instead, these resulted from the consecutive incorporation of different motifs, scenes and meanings across time. This procedure suggests that the rock art sites’ construction was a continuous and accumulative process of narratives, where memory was materialized by incorporating a shared rock art repertoire to previous images (Recalde, 2018). As mentioned, one of the analytical tools is the analysis of superimpositions and their different expressions (Aschero, 1988; Gallardo, 2001; Nash, 2012; Re, 2016). These may denote a continuous respectful view of previous executions, or a rupture with the past and its denial by imposing a

180

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

Fig. 4  Above: Canon A and below: C anthropomorphic motifs. Detail of types of dorsal ornaments

new motif over a previous one. Superimpositions are not seen here as a reflection of chronology, an aspect already discussed by some authors (Aschero, 1988; González Sainz & Ruiz Redondo, 2010; Troncoso, 2002), but rather as the evidence of different intervention events on the panel, regardless of the real lapse of time between those events. For the analysis of the superimpositions at Cerro Colorado, we have used the classification proposed by Re (2016): (1) minimal, (2) circumstantial and (3) obliteration. (1) Minimal superimposition involves only a very small part of the underlying motif being covered; (2) circumstantial are those overlays in which the preceding motif is not lost when incorporating the new one, and (3) obliterated motifs are intended to negate or cover the previous motifs. Based on the evidence documented at Cerro Colorado, two new typologies have been formulated: transparency and complex (Colqui, 2018). Transparency is defined by the use of different tones of paint for previous and new motifs giving a double effect of depth and transparency, which makes it difficult to identify the sequence of production of the superimposed motifs. In the complex typology, the new motif results in a recycled figure, in which the original meaning changes. The pigments employed are black, white, red, orange and yellow. White makes up 52.4% and is the most predominant color, followed by black with 24.5%. Interestingly, as we will see, these colors are distributed in distinctive ways in the formations analyzed, thus generating significant differences with respect to the motifs’ types and designs. For this study’s purpose, only the most representative sites on the principal hills are considered (i.e. Casa del Sol, Veladero, Colorado and Vaca Errana). These sites were chosen because they make up 70.45% of the total motifs documented.

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

181

Casa del Sol This hill is located in the southeastern area of the archaeological locality (Fig. 5). Twenty-four rock art sites were registered on the lower and middle slopes. The majority of these sites (N: 14) are found in the middle sectors of the northeastern slope of the hill, which allowed some intervisibility (sensu Criado Boado, 1996) with Veladero rock art sites whilst also offering good visibility of the surrounding landscape (Fig. 5). There are 1148 motifs, of which a total of 45.9% (N: 527) will be considered for analysis. Although black and white are the most documented colors, a detailed analysis of each motif, design, color, and superimposition provides significant data for understanding the Casa del Sol narratives’ construction. The analyzed art repertoire of Casa del Sol is composed of anthropomorphic figures (N: 86) and camelids (N: 441) (Fig. 5). Within the anthropomorphic group, only canons A and C are identified (Fig. 6, left). Canon A makes up 33.7% (N: 29) and Canon C 66.2% (N: 57). Both radiated and perpendicular dorsal adornments are present. Although black and white are the most used colors, it is interesting to remark the differences between canons A and C. In canon A, 62% (18/29) of the designs are black, while in canon C there is parity when selecting black or white. Finally, red makes up 4% of motifs in both canons (see Fig. 6, left). Eight camelid canons were documented, but A is the most important, with 77.6% (N: 441). The majority of this canon is black (N: 210) and white (N: 199) painting. Canon C contains less than 10% of the total, and white is the predominant color (N: 26). Local canons are not the most represented (i.e. H, I, and J have 56 motifs all together) but these show the same color tendency (Fig. 6, right). Eighteen superimpositions were recorded, of which 77.6% (N: 14) are of a minimal type. In 12 cases, black and white are used. Eight of these superimpositions include interactions between camelids, anthropomorphic figures and non-camelid animals. To conclude, the few overlaps and the predominance of the minimal type of superimpositions make it possible to propose that new motifs did not intend to conceal previous ones. In the same way, this reinforces the idea that panels were built over time by adding motifs, themes, and meanings.

Fig. 5 (a) Intervisibility with Veladero rock art sites; (b) Visibility of the surrounding landscape

182

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

Fig. 6  Distribution of canons and colors of anthropomorphic figures (left) and camelids (right)

Fig. 7  Detail of dorsal perpendicular ornaments

Veladero This hill is located 100 m to the north of Casa del Sol, and nine sites were recorded on the lower and middle slopes. The most interesting feature here is the visualization from rock art sites in Casa del Sol and the burial area. The other sites are distributed along the northern slope of the hill. There are 286 painting motifs, and 50% (N: 143) were analyzed. Black, white, orange and red colors were used, but red is the dominant color, with 41.9% (N: 120). In the Veladero repertoire, we analyzed anthropomorphic figures (N: 43) and camelids (N: 100). Three anthropomorphic canons were identified, although A and C are the most common. Canon A makes up 13.9% (N: 6) and Canon C 86% (N: 37). This trend is similar to Casa del Sol, although in Veladero there is a predominant use of red color in canon C (see Fig. 8). Another difference from Casa del Sol, and Colorado and Vaca Errana, is that some of the dorsal ornaments were drawn perpendicular to the body as long straight extensions from which short, parallel strokes are released (Fig. 7). There are 58 canon A, 13 canon J, and 23 from canons C, H, and I concerning the camelids. Although the red motifs make up 18.9% of canon A, the majority are black and white, with a clear dominance of white color. Red was chosen not only for

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

183

Fig. 8  Distribution of canons and colors of anthropomorphic figures (left) and camelids (right)

the A and C camelids but also for the local variants. Orange is also present in canons A and H (see Fig. 8). Finally, a total of seven minimal superimpositions were identified, in which 14 motifs were involved. Camelids and anthropomorphic figures only occur in four of these overlaps. The re-utilization of the same rock surface and spaces is detected from the addition of motifs and themes that do not affect previous ones.

Colorado This locality is 200 m to the northeast of Veladero. There are seven rock art sites here, and only one of them is situated on the middle of the hill slope. The latter overlooks one of the Late-Period settlements built on the hillside. Thus, although it is possible that the people performing their daily routines at the residential site would not have had direct visual access to the rock art, they could have observed people climbing up to the rock art site (Fig. 9). This implies that even though not everybody participated in the specific practices performed in the area next to the panel, a link was generated through shared knowledge between the members of the residential sites who were on the hill and those staying at the bottom (Recalde, 2018). There are 720 motifs distributed between the seven rock art sites, with over 80% concentrated at two main sites. Black, white and red are the used colors, but white is dominant, with 60.2% (N: 434). Black makes up 26.3% (190) and red is used in just over 2%. The art repertoire is composed of anthropomorphic figures (N: 135) and camelids (N: 247). Among the anthropomorphic designs, five canons can be identified. However, as in the other formations, canon C is the most common with 87.4% (N: 118), while canon A barely reaches 8.8%. There is also a clear predominance of black and white at these sites, with over 50% of motifs found in black (see Fig. 10). Red, meanwhile, represents only 1.4% (N: 2). A combination of two colors is used in the dorsal ornaments, where black and white produce more variability in the design. There are no perpendicular-type ornaments, and instead, the radiating lines acquire such magnitude that they are very disproportionate to the human figure carrying the ornamentation (Fig. 10).

184

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

Fig. 9  Visualization of one of the main Colorado sites from a residential area. Detail of the anthropomorphic motifs of Canons A and C

Fig. 10  Canons and colors distribution of anthropomorphic figures (left) and camelids (right)

There are seven camelid canons, although as in the other hills, canon A is clearly the most common, with 59.1% (N: 146); canon C represents 6.8%, while local canons barely exceed 15% (i.e. H, I and J). Black and white are the dominant colors, while in canons A and C red appears to be the clear choice for painting these animals (see Fig. 10). There are more overlaps on Colorado hill, with a total of 35, of which 34 involve the colors black and white. However, there is no variation in the prevalence of minimal types, which make up 94.2%. Twenty-four of the overlaps involve camelids and anthropomorphic figures. There is no evidence of a strategy focused on concealing or re-signifying previous motifs or themes. Besides, there are five cases in which the overlapping of camelids could be associated with transparency, in an attempt to generate depth in the scene.

Vaca Errana This hill is the formation from which the northern boundary of the archaeological locality is set (Fig. 1). There are 12 rock art sites with a total of 1574 motifs. There is no intervisibility between the sites, but there is a clear view from the panels to the

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

185

area where the residential sites and agricultural land were located. The analyzed repertoire is composed of anthropomorphic figures (N: 200) and camelids (N: 567). The colors used are black, white, and red, but white is the dominant color, with 72.5% (N: 434). There are four anthropomorphic designs and, once again, canon C is the most important design, with 74.5% (N: 149). In the same way, black and white are the main colors, but white is predominant (see Fig. 11). There are radiating and perpendicular dorsal ornaments, but the perpendicular ornaments are very different from those found at Veladero, which adds variability to this design type. Concerning the camelids, canon A is the most prevalent with 60.5% (N: 392), while canons C and H each make up 8%. The other local canons are present on the panels, although they are not quantitatively significant. At Vaca Errana, the colors used were black and white, although black is dominant (Fig. 11). Red is present in one canon A motif. There is a marked increase in overlaps, with 204 identified. Of these, 89 involve camelids and anthropomorphic figures. However, like the other hills analyzed, the minimal overlaps dominate with 70.2%. The predominance of this superimposition’s type indicates that the addition of new motifs does not attempt to override pre-existing ones. This observation is reinforced by the low rate of obliterated superimposition–following Re’s classification previously discussed––representing only 8.45% (N: 12) of the total. There are also two new superimposition types in the northern section of Vaca Errana: transparency and complex (Colqui, 2018). In the case of transparency, the distinction between the previously made motif and the one superimposed is challenging to determine due to the use of different shades of paint that give an effect of depth and transparency to the image (Fig. 12a). Finally, the complex overlay consists of a recycled motif to which another is added by using some parts of previous motifs to create a new one with a different morphology. This type of overlap is not very common in the identified panels (less than 10% of the total recorded). It has only been documented at this site (for example, the dorsal ornament of the anthropomorphic figure was used to make one of the rhea wings; Fig. 12b).

Fig. 11  Distribution of canons and colors of anthropomorphic figures (left) and camelids (right)

186

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

Fig. 12  Examples of superimpositions: (a) transparency and (b) complex

Conclusion Rock art is one of the material and symbolic expressions from which both memory and history are constructed, affirmed and redefined by the experiences lived at different social interaction levels. The analysis of motifs, colors, superimpositions and the social contexts in which these aspects materialize provides the basis for understanding how social memory is built and negotiated. Following Gavin Lucas’s proposal, the reuse of places and objects over time “could be interpreted as specific manifestations of past people’s attitudes to their past” (Lucas, 2005, p. 117). It can be argued then that at Cerro Colorado the rock art sites were frequently reused or revisited; an attitude that would preserve, reinforce or modify the links established with the past (Recalde, 2018). Therefore, we agree with the proposal of rock art as an “open work” (Gallardo & de Souza, 2008, p. 91), which posits that the execution is not finished in a single event. Instead, it results from the consecutive incorporation of different motifs, scenes, and meanings over time. These elements make up the panels’ narrative and represent the opportunity to convey peoples’ sense of social belonging, even when sharing different ways of

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

187

signifying the surrounding social reality, interweaving shared histories from symbolic features. Thus, the camelids and anthropomorphic figures’ repetition through time and space transformed those into a trace in the collective memory, since the creation of salient features in the visual implies the generation of salient features from a mnemonic view, thus aiding to preserve and disseminate meaning (see Severi, 2010, pp. 46, 92). As noted by previous research (e.g., Bolle, 1987; Gardner, 1931), the camelids documented in Cerro Colorado are the most important zoomorphic motifs. Despite the diversity identified in their formal definition, canon A by far dominates the animal designs (see Table 1), in which the allusion to the wild species (Lama guanicoe) is clear. As mentioned earlier, although hunting activities of these species occurred in landscapes far away from Cerro Colorado, these animals were depicted on Casa del Sol, Veladero, Colorado and Vaca Errana panels. So, these landscapes, although distant, were incorporated in everyday practices when visiting and interacting with the panels. On the other hand, canon C, which could indirectly indicate the handling of llamas in the locality, would be a link with the local landscape, marked by everyday practices. Canons A and C are integrated into the repertoire as symbolic elements shared by those who executed and observed the panels, thus reinforcing the connection with the landscapes involved in social memory construction. As Wilson and David proposed, rock art is the “expressions of place marking [which] signal a cultural presence and give the land social significance” (2002, p. 2). The anthropomorphic figure is another symbolic feature of the repertoire, especially canon C, which is only present in Cerro Colorado. This construction presents an expression in which the motifs exhibit almost no distinctive features. Thus, the full symbolic strength is placed on the development of the dorsal adornment, which distinguishes them from other human beings (Colqui, 2018; González, 1977; Recalde, 2015). However, the distribution of the anthropomorphic figure between the four hills (Veladero, Casa del Sol, Colorado, and Vaca Errana) denotes the combination of experiences and meanings surrounding the representation of the human figure, as these are part of a common narrative, of a shared way of building social memory. Repetition has never prevented variation (Candeau, 2008, p. 35). As noted earlier, sensing panels as “open works” allows the incorporation of new motifs or themes that support the variations of these designs. It is precisely the mutability of memory that permitted the coexistence of many narratives (Van Dyke & Alcock, 2003, p. 3) where senses of belonging and social meanings were negotiated. In this sense, design variations or the incorporation of specific motifs may be expressions of these narratives developed within the socially recognized framework as universal and shared. The anthropomorphic variations of canon C documented in each hill, especially those related to the type of dorsal ornament selected, allude to this diversity. The radiated ornament is the dominant form associated with the human figure in Casa del Sol, Colorado and Vaca Errana. Still, in Veladero this trait is different because some of the dorsal ornaments were drawn perpendicular to the body. In Vaca Errana there are some perpendicular ornaments, but these are entirely different from those

188

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

found at Veladero, and at the Colorado site the dorsal ornaments acquire superlative proportions compared to those documented at Casa del Sol and Vaca Errana. However, the absence or little presence of features typical of the human figure (face, hands and, in some cases, legs) is a constant in all the hills. Could these distinctive traits suggest identity markers of their own, referring to members of different social groups or families, as a symbolic way of objectifying differences and channeling social tensions? The most robust hypothesis is that this motif increased from 1000 BP when the first evidence of social conflict is present in the regional archaeological record of the Late Pre-Hispanic Period (Díaz et al., 2015; Fabra et al., 2015). Some research has suggested that these variations would constitute the symbolic representation of internal tensions and differences between social groups (Rivero & Recalde, 2011). In this context, rock art was the materiality from which differences and social tensions were negotiated. Thus, the common repertoire did not act as a rigid framework but instead showed the flexibility of this symbolic system as a space where belonging was negotiated. Respecting and signifying the past did not imply immutability; as Jones postulates, memory was constructed by using and altering it (2007, p. 21). The analysis of the techniques and colors used to execute the motifs allows this flexibility to be identified, both in the traits shared and in the differences. Color and form are social choices. There is a clear predominance of producing paintings in Casa del Sol, Veladero, Colorado and Vaca Errana, and a general analysis allows us to identify that black, white and red are the most important colors. However, it is interesting to note the variations present in each of the hills. For example, the camelid canon A usually alternates between black and white, although in Vaca Errana more than 70% of the figures were painted white. On the other hand, although this black-white relationship is still present in Colorado, red becomes more important. Something similar happens in the analysis of the use of colors in canon C of human figures. This canon is mostly found in black or white in Casa del Sol, Colorado and Vaca Errana, but at Veladero red dominates. The study of motifs and types of superimpositions allows us to approach the construction of a past that involved rock art as a material culture exerting an emotional force in the social relations of its producers (Jones, 2007) and, as a consequence, becomes a process through which people bring the past into their present. In Cerro Colorado, only 11.1% (N: 441) of the figures superimpose other images. Although this is not a significant proportion of the total motifs, its importance lies in the fact that superimpositions are particularly concentrated at specific sites. While superimpositions can be seen on all the archaeological locality hills, their presence is far more noticeable in Colorado and Vaca Errana. This pattern may indicate changes to previous narratives, i.e., changes in the meanings that were the first interventions’ framework. Camelid motifs are the most involved in overlays with 29.70%, and a lot of these could be associated with an attempt to generate depth in the scene. While the anthropomorphic figures make up 10.65%. The type of minimal overlap prevails as a preferred choice with 77.56% (N: 273). This choice shows a negotiated and maintained

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

189

practice of incorporating the past as a mnemonic footprint in the construction of the panel narrative (Colqui, 2018). It is a re-significance of the previous narrative in which the new motifs give continuity over time. This suggestion is supported by the low rate of obliterating superimpositions, showing that overriding the past does not appear to be a dominant attitude. Cases of transparency overlapping are identified only in the Vaca Errana and Colorado panels and although their occurrence is very low, their presence contrasts sharply with the absence of such overlaps on the other rock art sites. Does this mean that memory prevails over forgetting in the Cerro Colorado panels? This assumption would be tantamount to considering the concepts of memory and forgetting as opposites, when they are both integrated into social practices (Augé, 1998; Mills, 2008). As previously mentioned, forgetting is present in different actions (destruction, transformation or re-signification of objects), and even in the selection of certain motifs, the forgetting of others is implicit. The best example of this is complex superimposition, whereby a previous motif is used to create a new one. All social landscapes embody memories, but as a remembering and forgetting process (Küchler, 1993, p. 86). The rock art played an important role in the construction of its makers’ social identities (Domingo Sanz et al., 2009, p. 21), and the recurrent distribution of rock art sites on the middle slopes reinforces this role. Although rock art was produced by a limited group of people who experienced the observation and execution of the panels, its location favors a constant and almost routine articulation with community practice spaces, since they could be seen from the rock art sites. This situation promotes the symbolic reinforcement of these places and the landscape through the daily evocation of the necessary social links to strengthen past-present ties (Recalde, 2018). Therefore, the selection of specific localities could be an expression of “power locations” (Lee, 2002, p.  81), which would reaffirm the memory and identity negotiation of local groups. The repetition of different regular or habitual social practices helped the Cerro Colorado communities construct and negotiate social memory and identity. Archaeological evidence allows the characterization of Cerro Colorado as an intensely constructed and significant landscape during the Late Pre-Hispanic Period. Furthermore, the reuse and revisiting of rock art sites indicate that making and changing panels was a routine practice. The changes and continuities in the rock art repertoire preserve and reinforce the links established with the past and present of the local communities. There is no single memory in Cerro Colorado. Still, multiple memories and the elements of rock art circulating in the landscape constitute one of the negotiating mechanisms considered legitimate by the former occupants of the area during the Pre-Hispanic Period. Acknowledgements  We are very grateful to Leslie F. Zubieta for inviting us to write this chapter and for her valuable suggestions and editorial revisions that helped us improve it. We also thank the reviewers for their comments. This research was possible thanks to the financial support by the Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Científicas y Técnicas (CONICET PIP 11220170100886CO) and the Secretaría de Ciencia y Técnica of the Universidad Nacional de Córdoba (SECyT-UNC 30720150100747CB).

190

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

References Armstrong Bruzzone, F. (2012). Engraved memory: Petroglyphs and collective memory at Los Mellizos, Illapel. Chile. Rock Art Research, 29(1), 19–34. Aschero, C. (1988). Pinturas rupestres, actividades y recursos naturales: Un encuadre arqueológico. In H.  Yacobaccio (Ed.), Arqueología contemporánea Argentina: Actualidad y perspectivas (pp. 109–145). Ediciones Búsqueda. Aschero, C. (1996). ¿A dónde van esos guanacos? In J. G. Otero (Ed.), Arqueología. Sólo Patagonia (pp. 153–162). Centro Nacional Patagónico. Aschero, C. (2007). Iconos, huancas y complejidad en la Puna sur Argentina. In I.  A. Nielsen, M. Rivolta, V. Seldes, M. Vázquez, & P. Mercolli (Comps.) (Eds.), Producción y circulación prehispánicas de bienes en el sur andino (pp. 135–165). Brujas. Aschero, C. (2018). Hunting scenes in Cueva de las Manos: Styles, content, and chronology (Río Pinturas, Santa Cruz- Argentinian Patagonia). In A.  F. Troncoso, F.  Armstrong, & G.  Nash (Eds.), Archaeologies of rock art. South American perspectives (pp. 209–237). Routledge. Augé, M. (1993). Los no lugares: Espacios del anonimato: Una antropología de la sobremodernidad. Editorial Gedisa. Augé, M. (1998). Las formas del olvido. Editorial Gedisa. Ávila, F. (2011). Arqueología policroma. El uso y la elección del color en expresiones plásticas. Boletín del Museo Chileno de Arte Precolombino, 16(2), 89–99. Bauman, Z. (2005). Identidad. Losada. Bolle, E. (1987). Parque arqueológico y natural de Cerro Colorado, Dpto. Tulumba, Provincia de Córdoba, República Argentina. Relevamiento de sitios con arte rupestre y análisis de los motivos pictóricos. Zona del Cerro Condorhuasi. Primera parte: Nivel A sitios Casa del Sol 1 al 16. Instituto de Antropología XLIV. Boretto, G., Cioccale, M., Carignano, C., Gordillo, S., Recalde A., & Tissera, L. (2021). Sandstone geomorphology: Cerro Colorado, Sierras Pampeanas of Córdoba, Argentina. In P.  Bouza, R.  Bilmes & J.  Rabassa (Eds.), Advances in geomorphology and Quaternary studies of Argentina 3 (pp. 30–52). Editorial Springer. Londres. Busatta, S. (2014). The perception of color and the meaning of brilliance among archaic and ancient populations and its reflections on language. Antrocom Online Journal of Anthropology, 10(2), 309–347. Retrieved from http://www.antrocom.net/upload/sub/antrocom/100214/09-­ Antrocom.pdf Candeau, J. (2008). Memoria e identidad. Ediciones del Sol. Colqui, E. (2016). Primeras aproximaciones al análisis del arte rupestre de Quebrada Norte en el contexto de Cerro Colorado (Sierras del Norte, Córdoba). La Zaranda de Ideas. Revista de Jóvenes Investigadores en Arqueología, 14(2), 73–92. Colqui, E. (2018). Memorias en la piedra. Análisis de la construcción social de los sitios con arte rupestre de Quebrada Norte (Sierras del Norte, Córdoba) como espacios de negociación de la memoria social. Unpublished master’s thesis. Universidad Nacional de Córdoba, Córdoba, Argentina. Connerton, P. (1989). How societies remember. Cambridge University Press. Criado Boado, F. (1996). Del terreno al espacio: Planteamientos y perspectivas para la arqueología del paisaje. Capa Criterios y Convenciones en Arqueología del Paisaje, 6, 1–63. Díaz-Andreu, M. (2005). Gender Identity. In M. Díaz-Andreu, L. Sam, S. Babic, & S. Edwards (Eds.), The archaeology of identity: Approaches to gender, age, status, ethnicity and religion (pp. 13–42). Routledge. Díaz, I., Barrientos, G., & Pastor, S. (2015). Conflicto y violencia en las Sierras de Córdoba durante el Período Prehispánico: Una discusión basada en información arqueológica y etnohistórica. In J.  Salazar (Comp.) (Ed.), Condiciones de posibilidad (pp.  84–108). Centro de Estudios Históricos. Díaz, I., & Recalde, M.  A. (2019). Las dimensiones de la muerte en el norte de las Sierras de Córdoba: Una investigación bioarqueológica de los patrones de entierro y modos de vida

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

191

prehispánicos en Cerro Colorado. Resultados preliminares. In A.  Laguens, M.  Bonnin, B. Marconetto, & T. Costa (Eds.), Resúmenes XX congreso nacional de arqueología argentina: 50 años de arqueologías (pp. 1269–1272). Universidad Nacional de Córdoba. Dobres, M.  A. (2010). Archaeologies of technology. Cambridge Journal of Economics, 34, 103–114. Domingo Sanz, I., Fiore, D., & May, S. K. (2009). Archaeologies of art: Time, place, and identity in rock art, portable art, and body art. In I. Domingo Sanz, D. Fiore, & S. May (Eds.), Archaeologies of art: Time, place, and identity (pp. 15–28). Routledge. Fabra, M., González, C., & Robin, S. (2015). Evidencias de violencia interpersonal en poblaciones del piedemonte y las llanuras de Córdoba (Argentina) a finales del Holoceno tardío. Runa, 36(1), 5–27. Fabra, M., Salega, S., & González, C. (2008). Comportamiento mortuorio en poblaciones prehispánicas de la región austral de las Sierras Pampeanas durante el Holoceno. Arqueología, 15, 165–186. Gallardo, F. (2001). Arte rupestre y emplazamiento durante el Formativo Temprano en la Cuenca del Río Salado (desierto de Atacama, norte de Chile). Boletín del Museo Chileno de Arte Precolombino, 8, 88–97. Gallardo, F., & De Souza, P. (2008). Rock art, modes of production, and social identities during the Early Formative Period in the Atacama Desert (Northern Chile). In I. Domingo Sanz, D. Fiore, & S. May (Eds.), Archaeologies of art. Time, place, and identity (pp. 79–98). Routledge. Gardner, G. A. (1931). Rock-paintings of North West Córdoba. Calderon Press. González, A. R. (1940). Las pinturas rupestres del Cerro Colorado (Provincia de Córdoba). Revista Geográfica Americana, XIV(86), 333–336. González, A. R. (1963). Las pinturas indígenas del Cerro Colorado. Revista Gacetika, 63, 14–19. González, A. R. (1977). Arte Precolombino de la Argentina. Introducción a su historia cultural. Filmediciones Valero. González Navarro, C. (2012). Una aproximación al territorio indígena prehispánico. Córdoba siglo XVI. Revista Andes, 23, 37–67. González Sáinz, C., & Ruiz Redondo, A. (2010). La superposición entre figuras en el arte parietal Paleolítico. Cambios temporales en la Región Cantábrica. Cuadernos de Arqueología, 18, 41–61. Hastorf, C. (2003). Community with the ancestors: Ceremonies and social memory in the Middle Formative at Chiripa, Bolivia. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, 22, 305–332. Hendon, J. (2010). Houses in a landscape: Memory and everyday life in Mesoamerica. Duke University Press. Hoyos, L. E., Cingolani, A. M., Zak, M. R., Vaieretti, M. V., Gorla, D. E., & Cabido, M. R. (2013). Deforestation and precipitation patterns in the arid Chaco forests of central Argentina. Applied Vegetation Science, 16(2), 260–271. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1654-­109X.2012.01218.x Ingold, T. (2000). The perception of the environment. Essays of livelihood, dwelling and skin. Routledge. Jones, A. (2007). Memory and material culture. Cambridge University Press. Kuijt, I. (2008). The regeneration of life: Neolithic structures of symbolic remembering and forgetting. Current Anthropology, 49(2), 171–197. Küchler, S. (1993). Landscape as memory: The mapping of process and its representation in Melanesian Society. In B. Bender (Ed.), Landscape: Politics and perspectives (pp. 85–106). Berg. Lee, G. (2002). Wahi Pana: Legendary Places on Hawai‘i Island. In B. David, & M. Wilson (Eds.), Inscribed landscapes : marking and making place (pp. 79–92). University of Hawai‘i Press. Lemonnier, P. (1992). Elements for an anthropology of technology. Michigan, United States of America. Levin, H. (2012). Lacan. Una introducción. Quadrata, Biblioteca Nacional. López, L., & Recalde, A. (2016). The first quinoa (Chenopodium quinoa Willd) acrobotanical remains at Sierras del Norte (Central Argentina) and their implications in pre-Hispanic subsistence practices. Journal of Archaeological Research. Reports, 8, 426–433.

192

A. Recalde and E. Colqui

Lucas, G. (2005). The archaeology of time. Routledge. Medina, M., Pastor, S., & Rivero, D. (2014). Osteometría y diferenciación de especies de camélidos en sitios arqueológicos de las Sierras Centrales (Argentina). Intersecciones en Antropología, 15, 339–351. Meskell, L. (2008). Memory work and material practices. In B. Mills & W. Walker (Eds.), Memory work: Archaeologies of material practices (pp. 233–246). School for Advanced Research Press. Mills, B. (2008). Remembering while forgetting: Depositional practices and social memory at Chaco. In J. B. Mills & W. Walker (Eds.), Memory work: Archaeologies of material practice (pp. 81–108). School for Advanced Research Press. Pastor, S. (2012). Arte rupestre, paisaje y tensión social: Un caso de estudio en Córdoba, Argentina. Revista Chilena de Antropología, 26, 7–32. Pedersen, A. (1953–1954). El infrarrojo y su aplicación en la investigación de pinturas rupestres. Runa, VI(1–2), 216–219. Nash, G. (2012). Temporal modes in rock art: How passive superimposition tamed the Iron Age warriors of the Valcamonica, Lombardy, Northern Italy. Arkeos, 32, 91–102. Re, A. (2016). Superimpositions and attitudes towards pre-existing rock art: A case study in Southern Patagonia. In R. Bednarik, D. Fiore, M. Basile, & G. Kumar (Eds.), Palaeoart and materiality: The scientific study of rock art (pp. 15–30). Archaeopress Archaeology. Recalde, M.  A. (2009). Diferentes entre iguales: El papel del arte rupestre en la reafirmación de identidades en el sur del valle de Guasapampa (Córdoba, Argentina). Boletín del Museo Chileno de Arte Precolombino, 14(2), 39–56. Recalde, M. A. (2015). Representaciones en contexto: Características del paisaje rupestre de Cerro Colorado (Sierras del Norte, Córdoba, Argentina). Relaciones, XL(1/2), 523–548. Recalde, M. A. (2018). Memory in the stone: Rock art landscape at Cerro Colorado as a negotiation space for social memory. In A. Troncoso, F. Armstrong, & G. Nash (Eds.), Archaeologies of rock art. South American perspectives (pp. 106–129). Routledge. Recalde, A., & González Navarro, C. (2015). Contact rock art: a reflection on resistance and cultural change (17th century-Córdoba, Argentina). Journal of Social Archaeology, 15(2), 45–66. Recalde, A., & Pastor, S. (2011). Variabilidad y dispersión de los diseños de camélidos en el occidente de Córdoba (Argentina). Circulación de información, reproducción social y construcciones territoriales prehispánicas. Comechingonia, 15, 93–114. Recalde, A., & López, L. (2017). Las sociedades prehispánicas tardías en la región septentrional del centro de Argentina (Sierra del Norte, Córdoba, Argentina). Avances a su conocimiento desde los recursos vegetales. Chungara, 49(4), 573–588. Rivero, D., & Recalde, M. A. (2011). El uso del arco en la guerra durante el prehispánico tardío de las Sierras de Córdoba. In J. Martínez & D. Bozzuto (Eds.), Armas prehispánicas: Múltiples enfoques para su estudio en Sudamérica (pp. 151–171). Félix de Azara. Severi, C. (2010). El sendero y la voz. Una antropología de la memoria. Grupo Editorial SB. Troncoso, A. (2002). A propósito del arte rupestre. Werken, 3, 67–79. Van Dyke, R., & Alcock, S. E. (2003). Archaeology of memory: An introduction. In R. Van Dyke & S. Alcock (Eds.), Archaeology of memories (pp. 1–13). Blackwell Publishers. Wilson, G. D. (2010). Community, identity, and social memory at Moundville. American Antiquity, 75(1), 3–18. Wilson, M., & David, B. (2002). Introduction. Inscribed landscapes. In B. David & M. Wilson (Eds.), Marking and making place (pp. 1–12). University of Hawai‘i Press. Yofee, N. (2007). Peering into the palimpsest: An introduction. In N. Yofee (Ed.), Negotiating the past in the past. Identity, memory and landscape in archaeological research (pp. 1–9). United States of America: University of Arizona Press. Young, D. (2006). The colours of things. In C. Tilley, W. Keane, S. Kuechler-Fogden, M. Rowlands, & P. Spyer (Eds.), Handbook of material culture (pp. 173–185). SAGE Publications.

The Construction of Social Memory in Cerro Colorado Rock Art (Córdoba, Argentina…

193

Andrea Recalde  is an Assistant Professor at the National University of Córdoba (UNC), Argentina. She is also a researcher at the National Council for Scientific and Technical Research (CONICET) and at the History Studies Center (IEH)/Center of Historical Studies (CEH) “Carlos S.A. Segreti”. Since 2016, Andrea is one of the people responsible for the archaeological team of Sierras Centrales researching social interaction networks at the regional level forged by indigenous communities during the Holocene. Her research interests and principal publications focus on rock art, especially on its social sense and role in pre-Hispanic groups’ identity and memory construction on different social landscapes (seasonal occupancy environment and farming spaces), especially from Western and Northern areas of Sierras de Córdoba, Argentina. Erica Colqui  is a PhD student in History at the National University of Córdoba (UNC) supervised by Dr Andrea Recalde and co-supervised by Dr Daniela Tamburini. She holds a doctoral fellowship from the National Council for Scientific and Technical Research (CONICET). Erica has been a member of the archaeological team of Sierras Centrales (Córdoba, Argentina) since 2013. Her research aims to understand social practices by studying sites with rock art as a mode of objectification of the social memory of the human groups who produced it. This line of analysis, combined with interdisciplinary work, seeks to interpret animals’ role in constructing pre-Hispanic human groups’ identity(ies) in the central region of Argentina.

Part III

Identities and Contemporary Knowledges

The place does not feel to me, as the place used to feel to me … because the string has broken for me. Fragment from The Broken String, a lament song dictated by Dia!kwain (1875), who heard it from his father, in Bleek and Lloyd (1911, pp. 236–7)

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western Iberia Lara Bacelar Alves

…the world is full of persons, only some of whom are human…. (Harvey, G. 2006, xi)

Introduction As a child, I was fascinated by storytelling. Memories go back to the days I walked with my grandfather amongst the ruins of ancient castles learning about historical events blended with tales of their fantastic dwellers. Those were my favourite. I was so fortunate that both my grandparents were most eloquent in the art of storytelling. By then, I could not imagine how it would become so influential in my work. Yet, although they came from small towns in the countryside, were educated and adopted an urban lifestyle, hence did not carry the knowledge from the ‘non-literate’ world I later encountered. In 1997, I was a MA student giving the first steps in rock art studies. My first mission led me to the mountains flanking Aveiro, my hometown, which I grew up to see merely as features in the skyline. Having found in the local library a 60-year-old paper1 showing the picture of a long-time forgotten Atlantic Rock Art2 site, I set off to re-discover it. The task led me to Rio Bom, a small hamlet on the heights of the Arestal mountain, where the arrival of a Land Rover caught the attention of the few

 Souto, A. (1938). Arqueologia pré-histórica do distrito de Aveiro. Arte rupestre. As insculturas do Arestal e o problema das combinações circulares e espiraloides no noroeste peninsular. Arquivo do Distrito de Aveiro, 4(13), 5–19. 2  Atlantic Rock Art is the designation of a Late Prehistoric art tradition found across large areas of Western Europe, from the north-west of the Iberian Peninsula to Ireland, northern England and Scotland. It is characterized, stylistically, by geometric and abstract motifs featuring variations of circular designs (cup-marks, cup-and-rings, spirals) often joined together by wandering lines, carved on open-air outcrops. This tradition is currently assigned to a period between the 4th millennium BC and the early/mid 2nd millennium BC. 1

L. B. Alves (*) CEAACP - Center of Studies in Archaeology, Arts and Heritage Sciences, University of Coimbra, Coimbra, Portugal e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_9

197

198

L. B. Alves

inhabitants. Aware of the potentially dangerous character of my mission, which implied charging through a network of forest paths, a group of residents arranged to escort me to the carved rock known as Fornos dos Mouros. In fact, the majority of rock art sites in Portugal have place names. This one can be translated as ‘the Moors Furnaces’. The elders informed that it was a meeting point for shepherds who tended their flocks on the hillside before the intensive plantation of eucalyptus destined to feed paper production factories. From the 1970s, forestation provoked an effective loss of traditional agricultural land bringing irreversible changes to the rural economy around industrialised areas. As we walked uphill, concerns with the theoretical approach to my study unravelled. My expectations to apply the new methodological approaches of Landscape Archaeology (e.g., Bradley, 1997) to the region’s rock art seemed bleak in the face of a land that was so extensively changed: the eucalyptus coverage inhibited the assessment of visual relationships between sites, heavy machinery had broken up outcrops to pieces, and low-lying rocks were hidden in scrap vegetation. However, as we went along, I found that every single landform or piece of terrain had a name. I heard of evil spirits populating the turbulent waters of a stream, learnt that a huge granite boulder was called the ‘Mooress’ rock’ for an enchanted being in the form of a beautiful woman was trapped inside it. And so, as we progressed, an entirely new land appeared before me brightened up by the excitement in which stories were told and by the rhythm of our imagination projecting animate visions onto apparently ordinary features in the terrain. At the Moors Furnaces, my guides explained that before parts of the rock were quarried, shallow cavities in its lower section had been used by the Moors as furnaces. The Moors are believed to be the people who inhabited that same land in immemorial times and were responsible, among others, for carving enigmatic signs in the form of cup-marks, cup-and rings and wandering lines on the rock. Yet, there was more to be known: a story that passed on among the parish’s people for generations, telling about an Enchanted Mooress living inside the rock who reveals herself in St John’s night3 as the rock opens (Fig. 1). These tales were not quite alike those told by my grandparents, inspired by literary sources. These were detailed accounts fixed in specific places, told by those who retained knowledge about the particular features of their own land. This was a direct contact with a community’s ancestral oral tradition. I visited other carved rocks on the mountain, but these lacked mythical stories. They displayed motifs of crosses, some of which centuries-old whereas others seemed freshly cut, yet all were still active in their role as boundary markers. This primaeval experience was repeated time and time again over the next 23 years in incursions to the most remote areas of Portugal in the company of the elders of every hamlet I visited. Animated landscapes kept feeding my curiosity as I became more aware of the similarities between the stories I was told and the narratives found in literature on Anthropology of Art (e.g., Morphy 1995, 1998;

 Christian festivity held around the Summer Solstice in the northern hemisphere and is reminiscent of ancient pagan celebrations. 3

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

199

Fig. 1  A portrait of my encounter with the rock art and the imaginary of Fornos dos Mouros in 1997

Taçon, 1991). Prehistoric art sites still played an important role in the engagement between people and their land. Some of these ideas were first published in 2001 in a paper aiming to show how rock art, as practice, landmarks, and places of remembrance, participate in the socialisation of contemporary rural landscapes (Alves, 2001). It highlighted the importance of rock art sites in the reproduction of social memory, the persistence of the act of carving signs on rocks until recent years as boundary markers4 and related rituals aiming to preserve territorial rights. In this chapter, I will elaborate further on  In our study area, rock art sites used as boundary markers are the only ones still active or that were active until recent decades, and by active I mean where additional carvings are produced and older ones cleaned or retouched. The relevance of prehistoric art sites for present-day rural communities, either carved outcrops or painted rock shelters, has more to do with the fact that they are places embedded with the memory of a distant past, encapsulated in place names and mythical stories. 4

200

L. B. Alves

these issues by bringing together a selection of tales borrowed from the oral tradition of rural communities recorded as part of my fieldwork experience to discuss how recursive and iterative processes of rock art remain active in some areas of Western Europe.

 ock Art and the Perception of Time and Space in Rural R Communities of North-Western Iberia – Evidence from Ethnography and Social Anthropology In remote areas of Iberia, the permanence of traditional social and cultural structures until recent decades owes to particular historical circumstances, such as the late and small-scale industrialisation, mostly clustered around coastal cities. Unlike other Western European countries like France, Germany or the United Kingdom, which demographics were most affected by industrialisation and mechanical agriculture, here rural population was not extensively displaced or replaced by new settlers. In northern Portugal, large-scale migration to cities or foreign countries took off in the 1960s and only soon after the impact of mass culture amongst the young generation started to be observed (e.g., Pina-Cabral, 1989, p. 583). The sheer duration of ancient socio-economic structures in rural areas can be illustrated with the maintenance of a seasonal settlement pattern in the mountainous areas of north-western Portugal. In fact, although getting rarer these days, entire populations from the highlands of Gerês and Peneda moved from villages in the valley bottoms, where they spent the winter months, to highland hamlets called brandas, as the snow melted away allowing to accommodate summer pastures and rye cultivation. The roots of this practice may date back at least to the early Middle Ages.5 The dry-stone huts found in ruined brandas look very much alike prehistoric structures given the use of upright orthostats and corbelled roofs (Fig.  2). A. M. Baptista who carried out archaeological research in the region in the 1970s was one of the few of his generation to thoughtfully assume an ethnographer’s gaze in fieldwork. Having witnessed mason’s work, found that the ways in which stones were quarried using wooden wedges, worked and shaped was not entirely dissimilar from the prehistoric chaine operatoire, being therefore not surprising that these huts bear such a resemble to megalithic tombs (Baptista, personal communication, 1999). The permanence of social and cultural practices helps us understand the longevity of ancient beliefs fixed in a landscape inhabited by stable populations over time, in a way that the genealogies of both the people and the territory become almost indistinguishable.

This explains their role as symbolic landmarks in the territory. Today, people’s connection with prehistoric imagery is slim, what is important is, in fact, the place. 5  From the fifth to the ninth century AD.

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

201

Fig. 2  Stone-built dwellings at the seasonal settlement of Branda dos Mosqueiros (Mezio, Portugal). (Photo: May 2018)

Although it is regrettable that this subject was not of primary interest to Social Anthropology in Iberia, there are notable studies that, despite not directly concerned with rock art, enlighten us on its iterative role. Additionally, there is much information gathered by scholars from the late nineteenth/early twentieth century who methodically published the oral tradition as an integral part of their archaeological work (e.g., Alves, 1934; Sarmento, 1881).

202

L. B. Alves

In his paper “Paved roads and Enchanted Mooresses”, anthropologist J.  Pina-­ Cabral (1987, p. 717–719) argues that for the peasant societies in the highlands of north-western Portugal “social time and social space are both the creatures and the creators of social order”, as identity is inseparable from a particular piece of land. Moreover, the preservation of social space “is achieved by manipulating temporality through a set of rituals which rely on repetitive time.” (Pina-Cabral, 1987, p. 721), explaining, therefore, the resistance of these populations to the linear, historical, sequential time imposed by national institutions. C. A. Afonso (1994, p. 57) reiterates this idea by applying the concept of ‘formulaic topography’, i.e. a reified model of expression in which different social and ideological realities are translated onto the peasant’s geographic territory. One of the most remarkable examples of contemporary community rituals is linked to the exercise of custodian rights over the land by means of the preservation and sacralisation of the village’s territories, for it is believed that the boundaries seal the parish from malevolent spirits coming from the untamed world outside the social space of dwelling, they enclose the humanised space and the space of cognition6 (Almeida, 1986, p. 118–119). Annual rituals took place on Carnival Tuesday. The elders and the children gathered early in the morning for a journey around the village’s territory to clear the vegetation and provide maintenance to boundary markers (Alves, 2001, p. 73–75). This was a means to get the youngsters acquainted with each marker’s location, place name, stories and property rights, as they would be their future safe-keepers. In the villages of north-eastern Portugal, markers were mere circular or cross-­ shaped hollows dug in the ground or crosses pecked on rock outcrops (Afonso, 1993; Afonso, 1994) (Fig. 3). Elsewhere, megalithic tombs or prehistoric art sites were used as boundary markers, reinforcing the significance of ancient sites as part of the community’s symbolic landscape. In fact, the territorial limits were believed to have been created in immemorable times and that the first marks on rocks were engraved by the ancestors, as their “signatures” or their “word” (Alves, 2001, p. 74). The ritual then repeats the original formula of world creation as hollows were cleared and carvings recut or new ones added (Afonso, 1994, p. 29). As social space is perceived as unchanged, so are its inhabitants (Pina-Cabral, 1987, p.  720). They believe that they belong to their land from the beginning of time. In their particular conception of time as cyclical and repetitive, the perception of the past does not follow the notion of history as a sequential or linear course of events as it stands for literate communities.7 Pina Cabral (1987, pp.  722–723) explains that, for rural societies, time is divided into three categories as it is the

 This was attested in all my incursions to rural areas of Portugal. With no exception, informants were only knowledgeable of the place names and stories of features within their own territorial confines. In one occasion I walked about a boundary between two parishes accompanied by two elders who knew the place name of every single megalithic tomb of a vast upland cluster yet ignored everything about those sitting a few dozen meters away from the boundary line, in the neighboring parish. 7  It is important to highlight the role of the People’s Education Plan set in 1952 to extend scholarship to the most remote areas of the country with a particular focus on adult teaching to overcome the high levels of illiteracy. 6

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

203

Fig. 3  An example of rock carvings from the 3rd millennium AD. In 2001, two crosses were made with a grinding wheel on the upper surface of Penedos dos Lobos (Quilhoso, Portugal), a boundary marker containing ancient cup-marks. (Photo: Mário Reis)

temporal classification of the references to people: agora/now, is the time of present-­ day people; antes/the time past, is the time that extends to their predecessors whose memory is still alive; antigamente/ancient times, is the time of the ancestors, a legendary period stretching beyond living memory to the origins of the society. This is the time of the mythical people who dwelled the land in the dawn of time: the Moors. On one of the parishes studied, Pina-Cabral (1987, p. 726) found that the Moors are believed to have literally sprung out of the Earth in a place called Mãe Moura (Mother Moor), which he describes as “a small and unimpressive rock with some spherical indentations which look somehow like broken eggshells”. As an anthropologist, Pina-Cabral was clearly not familiar with rock art for what the ‘indentations’ described easily enter the category of cup-marks. He mentions the presence of four other rocks which are believed to hide Enchanted Mooresses, guardians of great treasures, like Peneda do Castelo, that “has an indentation said to mark the presence of the Mooress”, adding that “locals claim it is the imprint of a little donkey’s hoof.” (1987, p. 728). Fornos dos Mouros is therefore not unique. Mythical stories have been leading archaeologists to identify prehistoric sites for decades8, but they are not valued as a means to explore new theoretical possibilities in the interpretation of the past. The

 It is right to say that the vast majority of archaeological sites in Portugal were identified through the collection of oral tradition from local informants. 8

204

L. B. Alves

excessive focus on methodological issues may partly explain this attitude by a particular class of academics formed in the last quarter of the twentieth century. Also, the ethnographic record of rural areas was too close to be exotic and traditional beliefs tended to be discarded as pointless fantasies of uneducated people. So, what J.  Goody (1987, p.  141–162) noted regarding the advent of literacy in African countries, also occurred in Western Iberia, as the population split in rural versus urban and the primacy of speech and experience versus reading and writing. Peasants tended to be seen by urban elites as backward, arcane and naïve, “closer to Nature and further away from the seats of civilisation” (Pina-Cabral, 1987, p.  719). Mythological narratives of non-literate fellow citizens did not comply with high intellectuality. Yet, encouragingly, a number of thinkers judged otherwise. C. Geertz (1973/2000) stated that the power to create other realities through imagination is precisely what characterises us as human beings, which may explain why the archaeologist’s traditional discourse collides with contemporary mythological narratives. While the former emanates from theoretical formulations that suppose the application of rules external to the study object, the peasant’s discourse results from an understanding that we may call “absolutely human” (Alves, 2009). And that is perhaps why authors like M. Foucault (2003, p. 8) or the sociologist B. Sousa Santos (1992), strongly argued for a syncretism between scholarly knowledge and ‘common sense’.

A Land Filled with Spirits – Oral Tradition and Rock Art From the mythological landscapes I travelled over the years, I selected the following stories and tales to illustrate the range of beliefs which remain associated with rock art sites.

 ocha da Hera (Vale Feixe, Odemira, Beja, Portugal), the Home R of Enchanted Creatures Once upon a time a peasant girl from Monte da Tamanquerinha was passing by a stream when a woman appeared, greeting her: –– Good morning, neighbour! –– Neighbour? But, I have no neighbours! –– Well, you should know I live here for a long time. You may enter my home if you wish but you cannot be surprised by anything you might see in there. The peasant agreed and both entered the dwelling that was inside the rock in a shallow shelter. When she got in, she saw that the whole house and all things were in gold,

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

205

and, on a large bed, also in gold, the neighbour’s husband was… half man, half lizard! Looking at the beast, the girl was startled and shouted: –– Oh My God! Suddenly, she saw herself out of the rock and heard the neighbour’s voice (an Enchanted Mooress!) coming from the hollow, in anger, saying: Ah! Traitor, you doubled my enchantment for another thousand years!. Mrs. Maria Oliveira, 71-years old, from Monte do Pomar (Odemira) told this story in September 2000 (Vilhena & Alves, 2008, p. 196). The place is a shallow

rock shelter located on the bottom of a cliff in a deep valley, composed of three cavities: the larger one is, according to Mrs. Maria Oliveira, the entrance to the Mooress house and the two hollows on either side are said to be the windows (Fig. 4a). The site was referenced for archaeological surveys because it had a place name and a legend associated with it. The team of archaeologists who first explored it were amazed to discover fine engravings of two human figures immersed in a web of incised lines on the ceiling of this inconspicuous rock shelter located in a similarly inconspicuous location. It actually turned out to be the first prehistoric art site recorded in south-western Portugal.

 egada da Moura (Nogueira, Sever do Vouga, Aveiro, Portugal). P The Flying Mooress During fieldwork surveys along the Vouga basin in 1999, references to a rock named ‘The Mooress footprint’, led the research team to the hamlet of Nogueira, where local informants showed us an oversized footprint carved on a low-lying surface (Alves, 2013) (Fig. 4b). We were also told that a large granite outcrop on the hillside nearby is known as the ‘Mooress’s rock’, after the belief that… …a mooress kept a great treasure inside the rock, trusting that no one would be able to break the enchantment and enter her home. Yet, one day a man who wanted the treasure for himself tried to crush the stone and so the mooress ‘des-enchanted’ herself from there, jumping twice before flying over the river into another rock outcrop across the valley. As she jumped, she left one mark of a bare foot by the chapel and a second mark in the shape of a high heel shoe ahead.9

The imprint of the bare foot is the one found at Pegada Moura and that of the high heel shoe was described by our informant as a couple of cup-marks, yet we were unable to find it because it was buried.

 This legend had been recorded by the local historian, António Henriques Tavares (1989).

9

206

L. B. Alves

Fig. 4 (a) Rocha da Hera rock shelter (Odemira, Portugal): views of the entrance to the rock shelter and aspect of one of the human figures engraved on the ceiling; (b) Pegada Moura (Sever do Vouga, Portugal); (c) Outeiro dos Riscos (Vale de Cambra, Portugal) exhibits a set of circular designs carved on its slopping surface

 uteiro dos Riscos (Gatão, Cepelos, Vale de Cambra, O Aveiro, Portugal) In the hamlet of Gatão, on the opposite slope of the Arestal Mountain from Fornos dos Mouros, Outeiro dos Riscos is another conspicuous rock that similarly displays geometric and curvilinear designs typical of the Atlantic Rock Art tradition (Fig. 4c). On one of our first visits in 1999, Alexandre Rodrigues, future archaeologist,

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

207

revealed that his father and other local villagers used to tell that the place was associated with stories of the Moors and a treasure. Soon after our meeting, he recorded a story narrated by Mrs. Albertina.10 Acknowledging the association with the Moors and aware of the rock carvings, she told that one day, a priest and another man got to Outeiro dos Riscos with a book which the priest read until the rock opened. The man saw a number of things inside and got in (thinking that they were made of gold, we presume from her words). Meanwhile, the priest saw a cane and exclaimed: “– that cane is for me!”. The rock immediately closed with the man inside. Then the priest read the words in the book again, the rock opened, and a voice asked whether he wanted the man as he was when he got in or as he was at the time. As the priest replied “– As he was when he got in”, the man got out, and the rock closed forever. Later, the man told the priest he had been inside the rock covered with pieces of iron. Mrs. Albertina then explained that these events occurred in her lifetime and the that the gold kept inside the rock had long been taken away.

Gião (Arcos de Valdevez, Viana do Castelo, Portugal) On the heights of Gião, there are one hundred carvings on boulders and rock outcrops, showing  schematic human figures and cross-like motifs. The majority is likely to be prehistoric in origin (though the exact period is uncertain), others are historical (Fig.  5a). This is one of the many sites in Portugal where prehistoric human figures reduced to the shape of a cross were reinterpreted after the advent of Christianity, leading to the successive addition of cross-like carvings by local people. In contrast with the circular designs typical of Atlantic Rock Art, these figures were more familiar and appealing to Christian communities, motivating the continuity of such practices. The tale of Gião was recorded in the early decades of the twentieth century: According to an old lady from a nearby hamlet [the carvings of crosses] represented each Moor who died (…) family or friends would devoutly carve on the rocks of the mountain’s summit a sign, a cross, for each moor who died. But people say about that hill that many treasures are hidden there and it is not the first time that believers go there at night to dig up or turn rocks upside down that they are said to hide the wealth that the Moors left there under a spell.11 (Fontes, 1928, pp. 40–41)

10 11

 https://www.podomatic.com/podcasts/ocaco/episodes/2006-08-12T09_35_35-07_00  My translation.

208

L. B. Alves

Fig. 5 (a) Gião (Viana do Castelo, Portugal): views towards Penedo de Valtijoso and some of the cross-like motifs carved on its surface (line drawings: adapt. Baptista et  al., 2018); (b) Penedo Gordo/Penedo da Moura (Ourense, Galicia, Spain): selection of the rock paintings found on site (line drawings: adapt. Pozo Antonio et al., 2021)

 enedo Gordo or Penedo da Moura (Feilas, Vilardevós, P Galicia, Spain) Across the border from Portugal, in the north-east of Galicia, a colossal quartzite outcrop isolated on a hillside displays an assemblage of prehistoric paintings (Alves & Comendador, 2017). The legend told by three local women who came to visit us on-site in 2018, explained that such rock had been placed there by an Enchanted Mooress who carried it on her head while spinning with a golden spindle and, at some point, feeling tired, dropped the rock and left it there forever. We were also told that a grid made of gold was hidden underneath the outcrop (Fig. 5b). This story is very similar to another one I heard from an old lady at Castêlo (Sever do Vouga) in 1999 about an oversized undecorated boulder named ‘The Sun’s rock’ which was believed to had been left there by an Enchanted Mooress who carried it on her back downslope while spinning with a golden spindle and dropped the rock on that spot.

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

209

 enedo da Moura (Boticas, Vila Real, Portugal) and Penedo do P Trinco (Lanhelas, Caminha, Viana do Castelo, Portugal) ‘The Mooress rock’ sits on the summit Leiranco Mountain, which I first visited in June 2016, led by Mr. Artur Lucas. The site is a conspicuous undecorated granite tor, surrounded by a massive lump of loose pebbles, which is believed to be inhabited by an Enchanted Mooress who shaped the rock and gathered the stones around it. She is believed to come out and sit on top of the rock on Saint John’s night (Fig. 6). We were also told about a spot between two cracks on top of the outcrop where, if hit with a stone, the sound of a bell resonates from within. I came across a number of ‘ringing rocks’ over the years. They are mostly granite outcrops but not necessarily as conspicuous as Leiranco’s. Also, the large majority lack rock art. One exception is a low-lying surface, displaying curvilinear carvings, known by two different place names with a similar meaning: Penedo do Trinco or Pedra Picadeira (Viana, 1960). Locally the verb ‘trincar’ means hitting the surface of a pottery container with the knuckles to assess, by the type of sound obtained, whether the piece is damaged or not. The verb ‘picar’ means ringing a bell. Thus, the place name originates from the particular sound that the rock produces when hit by a stick, stone, iron tool or simply the hand. People say it sounds like a bell (Viana, 1960, p.  220). These places’ particular sound properties recall what is known as lithophones and seem reminiscent of ancient soundscapes, a subject lacking investigation in Portugal.

Fig. 6  Penedo da Moura (Boticas, Portugal). (Photo: Beatriz Comendador Rey)

210

L. B. Alves

 enedo do Encanto (Parada, Ponte da Barca, Viana do P Castelo, Portugal) It is believed that the Moors, before fleeing, hid all their gold inside Penedo do Encanto12 leaving a riddle behind: only those who were capable of reading the enigmatic signs carved13 on its surface will be able to see the stone opening and reach the immense wealth kept there by an Enchanted Mooress. This tale was recorded by A. M. Baptista while investigating this classical Atlantic Rock Art site (1981, pp. 15–16). The riddle seems to epitomise, to some extent, the challenge and emotion experienced before a prehistoric art site in the sense that we, as archaeologists, may never be able to read the signs but it is its study that keeps moving us forward in passing on knowledge and in telling stories that combine traditional and scientific knowledge (Alves, 2012).

 he Moors and Enchanted Moors – Ancestors T and Mythical Beings Both anthropologists and ethnographers agree that the Moors we encounter in oral tradition are not to be directly related with the North African peoples who arrived in 711 AD to Iberia (e. g., Sarmento, 1933, p. 69). According to many accounts, they were the settlers of the land since the beginning of time and certainly before the Romans14 for those who have scholarly references to the Roman Conquest.15 Actually, ruined and partly buried prehistoric settlements are said to have been constructed by the Moors and destroyed by the Romans (M.  Reis, personal communication, 2000). M. Espírito Santo tells the story of the village of Lamas de Mouro, believed to have been originally inhabited by the Moors who were massacred by the Romans after they rolled huge boulders downhill destroying the settlement (1990, p. 27). It should be stressed however that the Moors seem to be distinct, in essence, from the Enchanted Mooresses for these are spirits, supernatural beings that appear in the form of beautiful young women weaving on a loom or carrying a golden spinning wheel, who live inside rocks under a magical spell and are guardians of great

 This may be translated as the Enchantment Rock.  This site shows an intricate composition of circular designs, mostly cup-marks and cup-andrings, belonging to the Atlantic Rock Art tradition. 14  The Roman occupation of North-western Iberia occurred between 133-29 AC and 411 DC. 15  The knowledge emanating from external institutions, from the Christian doctrine to official schooling, were incorporated and reinterpreted within the traditional framework of perception of time and space. 12 13

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

211

treasures.16 They are submitted to a magic sleep and reveal themselves to humans on St Johns night, emerging from the cracks in the rocks as they open. They defy humans with riddles that challenge their destiny. They are flying beings; they shape the landscape by carrying and placing large outcrops on the ground, are believed to live in springs and water sources, to be able to float on top of huge stones, to have the ability to turn charcoal into gold and transform themselves in animals (Sarmento, 1990). Enchanted Moors are also said to be trapped inside megaliths and rock art sites. Thus, oral tradition seems to suggest that the ‘time of the Moors’ was the time when a system of beliefs in which the supernatural realm manifested itself in natural features was in place.17 But, how far back can we trace the origins of these beliefs, if at all? Sarmento (1881) proposed that Enchanted Moors might be reminiscent of deities from the Roman pantheon. Yet, at present, researchers agree that the Roman occupation of the most remote areas of North-west Iberia was not as solid as to replace, entirely, the deeply-rooted set of local systems of beliefs by a new religion, and the same applies to the pagan’s18 traditional ways of life. Moreover, the Romans are known to have adopted indigenous deities (e.g., d’Encarnação, 1987), particularly those associated with natural places, as a means of legitimising their rule over the territory. Actually, this might not have been much different from the subsequent process of Christianisation of rural areas. The difficulties experimented in the early stages of this process is clearly demonstrated by a letter written in the late sixth century AD by St Martin of Dume to the Bishop of Astorga condemning the worship of pagan deities, the cult of trees, springs and rocks (Nascimento, 1997). The purpose was to find the means to firmly extend the Hispano-Christian doctrine both to the dominant upper class who kept practising Roman rites and to rural communities still very much attached to ancient deities (ibid). Almeida (1974) recalls that the Christianisation process only became effective by the sixteenth century19 and, in the meantime, traditional beliefs pervaded the fabric of Christianity. For instance, there  Occasionally the Moors are also attributed magical powers and the two entities are mixed up. However, for what we perceive from the majority of tales imbued with an ancient semantic structure, ‘Enchanted Moors’ have the attributes typical of spirits whereas ‘the Moors’ are mostly referred to in terms of an ancient people. 17  In the nineteenth century, Sarmento established a parallel between Enchanted Moors and the Irish Fairies providing the similarity of their supernatural attributes (1990). In fact, Ireland is one of the few regions of Western Europe where a rich oral tradition was preserved until recently. Particularly notable is the relationship between the tales of Enchanted Moors in Iberia and the Irish fairies who also dwell inside rocks. Some of these legends were recorded between 1937-38 and are available online on the National Folklore Collection UCD Digitation Project website. Examples of tales found on two sites named ‘Fairy Rock’ can be found at https://www.duchas.ie/en/ cbes/4493789/4420622/4537043 and https://www.duchas.ie/en/cbes/4493760/4417580 18  Pagan, in Latin, means literally ‘rural’. 19  It is interesting to note the absence of tales of Enchanted Moors in the Portuguese archipelagoes of the Azores and Madeira, first settled in the fifteenth century AD by the Portuguese. Nevertheless, the need to explain natural phenomena or particular features in the landscape is expressed by legends of similar nature yet the protagonists are either of Christian origin (either saints or the devil) and maritime creatures. 16

212

L. B. Alves

Fig. 7  The rock shelter of Buraco da Pala exhibits rock paintings from the Neolithic (late sixth/fifth millennium BC to the end of the fourth millennium BC) on a small panel beneath the niche where the statue of a Saint was placed (highlighted on the bottom right corner of the photograph). This archaeological site had long been a place of worship in the Passos mountain and was intended to be converted into a formal Christian sanctuary

are stories told about sites associated with visions of supernatural beings coming out from rocks, in which Enchanted Moors were replaced by saints or the Holy Mary. These visions were often legitimised by the building of Christian sanctuaries on hilltops, attached to rock shelters or granite tors, by the transformation of megalithic tombs into chapels, and even caves with prehistoric paintings turned into Christian cult places. This is the case of Buraco da Pala, that was consecrated as a holy ground in the 1980s before it was awarded the status of protected archaeological site (Sanches, 1997) (Fig. 7). Hence, the syncretism admitted by the Catholic Church allowed the maintenance of ancient beliefs that kept on being transmitted from generation to generation, enhancing the preservation of social memory among rural communities. It is also important to note that not all rock art sites are attributed to the Moors or inhabited by Enchanted Mooresses. Exceptions are the arrangements of crosses, cup-marks, footprints and hoofprints and that may date to the late first millennium BC, which are explained by rural communities across northern Portugal as marks

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

213

related to the Biblical journey of St. Joseph and the Holy Mary out of Egypt. Thus, the only category of carvings that informants identify as produced by their direct ascendants in the community are Latin crosses carved as acts of Christianisation and those produced on boundary markers.

 orldviews and Social Memory – Recursive and Iterative W Processes in Western Iberia Rock Art Having addressed likely explanations for the permanence of oral traditions amongst rural communities of Western Iberia, I shall come back to the information collected in field surveys, to discuss the maintenance of the practice of carving signs on rocks, re-use, re-interpretation, the content of mythical stories and its changing character. In this respect, we ought to distinguish between the re-use and re-interpretation of rock art sites and actions upon the images themselves. In fact, a number of prehistoric art sites dated to the fifth/fourth millennium BC showing a range of designs that are strange to the visual culture of contemporary rural societies, like Atlantic Rock Art, are bound to be attached to a consistent oral tradition featuring guardian supernatural beings. The carvings are believed to have been produced by the mythical people who first inhabited that particular land. Occasionally, Atlantic Rock Art sites are found to contain historical carvings either overlapping or added to the side of the original arrangements; mostly Latin crosses indicating the Christianisation of a pagan site (e.g., Baptista, 1981). However, places displaying imagery from a different rock art tradition of prehistoric origin—Schematic Art—saw a different approach by historic rural communities. Open-air Schematic Art sites are typically composed of carvings of human figures represented as cross-like motifs, and because these were appealing to historical Christian communities, enhanced the continuity of the practice of adding or re-cutting crosses on rocks, as at the abovementioned site of Gião or the cave of El Pedroso (Alves, et al., 2013). These events may not be explained simply as acts of Christianisation, but be linked with the continuity of the ancient tradition of carving crosses on rocks in the context described by St Martin of Dume in the sixth century AD. Hence, in Western Iberia, we see both ancient imagery and the significance of the places where it is found brought into the present through practice and oral tradition. It is interesting to note that similar aspects were discussed by H. Morphy (2012) in a study on Australian Aboriginal rock art under what he called recursive and iterative processes that are bound to be at work among communities for whom “rock art was part of the world they grew up in and was approached and seen through the framework of their contemporary culture.” These processes connect art traditions over time and are grounded on the idea that art has been produced by drawing on the past, either by memory of what has been produced or the art preserved on rock formations (Morphy, 2012). This interpretative agenda helps us framing many observations made on Western Iberian rock art showing that it may still provide “a

214

L. B. Alves

reservoir of images for succeeding generations who not only can view and interpret this record, but additionally use it as a source of information and inspiration that influences their present practice.” (Morphy, 2012, p. 294). It also enables us to bring together studies from different geographical regions and realities in which rock art endures in social memory, as both the practice and oral tradition. In methodological terms, it provides a means to conceive a middle ground between what C. Chippindale and P. Taçon regarded as the ‘formal and informed methods of rock art research’ (1998). It allows us to legitimize a number of case studies that may not fall into the direct connections to an ancestral remembered past (informed methods), but include oral traditions that link a mythological past with the present through re-interpretation. Yet, this re-interpretation is not produced by the archaeologist but by the communities who dwell on a particular territory for generations and believe to have inherited the land and its features from their ancestors. Regardless of the obvious socio-cultural and historical differences, it seems possible to point out structural features common to both the Australian and Iberian contexts, such as: • The perception of time as cyclical and repetitive with the participation of past mythical events in the present-day lived experience (e.g., Morphy, 1998, p. 68, 2000). • The subordination of time to space (Morphy, 1995, p. 189), as cyclical time is attached to a social space (Pina-Cabral, 1987) composed of multiple places, each with its own significance that only make sense in relation to one another, conforming enduring socialized landscapes. • The primacy of place as the focus of narratives that, with their own creational stories, refer to the myths of origins of the world and its topographic features as the work of supernatural entities from the beginning of time. In the Australian context, Ancestral Beings sprung out from the Earth or fell from the sky in the Dreamtime. They shaped the land by moving, acting upon it, throwing boomerangs that opened holes in rock formations (Taçon, 1991), placing items on the ground that turned into stone (McDonald & Veth, 2013) and by ending up petrified as landforms, mountains or rock outcrops which preserved their spirit within (e.g., Morphy, 1998). As far as rock art is concerned, I attempted to show how, in Western Iberia, it participates in the construction of symbolic landscapes. Rock art sites have place names and are imbued with legends like the Mother Moor’s rock from which mythical people sprung out, to the shaping of the landscape by supernatural entities who carried and placed gigantic rocks at particular locations. Also, landforms and particularly rock outcrops are believed to be the dwelling places of spirits.20 Some surfaces are even said to be the doors to the world within the rock, like at Rocha da Hera.

 Similar narratives also apply to undecorated outcrops, many of which show some kind of distinctiveness in shape or size while others apparently do not. 20

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

215

These supernatural beings, Enchanted Mooresses, are not hidden away, but they reveal themselves to humans by coming out of cracks in rocks and, in this sense, rock art sites may be seen as hierophanies, i.e. places where the sacred manifests (Eliade, 1959). It is interesting to note that in north-western Australia, the wandjina are spiritual beings who, after having shaped the landscape features, are believed to have been absorbed into the walls of rock shelters across the territory of different clans in the Kimberley region (Morphy, 1998, p. 55). The ethnographic record from other parts of the world informs that the rock surface is believed to be a veil between the world of the living and the supernatural realm (e.g., Lewis Williams & Dowson, 1990). In contrast with Australia’s Aboriginal beliefs, where the ancestral inhabitants of the land are considered to be of spiritual nature and responsible for the earliest carvings or paintings in the landscape (e.g., Morphy, 1998), in Iberia, oral tradition distinguishes between mythical beings and the mythical people who are said to have created what we came to know as prehistoric art. In their study of the Martu rock art, in the Western Australian desert, J. McDonald and P. Veth (2013, p. 16) stressed that the longevity of human connection to their land explains to a large extent the recursiveness of practices and the preservation of sites. As shown for both Iberia and Australia, oral traditions convey the symbolic mapping of territories that lead us to rock art sites. Place and narratives are two of the categories that R. Van Dyke and S. Alcock (2003, pp. 4–5) identify as conveying material traces of social memory, yet a memory that is not immutable, but that evolves from acts of remembering and forgetting. Although the time depth of the narratives preserved in the memory of Iberia rural communities cannot be accurately assessed, it is possible to distinguish between those that preserve a rather standardised core in terms of their contents and structure and more nuanced accounts that deliberately include some knowledge acquired through scholarly education. In the case of the legend of Outeiro dos Riscos, Mrs. Albertina is aware that the story she tells is not an exemplar of traditional tales and the hint for that is when she states that the treasure, meaning the gold kept by Enchanted Mooresses, was long gone and the rock is now filled with iron scrap. This example epitomises the gradual loss of social memory and the changing character of oral narratives in the face of the advances of institutional powers.

Conclusion In this chapter, I instigated an unexpected dialogue between two anthropologists, H.  Morphy who investigates Australian rock art under the perspective of the Anthropology of Art and J. Pina-Cabral who saw rock art sites entering his research on the peasant societies of North-western Portugal, but was not able to identify them as such. I attempted to show how studies of Social Anthropology entirely independent from archaeological research, enlighten aspects of recursive processes of rock art, like:

216

L. B. Alves

• The shaping of animated landscapes composed of multiple places with their own creation myths and place names; • The long-term practice of carving signs on rocks for purposes of sacralisation or exercise of custodian rights over the territory; • The relationship between rock art sites and myths associated with the origins of the territory; and • The incorporation of prehistoric rock art in the symbolic construction of the territory which, in turn, is linked to the genealogy and identity of local communities. I brought together two entirely distinct social and cultural realities sitting in the antipodes that nevertheless share the perception of repetitive time and socialized landscapes where rock art sites are imbedded with mythological accounts that still play an active role in the structuring of the territory. My goal was not to establish analogies for the purpose of interpreting prehistoric art sites or designs, or use the insights drawn from ethnography as demonstrations of general principles (see e.g., Lane, 2016, p.  241). The evidence is that social memory fixed in many Iberian prehistoric rock art sites brings us to a realm of ancient belief systems. This is not to suggest that the creation of Iberian post-glacial rock art sites was driven by a belief in spirits who dwelled on particular rocks or that Enchanted Moors were mythical beings of prehistoric origin. Rather to argue that contemporary oral traditions may carry reminiscences of archetypal cosmogonies or worldviews in which the landscape was believed to be filled with supernatural beings dwelling at particular locations or landmarks. My primary aim was to bring the poetics of rock art as a mediator of overlapping realities and ways of life that are set apart, two worlds—urban and rural—that have not been able to communicate because they do not fully understand each other. The exercise of power over space and time is the means by which Iberian rural communities attempted to divert the ideological, political and economic domination of the State’s institutionalised authority. In fact, traditional societies of Western Europe suffered, in silence, the extinction of their ancient beliefs and ways of life over centuries, a silence resulting from their condition on the fringes of the bourgeois society. In Western Iberia, they were fortunate to be up against small-scale industrialisation and the late introduction of mechanical agriculture, contributing to keeping the economic interests in rural land relatively low until recent decades. Portuguese traditional societies saw the advent and rise of a nation, the succession of political regimes, socio-economic changes yet, they resisted. We need only to regret the present day for we are now distinctively listening to that same silence that announces a tragic ending: an extinction impelled by the passing of each elder who was not able to transmit his or her knowledge about the world. But also, by the dissemination in the heart of those communities of the idea of backwardness of the peasant’s lifestyle, as I seldom heard from those who abandoned the countryside to find a future in urban areas. However, the current interest of Humanities and Social Sciences in the development of research activities with members of local communities may be a window of opportunity to bring both worlds together, if only

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

217

Fig. 8  Memories and stories captured during field surveys in the Vouga basin in 1999. (Photo: Teresa Silva)

mutually inspiring, moving and educational (Fig. 8). It is evident that archaeological sites cannot be preserved without the people who have been their guardians over time. In reality, we are likely to be the last generation to have direct access to these ancient cognitive structures attached to an organic space and a cyclical time, in which animated worlds, encapsulated under the skin of the land, come to light in the memory of the elders, allowing us to grasp fabulous geographies, that otherwise remained invisible. That is the reason why a Citizen Science agenda may represent a final opportunity to bring different generations from the urban and the rural worlds, together.21 This idea moves us to reiterate the imposing question by Jean-Jacques Rousseau in 1750, cited by Santos (1992, p. 10) as the starting point for his critique of the dominant paradigm of modern science: “Is there any serious reason to replace the common sense knowledge we have of nature and of life, and which we share with the other men and women of our society, with the scientific knowledge produced by a few and unavailable to the majority of the people?” Acknowledgements  I am very grateful to Leslie F. Zubieta for her invitation to co-organise the EAA session The Intersections of Memory and Rock Art and to collaborate in this book, allowing me to revisit a most cherished topic. I wish to thank all local informants, and administrative officials from Sever do Vouga, Cervos, Arcos, Valença, Oliveira de Frades, Vale de Cambra, São Pedro

 One of the most remarkable examples implemented in Portugal is the Memory Archive Project undertaken by ACÔA: http://arquivodememoria.pt/ 21

218

L. B. Alves

do Sul, Vouzela who joined me during fieldwork over the last 20 years, many of whom I am so fortunate to call friends. This chapter was written during the COVID-19 pandemic which is taking the lives of many eldest in care homes across Portugal and with each one of them a piece of an ancestral worldview fades away. This chapter is dedicated to them and to all whose resilience keeps making our work and our existence brighter.

References Afonso, C. A. (1994). O poder do espaço. Dominação simbólica, território e identidade nas montanhas de Trás-os-Montes. (Unpublished doctoral dissertation). University of Coimbra. Afonso, B. (1993). Ritos de delimitação e sacralização do espaço no Nordeste Transmontano. Brigantis, 13(3–4), 89–105. Almeida, C. A. F. (1974). Paganismo – Sua sobrevivência no Noroeste Peninsular. In In Memoriam António Jorge Dias (Vol. II, pp. 17–37). Instituto de Alta Cultura; Junta de Investigações do Ultramar. Almeida, C. A. F. (1986). A paróquia e seu território. Cadernos do Noroeste (Sociedade, Espaço, Cultura) – “Minho, Terras e Gente”, Abril, 113–130. Alves, F.  M. (1934). Memórias arqueológico-históricas do Distrito de Bragança. Arqueologia, etnografia e arte, IX. Museu do Abade de Baçal. Alves, L. B. (2001). Rock art and enchanted moors: The significance of rock carvings in the folklore of north-west Iberia. In R. J. Wallis & K. Lymer (Eds.), A permeability of boundaries? New approaches to the archaeology of art, religion and folklore (pp. 71–78). British Archaeological Reports, International Series S936. Alves, L. B. (2009). O sentido dos signos – Reflexões e perspectivas para o estudo da arte rupestre do pós-glaciar no Norte de Portugal. In R. de Balbín Behrmann (Ed.), Arte prehistórico al aire libre en el sur de Europa (pp. 381–413). Junta de Castilla y Leon. Alves, L. B. (2012). Circular images and sinuous paths. Engaging with the biography of rock art research in the Atlantic façade of north-west Iberia. In A. Jones & J. Pollard (Eds.), Image, memory and monumentality: Archaeological engagements with the material world. A celebration of the academic achievements of Professor Richard Bradley (Prehistoric Society Research Papers 5. The Prehistoric Society) (pp. 260–227). Oxbow Books. Alves, L. B. (2013). Arte rupestre no concelho de Sever do Vouga. A arte, a terra e o tempo. In Eon, Indústrias Criativas, Lda (Coord.) (Ed.), Genius loci. O espírito do lugar (pp. 77–101). Câmara Municipal de Sever do Vouga. Alves, L. B., Bradley, R., & Fábregas Valcarce, R. (2013). Tunnel visions: A decorated cave at El Pedroso, in the light of fieldwork. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 79, 193–224. Alves, L. B., & Comendador Rey, B. (2017). Arte esquemático pintado en el noroeste peninsular: Una visión integrada transfronteriza. Gallaecia, 36, 11–52. Baptista, A.  M. (1981). O complexo de arte rupestre da Bouça do Colado (Parada, Lindoso). Notícia preliminar. Giesta, 1(4), 6–16. Baptista, A. M., Alves, L. B. (Colab.), & Baptista, J. (Trans.) (2018). Uma escrita antes da escrita: A arte rupestre dos Montes do Gião = Writing before the alphabet: Rock art in the heights of Gião. [S.l]: ARDAL – Associação Regional de Desenvolvimento do Alto Lima. Bradley, R. (1997). Rock art and the prehistory of Atlantic Europe. Signing the land. Routledge. Chippindale, C., & Taçon, P. S. C. (1998). Introduction. In C. Chippindale & P. S. C. Taçon (Eds.), The archaeology of rock-art (pp. 1–10). Cambridge University Press. D’Encarnação, J. (1987). Divindades indígenas da Lusitânia. Conimbriga, 26, 5–37. Eliade, M. (1959). Cosmos and history: The myth of the eternal return. Harper Torchbooks. Espírito Santo, M. (1990). A religião popular Portuguesa. Assírio & Alvim. Fontes, J. (1928). Uma excursão arqueológica à Galiza. Arqueologia e História, 5, 25–60.

Geographies of the Invisible. Rock Art, Memory and Ancestral Topologies in Western…

219

Foucault, M. (2003). Society must be defended. In Lectures at the Collège de France, 1975–76. Picador. Geertz, C. (2000 [1973]). La Interpretación de las culturas. Editorial Gedisa. Goody, J. (1987). The interface between the written and the oral. Cambridge University Press. Harvey, G. (2006). Animism: Respecting the living world. Columbia University Press. Lane, P. J. (2016). The use of ethnography in landscape archaeology. In B. David & J. Thomas (Eds.), Handbook of landscape archaeology (pp. 237–244). Routledge. Lewis-Williams, D., & Dowson, T. A. (1990). Through the veil: San rock paintings and the rock face. The South African Archaeological Bulletin, 45, 5–16. McDonald, J., & Veth, P. (2013). The archaeology of memory: The recursive relationship of Martu rock art and place. Anthropological Forum, 23(4), 367–386. https://doi.org/10.1080/0066467 7.2013.843444 Morphy, H. (1995). Landscape and the reproduction of the ancestral past. In E.  Hirsh & M.  O’Hanlon (Eds.), The anthropology of landscape. Perspectives on place and space (pp. 184–209). Clarendon Press. Morphy, H. (1998). Aboriginal art. Phaidon. Morphy, H. (2000). Australian aboriginal concepts of time. In K.  Lippincott, U.  Eco, & E. H. Gombrich (Eds.), The story of time (pp. 264–268). Merrell Holberton. Morphy, H. (2012). Recursive and iterative processes in Australian rock art: An anthropological perspective. In J.  McDonald & P.  Veth (Eds.), A companion to rock art (pp.  294–305). Wiley-Blackwell. Nascimento, A. de (1997). O noroeste peninsular no século VI, uma encruzilhada no horizonte de Martinho. In A. Nascimiento & M. J. V. Branco (Trans. & Eds.), Martinho de Braga, instrução pastoral sobre superstições populares. De correctione rusticorum (pp.  13–23). Edições Cosmos. (Original work published 6th Century). Pina-Cabral, J. (1987). Paved roads and enchanted Mooresses: The perception of the past among the peasant population of the Alto Minho. Man, 22, 715–735. Pina-Cabral, J. (1989). A legitimação da crença: Mudança social e bruxas no norte de Portugal. In F. Oliveira Baptista, J. Pais de Brito, M. L. Brage, & B. Pereira (Eds.), Estudos em homenagem a Ernesto Veiga de Oliveira (pp. 581–596). Instituto Nacional de Investigação Científica. Pozo-Antonio, J. S., Comendador Rey, B., Alves, L. B., & Barreiro, P. (2021). Methodological approach (In situ and laboratory) for the characterisation of Late Prehistoric rock paintings Penedo Gordo (NW Spain). Minerals, 11, 551. https://doi.org/10.3390/min11060551 Sanches, M. J. (1997). Pré-história recente de Trás-os-Montes e Alto Douro. Sociedade Portuguesa de Antropologia e Etnografia. Santos, B. S. (1992). A discourse on the sciences. Review, 15(1), 9–48. Sarmento, F. M. (1881). O que podem ser os Mouros da tradição popular. O Pantheão, 1, 105–121. Sarmento, F. M. (1933). Dispersos. Imprensa da Universidade de Coimbra. Sarmento, F. M. (1990). A Mourama. Revista de Guimarães, 100, 343–353. Taçon, P. (1991). The power of stone: Symbolic aspects of stone use and tool development in western Arnhem Land, Australia. American Antiquity, 65, 192–207. Tavares, A. H. (1989). Pessegueiro do Vouga – das origens à Actualidade. Estante Editora. Van Dyke, R., & Alcock, S. E. (2003). Archaeologies of memory: An introduction. In R. Van Dyke & S. E. Alcock (Eds.), Archaeologies of memory (pp. 1–13). Blackwell Publishing. Viana, A. (1960). Insculturas rupestres do Alto Minho (Lanhelas e Carreço – Viana do Castelo, Portugal). Boletín de la Comissión Provincial de Monumentos Históricos y Artísticos de Ourense, 20(1–4), 209–231. Vilhena, J., & Alves, L. B. (2008). Subir à maior altura. Espaços funerários, lugares do quotidiano e ‘arte rupestre’ no contexto da Idade do Bronze do Médio/Baixo Mira. Vipasca, 2, 194–218.

220

L. B. Alves

Lara Bacelar Alves  is a Doctoral Researcher at the Center of Studies on Archaeology, Arts and Heritage Sciences (CEAACP) of the University of Coimbra (Portugal). Her main interests are rock art studies and Anthropology of Art. She lectured at Minho University and was an FCT post-doc fellow (2009−2018). From 1997, her research has focused on the socio-cultural contexts of Iberian Late Prehistoric art; mainly on the relationship between different traditions that come together in that region. She directed several research projects and is currently responsible for LandCRAFT, an investigation into the Schematic Art of the Côa valley. From early days, she incorporated inquiries on oral traditions in fieldwork, exploring the long-term significance of rock art for rural communities across Portugal.

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas” José Luis Martínez C.

Rock Art in the Southern Andes Rock art in the south-central Andes is an over five-thousand-year-old recording and communication system (Guffroy, 1999, p. 29) which is still actively used. Regardless of its age, rituals and ceremonies are performed in sites with engravings and paintings, and new and modern images continue to be engraved on the rocky walls or on the slopes of some hills in what is now the Cusco region, in the highlands of Bolivia, northwest Argentina and the north of Chile; closely coinciding with what corresponded to the ancient Collasuyo Region of the Incas. Some of the rock paintings refer to the most important social and historical processes that have taken place in the area, such as the Inca expansion in the fifteenth century (Fig. 1); the violence caused by the European invasion from the sixteenth century on (Fig. 2); the processes of evangelization and extirpation of idolatries, as well as the subsequent conversion to Catholicism of those populations in the seventeenth century; the uprisings of the eighteenth century (Fig. 3); the Independence wars and the establishment of republics with their borders during the nineteenth century. The contemporary records of the twentieth century, which are sparser, relate to livestock reproductive rituals (Berenguer, 1995) or the arrival of modernity in peasant localities, particularly illustrated by images of trucks. Despite the disruptions and transformations brought about by European colonial domination between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries, and the subsequent development of republican modernity, many sites with paintings, engravings and geoglyphs continued to be visited or used by local Andean populations (Martínez C & Arenas, 2015). In some of these sites, it is even possible to document several occupations and reoccupations over several centuries. J. L. Martínez C. (*) Department of Historical Sciences – Center for Latin American Cultural Studies, Universidad de Chile, Santiago, Chile e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_10

221

222

J. L. Martínez C.

Fig. 1  Inca armies in red tunics (unkus) and feathered helmets (chuku), wielding spears in the Atacama Puna (Humahuaca, Argentina). Fragment of the “Boman Panel” in the Rinconada Pukara site. (Photograph by the author)

Clearly, the relations between the local populations and the sites and wall images have changed. Some contents, meanings and practices have been forgotten, while, simultaneously, new images, ritual practices, and ontologies have been incorporated, giving rise to an interesting space of transformations and continuities. Among the latter, we find the techniques, the repeated and continued use of the same sites over many centuries, the ability to understand old visual languages and their principles, and some of the ritual practices. More specifically, it has been postulated that this long-term use of the sites and paintings made it possible for Andean communities to create social memories (Martel et al., 2012). A characteristic that stands out regarding the sites and their images is that for these populations they are not “old”, empty, or silent sites, devoid of all meaning, or part of long-forgotten ancient civilizations. Instead, they are part of the life of current populations. This scenario allows us to state that there is a set of accounts, interpretations, uses of memory, and conceptual categories that make rock art part of the contemporary thinking of these societies. The countless toponyms, either in Quechua or Aymara (the most important languages in the south Andean region), used to identify the places with paintings or

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

223

Fig. 2  Clash between a European rider and an Andean warrior with bow and arrow. Sapagua site, Quebrada Humahuaca (Argentina). (Photograph by the author, FONDECYT grant 1130431)

engravings, such as quellkani (place with writing), quillqa wasi (written house), or Spanish forms with Quechua suffixes, such as escriturayoj (“that has writing”), reveal the contemporariness between writing as a visual record and rock art. In sum, it is a thought system that, as has been postulated, integrated a new conceptual structure, both the Christian and the traditional Andean religious universe, with the corresponding ideological worlds, without clash or contradiction between them (Abercrombie, 2006, p. 25 ff). The south-central Andes is a vast geographical area (see Fig.  4) and the sites mentioned here are distant several kilometers from one another. Nevertheless, archaeology, ethnohistory, and anthropology have proposed that, despite their evident diversity of ecologies and contemporary historical singularities, these populations also share a set of practices, knowledge and thought systems. This realization makes it a distinctive area where analytical and comparative frameworks are suitable to understand better these sites (Curatola, 2019). The present work focuses on populations that are currently mostly bilingual, either Quechua/Spanish or Aymara/ Spanish and, in only a few cases, Andean/Spanish speakers (Cerrón-Palomino, 2003), which warrants an attempt at some linguistic analyses to provide better insights into their own thought categories in relation to rock art.

224

J. L. Martínez C.

Fig. 3  Character in a hat and with a cross, possibly involved in the Tupac Katari uprising in Bolivia in 1872 (Arenas et  al., 2017). Quebrada Camiña (Pica, Chile). (Photograph by Bosco González)

Contemporary Voices About Rock Art In the gorge of the K’alajawira river (Bolivia)1 lies Q’urini, “the one who has gold” (Arenas et al., 2015, p. 39).2 It is a massive rock formation with caves, eaves, and hollows on the walls, and from which small streams and water springs flow. As a sacred figure, and similarly to many other hills in the Andes (Martínez, 1983), Q’urini is described as a dangerous entity, menacing and punitive if the necessary payments, offerings, and sacrifices are not made.3 It is comprised of three sectors (Q’urini 1, 2 and 3), spread in around one hundred meters, with rock art panels, some of which contain archaeological evidence of continued human occupation dating, at least, to the Inca presence (ca. 1470 AD) until today (Arenas et al., 2015,  In the vicinity of the town of San Pedro de Totora, north from the Oruro Department (see Fig. 4). Despite differences between Quechua and Aymara, I employ the spelling used by each author for names and concepts in those languages, especially regarding the use of u/o, i/e, k/q. 2  This ethnography was carried out as part of the FONDECYT grant 1,130,431. 3  For a more comprehensive analysis of the sacredness and danger of these sites, see G. Martínez (1983) and Cruz (2016). 1

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

Fig. 4  Location map

225

226

J. L. Martínez C.

p. 31), revealing diverse techniques (panels with black paintings; panels with red and black paintings; black, white and red color paintings; and charcoal dry application). This diversity appears to suggest different moments of execution as well as the participation of various human groups. This is an area with several relevant features for the analysis of possible ontologies about rock art images and about how the long duration and the inscription of new themes in these rock art sites have contributed to the formation and transformation of “mobile” or dynamic memories (Savkić, 2019). Querejazu collected several stories that refer to a cave in the site at the top of the crag, which leads to an underground lagoon where there is a gold yoke of bulls. In the dark nights these bulls come out of the Q’urini and head towards Kandiata, a nearby site of great importance during the Tawantinsuyu (Inca government) where, among other equally important remains, an Imperial Inca style chullpa (a pre-­ Hispanic Aymara funerary monument) stands out (Querejazu, 1994, p.  127). Another story refers to a more recent period and to the visit of a “gringo” (European or American individual) who, aware of the riches treasured in the Q’urini, took a risk and hanged from the top of the rock to see what was inside the large vertical fracture that divides in two the rock at the top. The Q’urini, however, protective of its secrets and riches, cut the rope holding the explorer. While in some versions the “gringo” died in front of the paintings (Querejazu, 1994, p. 127), in others he fell inside the hole “to never be seen again.” (Arenas et al., 2015, p. 40). These areas with rock art are active and repeatedly used throughout the year by the women and men of that Aymara community for practices such as a change in authorities, and livestock and crops fertility rogation ceremonies, among other rituals including animal sacrifices,4 ch’allar (spraying) of animal blood and fat on some paintings, as well as other types of offerings (Fig. 5). The burning of offerings and animal sacrifices have also been recorded in other rock art sites of the Bolivian highlands as in, for example, the so-called “Cave of the Devil” (Bolivia)5 where, like in the Q’urini, there is archaeological evidence of its continuous use from before the sixteenth century up to the present. There, according to sixteenth century documents, Spanish priests carried out extirpation of idolatries and destroyed rock art paintings (Absi & Cruz, 2007) because the place was seen by the Andean populations as a gate joining the world inhabited by human beings and another realm, that of old deities inside the hills. Christians considered those subterranean worlds inside the earth as the dwellings of the devil. Still, four hundred years later, people use the same place for rituals with burnings and offerings (Fig. 6). Some documents suggest these practices and thought-systems about rock art have great temporal depth. In a text from the first half of the seventeenth century, one of the extirpators of idolatries of the Corregimiento de Cajatambo (Peru), described that: “… said rocks and walls were splattered with old and fresh blood

 According to many community members, bulls in the past were sacrificed and live animals were put into one of the caves of the rocky area (Arenas et al., 2015, p. 40). 5  On the road between the cities of Potosí and Oruro (see Fig. 4). 4

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

227

Fig. 5  Ritual sacrifice and blood are thrown at the base of the panel in Q’urini 3. The painting of a condor with open wings next to smaller figures, such as a rider, can be observed in the left upper area. (Photograph by Constanza Tocornal. FONDECYT grant 1130431)

and signals figures of its relic6” (Duviols, 2003, p. 184). This ritual practice appears to be very close to that still carried out today before the paintings of the Q’urini and in the Cave of the Devil. Another famous extirpator, Cristóbal de Albornoz, wrote that: “Others dig the earth in the guaca itself, and while digging it tell of their work and prosperity to the guaca” (c. 1581–1585/1989, p.  168),7 thus allowing us to understand the ritual burial performed in front of the site Q’urini 3.

Who Made and Makes Rock Art? Contemporary ethnographic records show that new themes and paintings continue to be incorporated on their walls in some places, adding to those already there.8

 “Antigualla” (relic), in the original, is used to refer to an “antique work or piece of art,” Real Academia Española (n.d.), https://dle.rae.es/antigualla?m=form 7  I use the spelling of “guaca” as employed by the extirpator, which is the Hispanicization of the Quechua wak’a, used to refer to deities and some forms of the sacred. 8  A process amply documented by Andean archaeology. 6

228

J. L. Martínez C.

Fig. 6 (a) Cueva del Diablo (Devil’s Cave), Potosi. Riders and camelids figures in white can be seen below the stuffed condor with open wings. (b) Remains of current offerings and ritual burnings at the base of the painted images. (Photographs courtesy of Pablo Cruz)

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

229

Because the primitives did not know paper (…). It was like having a testament, a book, painted there. So there anyone got to a rock and painted llama, painted animals, people were also painted there. (Nicolás Aimani, Taira villager, personal communication, North of Chile in Berenguer, 2017, p. 71)

This description questions the contemporary assumption that rock art is only a matter for specialists, perhaps people with certain ritual training: “anyone got to a rock and painted” suggests otherwise. Even though the quillqa kamayoq9 have been regarded as pre-Hispanic specialists, this does not seem to exclude other practices related to rock art paintings, much freer than we can imagine. This is something also stressed by a peasant woman from the same locality of Taira10: Well, sometimes one feels like doing something, if you want to ask for cattle you do the colors [she paints]. Sure, I put some pebbles and say [to the deity of the hill] that those are the sheep or the little llamas, it’s that simple, it’s like playing. Like this, it has to be done with faith, because if I don’t do things with faith, it’s not worth it. (Luisa Huanuco, personal communication, Taira community, in Berenguer, 2017, p. 71)

Something similar happens with the practices of the villagers of Talabre11 (Chile). Morales (1997, p. 148) had the opportunity to observe the making of new paintings: through experience on the field, we can venture to say that the drawings are, probably, made as an almost unconscious act, when resting from the walking and working times, sitting under the eaves, unfinished drawings are continued, a kind of unconscious action or act, and in other cases, drawings are made for specific purposes (wrongs or payments).

Regarding the production of paintings, there is an important contradiction between an anthropological perspective that assumes an “almost unconscious” act, and the one pointed out by Luisa Huanuco. She stresses that “it must be done with faith”, which presupposes a conscious act. This contradiction can be partially solved by resorting to other records which provide further elements of analysis. In the eighteenth century, more than a hundred years after the previous extirpation of idolatries in Cajatambo (Peru), a new extirpator denounced a site in the same locality in which “… an idol was painted in the shape of a llama to whom all went to pay great adoration”; there “… there were several paintings of men and women, and who each grasping in their mind whatever they liked, went to pray there…” (García, 1994, pp. 497–498). This fragment shows that the practice of communication between the paintings and the petitioners, in this case, demanded an active awareness on the part of the petitioners, as explained by Luisa Huanuco in Taira.

 Currently translated as writing, but it also alluded to specialists in painting, sculpting, carving, and other similar activities in ceramics, wood, stone, and textile. 10  Taira is a small town in the higher area of the Loa River, II Region, near the city of Calama, Chile. It is estimated that it was inhabited between 800–400 BC (Berenguer, 2017, p. 52). A significant number of other sites and panels with rock paintings and engravings are found nearby, many of which have been created by present-day Andean shepherds, showing that the area has been inhabited for several millennia. 11  A small Atacama community near Salar de Atacama and San Pedro de Atacama, Northern Chile. 9

230

J. L. Martínez C.

The archaeological study of the geoglyphs of the Chug Chug area, Chile (Pimentel et  al., 2017),12 suggests that these collective painting, engraving, or geoglyph-­making practices would not only be a current issue, resulting from a condition of cultural dismantling that allows anyone to intervene the ancient wall paintings, adding new images. Chug Chug, crossed by an important llama caravan route, was occupied, with varying intensity, for more than a thousand years from the Late Formative period (ca. 100–500 AD) to the middle of the nineteenth century. It is home to one of the most important sets of geoglyphs in Northern Chile (18 sites with 560 motifs) made by different groups that successively added new signifiers over time. We are dealing here with a practice in which different generations of caravanners would have participated, the same way several generations of shepherds did in Q’urini and Taira. How can these accounts help us better understand the symbolic field and practices involved in rock art, specially pre-Hispanic and colonial rock art for which evidence is scarce? I would like to delve into two issues problematized by these contemporary accounts: A possible ontology of rock art images and the way in which they can engage in memory-construction processes; and Andean memories, more specifically, the possible relations between painted or engraved images and the social or collective memories.

 otes for an Ontology/Ontologies of Rock Art Images N in the Andes As I have already stressed, it is necessary to address the possible ontological status of rock art images––a central issue in their study––which is also related to the active ways Andean memories work. Even though several, even synchronous, ontologies before the European invasion among the Andean societies have been proposed (Tantaleán, 2019), it is also important to acknowledge their homogenization by the Inca administration through the development of an Inca visual culture (Cummins, 2007). In the approach adopted here, that integrative coexistence of different ontologies, including those of current modernity, persists. Visual manifestations, specifically rock art, however, must be seen within a larger ontological context. Clergyman Cristóbal de Molina, concerned with the extirpation of “idolatries”, collected several stories in 1575 about what, in his Eurocentric words, would have been the “creation of the world”: …there in Tiahuanaco13 the creator began to raise up the people and nations that are in that region, making one of each nation in clay, and painting the dresses that each one was to wear; those that were to wear their hair, with hair, and those that were to be shorn, with hair cut. And to each nation was given the language that was to be spoken, and the songs to be

12 13

 Ravine located between the cities of Calama and Mejillones, Northern Chile.  Important pre-Inca religious center located on the border of Lake Titicaca, Bolivia.

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

231

sung, and the seeds and food that they were to sow... (Cristóbal de Molina “el Cuzqueño”, 1575/2010, p. 36; my emphasis)

Another version of the same story stresses more emphatically that, in that place, god sculpted and drew on large rock slabs all the nations he intended to create (Sarmiento de Gamboa, 1572/2001, pp. 40, 43). In other words, what we call rock art (images on rock) was the medium and language used for the visual “creation” of humanity. Both stories emphasize the visual and body actions of the creation––painting, drawing on stones (engraving), sculpting––, and not the oral (the “Word”), that were essential. And it is the visual medium which, afterwards, comes to life. The engraved and painted images become the beings that currently populate the earth, in a context of extraordinary multi-sensoriality, as not only the garments, dresses and hairstyles that “each one was to wear” (the visual aspect) were painted, but also the languages, music styles, songs (the audible aspect), and their foods (and also, let us assume, their smell and tasting, the gustatory and olfactory aspects). In this mythical story, the images precede “the real”, or are as real as the living beings that “were created”. The Quechua concepts of kamaq (life-force energy), kamaquen (the one that breaths that energy into others) and kamasqa or kamayuq (who receives the energy) are useful to understand these processes of animation of the images (Taylor, 1974–76), and which will allow understanding the story of the transformation of engraved and painted stones into living beings that took place in Tiahuanaco. I posit that the early seventeenth century’s episode told by Christianized chieftain Cristóbal Choquecaxa, in Huarochirí, Peru14 shows a similar ontological relation between the images and human beings: images are active, they have movement and are capable of dialogue. This narrative takes place in a dream. In it, Don Cristóbal must enter a house and finds several paintings on the walls which are the “devil” (referring to Lloqllaywanku, a pre-Hispanic deity that resisted evangelization).15 Everything happens while the paintings move, walk, or spin around: “…the image moved” and “it spun around all over the house” (Taylor, 1987, pp. 319, 321). Two aspects are relevant for this discussion about the paintings. One is that the deity is a set of wall paintings. The second aspect is the verb used to describe the movement, muyuq, which refers to a circular movement.16 The set of painted images (a “small very dark devil” and “a llama head”; Taylor, 1987, p. 321), is constantly moving around in the dream, spinning, which frightens Don Cristóbal, who eventually manages to escape. Some contemporary accounts allow postulating that part of that ancient ontology is still active among some present-day Andean populations. For example, according to one of the officiants in the Q’urini rituals, the paintings “were alerting [the Incas] that the Spaniards were coming” (Tocornal, 2017, p. 9). In this case, these paintings refer to specific events like the confrontation between Incas and Spaniards and,

 Huarochirí’s colonial corregimiento was located in the mountain range near the city of Lima, Peru.  The text is written in Quechua. 16  Muyuq: whirlwind or whirlpool. Whirler, which revolves or spins around (Academia Mayor de la Lengua Quechua, 2005, p. 343). 14 15

232

J. L. Martínez C.

thus, currently act as memory-construction materials. But the autonomous character of the paintings is also highlighted. They were not made by the Incas or by the local population to remember afterwards; they were already there, alerting. They could even precede the “event”. They are images with their own agency. Are they part of the communication of Q’urini with human beings? Are they independent of the place and the sacred entity? How are those paintings? What is their ontological status? Ethnographic records about the Supay Wasi (“House of the Devil”) site, in what is now the community of Chaunaca,17 in Bolivia, indicate that the Jalq’a women weavers claim that some features of the designs they weave have been transmitted by the images engraved on rocks or in caves (Cereceda, 2006, p. 314).18 Again, we are in the presence of a way of thinking that suggests that rock paintings are not passive and that can communicate, in some way, with site-goers. Besides communication (which need not be oral), is the issue of the vitality of the images. Some accounts coincide in that paintings or engravings are active. Some women villagers of Villa Irpoco in Bolivia reported that “They [images] appear and disappear”, “figures move”, (Tocornal, 2017, p. 9). Also, one informant from Talabre, Chile, said (Fig. 7): “…the figures on the wall move from one place to another and when they move, they first pass their head and then their body…” (Morales, 1997, p. 146). In this respect, in 2016, in the Aymara community of Soraga, Bolivia,19 one of our colleagues had the opportunity to go down a subterranean Inca funerary structure, located beneath the houses of the village (Mora & Goytía, 2018). When he showed the photographs that he had taken of the place, the audience was surprised that he had not noticed the toad figures, painted on the wall, which “moved”, making spectators rejoice (Gerardo Mora, personal communication, 2018). In Quechua, the word riccuni, and its variants, refers to a vision or active image which can “show itself, reveal itself” and “appear” (Academia Mayor de la Lengua Quechua, p.  521). The dynamism of the images also appears to be contained in Aymara words such as “appear to someone”, ullasirapitha, and “to appear again what has been lost or gone”, ullaskatha (Bertonio, 1612/2006, p. 731). It refers to an image that “allows itself to be seen”, that can “appear” after being gone. Images with the capacity to reveal themselves, to let themselves be seen. They are painted or engraved figures on rocks that “reveal themselves”. They are all active images, with a presence and prominence; they are not static; they are not there to be seen or “read” (a Eurocentric approach); they do not engage in an “active spectator vs passive images” relationship, but they are alive themselves and produce the event, and, furthermore, have movement (they are not fixed).

 Community located in the Jalq’a area, near the city of Sucre, Bolivia.  Woven designs are currently made in the Jalq’a textiles (Cereceda, 2006). 19  Located near the Quillaca’s sanctuary, in present-day Oruro Department, Bolivia. This fieldwork was carried out as part of the FONDECYT grant 1130431. 17 18

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

233

Fig. 7  Camelids painting in Quebrada Kezala, Talabre (ca. 600 BC). (Photograph by Marco Arenas, FONDECYT grant 1130431)

The concept referring directly to an image, signal, or symbol, both in Aymara and in Quechua,20 is unancha (Academia Mayor de la Lengua Quechua, 2005, p. 684; Lengua Aymara (n.d.), https://pueblosoriginarios.com/lenguas/aymara.php). There is one sense of this concept that I find interesting for this inquiry into the status of images and their capacity for communication. Unancha also implies “to understand” (Bertonio, 1612/2006, p. 735; Academia Mayor de la Lengua Quechua, 2005, p. 684). Does “understanding” perhaps simply occur by “noticing” the presence of a signal or image? Or is there a deeper relationship between the image and understanding? Is the human counterpart active, in this case, towards the images that “show themselves” and which therefore require to be “understood” for communication to take place? If images communicate, human beings must, in turn, have an active attitude (“understanding”) for the relationship to develop. Regarding rikchay (a synonym of unancha), there is a sense of this term that seems to reiterate the relation between the images or figures, the watchful look, and a particular state of consciousness. Rikchay is also “to remember”, waking from sleep (Academia Mayor de la Lengua Quechua, 2005, p. 821), a meaning that is also  The terms can be found in both languages.

20

234

J. L. Martínez C.

found in the colonial words: “Asomar (appear)”, “remanecer (to appear again unexpectedly)” (Santo Tomás, 1560/2006, p. 497, fs. 16v, 91v). Are these meanings suggesting something emerging, moving from one state into another where it can be noticed, where it can be “understood”? What type of visual thought is being drawn?21

Rock Art and Memories The existence of visual memories among Andean societies has been amply documented. Different media were used to communicate and circulate them, from textiles and ceramics, musical-choreographic representations, to the geros (decorated ritual cups), and where rock art is not an exception (Berenguer, 2004; Bray, 2000; Cereceda, 2013; Cummins, 2004, among others). The topic of the relation of memories to rock art requires some caveats. First, as already mentioned, because many of the sites discussed here show human occupation processes—continuous or not—that can stretch over several centuries, even millennia. Various occupations give rise to diverse cultural practices involving painting and engravings as part of those societies’ social construction processes. These images served to communicate with deities and several non-human entities and had a role in how different social groups related to each other (Berenguer, 2004). Many panels were painted to transmit power or domination messages, or from specific ontologies of a given society, without an explicit link to a “memory”, i.e., to something specific that has already happened and does not want to be forgotten. However, the continuation or subsequent reoccupation of these same places allowed for resignifications and new appropriations, with contents different from the original ones, giving meaning to the memories of subsequent societies. Second, these are places and panels that frequently display the constant addition of new images and the incorporation of new themes. Thus, they become a sort of long-term temporal record of events and processes, thoughts, ideas, and proposals; some of them subversive against dominating societies such as the Incas, the Spanish, or the modern republics. Sites available to local populations who continue using and resemanticizing them, constructing other stories of memory. Thus, it is necessary to talk in plural about memories because it is possible to identify Andean and European practices and logic—both colonial and modernin this rock art. At the beginning of this article, I briefly mentioned the brunt of two important processes of appropriation and erasure of Indigenous memories and imposition of others (Christianity’s) temporalities and memory. I refer to the physical and ideological repression carried out by the Catholic Church from the sixteenth century on, which involved the destruction of some sites, the erasure or crossing out of images and the resignification of the paintings as demonic places and practices that must be  It is worth mentioning here the concept of pacarina, widely used in the Andes as the place (spring, seminal hole) from where human beings and llamas arise, “re-emerge,” to become part of the world. 21

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

235

denounced, repressed and forgotten.22 The images made by the Andean populations (not only on rock), became a space in dispute between evangelizers and evangelized, triggering several situations that impacted on the maintenance and construction of old and new memories. Evolutionist discourses from the nineteenth century regarded rock art as something primitive belonging to a remote past, disconnecting the Andean populations from their own contexts of signification and rendering the contemporary practices performed on them permanently invisible. Furthermore, that approach to places with rock art also aimed at silencing the local voices and their own interpretations, as they were sites “without record”. Thus, the struggles over the memories have been an important issue for Andean societies. Rock art images have had a central role in the material available for those communities to construct and reconstruct their memories multiple times. What these practices of exclusion meant for Andean populations is interestingly reflected in the account of a villager who, in relation to the Supay Wasi paintings, claims the following: “Nobody can understand them [the paintings]. The Inca left this written for us. They [referring directly to archaeologists and anthropologists] can come with their rulers to measure them, to draw them, they ask, but they don’t understand them” (Cereceda, 2006, p. 325, my emphasis). In this case, rock art is seen as a legacy, something valuable, and under no circumstances as something without current meaning. On the contrary, it was the Inca who left this “for us”. Despite the enormous impact of all these social processes, rock art in this area works as a place of enunciation in which different Andean communities have recorded their thoughts and perspectives on certain events. All of this inscribed in the long term since, as we have seen, the age of the paintings and engravings has not been a barrier for their incorporation and resignification in contemporary stories, where temporal and technical differences are irrelevant. Savkić has employed the term “mobile memories” to refer to these dynamic practices involved in the relation between visual practices and the memories that are constantly constructed: … appropriations, transformations and inventions of memory in its visual (and textual) productions, connecting the (remote) past with the present, but always creating new manifestations (and practices)—which are the product of the new realities and identities, as well as reactions to them—and never mere copies. (2019, p. 44)

Which Memories? Based on the ethnographic accounts previously mentioned about Q’urini, I would like to draw attention to another issue. The references to the site Kandiata, the bulls, and the “gringo” who disappeared inside, indicate different temporalities, each with

22

 Recall names such as Supay wasi (“House of the Devil”), or “Cave of the Devil”.

236

J. L. Martínez C.

its own meaning. In Kandiata are the archaeological remains of an important Inca center which, additionally, has chullpas. Many of these buildings were painted with Inca textile designs (Fig. 8), indicating the alliance between the local Aymara lordships and the Incas. Kandiata is part of local memory about a specific past time: “The time of the Inca”, which refers to pre-Hispanic times in Andean memories. On the other hand, the bulls are directly related to the colonial period, and to what European is in general. As “outside” animals, in many modern and colonial myths, they are always displayed in pairs, as beings of great strength and power, as links between the ancient Andean deities and the present.23 Finally, the “gringo”, either American or European, associated with priests or evangelical preachers, as well as with potentially dangerous foreigners, directly sets us in modern republican times. Q’urini, therefore, possesses different temporal categories and visual signifiers with great relevance, and because of this, precisely, it becomes a place of memories and meaning for those who go there.

Fig. 8  Remains of Aymara funerary chullpa with Inca textile style decoration. (Photograph by Constanza Tocornal, FONDECYT grant 1130431)

 In the Taira site two bulls, one yellowish white and the other black, are also mentioned (Berenguer, 2017, p. 21). 23

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

237

These accounts connect some of the painted figures with more specific local events. The clash between the Incas and the Spaniards is a topic for villagers: “The Spanish came to Tutacache because they already knew that there were Inca armies and then to Q’urini and a combat took place in Yarabe” (Tocornal, 2017, p.  3). Several of the panels show fight scenes between riders and characters on foot, as well as some caravels.24 In Q’urini 1 one of the scenes shows a character with something that appears to be a sling in his hand (waraqa) attacking another character with a hat and lying on the ground (Arenas et al., 2015, p. 47). The iconography of the hat is closely linked to the Spaniards, whereas the sling is an Andean weapon par excellence (see Fig. 9). In these accounts, it is possible to observe different memory practices: One that identifies events (e.g., the Yarabe combat), and the other that constructs signifying temporalities. It is thus necessary to ask what was recorded: Events? If so, which events? Categories, concepts? Contemporary information suggests several possibilities in the relations between the images and their contents. I have not found documentary evidence referring to the possible Yarabe combat. Even though we cannot rule out the possibility that the scene portraits a specific event, its visual elaboration suggests that it is a meaningful iconographic set (i.e., riders, caravels, hats vs foot soldiers with slings). This type of composition is also found in other places and refers categorially to contents such as “clashes” or “battles” between Inca and Andean populations and the Spanish. Nineteenth-century rock paintings, showing the confrontation between Peruvian and Bolivian armies, reinforce this possibility (Arkush, 2014) as they would not refer to a specific battle, but the wars between them. Regarding visual languages, some seventeenth century Andean intellectuals left evidence of the different ways in which it is possible to understand the relationship between images and visual statements, on the one hand, and what we could tentatively call the “historical” event or its memory, on the other. Following Guaman Poma de Ayala—perhaps the most important Andean chronicler—a possible relation is a direct one between a character or an event and the visual image painted or engraved. Such is the case of the rock painting that Manco Inca25 commissioned in Ollantaytambo, to leave evidence of his presence there: “as he fled with his captains and took many Indians to the town of Tambo, and there he built many houses and halls, and ordered several chácaras,26 and said Mango Inca commissioned a portrait of him and his weapons on a large rock so it would be memory …” (Guaman Poma de Ayala, 1616, f. 406, my emphasis). Here, the image is that of a specific “historical” character and a particular event: the anti-Spanish uprising; and it was painted at some point between 1537 and 1538 (Fig. 10, see Falcón, 2015).

 Q’urini is located in the Oruro Altiplano, over 3700 masl, and many kilometers from the coast of the Pacific Ocean. 25  This is the ruler who revolted against the emerging Spanish colonial dominance in 1537. 26  Crop fields. 24

238

J. L. Martínez C.

Fig. 9  Details of a battle scene, riders in hats with swords; bull figure at the base of the Q’urini panel. (Adapted from Arenas et  al., 2015, p.  47; permission to publish is granted to the author under FONDECYT 12000637 and 1130431 grants’ agreements)

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

239

Fig. 10  Painting commissioned by Manco Inca, located at the entrance of Ollantaytambo. Note the dark tunic (unku), a red breastplate, the head, and the chuku or helmet in red/white. (Photograph by the author)

Is this a “portrait”, however? Available evidence points to the absence of personal portraits within Inca visual practices (Cummins, 2004, p. 183). This particular image, very schematically painted, is restricted to a set made up of the long shirt (unku), a triangular breastplate, and a feathered helmet, a costume typical to all the Inca elite. It is impossible at first glance to identify personal signs making up a portrait. In fact, it is the representation of an Inca, but is it Manco Inca or is it the category “Inca” deployed to be identified and remembered? We cannot eliminate the possibility that it is a memory (something that allows to “remember”), but it could also be a “presence”, in the sense of the ontologies I have discussed above. If Manco Inca wanted to be “remembered”, he did so in Andean ontological terms and not the European ones of the time. Almost at the same time, another Andean author from the old elite from Cuzco, Inca Garcilaso, proposed an alternative to understand the relation between image and memory: Inca Wiraqocha, a much earlier ruler than Manco Inca, would have sent to paint two condors on a rock, one fleeing Cusco “with closed wings and lowered head and crouched as birds do, however ferocious they may be, when they want to hide…”, representing Inca Yawar Waq’aq who had fled the capital, Cusco, in the face of enemy threat; and the other defending the Inca capital, with “the face turned to the city and fierce, with open wings, as if flying to catch a prey…” which represented Inca Wiraqocha (Garcilaso de la Vega, 1609/1991, p. 306). Both birds were conceptual and metaphorical representations of two different attitudes of the Incas in the face of the threat of their enemies. Condors did not refer directly to the characters, but their attitudes, and kept a less evident, or at least less immediate, link to the “historical” event.

240

J. L. Martínez C.

There is a third case worth mentioning. In several places in the southern Andes, there are rock art images depicting catholic priests. For example, in sector 3 of the site Toro Muerto (Chile),27 at least 125 blocks with colonial and republican engravings have been identified (Arenas, 2013). Besides the frequent representation of crosses and churches, various priests’ figures also stand out generally resembling a “spiky” sea urchin with its spines sticking out, but in this instance with crosses instead of hands and feet, and with crosses on their heads and protruding from the elbows. In this case, it is difficult to think these images represent a specific priest. Instead, what appears to be at work is a category content, that of a “priest” character which, like the images of the “Yarabe combat”, do not refer to a specific event but to a type of social subject which is relevant for the life of peasant Andean communities.

Rock Art, Ontologies, and Memories The materials discussed in this text suggest that the local memories constructed as part of the continued use of the sites with rock art are not necessarily directly connected with a given event (e.g., a specific hero, ruler or battle). Rather, with memory elements mentioned earlier, such as the times of the Inca, the resulted violence from the colonial conquest, and the extirpation of idolatries among other memory moments. The coexistence of images from different chronologies on the same surface would also suggest that these are memories that do not require a unique and sequential narratives. These images, rather than “narrate”, “present” and communicate. Thus, allowing to identify and evoke without a narrative necessarily associated with particular chronologically-bounded events. There is no such thing as a distinct “before” and “after” on many of those panels. As stressed by a Bolivian intellectual, in the Andes “Sometimes, even in the same site, there is a clustering of incongruous elements, extravagant superpositions. The prehistoric meets the modern. Ages hold hands…” (Jaime Mendoza, 1935, in Rivera Cusicanqui, 2018, p.  19). Thus, the continued use of these sites and paintings appears to be central to the memory construction practices in the South Andes. Those who have studied the construction of memories in the Andes on media other than rock art, such as oral myths, textiles, dances and musical-choreographic representations, have claimed that they are memories with “narratives out of the text” (Cereceda, 1993), “stories without narrative” (Molinié, 1997), or memories without oral discourse, where the memory processes “in the sense of creating a presence of the past in the present occur through actions and gestures” (R. Martínez, 2012, my translation). These proposals open doors to our current understanding of the memories and of rock art.

27

 Ravine near the town of Incahuasi, northern Chile.

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

241

Sacred entities, sites and spatialities with deep meaning; paintings and engravings with agency and which communicate with people; people with watchful and receptive look who communicate with the images and their memory; memories that become active, that do not go to the past because they are right here, sharing with the present; rituals that activate and construct relations, different kinds of music, smells, gestures and movements. This is a fascinating universe to which rock art is just one entrance, one amazing road to ask for other ways of knowing, remembering and being. I believe that Andean experience with rock art is part of a specific type of historical awareness, of “a way of defining by thought or by actions the relation to time and to the status of the event… a way of defining the determinate” (Molinié, 1997, p. 2), which demands a proper study and knowledge of Andean ontologies and connected epistemologies. These memories are not only active and long-lasting, but they have also shown their capacity to incorporate and be incorporated to other ontologies and ways of communicating visually, from the establishment of colonial societies and the subsequent modernity. Acknowledgements  This work is the result of the FONDECYT grants 1200637 and 1130431. I would like to thank my colleagues, who provided their field notes and photos, as well as my reviewers and proof-reader.

References Abercrombie, T. (2006). Caminos de la memoria y el poder. Etnografía e historia en una comunidad andina. IFEA-IEB-Asdi. Absi, P., & Cruz, P. (2007). La porte de la wak’a de Potosi s’est ouverte a l’enfer. La quebrada de San Bartolomé. Journal de la Société des Américanistes, 93(2), 51–86. Academia Mayor de la Lengua Quechua. (2005). Diccionario Quechua  – Español  – Quechua. Gobierno Regional Cusco. Albornoz, C. (1989). Instrucción para descubrir todas las guacas del Pirú y sus camayos y haciendas. In H. Urbano & P. Duviols (Eds.), Fábulas y mitos de los Incas (pp. 161–198). Historia 16. (Original work published c. 1581–1585). Arenas, M. (2013). Significantes rupestres coloniales del sitio Toro Muerto (Chile). Boletín de la SIARB, 27, 87–104. Arenas, M., Lima, M., Tocornal, C., & Alvarado, L. (2015). El arte rupestre de Q’urini, Oruro – Bolivia. Informe de avance. Boletín de la SIARB, 29, 28–50. Arenas, M., González, B., & Martínez, C. J. L. (2017). Arte rupestre en los corregimientos coloniales de Tarapacá y Atacama. Problemáticas comparativas iniciales. Estudios Atacameños, 61, 73–109. Arkush, E. (2014). Soldados históricos en un panel de arte rupestre, Puno, Perú: Los caudillos del siglo XIX y el comentario político andino. Chungara, 46(4), 585–605. Berenguer, J. (1995). El arte rupestre de Taira dentro de los problemas de la arqueología atacameña. Chungara, 27, 7–43. Berenguer, J. (2004). Cinco milenios de arte rupestre en los Andes atacameños: Imágenes para lo humano, imágenes para lo divino. Boletín del Museo Chileno de Arte Precolombino, 9, 75–108. Berenguer, J. (2017). Taira, el amanecer del arte en Atacama. Museo Chileno de Arte Precolombino.

242

J. L. Martínez C.

Bertonio, L. (2006). Vocabulario de la lengua Aymara. Ediciones El Lector. (Original work published 1612). Bray, T. (2000). Inca iconography. The art of empire in the Andes. RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, 38, 168–178. Cereceda, V. (1993). Cette étendue entre l’Altiplano et la mer…: Un mythe chipaya hors texte. In A.  Becquelin & A.  Molinié (Comps.), Mémoire de la tradition (pp.  227–284). Société d’Ethnologie & Université de Paris X. Cereceda, V. (2006). Mitos e imágenes andinas del infierno. In A. Ortíz (Ed.), Mitologías amerindias (Enciclopedia iberoamericana de religiones 5) (pp. 313–359). Editorial Trotta. Cereceda, V. (2013). Arte rupestre y diseños textiles. In M. E. Albeck, M. Ruíz, & B. Cremonte (Eds.), Las tierras altas del área centro sur andina entre el 1000 y el 1600 d.C (pp. 385–404). Universidad Nacional de Jujuy. Cerrón-Palomino, R. (2003). Castellano andino. Aspectos sociolingüísticos, pedagógicos y gramaticales. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú – Cooperación Técnica Alemana. Cruz, P. (2016). Pensando en Supay o desde el Diablo. Saqra, paisaje y memoria en el espacio surandino. In L. Bugallo & M. Vilca (Comps.), Wak’as, diablos y muertos. Alteridades significantes en el mundo andino (pp. 171–200). IFEA & Universidad Nacional de Jujuy. Cummins, T. (2004). Brindis con el Inca. La abstracción andina y las imágenes coloniales de los queros. Universidad Nacional Mayor de San Marcos, Universidad Mayor de San Andrés & Embajada de los Estados Unidos de América. Cummins, T. (2007). Queros, Aquillas, uncus, and Chulpas: The composition of Inka artistic expression and power. In R. Burger, C. Morris, & M. R. Matos (Eds.), Variations in the expression of Inka power (pp. 267–311). Dumbarton Oaks - Harvard University Press. Curatola, M. (2019). El estudio del mundo andino. Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú. Duviols, P. (2003). Procesos y visitas de idolatrías. Cajatambo, siglo XVII. Universidad Católica del Perú. Falcón, V. (2015). Inkapintay: Arte rupestre de resistencia Inca a la conquista española del Tawantinsuyu. Revista Huacaypata, 10, 24–43. García, J.  C. (1994). Ofensas a Dios. Pleitos e injurias. Causas de idolatría y hechicerías, Cajatambo siglos XVII – XIX. Centro de Estudios Regionales “Bartolomé de las Casas”. Garcilaso de la Vega, I. (1991). Comentarios reales de los Incas. Fondo de Cultura Económica. (Original work published 1609). Guaman Poma de Ayala, F. (1616). Nueva corónica y buen gobierno. Biblioteca Real de Copenhague. Retrieved from http://www.kb.dk/permalink/2006/poma/info/es/frontpage.htm Guffroy, J. (1999). El arte rupestre del antiguo Perú. IFEA. Retrieved from https://books.openedition.org/ifea/3392 Lengua Aymara. (n.d.). Diccionario Aymara. Retrieved September 6, 2020, from https://pueblosoriginarios.com/lenguas/aymara.php Martel, A., Rodríguez, S., & Del Bel, E. (2012). Arte rupestre y espacios de memoria: Las representaciones del sitio Confluencia (Antofagasta de la Sierra, Catamarca, Argentina). Revista Chilena de Antropología, 25, 119–156. Martínez, G. (1983). Los dioses de los cerros en los Andes. Journal de la Sociétè des Americanistes, 79, 85–116. Martínez, R. (2012). La danse Palla. Mémoire, danse et musique chez les Tarabuco (Bolivie). Paper presented at Dr. Gilles Riviere Seminar “Anthropologie des sociétés andines: Histoire, mémoire, identité”, École des Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales, Paris. Unpublished manuscrpit. Martínez C., J. L., & Arenas, M. (2015). Iglesia en la piedra. Representación rupestre y evangelización en los Andes del Sur. In F. Berrojalbiz (Ed.), La vitalidad de las voces indígenas. El arte rupestre del contacto y en sociedades coloniales (pp. 299–325). Instituto de Investigaciones Estéticas, UNAM.

Rock Art and Memories in the Southern Andes: “This Was Left to Us by the Incas”

243

Molina, C. (el Cuzqueño). (2010). Relación de las fábulas y ritos de los Incas (P.  Jiménez del Campo, Ed., P.  Cuenca Muñoz, Trans., E.  López Parda, Coord.). Iberoamericana/Vervuet. (Original work published 1575). Molinié, A. (1997). Buscando una historicidad andina: Una propuesta antropológica y una memoria hecha rito. In R.  Varon & J.  Flores (Eds.), Arqueología, antropología e historia en los Andes. Homenaje a María Rostworowski (pp. 691–708) I. E. P. – Banco Central de Reserva del Perú. Mora, G., & Goytia, A. (2018). Los ‘kerus’ del socavón. In M. Muñoz (Ed.), Interpretando huellas. Arqueología, etnohistoria y etnografía de los Andes y sus tierras bajas (pp.  489–499). Cochabamba, Bolivia. Morales, H. (1997). Pastores trashumantes al fin del mundo. Un enfoque cultural de la tecnología: en una comunidad Andina de pastores. Unpublished BA thesis, Universidad de Chile, Santiago, Chile. Pimentel, G., Ugarte, M., Gallardo, F., Blanco, J., & Montero, C. (2017). Chug-Chug en el contexto de la movilidad internodal prehispánica en el desierto de Atacama, Chile. Chungara, 49(4), 483–510. Querejazu, R. (1994). Religiosidad popular andina y su relación con el arte rupestre en Bolivia. Yachay, 18, 121–141. Real Academia Española. (n.d.). Diccionario de la lengua española. Retrieved September 6, 2020, from https://dle.rae.es Rivera Cusicanqui, S. (2018). Un mundo ch’ixi es posible. Ensayos desde un presente en crisis. Tinta Limón ediciones. Santo Tomás, D. (2006). Lexicón o vocabulario de la lengua general del Perú (J.  Szemiñski, Ed.). Convento de Santo Domingo-Qoriqancha, Universidad Hebrea de Jerusalem & Sociedad Polaca de Estudios Latinoamericanos. (Original worked published 1560). Sarmiento de Gamboa, P. (2001). Historia de los Incas. Miraguano Ediciones & Ediciones Polifemo. (Original worked published 1572). Savkić, S. (2019). Introduction. Amerindian visual manifestations and practices. In S.  Savkić (Ed.), Culturas visuales indígenas y las prácticas estéticas en las Américas (Estudios Indiana 13) (pp. 29–48). Ibero-Amerikanisches Institut / Gebr. Mann Verlag. Tantaleán, H. (2019). Andean ontologies: An introduction to substance. In M.  Lozada & H.  Tantaleán (Eds.), Andean ontologies: New archaeological perspectives (pp.  1–47). University Press of Florida. Taylor, G. (1974–76). Camay, Camac et Camasca dans le manuscrit quechua de Huarochirí. Journal de la Sociétè des Americanistes, LXIII, 231–244. Taylor, G. (1987). Ritos y tradiciones de Huarochiri. Manuscrito quechua de comienzos del siglo XVII (G.  Taylor, palaeographic version, phonologic interpretation and translator). I.E.P. – I.F.E.A. Tocornal, C. (2017). Relato etnográfico del Q’urini y caminos de interpretación. Report submitted to Proyecto FONDECYT 1130431. Unpublished manuscript. José Luis Martínez C.  is Professor at the University of Chile in the Department of Historical Sciences and Director of Center for Latin American Cultural Studies in the same University. Specializing in Andean Ethnohistory studies, he has conducted archival, museological and ethnographic researches in Perú, Bolivia, Argentina and Chile. In the last 15 years, he has led a study about Andean systems for recording and communication (Qeros, Rock Art and Memory Dances) focused in pre-­Columbian and colonial times. He is the author or co-author of various books, including Autoridades en los Andes. Los Atributos del Señor (1995); Pueblos del Chañar y el Algarrobo (1998) and Gente de la Tierra de Guerra (2011).

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern Cape, South Africa David Morris

Introduction A quest to ‘re-member’, to reassemble and flesh out, fragments from largely lost narratives relevant to rock engravings at a place in the bed of a river in the semi-arid South African interior, was threaded through an earlier chapter (Morris, 2008) about the rock art site of Driekopseiland, situated near Kimberley in South Africa’s Northern Cape Province (Figs. 1 and 2). This was for a volume drawing together archaeological and anthropological perspectives on Landscapes of Clearance (Gazin-Schwarz & Smith, 2008), where a poignant case study had been inspired by a late nineteenth-century description of the Driekopseiland engravings as “title deeds” to previous occupancy by “Bushmen”1 (Stow, 1905, p. 397). For Khoe-San inhabitants of the area, colonial conquest was profoundly disruptive, severing connections with land, proving often deadly and, in places, altogether genocidal (de Prada-Samper, 2012). A century and a half later no ordinary, un-hyphenated ‘remembering’ of Driekopseiland, and other sites like it, was remotely possible. At the best of times, perishing is perpetual, as Michael Shanks and Christopher

 The terms Bushman, San, Khoekhoe and Khoe-San have complex histories of usage, some (but not all) derogatory. In this chapter no negative connotations are implied. I employ San as a collective term for small-scale groups such as the |xam hunter-gatherers of the Upper Karoo (some colleagues use Bushman in its rehabilitated sense); and, similarly, Khoekhoe for herders. When these specific ‘identities’ are difficult to determine, or problematic to sustain (recognising that identity is situational and fluid, in some senses ‘extended’—this chapter will attest to how aspects of sociality may include non-human ‘persons’—and always in formation), then I use the less definite term Khoe-San; noting also that social and cultural features often transcend even this level of typology, for instance between Khoe-San and Tswana. 1

D. Morris (*) McGregor Museum, and Sol Plaatje University, Kimberley, South Africa e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_11

245

246

D. Morris

Fig. 1  Location of Driekopseiland

Fig. 2  The site of Driekopseiland, in the bed of the Riet River. (Photo Jeannette Unite, McGregor Museum Collection)

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

247

Witmore (2010, p. 270, p. 282) remind us, so that what is bequeathed to the future is radically transformed, highly fragmented, and but a remnant of what was. Things do fall apart. When a copy editor preparing the 2008 chapter queried the hyphen, I insisted on the nonce word, ‘re-membering’, to provide this necessary sense of the (re)construction, the bringing together anew of that which had been discontinued, disarticulated, and forgotten. An interpretation that had been put together for the engravings (Morris, 2002, 2010,2 2012), linking the site to female initiation rites and related beliefs concerning a mythical Watersnake (!khwa3 in the |xam language), could be no more than a hypothesis. It drew on lines of circumstantial evidence, archaeological and ethnographic, which appeared to converge—at the particular place that is Driekopseiland4— with aspects of landscape, ecological rhythms, and riverine processes, all within the frame of an animist conception of ‘being in the world’ that is borne out in relevant nineteenth and twentieth-century folklore and ritual performance (pre-eminently the archive of Wilhelm Bleek and Lucy Lloyd, and other sources across the Khoe-­ San spectrum—reviewed in Morris, 2002). The hypothesis is suggested to be consistent also with observations by |xam commentators who were shown copies of some of the Driekopseiland engravings in 1875 (de Prada-Samper & Hollmann, 2017). The site is situated on expanses of smooth, glaciated basement rock, bearing a spread of some 3500 engraved ‘geometric’ motifs which are submerged by water when the river rises in response to late summer rains (Figs.  3, 4 and 5) (Morris, 2002, 2010). Remarkably, story elements that resonate with those documented in the 1870s–1880s (e.g., Bleek, 1933), especially those relating to the Watersnake (Waterslang in Afrikaans, Noga ya metsi in Setswana), were found to be present in current and near-current oral literature (e.g., Hoff, 1993, 1995; van Vreeden, 1955). Indeed, with astonishing degrees of continuity from older strata of story-telling, these and other stories are not only widely known, but are still being told, now in Afrikaans and in a parallel genre in Setswana, by people living in these landscapes in the central and western interior of South Africa (e.g., de Prada-Samper, 2016; Hoff, 1997, 1998; Lange, 2014). A century ago, as Jose de Prada-Samper (2016) points out, Dorothea Bleek (1929, pp. 311–312) had pessimistically—but erroneously—declared this still living heritage to be “dead, killed by a life of service among strangers and the breaking up of families.” A pervasive ‘Myth of Extinction’ is now set aside (Parkington et al., 2019) with this oral heritage subject to on-going systematic documentation (de Prada-Samper, 2016).

2  The publication Morris, 2010 was written and prepared for publication in 2001, and was the springboard for the subsequent work in Morris, 2002; publication delays led to its appearing only in 2010. Hence it should not be taken to be a summary of Morris, 2002. 3  I follow Wilhelm Bleek and Lucy Loyd (1911) in not capitalizing the first letter after a click symbol, treating the click itself as the equivalent of a consonant. 4  The beliefs and ritual practices would have found variable expression at many sites in relation to the contingencies of each local context and place. Driekopseiland, as focus of study, is an instance where a convergence of circumstantial evidence has seemed especially apparent.

248

D. Morris

Fig. 3  ‘Geometric’ engravings on the glacial pavement. (Photo Jeannette Unite, McGregor Museum Collection)

Fig. 4  The water lapping up over the engravings, gradually being submerged as the river rises in the late summer rainy season. (Photo D. Morris)

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

249

Fig. 5  Engravings spread across the glaciated rock. (Photo Jeannette Unite, McGregor Museum Collection)

The |xam in the Karoo and other indigenous inhabitants—those who survived the smallpox and the violence of the frontier—were dispossessed of their land and forced to labour on what were by then farms; “both hemmed in and locked out,” as Simon Hall and Jose de Prada-Samper (2016, p. 18) put it. To a significant extent, cultural repertoire was reduced—but by no means lost (Parkington et  al., 2019). |xam, and other Khoe-San languages came to be replaced in time by Afrikaans in the western interior, but this was itself a hybrid tongue which syntactically owes less to Dutch and Germanic roots and more to Khoekhoe (du Plessis & Grant, 2019): it is today, in these local contexts, not the clichéd ‘language of the oppressor’, but the means for authentic transmission of indigenous knowledge, traceable back to a precolonial past. Simultaneously, an erstwhile hunter-gatherer material culture signature faded (again, not completely—cf. Webley, 1990), colonial wares and clothing being taken up or handed down, with new subsistence ways evident in, for example, domestic grain, pumpkin and fruit pips preserved as evidence for part-payment for those once-hunters now employed as shepherds on eighteenth- to nineteenth-­century frontier farms (Sampson, 1992; cf. Forssman, 2016 on similar processes in another forager-farmer frontier). Rock art catches the shift as ‘indigenised’ use of guns, horses, and wagons, hats and long dresses, populate the scratched nineteenth- to early twentieth-century corpus of engravings on hills in the Karoo (McGranaghan, 2016; Skinner, 2017). The change has been described as a process of “cultural and

250

D. Morris

physical recombination and transmutation” (de Prada-Samper, 2016, pp. 34–35) in which local ways and genetic make-up coexisted and merged with those of more recent inkommers—Trekboers and others who were newly arrived in these frontier landscapes. Questions as to the extent of rupture or continuity (Hall & de Prada-Samper, 2016; Parkington et al., 2019), and even what might be thought of as ‘memory’, in these histories clearly deserve to be reconsidered. That large task, underway in some of the work cited above, is beyond the ambitions of this chapter. Rather, I revisit the one site of Driekopseiland towards discussing perhaps not so much rock art and memory in the past as what happens in the present when an interpretation, re-membered and ontologically aligned with available and apparently apposite ethnography, inspires resonances in individuals of indigenous-descendant communities on visits to the site. Issues of ritual danger and sensitivity surface in the responses of some of those coming into Driekopseiland. Emotional reactions triggered by discussion of the reconstructed narrative implicate something like ‘memory’, or what may better be conceived of as flashes of “unforgetting” (Shanks & Witmore, 2010, pp. 282–283) in which what has passed is afforded a renewed presence. The response is activated, I would suggest, as much by the sensory properties and material vitality of the place—of the river and the rock which is ritually marked with engravings—as it is by the stories that remain very much alive, mediating a powerful convergence of myth and materiality.

 he Materiality of Driekopseiland – Revisiting the Work T of G.W. Stow The first written account of Driekopseiland is that of geologist and polymath George Stow (1905, pp. 28–29) who visited the site (then known as Blaauw Bank5) in the 1870s. His prescient sense of a certain material agency is striking: At Blaauw Bank…rocks are found perfectly polished and striated…proof of a remote glacial period…their wonderful and unwonted appearance had evidently produced a strong effect upon the Bushman mind, for, struck with their unexplained smoothness, he has covered the space with mystic symbols… There is very little doubt but that many of them conveyed a mystic meaning to the initiated…

At a later point in his book, Stow (1905, p. 398) elaborated vividly on what he imagined the ritual significance of the Driekopseiland site might have been (this also as part of his discussion of the status of the engravings as evidence, indeed as title deeds, of an ancient and aboriginal San presence in the area). The engravings were, he wrote:

5  This nineteenth-century Dutch name, literally Blue Bank, aptly describes the bluish andesite bedrock.

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

251

… grand testimonials of the great antiquity of [Bushman] occupation … recorded on the polished and striated rocks of the Blaauw Bank [Driekopseiland]…a spot that must have been, during the time of their undisturbed sovereignty, a place memorable to their race, where thousands of square feet of… rock surface are covered with innumerable mystic devices, intermingled with comparatively few animal figures. This must have been a palace residence of the most highly mystic of their race…a high place, where they gathered for their festivals of dancings and mysterious rites or counsel, a place where for generations their leaders who were the most skilled in the emblematic lore, the symbols of which were engraved around, awed their less initiated brethren with frantic orgies, or vehement recitals of the traditions of the renowned and daring hunters from whom they themselves had sprung, or still more ancient myths of times yet more remote, when, as they believed, men and animals consorted on more equal terms than they themselves, and used a kindred speech understood by all!

The description has come across to subsequent generations of researchers as more than a little fanciful, “shrugged off,” as Anne Solomon (2006, p. 102) puts it; and yet it is not completely without grounding in an authentic emic perspective. It also points to a performative context for rock art production. Specifically, legends about a Primal Time when animals and people consorted together, alluded to at the end of the passage, were being told to Wilhelm Bleek and Lucy Lloyd in the 1870s–1880s by |xam interlocutors from the Karoo. |xam cosmology entertained ‘primal’ and ‘present’ orders of existence: a First Order of things, which was inchoate, fluid and ambiguous; giving way to a Second Order of present ‘reality’, where people and animals and other ‘beings’ become more distinct, yet, given the ontological flux in |xam belief, still pervaded by primal time myth and ambiguity (Guenther, 1999, pp. 66–70; Guenther, 2015). Other portions of the passage possibly reference local testimony of some kind which Stow had accessed, but seemingly less directly, and having an aura of being not a little far-fetched. Notable, nevertheless is Stow’s vision of a ritual, replete with dancing, and a connection with initiation. Had Stow in fact heard in sketchy (perhaps deliberately shrouded) detail, one may ask, of the female initiation rite, the concluding part of which takes place at a spring or river, where the ritually potent !khwa (Watersnake) must be tamed or appeased, inter alia in a dance? Whatever the case, the idea of a link between rock engravings and any form of ritual performance and attendant beliefs was soon displaced by other concerns in writing about rock art. Ascendant in the first half of the twentieth century was a narrowed focus on images themselves, often specifically their content as evidence inter alia of cultural affinity, culture history, and/or diffusion. Stow, who accounted for aspects of the past in terms of migrations, had himself speculated on the similarity which some of the engravings bore to symbols of “some of the most ancient, but more civilized nations” (cited by Fock, 1970), and in this detail he anticipated some of the ideas—some of them more notorious than others (e.g., Breuil, 1949; Dart, 1925)—that would emerge through the 1920s and beyond. These included the notion that “Bushmen”—who teetered at the brink of extinction according to a standard refrain from the late nineteenth century onwards—were ‘living fossils’ from the Palaeolithic, and they became a ready source for analogies assumed universally

252

D. Morris

relevant in hunter-gatherer studies. Alongside these tropes was a burgeoning obsession with race and ethnicity. Description and classification served as the principal modus operandi in documentation and research. Notably, there was scant regard for the Bleek and Lloyd archive which might have enriched enquiry and prompted more fruitful directions. Maria Wilman, whose book, The Rock Engravings of Griqualand West and Bechuanaland (1933) was the first systematic survey of rock art in this region, positively eschewed discussion of meaning. She includes a single passing reference to the Bleek and Lloyd materials (just an extract in a footnote) to suggest that “there would … seem to be more in some of these compositions than meets the eye” (1933, p. 64), but immediately cautions against this being “pushed too far” lest one read ideas into minds “which never existed there.” Publication of Patricia Vinnicombe’s People of the Eland (1976) and then David Lewis-Williams’s Believing and Seeing (1981) turned the tide for rock art studies by placing Karoo |xam (Bleek and Lloyd) and Kalahari ethnography at the centre of rock art interpretation. From this emerged the widely influential so-called trance hypothesis and the linked neuropsychological model, underpinning an understanding of San rock art as being “essentially shamanistic” (Lewis-Williams, 1998). Stow’s “Bushman work” has also come back for renewed consideration (inter alia, Schoeman, 1997; Solomon, 2006; Skotnes, 2008; cf. Morris, 2002, pp. 58–62— as well as an exchange of papers around his controversial ‘blue ostriches’ copy, including Tobias et al., 1992; Solomon, 2006, footnote 95). Having shared his copies of paintings and engravings with the philologist Bleek, Stow carried on a copious subsequent correspondence with Lloyd (Schoeman, 1997). In the effort he devoted to seeking out and recording rock art at many sites in the Eastern Cape, Free State and Griqualand West, Stow had, in Solomon’s (2006, p. 102) view, “pioneered almost every facet of rock art research.” The breadth of his endeavours embraced matters as various as documentation of rock art to the use of ethnography for its interpretation. Importantly, where the historian George Theal, at best, glossed San history (Mazel, 1992, p. 762), Stow was interested in the dynamic detail,6 to “rescue from oblivion many [of the] most interesting points” (Schoeman, 1997, p. 67). His insights were gained not only through recovering “Bushman” “manners and customs as depicted by themselves”, i.e. through the rock art that he copied, but also through collecting oral testimony, assembling written and published records, and, not least, through one of the earliest reported ‘archaeological’ excavations in South Africa (Humphreys, 1975). For this paper, revisiting Driekopseiland has entailed rereading Stow’s account of it to notice afresh his observation not only about a possible ritual or performative 6  Unlike most other accounts of rock art, Stow’s casts discussion of Driekopseiland as part of an exposé of colonial Trekboer encroachment in the mid-nineteenth century and with reference to the violent context and the heroic struggle engaged in by the Khoe-San resistance leader Kousop (Morris, 2008). Stow had an abiding concern for the Bushmen (San) over their loss of land and their disparagement in colonists’ eyes (Solomon, 2006)—this at a time when military assaults against them were still current (to the 1870s) in the colony of Natal.

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

253

context for rock art production (cf. Morris, 2002), but also his thought that the singular material properties of the place might have produced a strong effect upon the mind.

Marks of Authorship Anthropologist Miriam Kahn, writing of “stone-faced ancestors” in Papua New Guinea, chided anthropologists for their lack of interest in stones as “significant data”; “other than granting it the briefest mention, they seem to neglect the very ground over which they stumble while recording ancestral myths” (Kahn, 1990, p. 53). In the archaeology of art, materials and materiality have likewise been surprisingly overloooked, argue Andrew Meirion Jones and Andrew Cochrane (2018). As mere medium, rock faces have too often been regarded as inert, as passively inscribed or imprinted upon by humans, or more precisely by the human mind (but see Lewis-Williams & Dowson, 1990). In much work it was assumed that images— conventionally reduced to two dimensions upon a page (Fig. 6), standing apart from their material support (cf. Skotnes, 1991)—were primarily representational and communicative, conveying meaning, or reflecting some aspect of culture or society. Paintings and engravings, here as elsewhere, have commonly been taken to express Fig. 6  Reduction to two dimensions: A cluster of engravings at Driekopseiland in a tracing by G.J. & D. Fock, circa 1979. (McGregor Museum Rock Art Collection: Driekopseiland 1 5/J)

254

D. Morris

the identity of their makers, and hence interrogated for the “marks of authorship” (a phrase highlighted by Jones in Jones & Cochrane, 2018, p. 136). Most writing about Driekopseiland has focused one way or another on just these questions of cultural or ethnic identity and authorship. This was probably inevitable given the site’s distinctiveness, with more than 90% of the images being ‘geometric’ motifs (Figs. 3, 4, 5 and 6), in marked contrast to other sites in the area that are dominated by images of animals and human figures. As discussed more fully elsewhere (e.g., Morris, 2002, 2010, 2012), the specific arguments have changed through time and according to perspective and positionality. Earlier versions were infused with racial prejudice against the San, seeking to attribute authorship, or at least influence, elsewhere. “Though gifted with artistic tastes,” ran one account, they were “an almost unimprovable race … inert and stagnant”, a state “not sufficient to satisfy God’s law of progress” (Theal, 1919, p. 19). Another dismissed the San as incapable of producing anything but the most recent “decadent art,” a “conspicuous retrogression” (Péringuey, 1909, p.  418). More extreme ‘settler myths’, and later fringe offerings, write San agency out of the story, linking the ‘mysterious’ abstract engravings to non-African colonizers, directly, or by imitation. To Raymond Dart (1925, p. 426; cf. Slack, 1962), South African rock art preserved “unassailable evidence of the impacts of ancient civilizations of the Eastern Mediterranean and Mesopotamian areas”, while Cyril Hromnik’s (1981) Indo-Africa hypothesis shifts the locus of influence to the east. Barry Fell’s bizarre pursuance of Libyan explorers has them allegedly leaving Ogham inscriptions at Driekopseiland (Wilcox, 1984, p. 210). The late Credo Mutwa, in his extraordinary bricolage of invented African myth, appealing latterly to New Age enthusiasts (Derricourt, 2011), doubted any connection with “Bushmen” at all, a link he dismissed as the misguided opinion inter alia of “many in the scientific establishment…” (Mutwa, 1996, pp. 191–194). Southern Africa, as “ethnological cul-de-sac” (Schapera, 1930, p.  25) and “pocket from which nothing tangible returns” (Goodwin & van Riet Lowe, 1929, p.  3), was where, in Leo Frobenius’s (1909, p.  132) infamous summing up, “Bushmen” represented “the last lisping utterance that reaches us from the childhood of mankind.” Half a century later Alex Wilcox sustained not only the ‘living fossil’ trope about “Palaeolithic man and his modern representative the Bushman”, but went on to suggest that the San “remained, in their capacity for abstract thinking, always young children” (1956, p.  85). The creators of the Driekopseiland engravings were, he believed, “still in the ‘young child’ stage of artistic development” (1964, p. 58). As archaeological arguments developed, so the style and content of the engravings was being matched up more explicitly with ethnic identity. Cran Cooke (1969, p. 100) reflected the views of other writers when he addressed the preponderance of geometric figures here vs. the dominance of depictions of animals and humans at other sites, suggesting that the geometric engravings bore “little or no resemblance to the true art of the Stone Age Bush people.” For Cooke and others (including Robert Broom cited by Wilman, 1933; Wilcox, 1963) it was more possible that the authors of the Driekopseiland engravings were Korana, or some “hybrid” group. The pejorative “hybrid” in this instance implicated racial mixing and

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

255

feeble-mindedness, at a time when eugenics, with white angst vis-à-vis racial purity, was stoking conservative social and political thought in South Africa (Dubow, 1995). Much later, identity through imagery is at the core of an argument by Ben Smith and Sven Ouzman (2004), who consider Driekopseiland as part of a distinct Khoekhoe herder rock art tradition, characterised by a style of ‘non-entoptic geometric’ engravings and paintings. Sites of this tradition occur in a swathe corresponding to the hypothesized migration routes by which pastoralists are thought to have spread through South Africa about 2000 years ago. The typological approach exemplified by these various cases does not admit the relevance of place and materiality. As noticed at Driekopseiland by Stow, these neglected factors seem strongly evoked by the emplacement of the art on an expanse of glacial pavement aligned with the bed and flow of the Riet River, where the waters rise seasonally to submerge the engravings.

Re-membering A different understanding begins to emerge when these elements of place and environmental contingency are considered in relation to beliefs and practices of indigenous people. An investigation of the ethnographic meanings of water, the rising and falling of which seemed to be a significant aspect of the site, led to a focus on the coming-of-age rites of young women. These reference, in a range of sources (Morris, 2002, 2012), cosmological processes associated with rivers and rain, the moon, and the mythical Watersnake, called !khwa by the |xam—Waterslang in modern Afrikaans versions, and Noga ya metsi, the Snake of the River, in Setswana. Memory of the site’s meaning was all but erased by the colonial experience; dismembered, one could say, as original inhabitants were dispossessed of land (itself carved up cadastrally); and dismembered further by those rock art approaches that figuratively lifted motifs out of place for typological comparison. A questioning of the typological basis for understanding Driekopseiland (Morris, 2002) took its cue in part from Inskeep’s (1971, p. 101) doubts about a certain habit of mind, which he termed an “either/or” approach to rock art authorship. This limited thinking to a “narrow field of possibilities,” he warned, where the truth might be “very complex.” One would not wish to dismiss the relevance of ethnic or other expressions of identity (e.g., is gender involved?), given the variability in rock art in dynamic social landscapes, and with regional differences in repertoires and ways of making the art evidently signalling different trajectories of change and interaction, probably both within and between groups of hunter-gatherers, herders and farmers. If the content of mythology is anything to go by in contexts of interaction, however, the ethnic distinctions are not necessarily so clear-cut, as Ed Wilmsen argued: they appeared to transcend “time and tribe and ethnicity”, bespeaking complex histories of social relations in which elements of cosmologies were shared through a “less segmented social environment than presently exists” (Wilmsen, 1986, p.  358). Concerning hunter-gatherers’ incorporating ideas from outside their milieu,

256

D. Morris

Matthias Guenther (1999, pp. 87–88, 128–129) believes it is nearly impossible to sift the ‘imported’ beliefs and rituals from those that are not. Striking resemblances, moreover, in beliefs and stories have for long been noted across the Khoe-San spectrum (Barnard, 1992; Schapera, 1930): San and Khoekhoe ‘traditions’, Megan Biesele (1993, pp. 34–37) argues, are “practically indistinguishable.” Complexity, as Inskeep anticipated, clearly complicates any attempt to discern authorship of rock art, were it to be expected to correlate in any straightforward way with myths, beliefs and rituals.7 Instead of invoking ethnicity or culture diversity as the primary mechanism explaining the distinctiveness of Driekopseiland, an alternative perspective was sought (Morris, 2002) by considering metaphoric significance of landscape, of water and other features within it, grounded in a rich corpus of ethnography and contemporary story-telling. In this view ethnicity and culture are understood not as primordial types or ulterior features of bounded cognitive systems, but as phenomena that are situated and dynamic in specific times and places (cf. Parkington, 1993). More centrally it is argued that landscape processes, overlooked as being analytically significant, are all-important for understating Driekopseiland and its engravings (Morris, 2002). Strands from |xam oral literature and historical sources indicate the way in which land forms embody or give substance to myths and legends, a well-known instance being the |xam legend, The Death of the Lizard, given by |Hanǂkass’o in the 1870s (Bleek & Lloyd, 1911; Deacon, 1986; Deacon & Foster, 2005). The story tells of a broken lizard, arguably a metaphor referencing rain, becoming a cluster of hills in the landscape. Surviving precolonial place-names are replete with further hints of a topography populated by significant spirit-beings (Morris, 2002); literally it was a storied landscape. Consonant with this relational way of being in the world (Bird-­ David, 1999) was the idea that places and rock faces were meaningful supports (Heyd, 1999), being ‘veils’ that mediated spirit worlds (Lewis-Williams & Dowson, 1990). Linked to these insights, the interpretation introduced ethnography of the last century and a half referring to ritual practices in which particular places have (or had) significance, e.g. water sources. Facial or body marking (sometimes also daubing of objects—and sprinkling the water source itself), with ochre, scarification, and other ways, was a widely practised rite in the ‘reintroduction’ of the initiate (the “new maiden” in |xam accounts), following a period in ritual seclusion (Bleek, 1933; a vast Khoe-San literature is reviewed in Morris, 2002). Also woven into the interpretation was a structural element (Lewis-Williams, 1996), dubbed a biaxial cosmology discerned in |xam legends and lore. The model posits a horizontal axis spanning camp and hunting ground, and a vertical one linking spirit worlds over and beneath the earth, both mediated by water that falls as rain and wells up at the waterhole. The nearly palpable ‘power of place’ at Driekopseiland, the hypothesized ritual practices, and the thickly textured social meanings in

7  As regards rituals: Lewis-Williams (1981, pp. 105–106) draws attention to close correspondences between Korana rituals and beliefs and those of the |xam.

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

257

Khoe-San beliefs and stories about !khwa, the rain/water (or its manifestation as river and Watersnake), and the initiate, the “new maiden”, appear to converge in the symbolically potent crossing of these schematic axes. Lastly, the interpretation was overlaid upon the actual geography and history of Driekopseiland, argued to be a unique sequence of events manifest in the exposure here, probably in late Holocene times, of glacially smoothed basement rock, aligned with the flow of the river, which ‘bulges’ and ‘dips’ above or below the water according to the season. Pulsating with environmental rhythms, the site is far from being a passive and static thing; it is alive with myriad forces and processes. These, in turn, were very possibly resources for what Christopher Tilley and Wayne Bennett (2001) refer to as “cultural construal”; or the attribution of significance to materials and their properties as they were assembled for attentive meaning-making (Jones & Cochrane, 2018), in ways that are consistent with the ethnography. Upon this great, smooth, undulating surface (itself perhaps construed as a giant, fecund Watersnake, associated with rivers in many tales), more than 3500 rock engravings are densely placed, becoming submerged when the rains come in the wet season, but equally left high and dry when river flow dwindles, or ceases altogether. Through the lens of a relational or new animist perspective (Bird-David, 1999), the interpretation proposed that Driekopseiland, as a ‘powerful place’ (cf. Deacon, 1988), was a site used in rituals, arguably those specifically linked with the “new maiden”, who according to ǂKamme-an, mother of Dia!kwain,8 possessed “the rain’s magic power” (Lewis-Williams, 2000, p. 273). It was proposed that the place itself became an active element in the rites, no longer as mere physical space but indeed becoming a virtual subject in itself, as Michael Houseman (1998) would argue with reference to the redefinition of social personhood that initiation entails. The individual engravings may be the residue of ritual actions which, in instances witnessed in recent times (though without the marking of rocks), are documented as being practised with great emotional and symbolic intensity (Guenther, 1999, p. 174; Waldman, 1989). In this way the physical ensemble could be considered a “hybrid object” (Chazan, 2019) wherein elements of the material world have become enmeshed with human temporalities. Such objects (which for Michael Chazan are “artefacts” but may be “sites”) are “absorbed into humanity” and given “artefact” status not by any fixed prior categorisation but by human action, a speech act, or a combination of the two. In the process, Chazan adds that humanity, in turn, is absorbed by the “artefact”, such that it takes on “a poignancy and emotional valence that can be profound” (2019, p.  6). In the Driekopseiland interpretation it can be appreciated that the “object” comprises far more than merely the engraved images (this had been Stow’s realisation). A larger totality, an assemblage and convergence of phenomena, very likely conformed to the hybrid status by which Chazan defines artefact. Insights from Jones (Jones & Cochrane, 2018, pp.  135–136) would explain how the

8  Dia!kwain—one of the |xam interlocutors interviewed by Bleek and Lloyd. See The Digital Bleek and Lloyd at http://lloydbleekcollection.cs.uct.ac.za/

258

D. Morris

convergence of quite disparate elements—of rain and rock, and the myths and practices alluded to, in a seasonal and generative flux—would be by no means pre-­ determined or self-evident, but would be emergent in what is argued to be their intra-action, pre-eminently in ritual and rock art making. The properties of materials such as stone or water, for Jones and Cochrane, as for Chazan, are not fixed—they do not belong to settled universal categories9—but are drawn out by attentive participants and gathered as assemblages through which meaning is made, and re-­ made, just as assemblages may be re-assembled at different times (Jones & Cochrane, 2018, pp. 135–136). One of the conclusions of the new interpretation of Driekopseiland was that a metaphorical understanding of landscape and a relational appreciation of how particular places may take on a form of emergent ‘personhood’—and the possibility that different parts of the landscape could vary in ritual significance (hilltops in different assemblages associated with rain-making rites, for instance)—may be factors more germane to the questions of variability in the rock art here than the repeated attempts to work out the ethnic and cultural affinities of the engravings. By admitting to the analysis something of the materiality of the art, specifically its emplacement on the undulating rock in the bed of the river, and by exploring the ritual significance of the river, the rain, and the “rain’s magic power”, it has been possible to construct—to re-member, as it were—a coherent version grounded in relevant ethnographic and indigenous knowledge accounts. These conclusions remain, of course, hypothetical. Because materials such as rock and river endure beyond the temporal span of human lives or traditions, or events such as a colonial conquest, they typically, in the terms of Chazan’s (2019, p. 7) argument, may lose their artefact status, or any cultural construals accorded them in the past. Jones and Cochrane (2018, p. 136) similarly show how assemblages of connections and meanings are “liable to fade”. Until, that is, the threads are picked up again in some future time, perhaps by archaeological investigation, to be re-assembled, re-designated, and re-membered. Redeployment of alleged pasts would become possible, too, now as heritage connecting across generations in new ways or for new ends.

In Moments of Unforgetting The contemporary ‘use’ of the past was a matter addressed previously (Morris, 2008) in relation to a plea by Northern Cape activist, Martin Engelbrecht (2002), who spoke for those Khoe-San descendants who were classified as ‘Coloured’, generally Afrikaans-speakers, who wished to return to their roots and to retrieve a Khoe-San identity (Engelbrecht, 2002, p. 244). To archaeologists he had made it

9  Consider also Chantal Conneller’s (2011, p. 82) provocative assertion that “there is no such thing as ‘stone’”, referring to the emergent quality of the properties of substances and materials.

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

259

plain, that they “must understand that within South Africa everything they excavate will bring us closer to our past, a past,” he added “which has until now been denied to us as we have been forcibly divorced from our heritage” (2002, p.  242). Engelbrecht’s was not the only voice, as numbers of mostly small organisations, formed by people not otherwise recognised as ‘Khoe-San’, had sprung up in the post-apartheid era (after 1994), with ‘chieftaincies’ of long forgotten (partly invented) ‘nations’ being asserted. As legitimate strivings to reconnect with lost pasts, and to gain ‘post-Coloured’10 identities, many of these efforts had been stimulated as well by the promise of political privilege in a House of Traditional Leaders. Claims, often linking an identity with a territory, were, some of them, being constructed by reference to dubious early twentieth-century sources such as the historian G.M.  Theal (1919), mentioned above. It was wondered (Morris, 2008) how archaeology might, or even could, respond to—or, if called upon, adjudicate between—these often overlapping claims, given the uncertainties and ambiguities inherent in the archaeological record, and the identity politics and power relations involved in the present. The relevance of the Driekopseiland study had seemed to lie in the “better chances” it provided “for people to reconnect with their heritage in a meaningful way.” Essentially what was offered was an intangible benefit: archaeology in itself lacked the capacity to actually mend the ‘broken string’—the metaphor that Dia!kwain had used in 1875 to describe his separation from home in the Karoo: “The place does not feel to me, as the place used to feel to me … because the string has broken for me.” (Bleek & Lloyd, 1911, pp.  236–7). But archaeological ‘re-­ membering’ at least afforded opportunities “to trace the events and understand more fully the significance of places such as Driekopseiland” (Morris, 2008, p. 102). A decade later, comment was made to highlight the situation of descendants of the |xam in the context of the Square Kilometre Array project in the Karoo (Parkington et al., 2019), when the South African San Council (SASC) was granted an opportunity, and positioned itself, to speak and act for San interests over the area, giving their blessing to the project and vouching for the heritage and indigenous knowledge of the project site. Excluded from the negotiations and Memorandum of Understanding between developer and community were the locally resident Afrikaans-speaking ‘Coloured’ people, predominantly descendants of the |xam, who also lacked any collective organizational voice to engage. As a class of Karoo inhabitants they were less able than the ǂkhomani (Kalahari), and the !xun and Khwe (formerly Angola), who were represented in the SASC, to demonstrate San ‘authenticity’ which was signalled inter alia by possession of more or less intact Khoesan speech. They remained marginalised, elusive, and invisible (de Jongh, 2002). Far from being completely disconnected from the past or lacking in culture of their own, however, these are the people who turn out to be bearers of knowledge, veld lore and narratives richly rooted in local proto- and possibly pre-colonial pasts (de Prada-­ Samper, 2016, pp.  34–35). Moreover they, and not those in the Kalahari or  Media statements refer to “previously ‘Coloured’ people” now exercising their right to selfidentification, identifying themselves as “San and Khoi-Khoi or Khoe-San” (IWGIA, 2019, p. 544).

10

260

D. Morris

originally from Angola, are most likely to include descendants of the makers of rock art in the Karoo and adjoining areas (Morris, 2008, 2014; Parkington et al., 2019). In the event, it was not the cultural activists or political leadership who prompted the further thoughts on Driekopseiland reported here, but, again, individuals steeped in narratives and ways of knowing weaving through as extant threads in twenty-­ first-­century local knowledge. New insights were provoked by the specific responses of students from the new Sol Plaatje University in Kimberley who visit the site as part of their semester work (Figs. 7, 8 and 9). A high proportion of the students, predominantly Setswana and Afrikaans first-language speakers, come from economically impoverished rural homes in the Northern Cape/North West Province (Benneyworth & Pinto, 2019). Heritage modules are at the core of the university’s humanities programme, and field excursions are made to a range of nearby museum and heritage sites, including Driekopseiland. During visits here, students are guided through and engaged in discussion around the history and interpretation of the site, and on its status as heritage. Initial reticence to interact typically recedes noticeably as the topic turns to stories of !khwa, the Watersnake. Lively conversation ensues as individuals recall and recount versions heard, since almost all of them, it turns out, have grown up with the myths. Inevitably, some students would react with skepticism: who indeed has ever seen the Watersnake? Questions about science and religion arise. But the more they engage the more there builds a sense of there being something uncanny in the mix, and often some of the students have become visibly awed as the stories are affirmed. Twice there were individuals who were affected more deeply than the others; and in one case a young woman became overwhelmed by anxiety.

Fig. 7  Group photograph during a student visit at Driekopseiland. (Photo D. Morris)

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

261

Fig. 8  Student break-away discussion at the site. (Photo D. Morris)

The ‘re-membered’ interpretation, ontologically configured by ethnographic accounts, could clearly be deeply evocative, with potential to summon fearful aspects of the myths: in some versions young women are said to be ‘taken’ by the Waterslang to dwell underwater, their safety guaranteed only by correct ritual observance. There is danger in these encounters. In two instances students were assisted to regain composure through a ritual act, an anointing of mud on the forehead, a custom traditionally used (e.g., Waldman, 1989, p.  38) to ‘tame’ and control the behaviour of (mythical) snakes and rain, to cause them to behave ‘nicely’ (McGranaghan & Challis, 2016). In a nineteenth-century context an offering or sprinkling of red ochre on the water would ‘charm’ !khwa (snake/water) so that it “glides quietly along when it smells things which are unequalled in scent” (|hanǂkass’o in Bleek, 1933, p. 300). A trigger for heightened emotional response may well have been the animist element in the reconstructed narrative which suggested that the undulating rock itself assumed the very ‘being’ that was !khwa, swelling out of the bed of the river. More than just reconstructed narrative is at play. Arguably it is the combination, of stories, having a cultural immediacy for some of the students, being a still-living heritage elaborated by themselves at the site, together with the sensory properties of the physical place, which may—even if just momentarily—take on qualities of object vitality, of agency in and of itself (cf. Chazan, 2019, p. 12, p. 136). In such a context,

262

D. Morris

Fig. 9 Re-membering pasts that ‘may pool in places.’ (Photo D. Morris)

the rippling river, the wide smoothed surfaces of stone, and the engravings carpeted across, are redolent of ritual. The totality, an assemblage gathered anew and brought into vivid focus by the stories, may make for a bodily experience perhaps recapitulating past events, even rites, and the dangerous states associated with the mythical Waterslang—river/snake/rain—that needed to be ‘tamed’. Houseman (1998), cited earlier, writes of the way particular places in landscapes become powerful adjuncts in rites of passage, becoming no longer mere objects, but virtual subjects themselves. It is not that rituals create the links between individuals and places, Houseman emphasises, for initiates would already know the landscapes in which they live. Rather, the rites, as emotionally laden haptic events, re-­ contextualise the pre-existing links, instituting particular locations as depositories of “social personhood” (1998, p. 461). Should such a scenario have pertained here, Driekopseiland, as locus of ritual, rock art and myth, would certainly have been the “memorable” place, “wonderful and unwonted”, that Stow had speculated upon. Today, there can be no memory as such, of the site’s creation and use. All that remains are the bare material traces, the abraded and cracked images on stone, periodically flooded. A reasonable ‘re-­ membering’, a coherent accounting for what is left, tested against what other fragments appear relevant, had seemed about the best one could hope for. Status function

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

263

(Chazan, 2019), now as heritage, and object of research (but also a fishing spot and site of an irrigation weir), carries the site as a suite of archaeological traces in the present into the future. Yet, as Shanks and Witmore (2010, p. 282) argue, entropy, that process by which the past will always perish and fade away, is not a uniform undoing. Under exceptional circumstances, what might otherwise have wasted away “may pool in places.” Here and there are “spiral eddies, counter-currents and reverse fluxes” maintaining vestiges of what was, they suggest. Echoing what Tim Ingold (1993) has said of landscapes and their temporalities, and Geoff Bailey’s (2007, pp. 203–208) thoughts on palimpsests and a “durational present”, there may be those features and fragments of the past that are not erased entirely. These may be both material and intangible—as in stone and story. In fleeting moments of what Shanks and Witmore term “unforgetting”, living myths, the sensory properties of the place and the aura of the engravings have intermingled with profoundly evocative effect in the occasions described. At Driekopseiland, in the twenty first century, the place and the stories woven around it have made for experiences through which something of the “past’s absent presence” (Shanks & Witmore, 2010) has come to be glimpsed and felt, momentarily.

References Bailey, G. (2007). Time perspectives, palimpsests and the archaeology of time. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, 26, 198–223. Barnard, A. (1992). Hunters and herders of Southern Africa: A comparative ethnography of the Khoisan peoples. Cambridge University Press. Benneyworth, G., & Pinto, L. C. (2019). Sol Plaatje University as a case study for decoloniality: Object–based learning as applied to heritage studies. SAMAB, 41, 1–9. Biesele, M. (1993). Women like meat: The folklore and foraging ideology of the Kalahari Ju|’hoan. Witwatersrand University Press. Bird-David, N. (1999). Beyond ‘the hunting and gathering mode of subsistence’: Culture-sensitive observations on the Nayaka and other modern hunter-gatherers. Man (NS), 27, 19–44. Bleek, D. F. (1929). Bushman folklore. Africa, 2, 302–313. Bleek, D. F. (1933). Beliefs and customs of the |Xam Bushmen. Part V. The rain. Bantu Studies, 7, 297–312. Bleek, W. H. I., & Lloyd, L. C. (1911). Specimens of Bushman folklore. George Allen. Breuil, H. (1949). The age and the authors of the painted rocks of Austral Africa. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 4, 19–27. Chazan, M. (2019). The reality of artifacts: An archaeological perspective. Routledge. Conneller, C. (2011). An archaeology of materials: Substantial transformations in Early Prehistoric Europe. Routledge. Cooke, C. K. (1969). Rock art of southern Africa. Books of Africa. Dart, R.  A. (1925). The historic succession of cultural impacts upon South Africa. Nature, 115(2890), 425–429. de Jongh, M. (2002). No fixed abode: The poorest of the poor and elusive identities in rural South Africa. Journal of Southern African Studies, 28, 441–460.

264

D. Morris

de Prada-Samper, J. M. (2012). Landscape as memorial: Building on the legacy of Louis Anthing. In S. Swanepoel (Ed.), Resistance in the Northern Cape in the nineteenth century: History and commemoration (pp. 89–101). McGregor Museum. de Prada-Samper, J. M. (2016). The man who cursed the wind and other stories from the Karoo/Die man watdie wind vervloek het en ander stories van die Karoo. UCT, Centre for African Studies. de Prada-Samper, J. M., & Hollmann, J. (2017). ‘From the lips of the Bushmen’: Unpublished |xam San comments on Stow’s South African rock art copies. Southern African Humanities, 30, 1–34. Deacon, J. (1986). ‘My place is the Bitterpits’. The home territory of the Bleek and Lloyd’s |Xam San informants. African Studies, 45, 135–155. Deacon, J. (1988). The power of a place in understanding southern San rock engravings. World Archaeology, 20, 129–140. Deacon, J., & Foster, C. (2005). My heart stands in the hill. Struik Publishers. Derricourt, R. (2011). Inventing Africa history, archaeology and ideas. Pluto Press. du Plessis, H., & Grant, J. (2019). Afrikaans on the frontier: Two early Afrikaans dialects. Critical Arts, 33(4–5), 20–32. https://doi.org/10.1080/02560046.2019.1702072 Dubow, S. (1995). Illicit union: Scientific racism in modern South Africa. Witwatersrand University Press. Engelbrecht, M. L. (2002). The connection between archaeological treasures and the Khoisan people. In C. Fforde, J. Hubert, & P. Turnbull (Eds.), The dead and their possessions: Repatriation in principles, policy and practice (pp. 242–244). Routledge. Fock, D.  M. L. (1970). Early copies of rock engravings from Griqualand West. South African Journal of Science, 66, 247–250. Forssman, T. (2016). Blurring the boundaries: Forager-farmer interactions in the Middle Limpopo Valley. In K. Sadr, A. Esterhuysen, & C. Sievers (Eds.), African archaeology without frontiers. Papers from the 2014 PanAfrican Archaeological Association Congress (pp. 143–164). Wits University Press. Frobenius, L. (1909). The childhood of man: A popular account of the lives, customs and thoughts of primitive races (A. H. Keane, Trans.). Sealey & Co. Gazin-Schwarz, A., & Smith, A. (Eds.). (2008). Landscapes of clearance: Archaeological and anthropological perspectives. University of Arizona. Goodwin, A. J. H., & Van Riet Lowe, C. (1929). The stone age cultures of South Africa. Annals of the South African Museum, 27. Guenther, M. (1999). Tricksters and trancers: Bushman religion and society. Indiana University Press. Guenther, M. (2015). ‘Therefore their parts resemble humans for they feel that they are people.’ Ontological flux in San myth, cosmology and belief. Hunter Gatherer Research, 1, 277–315. Hall, S. & de Prada-Samper, J. M. (2016). Introduction. In J.M. de Prada-Samper (Eds), The man who cursed the wind and other stories from the Karoo/Die man wat die wind vervloek het en ander stories van die Karoo (pp. 10–31). Cape Town: UCT, Centre for African Studies. Heyd, T. (1999). Rock art aesthetics: Trace on rock, mark of spirit, window on land. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 57, 451–458. Hoff, A. (1993). Die tradisionele wêreldbeskouing van die Khoekhoen. South African Journal of Ethnology, 16, 1–9. Hoff, A. (1995). Puberteitsrite van ’n Khoekhoemeisie. South African Journal of Ethnology, 18, 29–41. Hoff, A. (1997). The water snake of the Khoekhoen and |Xam. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 52, 21–37. Hoff, A. (1998). The water bull of the |Xam. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 53, 109–124. Houseman, M. (1998). Painful places: Ritual encounters with one’s homelands. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (NS), 4, 447–467. Hromnik, C. A. (1981). Indo-Africa: Towards a new understanding of the history of sub-Saharan Africa. Juta.

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

265

Humphreys, A. J. B. (1975). The earliest reported shelter excavation in the interior of South Africa? South African Archaeological Bulletin, 30, 40. Ingold, T. (1993). The temporality of the landscape. World Archaeology, 25, 152–174. Inskeep, R. R. (1971). The future of rock art studies in Southern Africa. In M. Schoonraad (Ed.), Rock paintings of Southern Africa. Supplement to the South African Journal of Science Special Issue, 2, 101–104. IWGIA. (2019). The Indigenous world −2019. https://www.iwgia.org/images/documents/ indigenous-­world/IndigenousWorld2019_UK.pdf Jones, A.  M., & Cochrane, A. (2018). The archaeology of art. Materials, practices, affects. Routledge. Kahn, M. (1990). Stone-faced ancestors: The spatial anchoring of myth in Wamira, Papua New Guinea. Ethnology, 29, 51–66. Lange, M.  E. (Ed.). (2014). Water stories: Original !Garib narrations about the Water Snake/ Waterstories: Oorspronklike !Garib-vertellinge van die Waterslang. Unisa Press. Lewis-Williams, J.  D. (1981). Believing and seeing: Symbolic meanings in southern San rock paintings. Academic. Lewis-Williams, J. D. (1996). ‘A visit to the Lion’s House’: The structures, metaphors and socio-­ political significance of a nineteenth century Bushman myth. In J. Deacon & T. A. Dowson (Eds.), Voices from the past: |Xam Bushman and the Bleek and Lloyd collection (pp. 122–141). Witwatersrand University Press. Lewis-Williams, J. D. (1998). Quanto?: The issue of ‘many meanings’ in Southern African San rock art research. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 53, 86–97. Lewis-Williams, J. D. (Ed.). (2000). Stories that float from afar: Ancestral folklore of the San of Southern Africa. David Philip. Lewis-Williams, J. D., & Dowson, T. A. (1990). Through the veil: San rock paintings and the rock face. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 45, 5–16. Mazel, A.  D. (1992). Changing fortunes: 150 years of San hunter-gatherer history in the Natal Drakensberg, South Africa. Antiquity, 66, 758–767. McGranaghan, M. (2016). The death of the Agama Lizard: The historical significances of a multi-­ authored rock-art site in the Northern Cape (South Africa). Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 26, 1–23. McGranaghan, M., & Challis, S. (2016). Reconfiguring hunting magic: Southern Bushman (San) perspectives on taming and their implications for understanding rock art. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 26, 579–599. Morris, D. (2002). Driekopseiland and ‘the rain’s magic power’: History and landscape in a new interpretation of a Northern Cape rock engraving site. Unpublished master’s thesis, University of the Western Cape. Morris, D. (2008). Driekopseiland rock engraving site, South Africa: A precolonial landscape lost and re-membered. In A.  Gazin-Schwartz & A.  Smith (Eds.), Landscapes of clearance: Archaeological and anthropological perspectives (pp. 87–111). Left Coast Press. Morris, D. (2010). Snake and veil: On the rock-engravings of Driekopseiland, Northern Cape, South Africa. In G.  Blundell, C.  Chippindale, & B.  Smith (Eds.), Seeing and knowing: Understanding rock with and without ethnography (pp. 36–53). Wits University Press. Morris, D. (2012). Rock art in the Northern Cape: The implications of variability in engravings and paintings relative to issues of social context and change in the precolonial past. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of the Western Cape. Morris, D. (2014). Narrating Biesje Poort: Negotiating absence of storyline, vagueness and multivocality in the representation of Southern Kalahari rock engravings. Critical Arts, 28, 648–669. Mutwa, C. (1996). Song of the stars: The lore of a Zulu Shaman (S.  Larsen, Ed.). Station Hill Openings. Parkington, J. (1993). The neglected alternative: Historical narrative rather than cultural labelling. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 48, 94–97.

266

D. Morris

Parkington, J., Morris, D., & de Prada-Samper, J.  M. (2019). Elusive identities: Karoo |Xam descendants and the square kilometre array. Journal of Southern African Studies, 45, 729–747. https://doi.org/10.1080/03057070.2019.1647655 Péringuey, L. (1909). On rock-engravings of animals and the human figure, found in South Africa. Transactions of the South African Philosophical Society, 18, 401–419. Sampson, C. G. (1992). Bushman (Oesjwana) survival and acculturation on the northeast frontier 1770–1890: Some archaeological implications. In Southern African Association of Archaeologists: Abstracts for the 1992 biennial conference (pp.  13–14). Southern African Association of Archaeologists. Schapera, I. (1930). The Khoisan peoples of South Africa: Bushmen and Hottentots. Routledge and Kegan Paul. Schoeman, K. (1997). A debt of gratitude: Lucy Lloyd and the ‘Bushman work’ of G.W.  Stow. South African Library. Shanks, M., & Witmore, C. (2010). Memory practices and the archaeological imagination in risk society: Design and long term community. In S. Koerner & I. Russell (Eds.), Unquiet pasts: Risk society, lived cultural heritage. Redesigning reflexivity (pp. 269–290). Ashgate. Skinner, A. (2017). The changer of ways: Rock art and frontier ideologies on the Strandberg, Northern Cape, South Africa. Unpublished master’s thesis, University of the Witwatersrand. Skotnes, P. (1991). Rock art: Is there life after trance? De Arte, 44, 16–24. Skotnes, P. (2008). Unconquerable spirit: George Stow’s history paintings of the San. Ohio University Press. Slack, L.  M. (1962). Rock engravings from Driekopseiland and other sites south west of Johannesburg. Centaur Press. Smith, B.  W., & Ouzman, S. (2004). Taking stock: Identifying Khoekhoen herder rock art in Southern Africa. Current Anthropology, 45, 499–526. Solomon, A. (2006). Roots and revolutions: A critical overview of early and late San rock art research. Afrique & Histoire, 6, 77–110. Stow, G. W. (1905). The native races of South Africa. Swan, Sonnenschein. Theal, G.  M. (1919). History of South Africa: Volume 1. Ethnography and condition of South Africa before A. D. 1505 (2nd ed.). G. Allen and Unwin. Tilley, C., & Bennett, W. (2001). An archaeology of supernatural places: The case of West Penwith. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (NS), 7, 335–362. Tobias, P., Lewis-Williams, J. D., & Dowson, T. A. (1992). Blue ostriches captured. Nature, 1992, 358–135. Van Vreeden, B. F. (1955). Die waterslang. Tydskrif vir volkskunde en volkstaal, 12(1), 1–10. Vinnicombe, P. (1976). People of the eland: Rock paintings of the Drakensberg Bushmen as a reflection of their life and thought. University of Natal Press. Waldman, P. L. (1989). Watersnakes and women: A study of ritual and ethnicity in Griquatown. Unpublished honours thesis, University of the Witwatersrand. Webley, L. (1990). The use of stone ‘scrapers’ by semi-sedentary pastoralist groups in Namaqualand, South Africa. The South African Archaeological Bulletin, 45, 28–32. Wilcox, A. R. (1956). Rock paintings of the Drakensberg. Parrish. Wilcox, A. R. (1963). The rock art of South Africa. Nelson. Wilcox, A. R. (1964). The non-representational petroglyphs of South Africa. South African Journal of Science, 60, 55–58. Wilcox, A. R. (1984). The rock art of Africa. MacMillan South Africa. Wilman, M. (1933). The rock engravings of Griqualand West and Bechuanaland, South Africa. Deighton Bell. Wilmsen, E.  N. (1986). Of paintings and painters, in terms of Zu|’hoasi interpretations. In R. Fossen & K. Keuthmann (Eds.), Contemporary studies on Khoisan 2 (pp. 347–372). Helmut Buske Verlag.

River, Rock, and ‘The Rain’s Magic Power’: Rock Art and Memory in the Northern…

267

David Morris  has been head of archaeology at Kimberley’s McGregor Museum and an extraordinary professor in the School of Humanities at Sol Plaatje University. His principal research interest is in rock art of the Northern Cape and Karoo, including a particular focus on Driekopseiland. His involvement in developing public archaeology is focused through sites such as the Wildebeest Kuil Rock Art Centre and Wonderwerk Cave, and in museum interpretative contexts. With John Parkington and Neil Rusch, he co-authored the popular book Karoo Rock Engravings (2008), and he was a co-editor with Ben Smith and Knut Helskog of the volume Working with Rock Art (2012). His recent writing has included a ‘rethinking of things’, drawing inter alia on indigenous theories of ontological fluidity.

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities in the Neocolonial North American Southwest Aaron M. Wright

Introduction The North American Southwest (hereafter “Southwest”) (Fig. 1) encompasses complex landscapes whose geologies and topographies, carved by unfathomable forces over eons, commemorate time on the grandest of scales. With its deep history written into the land and lived by its many peoples, the Southwest is fertile ground for memory studies, especially as they pertain to contemporary archaeological scholarship. Indeed, anthropologists have directed a good deal of recent memory work at a single place and time—the four centuries of Ancestral Pueblo residence within Chaco Canyon and the lingering memories of that phenomenon (e.g., Mills, 2008; Van Dyke, 2003, 2004, 2009, 2017). Chaco Canyon was certainly a special place in the past, just as it is today, so the fact that is has been ground zero for the “memory boom” (sensu Blight, 2009) in Southwestern archaeological research is well justified. Nonetheless, my aim in this chapter is to move Southwestern memory studies not only out of Chaco Canyon, but out of the past.

Memory, Archaeology, and Petroglyphs As a historical discipline, archaeology’s position on memory has been—predictably and understandably—preoccupied with “the past in the past” (e.g., Bradley, 2002; Bradley & Williams, 1998; Yoffee, 2007). The memory work so far carried out at Chaco are sound cases in point. In recent years, though, scholars have begun using archaeology to expose hidden and forgotten injustices of the past in order to serve social and political causes of the present, effectively transitioning memory work A. M. Wright (*) Archaeology Southwest, Tucson, AZ, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 L. F. Zubieta (ed.), Rock Art and Memory in the Transmission of Cultural Knowledge, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-96942-4_12

269

270

A. M. Wright

Fig. 1  The North American Southwest and places mentioned in the text

from mere scholarship to political action (Van Dyke, 2019, pp. 217–219). Here I consider a related but different line of inquiry—the construction of collective memories in the present about the indigenous past in the Southwest. I focus on two archaeological sites in Arizona to examine how contemporary interpretations of petroglyphs are embedded in processes of collective remembering in a neocolonial

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities…

271

context, which leads me to reason that those processes of remembering are injustices of the present.

Collective Memory and Collective Remembering I ground this study within Halbwachs’ (1925, 1941) well known sociological formulation of collective memory, which distinguishes between the memory of individuals based on their own experiences and a form of memory shared by a group that transcends any of the individuals comprising it. Collective memory is a social construct that contextualizes individuals’ memories and understandings of a more abstract past, one for which they were not present and therefore lack personal knowledge and experience, within the values of their social group. One’s relationship with the past is thus conditioned, in part, by their social identity. Halbwachs’ pioneering work drew explicit attention to the notion of memory as a nested phenomenon, and one that is as much social in origin as it is psychological. Collective memory is a product of what Wertsch and Roediger (2008) characterize as “collective remembering.” Collective remembering emphasizes the social processes underlying the formation and recalling of shared memories. Accordingly, collective memories can be considered art, in that they are carefully crafted through practice (Cole, 2001). This practice-based stance explicitly acknowledges that collective memories are not static but change in concert with the social group’s recurrent reconstruction of the past. Social groups reconstruct the past through various means, including rituals, stories, and traditional practices. Such performances are particularly efficacious since through them individuals experience, and thus come to embody the group’s collective memory (cf., Narvaez, 2012). With his case study of the Holy Land, Halbwachs (1941) exposed the distinction between history and collective memory, as well as their intersection in archaeology, by showing how societies of different religious orientations framed the region’s past in self-serving ways. This framing occurred not just in text, but also in architecture, as each successive society reconfigured space and ruins to accord with their rendition of the past. As Wertsch and Roediger (2008) explain, history and collective remembering have different agendas. While the objectivity of historical accounts can often be questioned, history, as a discipline and practice, strives to provide a neutral and accurate account of the past. Collective remembering, on the other hand, is a process of historical reckoning entangled with a group’s identity; accurate recall of the past is not necessarily the priority. A collective memory’s anchoring to identity, coupled with its transcendence beyond the individual, makes its more resistant to revision despite contradictory historical or archaeological evidence.

272

A. M. Wright

Petroglyphs as Pieces of Collective Memory North American scholarship has long acknowledged the nexus between petroglyphs and memory among the continent’s indigenous communities. Indeed, its foundation lies in early colonial fascinations with philology and epigraphy that regarded Native American petroglyphs and similar modes of pictography as specimens of ancient script awaiting decipherment (Wright, 2014, p. 2). In his systematic study of North American indigenous pictography in the late nineteenth century, Mallery (1893) established that while petroglyphs are not a written language, many indigenous communities did employ drawings in the practice of memory, where they served as actual records of events and deeds or as mnemonics for any number of subjects, such as traditions, treaties, narratives, or the order of songs. The mnemonic use of pictorial symbols, including petroglyphs, is a practice widely shared by Southwest indigenous communities. For example, until the early twentieth century various O’odham communities in southern Arizona maintained calendar sticks to chronicle significant events (Fig. 2) (Lumholtz, 1912, pp. 73–75; Russell, 1908, pp. 35–37; Southworth, 1931; Underhill, 1938). These sticks were Fig. 2 Kâemâ-â (“Rattlesnake Head”), an Akimel O’odham calendar stick keeper and former village leader at Gila Crossing, using his calendar stick to recount a historical record, 1921. Kâemâ-â was also known as Joseph Head by non-tribal members. (Photo by Edward H. Davis; used with permission of the National Museum of the American Indian, Smithsonian Institution [N24596])

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities…

273

straight, thin, and usually quite long, and known examples were of either pine or willow limbs or saguaro ribs. A Tohono O’odham (formerly “Papago”) record on saguaro ribs kept by José Santos of San Xavier del Bac, for instance, covered approximately 94 consecutive years, a record so long that it filled a nearly two-­ meter long rib and extended onto another (Underhill, 1938). Santos inherited the stick and its interpretation from his father-in-law, who had copied that record and its interpretation from an older stick keeper who had died. Keepers of the calendar sticks marked them with notches for the individual years and either incised or painted symbols, or o’ohadag (“song flowers”), next to the notches to remind themselves of the significant events of the corresponding year (Darling & Lewis, 2007). Many of the symbols on Akimel O’odham (formerly “Pima”) calendar sticks resemble those depicted as petroglyphs across the tribe’s traditional territory, and the likeness between the two is likely not a coincidence. Petroglyphs, also considered o’ohadag, mark well-trodden trails and important places referenced in O’odham traditional songs (Fig. 3). Due to this association, it is easy to conceptualize the petroglyphs as mnemonic devices similar to the markings on calendar sticks, the difference being that petroglyphs aided in remembering personal and cultural aspects of geographical space rather than the order and details of historical events (Darling, 2009; Darling & Lewis, 2007). In fact, some Tohono O’odham once interpreted specific pictographs in Ventana Cave, located on their reservation, as calendrical mnemonics akin to those accompanying calendar sticks (Haury, 1950, p. 470).

Fig. 3  A Gila Style petroglyph along a trail on the western bajada of the Maricopa Mountains, southern Arizona

274

A. M. Wright

The O’odham scenario offers a particularly salient example of the complex relationship between pictorial mnemonics and memory in the Southwest. In considering their calendar sticks, it is important to point out that the symbols used and their sequence were specific to the individual stick keeper, even though the record they interpreted from the sticks pertained to the community. Since keepers employed different symbols, even when recording the same events, their sticks could not be “read” by others unless they were taught the record and associated mnemonics unique to each calendar stick, as was the case with José Santos described previously. While keepers may have, on occasion, passed a calendar stick onto someone else, who would memorize the associated chronicle, that was not the norm. Rather, it was customary for the stick to be buried with the keeper upon their passing (Russell, 1908, p. 35; Underhill, 1938, p. 10). José Santos’s father-in-law, for instance, copied his calendar stick from one he exhumed from the burial of a deceased calendar stick keeper, whose narrative interpretation Santos’ father-in-law remembered and continued (Underhill, 1938, pp. 6–7). O’odham calendar sticks demonstrate the nested nature of memory. Interpretation of the symbols and their sequence are based on the personal memory of the stick’s keeper, yet the memories the keeper encoded on the calendar stick relate to the broader community. The keepers vested themselves with recording and safeguarding their community’s collective memory, which they shared through public oratory when so requested. A similar case holds for O’odham conceptions of petroglyphs. Cotemporary advisors agree that they do not know the meaning and memories tethered to petroglyphs because they are specific to the person who made them and the time of their manufacture (Wright & Hopkins, 2016, p. 83). Nevertheless, to some they are reminders of himdag, the body of traditional O’odham practices, customs, and perspectives. To others, they are records of experiences of Huhugam, O’odham ancestors. Variable O’odham interpretations of petroglyphs suggest that, much like the calendar sticks, the memories aligned to particular symbols and their arrangement on rocks and across the landscape were personal affairs. They were made by different people and for different reasons (Wright & Hopkins, 2016, p. 84). Still, petroglyphs, in the abstract, assume an important role in O’odham collective memory. They are reminders of himdag and records of O’odham experiences, and contemporary tribal members thus regard them as important elements of tribal history because they show where their ancestors have been and are symbols of O’odham culture, language, and identity (Johnson et  al., 2013, p.  73). The petroglyphs help invoke a shared memory of traditional O’odham ways and identity, which are threatened by the rapid expansion of urban centers in southern Arizona, international geopolitics concerning border policies and immigration enforcement, and broader dimensions of globalism (Schulze, 2018, pp. 132–162). The production of petroglyphs is no longer a common practice among most Southwest indigenous communities, and given the low ratio of petroglyphs to the number of people who have lived in in this area over millennia, it likely never was (Wright, 2014, p.  174). Indigenous understandings of petroglyphs are therefore drawn from tribally specific collective memories about them, what the symbols

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities…

275

reference, and why their ancestors made them (Mallery, 1893, p. 768). For some Zuni of west-central New Mexico, for instance, certain a’tsina (“petroglyphs”) found in the surrounding landscape bring to mind events and personages that figure into the tribe’s creation account and oral history (Young, 1988). Some also conceptualize certain petroglyphs as maps of the tribe’s migration to the Middle Place at Zuni Pueblo following their emergence from a deep canyon along the Colorado River and before the people took their present form (e.g., Ferguson, 2007). Indeed, contemporary Zuni cultural advisors rely on petroglyphs to identify places far removed from their traditional lands through which ancestral Zunis migrated on their way to the Middle Place. They recall the names and descriptions of such places in Zuni ritualism and spiritual oratory, and petroglyphs help ground those memories to specific places they have never before seen or visited (Wright & Hopkins, 2016, p. 142). These are not individual memories, but instead collective memories tribal members learn through traditional practices, narratives, and rituals.

Petroglyphs as Places of Collective Remembering Places are foundational to collective memory (Casey, 2009; Nora, 1989; Winter, 2010). Halbwachs (1941) explained that collective memory is always in a malleable state and subject to transitions in the consciousness of the group. When elements of that group are memorialized in places such as monuments, the group’s collective memory is materialized and fixed in place, which makes it harder to contest and thus serves to impede revisions to that collective memory. It is through visitation to such places that individuals come to learn of and embody the collective memories ascribed to it. Places are thus active in processes of collective remembering. For Southwestern indigenous communities, places serve as repositories for important cultural knowledge (e.g., Basso, 1996), including collective memories and aspects of tribal identity. They rely on symbols to recall those memories, whether those symbols be place names (e.g., Winters, 2018) or features of the landscape itself (e.g., Liebmann, 2017). The Zuni and O’odham scenarios discussed above demonstrate how petroglyphs serve as reminders as well. The petroglyphs themselves can be considered places of collective remembering, since the symbols alone factor into the production of collective memories. The correlation between petroglyphs and places, however, is just as important, if not more so (e.g., Wright, 2014). A petroglyph in one place may invoke a different recollection as the same symbol in another place. Recall that for the Zuni, it is the location of the petroglyphs and how tribal members experience those places that are critical to collective remembering. Petroglyphs are not only places for collective remembering among indigenous communities. They and the places bearing them factor into the collective memories of other social groups as well, in particular how and what is “remembered” about the indigenous communities who made the petroglyphs. In the remainder of this chapter I deconstruct the process of collective remembering at two of the premier

276

A. M. Wright

petroglyph sites in the Southwest—Painted Rocks and Tutuveni—in order to illustrate the state’s role in practices of collective remembering.

Painted Rocks The Painted Rock Petroglyph Site (hereafter “Painted Rocks”) lies near the lower Gila River in southwestern Arizona in what is one of the hottest and most xeric landscapes in North America (Fig. 1). The site hosts a large array of petroglyphs on a low, conical inselberg of granodiorite protruding from an otherwise flat and featureless valley (Fig. 4). A recent inventory cataloged over 3800 petroglyphs within a 6100 square-meter area (Wright, 2017), making it the densest (although not the largest) petroglyph site so far documented in the Southwest. Although only petroglyphs are present today, the site takes its moniker from earlier observations that some of the petroglyphs were also painted (Browne, 1864, p. 702; Disturnell, 1881, p. 110; Harris, 1960, p. 83; Sedelmair, 1856, p. 19). The National Park Service added Painted Rocks to the National Register of Historic Places in 1977 on account of the unusually large number of glyphs and the site’s status as a “message and record center” and landmark along a major indigenous and historic travel route (Hall, 1976). In 1982, Bob and Anne Preston observed peculiar interactions between a shaft of light and several petroglyphs near the top of the inselberg on the winter and summer solstices and the forty-fifth days before and after the winter solstice (i.e., cross-quarter days), which led them to conclude the place operated as a “solar almanac” (Hodge, 1983; Preston & Preston, 1987). While not the same as a calendar stick, the marking and commemoration of important days in the annual solar cycle at Painted Rocks suggests the site was instrumental in practices of remembering among the local communities, although the intersection between petroglyphs and memory there is not fully understood. Painted Rocks occupy a curious space of “firsts” within the trajectory of Southwestern archaeological inquiry. This site lies alongside a heavily trodden indigenous trail stretching between major demographic centers in the Phoenix Basin to the east and lower Colorado River to the west (Wright et al., 2015). While following this trail in 1748 with indigenous guides and interpreters, the Bavaria-­ born Jesuit missionary Jacobo Sedelmair, on one of his last trips to the Colorado River from his post at the mission of Tubutama in present-day Sonora, Mexico, paused at Painted Rocks. His diary entry of that occasion is one of the first written accounts of petroglyphs in the Southwest (certainly the first in Arizona) and the first to share an indigenous perspective (Sedelmair, 1856). Emory’s (1848, pp. 89–91) pencil drawings of the Painted Rocks accompanying his military reconnaissance report to the United States Congress a century after Sedelmair’s visit are the first published illustrations of petroglyphs from the Southwest. And Conklin’s (1878, pp. 73–76) stereographs of the site are some of the first photographs of petroglyphs the world-over.

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities…

277

Fig. 4  The Painted Rocks in southwestern Arizona. Top: View eastward toward sunrise from the crest of the inselberg. Bottom: boulders at the base of the inselberg densely covered in petroglyphs. (Photos by and used with permission of Paul Vanderveen)

The early and constant attention given to Painted Rocks is due to the fact that the principal road to southern California in the mid- to late-1800s followed the indigenous trail passing nearby, and that many of the stage lines stopped there to allow

278

A. M. Wright

passengers to explore the boulders (Hinton, 1878, pp. 175–176). The site’s prominence and accessibility to passersby from many different walks of life thus ensured that narratives about the petroglyphs, generally cast in mysterious and cryptic overtones, reached national and international audiences (e.g., Browne, 1864; Pinart, 1877; Prehistoric relics, 1876). From this exposure, Painted Rocks came to assume a prominent place within the national consciousness regarding past and present indigenous people in southern Arizona and the Southwest broadly. This is evidenced by former (Miller, 1938) and current (Wright et  al., 2015) efforts to establish a national monument centered on the site. Painted Rocks is located on public land administered by the United States Bureau of Land Management (BLM). Given the site’s celebrity, the BLM has long managed Painted Rocks for public visitation. From 1965 to 1990, the federal agency actually patented the site to the Arizona State Parks Board, who in turn promoted tourism and recreation around the petroglyphs as part of a larger Painted Rocks State Park. Since reassuming title in 1991, the BLM has continued to manage the petroglyphs as part of the “Painted Rock Petroglyph Site and Campground,” a local tourist attraction that draws visitors from across the country and internationally. Painted Rocks thus serves as a significant interface between the identity and heritage of contemporary indigenous communities and an interested public, many of whom have little-to-no prior experience with or knowledge of archaeology, indigenous histories, or cultural heritage in the Southwest. As stewards of Painted Rocks, the BLM is vested with managing the site, including providing information to visitors about the place and its historic and cultural significance. The agency explicitly acknowledged this responsibility when it reassumed title from Arizona State Parks (Bureau of Land Management, 1991, p. 8). In fact, prior to the establishment of the state park, the BLM installed an interpretive sign stating: “IT HAS BEEN SUGGESTED THAT THE INSCRIPTIONS ON THESE ROCKS MARKED A BOUNDARY LINE BETWEEN MARICOPA AND YUMA INDIANS” (Fig. 5). This particular interpretation has a long history that can be traced to Charles Poston, a prominent figure in Arizona history and the then-­ territory’s first Superintendent of Indian Affairs. In that role, Poston participated in negotiating a treaty in 1863 between the allied Piipaash (formerly “Maricopa”) and Akimel O’odham and the various Yuman-speaking tribes living along the lower Colorado River, namely the Quechan (formerly “Yuma”). Just 6 years prior, a large war party of Quechan and their allies waged an epic battle against the Piipaash and Akimel O’odham living near the confluence of the Salt and Gila Rivers (Kroeber & Fontana, 1986). As the first and last such battle witnessed by Americans in southern Arizona, this event colored Poston’s understanding of these indigenous communities and the petroglyphs made by them and their ancestors. In 1863 Poston accompanied the popular author J. Ross Browne on a tour through Arizona, during which they paused at Painted Rocks as their stage followed the adjacent wagon road. Given his experience and political position, Poston shared with Browne that he believed the petroglyphs were treaties between these different tribes made at different times in the past, a position Browne quickly shared with hundreds of thousands of readers across the nation (Browne, 1864, p. 702). Poston

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities…

279

Fig. 5  Interpretive sign at the entrance to the Painted Rocks in 1964. (From The Stone Age library, 1964)

believed this was the case because Painted Rocks lies nearly half-way along the major artery between the territories of the warring parties. Poston (1878 , p. 122) reiterated his position in a narrative poem about his Arizona experience:The Painted Rocks claim notice next, All covered o’er with Indian text, In hieroglyphic bows and clubs, To pose some antiquarian Stubbs; but versed somewhat in Indian lore From education heretofore, I read the signs as treaties made By tribes, each other not to raid. From Yuma lands to Pima’s mound, ’Tis monumental half-way ground.

After reassuming title from Arizona State Parks, the BLM invested approximately one-half million U.S. dollars in infrastructure improvements to Painted Rocks, including an upgrade in interpretive signage. They replaced the former sign with a series of informational and interpretive panels, including one entitled “Who Made These Designs?” (Fig. 6). In this updated interpretation, the BLM attributes the petroglyphs not to the Piipaash or Quechan, as they did in the previous sign, but

280

A. M. Wright

Fig. 6  Interpretive sign at the Painted Rocks emplaced in 2005

to the O’odham and their Huhugam (i.e., “Hohokam”) ancestors. In fact, the new signage makes no mention of the Piipaash, Quechan, or their “Patayan” ancestors. The BLM’s shifting narrative on the cultural orientation of the Painted Rocks petroglyphs reflects a change in the collective memory of the Piipaash which, as I elaborate below, was brought about largely by the biases of professional archaeologists. Until quite recently, a brief description by Wasley and Johnson (1965, pp. 73–74) was the sole professional reference on Painted Rocks. These archaeologists visited the site in the course of excavating several Hohokam villages located 40 km to the east. The Hohokam archaeological tradition stretched across much of southern Arizona and persisted for nearly 1000 years, circa AD 450–1450. While the meager artifact assemblage at Painted Rocks prevented Wasley and Johnson from assigning the petroglyphs to any specific era or cultural group, they concluded the majority within the broader region were of Hohokam manufacture. They justified this through their belief that Hohokam villages constituted the principal indigenous occupation of the region, and that some of the petroglyphs resembled designs on Hohokam pottery. Schaafsma (1980) later relied on Wasley and Johnson’s perception of the petroglyphs at Painted Rocks to define a Hohokam “Gila Style” of petroglyphs. Wasley and Johnson’s research interests were concerned almost exclusively with Hohokam archaeology. Likewise, they were employed by the Arizona State

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities…

281

Museum, which was headed by Emil Haury, arguably the “grandfather” of Hohokam archaeology. For these reasons, it is easy to understand how they conceptualized the archaeological landscape through a Hohokam lens. However, several of their contemporaries (Schroeder, 1952, 1961; Vivian, 1965) carried out projects in the same general region and recognized a significant “Patayan” component as well. The Patayan archaeological tradition was contemporaneous with the Hohokam one, but while the archaeological signature of Hohokam is no longer visible after AD 1450, the Patayan tradition persisted and is regarded as a material tradition ancestral to the Piipaash, Quechan, and other Yuman-speaking tribes described by the earliest Europeans to visit the region. Along the lower Gila River, the Hohokam and Patayan and later O’odham and Yuman traditions overlapped and blended into one another (Wright et al., 2015). This hybridity complicates attributing any of the petroglyphs to either cultural tradition, regardless of whether similar motifs appear on Hohokam pottery as Wasley and Johnson observed. Muddling Wasley and Johnson’s observation is that neither Schroeder (1952) nor Vivian (1965) observed any significant stylistic or iconographic difference in the petroglyphs at Painted Rocks and those at places farther west along the lower Gila and lower Colorado Rivers, the region generally regarded as the Patayan heartland. More recent considerations have recognized a strong Patayan stylistic component to the petroglyphs at Painted Rocks (Martynec, 1989; Wright, 2017, p. 9), and from a sample of 100 ceramics found around and amid the boulders, over 90% are of Patayan manufacture (Wright, 2017). The documentary record parallels the archaeological one. According to missionary and military accounts from 1699 to 1825, as I synthesized elsewhere (Wright & Hopkins, 2016), it was the Piipaash who lived in the valley surrounding Painted Rocks until they sought refuge among their O’odham allies in the east circa 1830. Archaeological and historical records support a stronger Patayan and Piipaash attribution to the Painted Rocks petroglyphs, although Hohokam and O’odham influences are certainly present. The place-based interpretive narrative crafted by the federal agency, however, omits any mention of the Piipaash legacy at the site. This omission owes in part to the archaeological interpretation discussed above, but it is also a product of federal policy regarding government-to-government consultation with tribes. Contemporary Piipaash do not have federal recognition as an independent, sovereign tribe. Instead, most are members of the Salt River Pima-Maricopa Indian Community (SRPMIC) and Gila River Indian Community (GRIC), two tribes whose membership is predominantly O’odham. In carrying out its consultation responsibilities at Painted Rocks, the BLM confers with SRPMIC and GRIC, as well as the Ak-Chin Indian Community and Tohono O’odham Nation. In so doing, the agency has been privy to a predominantly, if not solely O’odham perspective. That the interpretive signage shares only an O’odham view, when a Piipaash one is warranted, underscores how collective memories arise out of social and political contexts rather than historical facts.

282

A. M. Wright

Tutuveni Tutuveni is the site of several thousand petroglyphs concentrated on a series of reddish-colored Wingate sandstone boulders at the foot of the Echo Cliffs, along the eastern side of Hamblin Wash in northeastern Arizona (Fig. 1). Formerly referred to as Oakley Spring (Mallery, 1886, p. 29) and Willow Springs (Thompson, 1886), on account of its close proximity to several so-named water sources below the cliffs, this place derives its current and more common name from tutuveni, a word of the Hopi’s Third Mesa dialect they use in reference to pictographs and petroglyphs (The Hopi Dictionary Project, 1998, p. 681). For the Hopi, this place is Tutuventiwngwu (Ferguson et al., 2009, p. 25), as it is a specific centering of petroglyphs and associated ritual activity along the Hopi Salt Trail that leads from the Hopi Mesas, some 70 km to the southeast, to the bottom of the Grand Canyon nearly 40 km west. The National Park Service added Tutuveni to the National Register of Historic Places in 1986 due to the place’s unique connection with the Hopi Tribe (Tessman, 1986). In his inventory of the Tutuveni petroglyphs, Bernardini (2009, p. 37) identified nearly 4300 “intelligible” indigenous symbols within an area measuring approximately 10,800 square meters (Fig. 7), making the site second only to Painted Rocks in terms of petroglyph density in the Southwest. Tutuveni’s uniqueness among Southwestern petroglyph sites owes to the well-documented tradition of Hopi men

Fig. 7  Tutuveni in northeastern Arizona. Top: Overviews of Boulders 48 (left) and 17 and 18 (right), where most of the petroglyphs are concentrated. Note the protective fence in the background that was installed 12 years ago. Bottom: Rows of Hopi clan symbol petroglyphs. (Photos by and used with permission of Kirk Astroth)

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities…

283

pecking their clans’ symbols into the rocks during pilgrimages to the Grand Canyon. While Hopis and their ancestors, the Hisatsinom, certainly did this elsewhere (e.g., Bernardini, 2005, pp.  93–116; Ferguson & Colwell-Chanthaphonh, 2006, pp. 127–135; Fewkes, 1897), the practice at Tutuveni is the best ethnographically documented example of Hopi clan symbolism materialized as petroglyphs (Colton & Colton, 1931; Ferguson, 1998; Mallery, 1886, p.  29; Simmons, 1942, p.  235; Titiev, 1937). Hopi cultural advisors confirmed that the majority of the Tutuveni petroglyphs conform to 76 symbols of living, recently extinct, or long extinct clans (Bernardini, 2009, p. 31). Tutuveni is one of several dozen named places along the Hopi Salt Trail, a route some young men followed during Wuwtsim, a Hopi tribal initiation ceremony and rite of passage (Parsons, 1923). Wuwtsim involved an arduous and dangerous pilgrimage to the depths of the Grand Canyon where the initiates collected salt and clay and brought it back to their villages as testaments of their success. Along the way, the initiates stopped at specific places to pray, make offerings, and practice other attendant rituals. According to Hopi consultants, Tutuveni is one of those shrines where it was an obligation for the initiate to materialize his clan’s symbol into the stone, and to do so again to the left of the former on each successive Wuwtsim pilgrimage (Colton & Colton, 1931, p. 37; Mallery, 1886, p. 29; Simmons, 1942, p. 235; Titiev, 1937, pp. 245–246). This practice, performed over generations, resulted in neatly aligned rows clan symbols at Tutuveni (Fig. 7, bottom). Hopi perception and understanding of the past—i.e., the tribe’s collective memory—is conditioned in large part by individual clan histories of emergence at Sipàapuni (an opening to the Underworld situated in the Grand Canyon) or Yayniwpu (a place near the Valley of Mexico) and subsequent migration across the southern tracts of North America before finally converging at Tuuwanasavi, the Hopi Mesas in northeastern Arizona (Wright & Hopkins, 2016, pp.  27–40). Traditional Hopi worldview maintains that following emergence yet prior to migration, Maasaw (god of fire and death) instructed the clans with Ang Kuktota, the proviso that they were to leave itaakuku, “footprints,” wherever they went (Ferguson & Colwell-­ Chanthaphonh, 2006; Kuwanwisiwma & Ferguson, 2004; Kuwanwisiwma et  al., 2018). Contemporary Hopis see their clans’ footprints amidst the artifacts, petroglyphs, archaeological sites, and related materialities across the landscapes described in the clans’ migration histories. While Hopi historical and cultural connections to Tutuveni are unquestioned, there are ongoing attempts to revise the collective memory of that connection. The area around Tutuveni has been central to a contentious land dispute between the Hopi Tribe and the Navajo Nation for over a century (Brugge, 1994). In 1882, President Chester A. Arthur established a reservation for the Hopis through an executive order, but the reservation boundary excluded much of what the Hopis regarded as their aboriginal territory, including the area around Tutuveni. In 1934, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed into law an expansion to the boundary of the Navajo Indian Reservation that subsumed a large portion of the Hopis’ traditional lands excluded from their reservation—including Tutuveni. The Hopi Tribe immediately disputed the federal action. Ensuing legal actions regarding that move as well as

284

A. M. Wright

other modifications to the original boundaries of the Hopi and Navajo reservations resulted in a ban on development within certain contested lands (the “Bennett Freeze”) followed by the 1974 Navajo-Hopi Land Settlement Act, which split some of the contested land between the tribes. This later act ushered in a federal program to remove Hopis and Navajos residing within the affected area and relocate them to lands within the revised boundaries of their respective tribe’s reservations. Many resisted, however, and while the federal government repealed the development ban in 2009, the land dispute has never been entirely resolved. In sum, Tutuveni is a Hopi shrine and traditional cultural property located on land under the official jurisdiction of the Navajo Nation. The Ancestral Pueblo petroglyphs there, many of which are recognizable as Hopi clan symbols, are overt reminders of the Hopi past and the clans’ deeply religious connection to this place. They are also reminders—memory pieces—of the intertribal tensions over land and the hardships and painful losses experienced by members of both tribes as a result of the federal policies. Sentiment deriving from this friction and affliction is also memorialized at Tutuveni in the form of physical defacement to the petroglyphs and offensive script added to the panels (Fig.  8). For example, Bernardini (2009, Figs.  4.6–4.7) illustrates an instance in which someone etched “DAMN HOPI DRAWING” atop a number of older Hopi clan symbols (Fig. 8, bottom left), and another case where someone modified an inscription of “THE HOPI CLANS” to read as “THE ONO CLANS.” The modification of Hopi clan symbol petroglyphs at Tutuveni is a relatively recent phenomenon. Garn (1985), who began visiting the site in 1959, noted its proliferation starting in the 1970s. This is further supported by Michaelis’ (1981, p. 4) observation that the spray painting of “Navajo names and very offensive writings” over existing glyphs began in earnest in 1978. Michaelis (1981, p.  5) also reported the deliberate obliteration of several Katsina clan symbols around that same time, which she suggested may have been due to disagreement among Hopi clans. Garn (1985, p. 45), on the other hand, questioned whether it could have been in reprisal to the removal and relocation wrought by the 1974 legislation, thereby implying the obliteration of Hopi clan symbols occurred at the hands of disgruntled Navajos. Since first noted by Michaelis and Garn, the systematic erasure of Hopi clan symbols at Tutuveni has only increased in frequency. Bernardini (2009, Table 4.1) reported 109 such case as of 2004, which prompted improved security measures under an intertribal agreement between the Hopi Tribe and Navajo Nation (Suetopka Thayer, 2010). The practice, while abated, continues nonetheless (Arrillaga, 2012). The obliteration of petroglyphs is a deliberate act against them and what they may commemorate, symbolize, or do. In Bernardini’s (2009, p. 53) view, “The targeted obliteration of particular symbols [at Tutuveni] suggests that the [obliterator(s)] attributed a specific meaning to the chosen symbol and wished not just to damage it, but to erase it entirely.” It is imperative to emphasize that no one has actually been caught, admitted to, or been found legally responsible for modifying or obliterating petroglyphs at Tutuveni—which would constitute a federal crime—and attributions to Hopis or Navajos remain insinuations. Nevertheless, there are accounts of the

The Stately Art of Remembering and Forgetting Indigenous Cultural Identities…

285

Fig. 8  Examples of Hopi clan symbols and the obliteration thereof at Tutuveni as of 2019. Top left: A row of Sun Clan symbols above a row of Eagle Clan symbols; two of the Sun Clan symbols have been obliterated through pecking. Top right: A row of Cloud or Water Clan symbols above a row of Corn Clan symbols; to the lower left is a fully obliterated clan symbol that is no longer discernable. Bottom left: A row of Spider Clan symbols above Spider and Squash Clan symbols; petroglyphs in both rows have been heavily scratched and abraded, and at right the phrase “DAMN HOPI DRAWING,” digitally enhanced here in order to be visible, was added to the panel. Bottom right: A row of Lizard Clan symbols above a row of Lizard and Corn Clan symbols; a Lizard Clan symbol at bottom left has been partially obliterated through intensive pecking. (Photos by and used with the permission of Kirk Astroth)

targeted obliteration of Ancestral Pueblo petroglyphs at other places on or near the Navajo reservation, such as Inscription Point (Weaver et al., 2001) and Canyon de Chelly (Lavris, 2009, pp. 10–12) in northeastern Arizona and Comb Ridge (Roberts, 2006, p. 27) and along the San Juan River (Castleton, 1987, pp. 227–229) in southeastern Utah. While conclusive evidence of the identities of those responsible for the obliteration of Ancestral Pueblo petroglyphs in the Four Corners region is lacking, some of the insinuation that it was caused by Navajos derives from a popularized second-­ hand account. Desecration Panel in southeastern Utah is arguably the best-known case because it is a regular stopping point for boaters along the San Juan River. According to Roberts (1996, pp. 109–110; cf. Castleton, 1987, p. 228; Schaafsma & Tsosie, 2009, pp. 28–31), the owner of a local rafting company witnessed in the late 1950s several Navajos using metal picks to gouge out several centuries-old

286

A. M. Wright

anthropomorphic petroglyphs. They had apparently been instructed to do so by a Navajo spiritual healer, who attributed a severe illness in their family to the power of the glyphs. Destruction of the glyphs was the only prescribed cure. Other researchers, perhaps informed by that account, have explained the ritual obliteration of petroglyphs and pictographs in the Four Corner region as a traditional and spiritually sanctioned mode of healing among Native Americans (e.g., Lavris, 2009, pp.  110–112; Malotki & Weaver, 2002, p.  185; Schaafsma, 2013, p. 75). This may be especially relevant for the Navajo, who maintain a healing ceremony involving the ritual production and destruction of sand paintings. During the ceremony, the traditional religious leader, through prayers and chants, evokes spiritual agencies through the painting who then remove the illness from the patient. Once completed, the practitioner destroys the sand painting in order to eradicate the illness (Villaseñor, 1963). While a similar practice as it relates to petroglyphs and pictographs is unknown, Schaafsma (1963, pp. 64–65) noted the smoothing of rock faces at Navajo pictograph sites that may be evidence for the ritualized erasure of paintings at Navajo shrines. While a religious or medicinal impetus for the situation at Tutuveni cannot be entirely ruled out, neither can the animosities over land. That the ritual obliteration of petroglyphs and other expressions of “vandalism” around the Navajo reservation began to escalate in the late 1970s, coincident with the 1974 legislation, is certainly suggestive of the latter scenario. Further supporting this case is that the targets for obliteration have not been random. As Bernardini (2009, p. 54) illustrated, vandals targeted Katsina petroglyphs—the most recognizable symbols of Ancestral Pueblo and Hopi religion and identity—most often and at a significantly higher rate than the other symbols (Fisher’s Exact, p